Charles Smith-Rhodes carefully picked his way through the reeking streets. Els, his bodyguard, inobtrusively falling in behind him and to the right. Els wasn't a particularly big man – in fact, he'd have weighed in as a lightweight – but something about those piggy little eyes, that flat skull, that wiry muscled figure, was the sort of body language that screamed "Thug!" at any passing thieves speculating on whether the obvious foreigner was an easy mark.
Charles wasn't completely at ease around Els – the fact that the police chief van Heerden had recommended him was suspect, as van Heerden was widely reputed to be able to tell his arse from his elbow only on the second attempt. And he was au fait enough in the ways of the world to be aware that "policeman" did not automatically equate to "trustworthy": Els (1) in many ways had the profile of a career criminal who had sidled into a police uniform only because of the enhanced opportunity it gave him. Also, Johanna couldn't stand him – she maintained he had more than a touch of the tarbrush, as if miscegenation had featured prominently in his family line. Still, he was stuck with Konstabel Els, and had to make the most of his unique talents.
Still shaking his head in disbelief at the sight of the Fools' Guild building, Charles turned into Filigree Street. What was it his father's briefing notes had said…. The gates will be open. They are always open. You may walk in but you will be challenged and asked to state your business."
There they were, just as his father had described. He walked in. Els followed. Sure enough, two black-clad figures stepped gracefully in front of him, one holding up a hand in the universal "Halt!" signal. The effect of this was somewhat spoilt by a portly middle-aged man in a waistcoat and bowler hat, stepping out of the Porter's Lodge, brandishing a clipboard like a weapon.
"Can we help you, sir?" he inquired. Charles spoke the codeword his father had given him.
"Duitsman."
The porter touched his forelock.
"We're expecting you, mr Duitsman." He consulted his clipboard. "To see the Master at two o'clock. Go with these gentlemen here."
One of the hooded black figures spoke.
"Please follow us, sir. You may leave your monkey with Mr Maroon here."
Els looked at the dark figure as if anticipating the joy of delivering violence. Charles said, in Kerrigian: "hier blebst, Konstabel Els", and received something approximating a salute in return.
"Don't provoke him. He might bite." Charles said to his escort, with a smile.
"Grrrr!" Els growled.
Charles smiled, and allowed himself to be led into a surprisingly light, airy, and modern building. He thought of Johanna in this strange city and protectively worried about her. Then he let the thought drop. She is perfectly capable of looking after herself. Perfectly. He reflected that their marriage had taken little arranging: he had found himself taken with the daughter of the prominent Boor family, from the first time he had met her, taking the air in the park in Piemberg. He had expected opposition from his family, but his father had smiled and said "This fits in with my plans, my boy, so why should I object? There are too many divisions between us when we need to be one. And seeing my son married to a daughter of the Boortrekkies (2) will put out exactly the correct sort of signal. Unity and strength – blending the very best of our peoples!"
And so, Johanna van der Kaffirboetje had become Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Her husband ascended the main staircase at the Assassin's Guild in Ankh-Morpork, just as their great-grand-daughter, also to be called Johanna, would do in almost a hundred years' time, as the School's teacher in nature studies (3), ecology (4), and wilderness survival (5).
Unaware of the future, Charles was shown into a large office, lined with hunting trophies, where the central feature was a large desk in between four imposing stone pillars. Its occupant came out to meet him, offering a hand.
Charles' escort discreetly withdrew, and the door closed.
"Ah, mr Smith-Rhodes" said Dr Mortis, Master of the Guild of Assassins. "I have been in contact with your father. I was expecting you."
They shook hands, Charles gratefully accepted the offer of a drink – it's safe enough, isn't it? I'm here to arrange and pay for a contract, after all ,and seated themselves, at opposite sides of the desk.
Charles noted a chessboard, with the pieces moving towards the endgame. White was seemingly in dire straits, having been reduced to less than half the pieces in play by Black.
"Your father asked me to investigate the feasibility of a certain overseas contract" Dr Mortis said, as matter-of-fact as if he were selling building materials or bales of cloth. "He said you would be bringing at least a retainer fee?"
Charles withdrew a small leather pouch, in which things tumbled and tinkled. He tipped some of the contents on the desktop.
"I have had these valued, both severally and as a unit". he said.
"In the current market, the stones spilt on the table alone represent perhaps seventy-five thousand dollars in uncut diamonds."
Mortis took out a jeweller's eyeglass and bent over the desk to examine the goods more closely. At length he said "I am satisfied."
"But am I satisfied? Is my father satisfied?"
"We have researched. We have had agents in the field. The answer to the question, Charles Smith-Rhodes, is a qualifed "yes". We can inhume the Paramount King of the Kwa'Zulu and his immediate heir. After which, we understand, issues of succession become less certain and more open to dynastic disagreement."
He reached over to the chessboard, and casually flicked over the black king.
"Game over."
"Good…" Charles breathed, thinking of the native threat breaking down again into a succession of squabbling tribelets, fighting like dogs in a sack for a unity none can achieve, to perhaps be defeated in detail by the militias, the kommandos, and the Ankhian regiments.
"We require a downpayment of one hundred thousand dollars. You must understand there are no guarantees and that this portion is non-refundable. The degree of difficulty and the distance involved requires us to send out a team of four assassins, as insurance against any one or more dying in the course of duty. In which case your initial payment goes direct to the Widows and Orphans Benevolent Fund".
Charles nodded. That was fair.
The potential inhumee is the King of a people preparing for war. As such he will be guarded and defended heavily. But his people have a superstition against fighting and dying by night. They believe the demon-king will inevitably collect their souls if they die in darkness. That rather suits us!"
"I'm sure!" Charles said, drily.
"But on completion, we will require a completion fee of a second hundred thousand dollars, in currency, gold, or precious stones"
"Your assassins, or the surviving members of the party, will be escorted to Piemberg by our troops and paid off there, on evidence of satisfactory completion. Then they may take ship back to Ankh-Morpork."
"Satisfactory" said the assassin. "I will pay some thought as to the chosen four Guild affiliates who may take ship to your country with the troops Lord Samphire proposes to garrison your frontier with. "
Mortis paused for a moment.
"By the way, you are aware there is a Kwa'Zulu diplomatic party currently in this city, who are prevailing upon His Lordship to remain neutral in any coming war?"
Charles sat bolt upright.
"What, HERE?"
"Should you be surprised? Diplomacy is open to all, and there are diamonds under the Kwa-Zulu land too. But my understanding is that they weill be politely refused, and sent back with a polite note to say the Ankh-Morporkian Army will be conducting training exercises in Howandaland. Any move on those troops will be taken as a provocation and an act of war. The dividing line, I believe, has been drawn at the Ulungi River. If any white man steps north of the river without leave of the Paramount King – act of war. If any KwaZulu cross south of the river without the permission of the Free State of Oranges – act of war. The Ankh-Morpork military mission will be instituted at the Ulungi to police this agreement. "
So that's it, then." Charles digested the news. Then a penny dropped.
"hold on. If I'm here to negociate for the killing…"
"Inhumation, please, sir!"
"Inhumation. Of the Paramount Chief. And his heir. And I've bought an attempt at their contract. And a KwaZulu delegation is in town. How do I know you've not taken their money to honour an attempt on me? Or my wife?"
The Assassin's lips set in a thin prim line.
"You can't. Client confidentiality is, ah, paramount, if you'll excuse the pun."
"Very droll" Charles commented, drily.
"I can comment thus. Two embassies are in town whose nations stand on the brink of war. Both are trying to persuade their host to take a stance on the war which is beneficial to them and detrimental to their opponent. Suddenly one delegation is inhumed. Suspicion must fall on the other. The host would not be pleased they have taken their war to his city. And it helps their cause not. Knowing that, would you take out a contract on the Kwa'Zulu? I think not. And despite their dark skins, they too can reason that using us, against you, in this city, at this time, would be folly. Therefore we have what diplomacy refers to as the Klatchian Standoff. But elsewhere, sir, outside the jurisdiction of Lord Samphire, is a different matter."
"So they have?"
"I cannot possibly comment."
Dr Mortis showed Charles to the door.
"But proceed home with caution, sir. Advise your monkey."
"Why are you hinting this at me?"
"Let us say we would accept a valid contract from almost anyone. Business is business. But the overwhelming weight of feeling in the Guild is behind your father. And by extension, behind you."
They shook hands again, and parted. Charles picked up Els at the gatehouse, where he had been indulging in a few egregiously crooked hands of poker with Maroon the porter.
Maroon and Els shook hands.
"Did you win?" Charles asked, politely.
Els grinned, revealing a selection of interestingly lopsided teeth.
"He seemed to think I wes seme sort ef rridnick, just eff the Veldt."
Charles nodded: the old game of "so how do you play this, then?"
"So I shewed him a few tricks. And I learnt a few tricks. These Morepokiens, they're criminels!"
Charles laughed.
"Keep your eyes open and your fists ready, Els. I was tipped off there may be trouble."
Els grinned, in anticipation. He was always up for trouble.
(1) In Tom Sharpe's comic farces on apartheid South Africa (Indecent Exposure and Riotous Assembly), the South African Police Force he creates doesn't even equate to the Night Watch or early Vimes-era City Watch. It is corrupt, nasty, racist, incompetent, grovels to authority, takes bribes, routinely maltreats black people in custody, and is led by the incompetent Commandant van Heerden, a man as inept as Captain Walden without his saving graces, and from whom "Mayonnaise" Quirke could learn lessons. Konstabel Els, similarly, comes across as an Afrikaaner Nobby Nobbs with no good points whatever.
(2) Lit Trans. One who is being a bore about being a Trekkie. That is, one of the pioneering Sto Kerrigian settlers who pushed slowly and painfully into the hinterland of Howandaland in their oxen-drawn carts, so as to make a better future for themselves and their children. And who won't stop going on about the bloody Grand Trek, even four hundred years later.
(3) Big Game Hunting.
(4) The wonderful balance of nature, especially when it comes to having a plentiful supply of it to hunt and shoot; the moment of perfect balance and harmony between human and animal, for instance when the animal is finely balanced in the cross-hairs of a telescopic sight.
(5) In days to come when the Assassins' School will go co-educational, Miss Smith- Rhodes' nature trails and summer camps would be legendary.