Rincewind and the Redskins 4
Ridcully harrumphed, impatiently.
"What d'you mean, no trace of Rincewind anywhere? .He's got to be out there somewhere!" he demanded.
Ponder Stibbons, by now skilled at nursemaiding his Arch-chancellor, stepped in, placatingly.
"This is only a first search, Archchancellor." he said. "The next step is to refine the parameters and look more closely for anything we might have missed first time."
"I want him back, Stibbons. The Bursar estimates that you and Rincewind, between you, are currently doing ninety-five percent of the contact between Faculty and students. Bursar reckons he can cook the figures from that to put in front of the damn' Patrician to state we've vastly improved on delivery of teachin' . and we're meetin' the statistical targets that fella Pessimal set. "
Ridcully snorted his distaste for performance targets and league tables, and said:-
"If nothin' else, if you don't get him back, that means you're going to have a job to cover Rincewind's lecture schedule as well as your own, just to keep the numbers up!"
Stibbons winced. Ridcully, were he so minded, could teach Applied Threats to PhD level. (Practice and Theory of Applied Inducements With Integral Negative Reinforcement, to put it in academic language)
+++IF I MAY SPEAK, ARCHCHANCELLOR+++
"Go on, that machine"
+++I HAVE ONLY SEARCHED IN THE CURRENT TEMPORAL SPACE OF THE DISCWORLD AND HAVE FOUND NO TRACE OF RINCEWIND IN THE NOW, THAT IS, IN THE IMMEDIATE PHASE-SPACE CONTINUUM OF THE WORLD+++ HE MAY WELL HAVE BEEN TRANSLATED TO AN AS YET UNSPECIFIED POINT IN THE PAST OR FUTURE+++THAT WILL TAKE MORE RUN-TIME AND WORK TO ASCERTAIN+++
"But you can do it?"
+++YOU HAD BETTER HOPE RINCEWIND IS IN THE PAST+++ THIS IS LARGELY FIXED, PARADOX LOOPS AND DEAD-END STRIPS ASIDE+++ THE FUTURE, ON THE OTHER HAND, IS BY DEFINITION NOT ESTABLISHED AND EXISTS OVER AN INFINITY OF POSSIBILITIES+++THIS MAKES SEARCHING FOR A STRANDED WIZARD SLIGHTLY TRICKIER+++
"Hex", Stibbons hurriedly said, "If Rincewind has been hurled into the past or the future, then surely the Houser Theory applies?"
+++RUBBER-BAND HOUSER?+++ THE THEORY THAT STATES A PERSON OR OBJECT DISPLACED IN TIME IS AN ANOMALY AND WILL BE SNAPPED BACK TO THEIR OWN RIGHTFUL PLACE AS IF ATTACHED BY ELASTIC?+++ THIS MAY BE TRUE+++ BUT THE SUBJECTIVE TIME SPENT WAITING FOR THE ELASTIC TO GO "PING" AND RETURN THE ANOMALOUS ENTITY MAY BE UP TO SIXTY YEARS+++THERE IS NO WAY OF TELLING+++ I WILL SEARCH THE RECENT PAST OF THE DISCWORLD AND LOOK FOR EVIDENCE OF AN ANOMALY APPEARING WHICH MAY INDICATE THE PRESENCE OF RINCEWIND+++THIS WILL NECESSARILY TAKE UP TO NINETY PER CENT OF MY RUN-TIME FOR AN UNSPECIFIED PERIOD+++STAND BY+++
An hourglass on a spring slowly lowered and began to turn, lazily. Stibbons, who knew from experience that this was HEX's way of terminating a dialogue, said
"I'll have a relay of students keep an eye on things, sir. I'm just wondering if there might not be an easier way to locate Rincewind."
"Faster and easier than HEX, y'mean?"
"Yes, sir. What if we put a thaumic tracker on the Luggage? As sooner or later it's going to find him, wherever he is. It will then radiate a beam of magical particles back to a receptor station here. And we know they work across space and time."
Ridcully shook his head, doubtfully.
"Tricky things, them thaumic trackers."
"Yes sir, but that was only down to the purpose they were put to last time. If you recall, Professor Dexter-Ward, the Arkham Chair of Most Unwise Eldritch Studies, had the idea to use them to track shoggoth and tso-tso migration patterns through the Dungeon Dimensions…"
Both wizards removed their floppy hats for a moment in silent memory of a colleague.
"We never filled that Chair again, did we?" mused Ridcully. "Anyway, we get one of those onto Rincewind's blasted box-on-legs thing, it disappears into space-time lookin' for Rincewind, it finds him, HEX picks up the signal, and bingo!"
Ridcully paused.
"Just one thing, Stibbons. One little detail. How do we get the Lugggage to co-operate?"
_____________________________-
{Hey you! Yes you, High Chief of the Cheyenne, Exalted in War, Pack Leader of the Dog Soldiers. Don't Bogart that peace-pipe, man! Pass it along!"}
Bull looked at the circle of chiefs gathered in a circle round the fire, and nodded happily. Every so often, Dancing Weasel, who was tending the fire, would punctuate a wise word by surreptitiously throwing a handful of one of his special preparations into the flame, colouring it red or blue or green or bright flaring white. This had the desired effect on a gathering of tribal chiefs who were becoming more and more open to suggestions from the Gods as a laden peace-pipe circulated from the left, passing widdershins around the Circle.
{This is some crazy shit, man!}
{We're guests of the Latoka, remember? They grow some pretty heavy shit! Chief of the Latoka always know where the best sensemilla grow!"}
For now discernible reason that they could see, the central fire suddenly blossomed in rose-pink. The chief of the Comanches nudged his Kiowa peer. In the combination of shared vocabulary and hand-signals that passed for a lingua franca on the plains, he sighed and said
{Heavy, dude!}
{Freaky light-show!}
Chief Bull smiled, enigmatically. There was a little way to go yet before the Unforked Tongue, the Words of Truth, could emerge…
______________________________________-
In his command tent, General Jorg Kriminel set down the maps with a sigh. This expedition was not going as planned. Not at all. It had been a political thing, right from the start: and political decisions rarely make for sound soldiering. Fair play to Blots, after all the upheavals of the last few years, he was getting on with building the Republic and assuaging the fears of its Morporkian-speaking half. He'd thrown out Ankh-Morpork's occupying army after a short war, then defeated their allies in the Morporkian Carp Colony, and was now saying to them that for the new state to work, it should not and must not be just a Boor nation. The promise of expanding into the new veldt Hubwise of the jungle and woodland country, populated by only a few scattered red-skinned tribes, offered new lands to exploit, new farms to settle, renewed prosperity for new settlers and the victors of the war. Especially those Ankh-Morporkian soldiers, bitter and angry at the ineptitude of their leaders, who had been persuaded to desert to the new Republic with the promise of fair treatment. They had to be fitted in somewhere, with the chance of prosperity and land of their own they'd never have had at home.
Thanks be their army was led by dunces like Eorle and Rust and not by Ramkin. He'd have fought a harder war. But Ramkin would have avoided war in the first place. He understood us. And now the last of the Ankh-Morporkian Empire is crumbling and falling. We hear they have had to concede Home Rule to Hergen. Llamedos will be next. And it began here, in Howondaland. (1)
The first step had been to get a foothold in the Hubward region, a sure and certain route to get men and troops in and then to reinforce and resupply them. Hard experience had told them that it wasn't possible – yet – to drive a military road through the jungle, a green Hell where its inhabitants, both black and red, delivered quick and unseen death, from a hundred different directions.
So they'd just bypassed it and established the military settlement of Fort Smith-Rhodes on the Rimwards coast, so as to unload men, horses and equipment by sea and send them inland, north of the jungle belt. This was how the expeditionary force of fifteen hundred infantry and six hundred cavalry had landed. Their mission to penetrate deep, explore, improve the blessed maps, assess the strength of the red man, and if necessary fight a battle or two with him to test his strength and learn his weaknesses. There were also civilians with them: map-makers, and prospectors, alert to signs of gold, silver, diamonds, other precious mineral resources of the Disc, that could be harvested in due time to enrich the expanded Staadt.
But all depended on the strength of the enemy they could expect to meet. And all the signs were that the enemy was being drawn back in front of them, a nomadic people gathering their strength, quite possibly with the intention of a single decisive battle. Those rag-tag Indians who'd thrown in their lot with the invader were sure of this. Kriminel was no politician, not in the same way that General Blots had turned out to be. But he was pretty sure that he should be at least trying to make local allies, getting some of the Indians on side, making the task easier. And the only Indians signalling any sort of acquiescence had been the damned Scalbies, a tribe shunned and loathed by all the rest. With damn good reason, from what he could see. The Indians selected totem animals for their tribes, didn't they? Eagles, horses, wolves, and so forth. What self-respecting Indian would choose the wretched scalbie? Or was it the case that the Scalbie (2) was the only creature that would accept being the totemic animal for such a tribe?
His supply columns were being harried in his rear by hostile Indians. He was a few days away from a conclusive battle, he was sure of it. He needed his cavalry close in, to scout, to patrol, to act as a threat in being.
And now that prize idiot Rjuister was proposing taking his cavalry – all his cavalry – off independently of the main body of infantrymen and support wagons. Thus, unless stamped on, leaving him blind and deaf in the face of a mounted and highly mobile enemy. What the Hell was the man thinking of! Of course, he wants to be a General again. He's a bloody liability!
He called a runner.
"Get this message to Colonel Rjuister, promptly. The verbal is : to avoid any misunderstanding, there is only one General in this expedition. You are a Colonel. I am the General. Follow my orders.."
The messenger saluted, and hurried off.
I've told him. I've made it explicitly clear. But will it be enough?
_________________________--
"Who's he, then?" Grey-Maned Pony, the Chief of the Arapaho, asked Feathered Lance, Chief of the Comanche. He indicated an oddly-dressed individual, who was wearing a full suit of fringed tailored buckskins, including a tunic in the same material which made him stand out in an assembly of largely bare-torsoed men. The stranger's hair was also oddly styled: his head was almost completely shaved , leaving only a central crest of hair running front-to-back. The stranger had an indefinable air of sadness and dejection about him, and his regular tokes on the peace-pipe weren't helping.
"Oh, him" said the Comanche, indifferently. "He's chief of a tribe, alright. Only problem is, he's also the tribe. He's the Mohican Nation."
"What, all of it?" asked the Arapaho. The Comanche nodded.
"Sad story. We don't like to talk about it very much. But unless a Mohican woman walks out of the woods that's it, basically. Quits. Finito. End of."
The Arapaho nodded, sympathetically.
"Poor bastard".
The Mohican buried his head in his hands and appeared to start sobbing. The Comanche nudged the Arapaho.
"Something's happening."
The Talking Stick was circulating. It was a point of Indian etiquette that only the man holding the stick had the right to speak. It passed from Chief to Chief, all of whom considered it, but let it pass on, for now. Until it reached the chief of the coastal Pince-Nez Indians.
"You know they've only gone and built a bloody town on our lands? Right on top of one of our best fishing bays, lots of sheltered harbourage for fishing canoes. And they've built a bloody wall around it. I don't know about you, but I want it shifting. I don't remember any of those bloody white men asking for planning permission, for one thing. It's not in harmony with its environment, they're piling up crap like you wouldn't believe, that bloody army of theirs landed there, so it's a magnet for illegal immigration, there are any number of planning and customs infractions, and I want it stopping!"
He passed the stick on. There was a chorus of "Right!", "Yeah!" , "Right on!" and other approving comments.
"Makes sense" said the representative of the Iroquois Confederation. "I was baffled they'd appeared Hubwise of us so suddenly. If they'd tried coming through our woods again, we'd have had'em, No bother!"
He paused, and added:-
"These people are diseased. Sick in the mind, even for whites. Some of our people went to their nation, invited to pow-wow with their great Chiefs in the place called Pratoria. There, the black-skinned people are slaves and the whites treat them with scorn and contempt. They have a God, called Apart-heid, who dictates to them that this is so. We red-skinned people were classified to be higher than the black but still lower than the white. We were graded and classified as "Coloured". They saw not us, but only the colour of our skins.
"Imagine our fate if they conquer our lands. Those of us who survive will be second-class citizens in our own lands. Slaves to the white man. Forever, with our freedoms but a dream."
He passed the talking stick on.
"So what do we do?" asked the Ogglala Sioux chief. (3)
"You can talk to your mum." the Iroquis said, nastily. "But I vote for war. Even now my people are attacking their supply wagons and raiding in their rear."
Chief Bull of the Latoka prepared a fresh pipe. Everything was going according to plan. Good.
_____________________________________-
Rincewind spent an uncomfortable night on his pole. He discovered that with application, he could at least lean on the pole to take the weight off his feet. He wondered what was going to happen to him. Where Scrappy the Coyote had gone. And above all, where the Hell his Luggage was. He was tired and hungry. But those were passing states that sleep and food would put right. He was also alive, which was a little bit less transitory and gave him thinking space for planning an escape.
There was a white army on the way? Interesting. Although in Rincewind's experience, getting away from one lot of armed men by running straight at the other lot of armed men could be counter-productive and lead to new reasons to be abjectly terrified. Best wait and find out what I can.
1903. The year just after the disastrous (from Ankh-Morpork's point of view) Boor War. Rincewind vaguely remembered the White Howondalandians had sent expeditions into hitherto unexplored parts of Howondaland with a view to spreading their state further. Something to do with creating common cause and common purpose, after a brief and nasty civil war, in which dominance of the State had passed from the Morporkian half of the country to the Boor half. Even the previous de facto rulers, the Smith-Rhodes family, had declined in importance and in many respects, had become Boor rather than Morporkian over the following decades. Look at that girl who teaches at the Assassin's School, Rincewind reflected. Miss Smith-Rhodes. She's got the family name and all the respect that goes with it, but she's 100% Boor.
Rincewind suddenly became aware he had visitors.
"'Ow do, mate" said One-Man-Bucket, lifting a gourd of water to Rincewind's lips. He drank deeply and thirstily.
"Cheers, Mr Bucket" Rincewind said, grateful for the kindness.
Bucket looked shiftier than usual, a typical Ankh-Morporkian street expression grafted onto a Latoka Indian face.
"Look, mate, I'd cut you down, if only I could. They just ain't decided what to do with you yet and if I presume, I could end up hanging on the next pole, know what I mean?"
"Understood." said Rincewind. "Look, what did those women want earlier, who were poking and prodding at me?"
Bucket, if anything, seemed shiftier than usual. He avoided the question. Rincewind noted this, and concluded the answer would not be one he'd be happy to hear. He cherished his ignorance, and didn't press the point.
"I've brung somebody with me. She wanted a look at you"
He indicated the old, round, dumpy, Indian woman, who grinned a very dirty knowing grin from a face looking like a happy prune.
"This is Anana Ogg, from the Ogglala tribe. Very important medicine woman. If she likes you, she'll have a word with her son and get you cut down, maybe even manage you some food and a place to get your head down. Her son's the Ogglala chief, y'see."
Rincewind smiled a very ingratriating smile, recognising a potential friend.
The old lady danced around him, observing him from all angles, whilst shaking two rattles and intoning a sonorous Indian song.
One-Man-Bucket winced.
"Ah, she's singing a song of great power and wisdom and magic, yes?" Rincewind asked, recognising "Witch" and following Rule One in these circumstances, which is "Always be respectful to a witch. Respect costs nothing and ensures physical survival in a recognisably human form".
"Well, no, not really. It's the one about the porcupine being the happiest of animals." He coughed. "Her totem animal, you see."
"Ah. Whatever might happen to other unwary animals will never, ever, happen to anything with lots of dangerous backward-pointing spikes, yes?"
"Heard it before, have you?"
Anana Ogg then took Rincewind by the cheeks and stared directly into his eyes. He felt his mind and memories being read. He wasn't happy that she burst into laughter immediately afterwards.
She spoke to Bucket, who nodded, respectfully.
"She tells me you're from a place as near to us but as unreachable as the back of a shadow. That you have yet to be born into this world, but the world has seen to it that you arrive at this place at this time. That you have a destiny to fulfil. This ain't making sense, you know. But she'll tell her son to tell the Bull to cut you free and make you a guest of the Sioux. That a help?"
Rincewind could have kissed the old woman. An end to this uncomfortable phase was in sight. All he had to do was hang on in there.
(1) This parallels Roundworld. Historians now agree the tipping point for the mighty British Empire was its humiliating near-defeat in the Boer War in South Africa (1899-1902). Many eyes were watching as the myth of British invulnerability was shattered. Home Rule was offered to Ireland in 1912. The country revolted in 1916 and again in 1921. By 1922, most of Ireland was a free state. In the Discworld, the Boors defeated Ankh-Morpork, This set off a chain-reaction, as little countries like Hergen and Llamedos took the chance to rebel, and dictate terms to a suddenly weakened Ankh-Morpork.
(2) The scalbie is a bird that… well, it is described in Small Gods. It is a bottom-feeding scavenger that is described as looking, all the time, like other birds do after meeting an oilslick. It is not a nice bird.
(3) The Ogglala were so called because uniquely among Plains Indians, they had Medicine Women, the hereditary Oggs, who advised the Chiefs (ie, told them what to do, or you'll get a right ding upside the earhole).