The Black Sheep: part Seven.
Sto Kerrig, the Strandvardts Quarter.
Balthazar Smith-Rhodes drew contentedly on a cigarette. In the background, Sissie thundered, temporarily unheard. Comfortably seated, he allowed her to rant on about how useless he was as a provider, about how he'd picked up and left her to go chasing off to Ankh-Morpork gambling and running after women, and how he could expect to come walking back into her house as if nothing had happened, and why hadn't she listened to her mother warning her about getting involved with not just a white honky, but a Boor white honky…
He smiled. Once she'd got it out of her system she'd be herself again. And one of the things he liked about the Mother Country, which was, paradoxically, one of the things his countrymen abominated about it, was how socially liberal it was. Here, nobody gave a stuff about a white man setting up home with a black woman. At home, it had cost him several fines and a couple of jail sentences. And after little Balthazar had arrived to the girl in Natal province, one of his brother's farm labourers, bloody Barbarossa had practically marched him to the dockside with one arm twisted up behind his back. Other people from the richer end of the Smith-Rhodes family had also been there, and he had been issued a one-way ticket on a foul leaking tub of a tramp-ship, a parsimoniously small amount of money, and an ultimatum not to return to Rimwards Howondaland for at least ten years. A shame: Barbarossa, rot him, had seen the advantages of letting his brother use the farm as a base to take rich city people on safari into the veldt. It had worked well at first, his brother taking a generous rent as well as providing accommodation for the Kaarpies. But this had put Balthazar on top of a veritable orchard full of forbidden fruit, something he had taken what he thought was discreet advantage of.
But bleck girls are bountiful in more than just physique… the growing pregnancy in one of his field hands had meant his brother had to pay off the girl's family, fend off the Piemburg police who had "had reports", and do something about an embarrassment. Oh, he'd been grudgingly allowed back from exile twelve or thirteen years later, and had, to his surprise, developed a genuine avuncular warmth for his pretty little niece Johanna, who seemed equally taken with him, but that had lasted a mere two or three years before he had to leave the country in another hurry and return to a life of less adventuring and more grift in Ankh-Morpork. It was true he'd been one of the Heroes and Adventurers drawn by the meagre promises the new patrician Vetinari had made concerning that business with the Noble Dragon; but he'd gotten close enough to the thing to think twice about trying to eliminate it. Even though Auntie Roberta was quite a choice piece and had kept her looks well.(1)
And then Claude Dibbler had made a Moving Picture about his exploits, which had helped trade enormously. It had also been very flattering: that young lad Victor Marischino had played him, and a suitably horrific and scary Balgrog had been created from Gods-knew where. Although he suspected the boy could not do a Rimwards Howondaland accent for toffee, he had to say(2).
And then they'd played dirty. They'd sent that bleddy lawyer after him, hedn't they, to serve an injunction preventing him from using the Smith-Rhodes femily name. And he'd hed to listen. He'd been up-country in the Paps of Scylla, with a group of mercenaries who were seeking to draw out the last rogue gnolls and pacify the besterds… Great Offler! Those creatures had scared him. He recalled cowering in fear and thinking there must be an easier way for a man to earn a dollar. Not necessarily a honest one! And that lawyer, one of that bloody zombie Slant's active field agents, had fought his way through the gnolls just to serve him the "cease and desist from mis-using the family name" notice, all wrapped up in legal pink ribbon. It turned out the fellow had been an Assassin, but one who'd discovered the most profitable and fear-inducing use for his talents was to train as a Lawyer…
"I will be watching your career with interest", the man had said, seemingly amiably. "By the way, do not place too much trust in Reacher Gilt. You're all expendable to him, and the fewer of you who make it back to the city to be paid off, the better."(3)
Balthazar had nodded assent. A competent confidence trickster himself, he recognised a ruthless big-league player when he saw one, although he wasn't above doing odd jobs for Gilt as he made his way up. Being a good con-man, he had taken steps to hide his links when Gilt had fallen. Since Vetinari's men had not come for him by night, he rather thought he'd got away with that one. And, sensing trouble, he had politely declined an invitation to work for Cosmo Lavish. He had not liked Cranberry, for one thing, and he had smelt dangerous insanity and self-delusion at fifty paces. He had been better out of that situation too.
But today he was in his modest quarters with Sissie, a woman who billed herself as a Zulu chief's daughter, although it was more likely she'd drifted in from Genua, going by her accent. She dressed in Genuan, rather than Howondalandian, style, for one thing, and he had made it clear on their first meeting that he was not fooled. Although he appreciated her own style of grifting, posing as a Zulu princess to astound and awe the local, even though the nearest she had come to a kraal in Kwa'Zululand had been a visit to the museum of anthropology. He had assisted her in perfecting her own act, teaching her to look and dress the part well enough to con the Kerrigians, and even by teaching her some Zulu, and a sort of marriage had been made in a sort of heaven. He cocked half an ear to the rant - yes, the rush of words was slackening.
"I did pey the rent for a month." Balthazar reminded her. " End there's fifty dollars on the table for you, girl. For myself, if you cook one of your special meals, I'm heppy to hev a quiet night in."
And tomorrow, raise a couple of hundred dollars more. Hey, they get an evening's entertainment!
He looked over at Sissie. Wide-hipped and big of bosom, she was a woman a man could really get a hold of. Even his compatriots at the Keffir on a Kebab admitted this. Although most of them satisfied their curiosity for black tail by renting it for the hour down at the Rosse Buurt. The Seamstresses' Guild did not discriminate racially, and the shrewd Rosie Palm had realised many white men had a strange fascination for black-skinned girls.
She sighed, exasperated, shook her head, and flounced into the kitchen. He picked up his copy of De Volksrant again. Apparently immigrant Igors were straining the apartheid laws back Home. One Igor new in from Ankh-Morpork had apparently performed life-or-death surgery on a white man but had used bodily organs harvested from a black man… while the patient was recovering in hospital, he was so far in a limbo all of his own, while the vexing legal issue of how he should be racially classified was being debated. Calls were being made in parliament for Igors to be refused admission into the Staadt, or else for very clear guidelines to be imposed enforcing them to note the origin of all bodily parts used and to rigorously separate the jars on the shelf according to racial origin.
The newspaper's opinion column also noted that this added to the other set of legal difficulties, concerning the legal status and rights of vampires in Rimwards Howondalandian society.
While it was noted that vampires had been welcomed in because of their willingness to deal with snakebite victims by sucking the blood out (Vampire treatment had a near 100% success rate. Vampires were immune to serpent venom, and considered it gave a whole new savour to human blood), aspects of their craft were giving grounds for concern. Virtually all immigrant vampires were white-skinned. Could they, therefore, be allowed to suck blood from blacks and thus mingle black and white blood? It was noted that the social and historical connotations make blood-sucking perilously near to a sexual act. And therefore an offence under racial segregation law. And what would happen if a white vampire wanted to create a black vampire? This had implications for the well-being of the Rimward Howandalandian Staadt.
Balthazar grinned. He was fairly sure he'd left at least three black-skinned members of the Smith-Rhodes family behind him in Howondaland. Let the family, who he suspected thought a Boor component was beneath them, come to terms with THAT one!
Emmanuelle made a discreet visit to the local casino. She spent time idly drifting between tables, watching, observing, and sizing up the lie of the land. For the look of the thing, and partly because the old urge was surfacing in her, she made a few modest bets in various games, paying particular attention to the roulette tables. On the third, she saw what she was looking for, a very slight subtle detail that anyone not a professional gambler would have missed. She deftly doubled her initial stake money on a couple of well-chosen numbers, then left the table, not wanting other professionals to draw attention to what she had seen. In a backwater town like this where laid-back people spend their afternoons in the kaffeehuis smoking exotic tobaccos, they grow careless of the fine detail. This is what I require. But afterwards I will report to Scrote that there are lapses in security here. He will wish to know.
She then sat in on a vingt-et-un game, and won back the expenses of her hotel room. At least she would not be out of pocket on this trip. And her winnings were being put down to the fact that she was the Black Widow, a lesser legend in the Guild, who had seen fit to grace the Sto Kerrig casino that night. Her reputation was getting her free drinks. Bon, but a clear head must be kept. It is always advantageous for them to think you are drinking much more than you are.
The casino manager came bustling over to speak to her, having realised somebody close to the guild council was in his premises. She smiled at him, and wrapped up a hand on twenty points, scooping the pot. Easy to do when you are counting the cards. But now and again, to lose a hand to another, albeit on the slimmest of margins. And the manager can hardly complain. I am a Guild member and my presence here is drawing others to watch and to gamble.
"How may I assist, monsieur?" she asked, courteously.
"A private word, madame?"
"Bien sur!" she said, rising from the game. Eyes followed her to the manager's office. Inside, he poured two large brandies.
"Mr Jones sent a clacks. He advised me you would be here, and for me to give you all support in a delicate matter."
"Of course. It relates to the fulfilment of an Assassin contract. No, restez tranquille. It does not necessarily involve inhumation, and even if it did, I would not conclude it in your premises and adversely affect your trade. I wish to bring the client here and teach him a lesson before we move on. You of course will wish to have the Guild of Assassins as friends and not enemies."
The casino manager considered this. Then he agreed, whole-heartedly. Emmanuelle explained her needs. He considered this.
"You have seen tonight how my presence here has boosted attendance and prompted people to lay bets." she said, seeing him wavering slightly. "And of course I may lose money. There are no guarantees, except that the House always wins in the log run. And whichever way, you will gain, mon ami!"
Having won the manager over, she relaxed with the light relief of a few hands of Cripple Mr Onion, at a table that involved a cheesemonger, a tulipgrower, and a fellow Guild member. The game soon became a test of two professional gamblers, although Emmanuelle's superior card-senses won out in the end.
She left the casino at one in the morning, fifteen hundred dollars richer. The bulk of this would be operating capital for the next night.
(1) See Terry Pratchett's Guards! Guards!
(2) See Terry Pratchett's Moving Pictures
(3) In Going Postal, by Terry Pratchett, there is an odd little aside about how the formerly fear-inducing wild hills of Equal Rites are suddenly a lot less hostile and suddenly more empty. The coachmen are puzzled but thankful they don't have wild gnolls to fight any more. One of them says to Moist von Lipwig "We'd be happier if we knew what made them disappear" . This coincides with debased Gnolls entering the city to occupy a position right at the bottom of the food chain, like Reservation Indians after the Apache wars finished in 1890.
