Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.
Chapter Eight: The Sultana. Or perhaps a Begum: our travellers encounter a lady of leisure
Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.
Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean/North African/Middle Eastern area may or may not be getting the treatment here.
Mariella and Rivka are, currently, in Rimwards Klatch and have been faced with a conundrum. They may have to manumit a slave. With or without the consent or indeed the knowledge of his current owner. They have found a way of sending safe communications home. But there is also the problem of the Sultana to resolve. And she will turn out to be neither sweet nor wrinkly.
Now read on…
March. In the deeper part of Klatch, around the desert oases of Tzit and Otherz and the remote hidden settlement of En-al-Sams-la-Raisa, where people have, mainly, settled for very little.
In the Hidden Palace of Many Surprises, En-al-Sams-la-Raisa, Klatch.
Hi Johanna!
We have established contact with your former pupil and Guild graduate Miriam bint-Alhazred, who appears to be favourably disposed towards us and keen, for her own purposes, to assist us in seeking a resolution to the sorry business with Horst Lensen. And to afterwards speed our departure from Klatch. We have been studying maps and gazetteers in her personal library which are full of invaluable information concerning which direction we take out of her country. She is in agreement that we should not linger unduly, and has confirmed that Authority in distant al-Khali has ordered an investigation into our presence, with a view to detain and interrogate. But, she says, we have three days for rest, reflection and in which to make plans.
This business of three days, or seventy-two hours, is a small detail which is recurring time and again in Klatch. It appears to have almost mystical significance.
Thank you for enclosing cuttings from the Ankh-Morpork Times, by the way. Uncle Pieter's monograph on the status of song in our society was most thought-provoking. I was most to hear our Hymn is being (after a fashion) publicly performed in the City. Although the theatrical review and iconographs of its performance at the Music Hall made me redden. I appreciate the lead singer (in, I suspect, a red wig) may perhaps have been meant to be me. But I prefer to wear more clothes than that, as a matter of course. It does seem to have caught the public imagination. Poor old Uncle Pieter, faced with the notorious literal-mindedness of the Morporkian. Being asked who this Marcus Fontaine is. And others who think the anthem refers to the ballet primadonna Margot Fontayne. Pieter must put on his straightest face when he informs them that it is in fact a place: Magersfontein, a great battle of the War of Independence. Which is the same thing as the Boor War, ja.
And people also ask him who this bloke Boris Kriyger was, then. Must be important if he's in every chorus. Still, if Vondalaans is not your language, there will be such misperceptions. As we are both boereskreigers from a long line of boereskreigers, farmer-fighters, and I in particular now know what it means to be a boereskrieger, they can be forgiven.
By the way, I never knew that when you were a student at the Guild and had to satisfy the Concordat criteria demonstrating a competence at music, you performed the Vondalaanderhart anthem before Doctor von Ubersetzer. This appalled a fellow student from Sto Kerrig, who could follow the words? I find this amusing.(1) At least I was spared playing an instrument; now Miss Björksdottir is on the teaching staff and coaches singing voices, my rendition of the Dwarf Opera aria Your Little Axe Is Frozen to (somebody else's) piano accompaniment was held to be satisfactory. Her training in voice production was thorough and useful, and I thank her.
Thank you for passing on the information that Trudie and Susannah, who graduated with me, got Home safely and have completed their basic induction training into the Army. After the Guild School, this must have been comparatively easy. I am pleased they have now been posted to the Officer Training School at Piemberg Barracks. And that Father has extended the invitation to them to spend weekend leaves at our family plaas in the Veldt. So Trudie is riding with the volkskommando patrolling our side of the River, and she and Susannah have placed Devices of your invention at places where Zulu scouts have been suspected to cross clandestinely. Of course, some Zulus may well also be Guild-trained and know how to recognise and avoid such things. This makes for an interesting situation. No doubt Father will keep you informed. Send him my love.
The story. We were met by a welcoming party of warriors in the Service of their Sultana, who most politely bade us accompany them for an audience with their mistress. As we had received news that she was to be trusted, we were not wearing armour, and several bows were not quite pointing at us, we elected to go with them, and for the first time we got to see inside the walled building just outside the town.
The gates were opened by sweating male servants, possibly slaves, who were treated with condescending disinterest by the warriors. We led our camels inside and saw, to our great interest, harmonious, well-tended and green gardens with lush vegetation. This was unexpected, but of course a walled estate such as this is likely to have its own supply of reliably clean water. This was reassuring. Our camels were politely taken from us by slaves and presumably led to stables.
"Can we at least get our luggage?" Rivka asked, meaning "I do not intend to be separated from my Assassin equipment".
The warrior woman in charge smiled apologetically.
"Nothing will be interfered with or stolen, my lady. The mistress insists you are to be treated with the courtesy due to members of the Guild. Your baggage will be delivered, in its entirity and unopened, to the rooms you are to be allocated."
In the circumstances, we believed her. Besides, several bows were being courteously pointed at us. That was a consideration too. At least we still wore swords and daggers and had other useful items on our persons, so we were not weaponless. We also noted how a walkway ran around the inside of the wall. This made the premises, from the inside, not so much a home as an easily defended fortress. And the homestead itself was large, well-kept and well appointed, in the classical Klatchian style, a palace of impressive and gracefully proportioned arches, collonades and windows. We were led to conclude the owner was not short of money or resources.
And we were led to a reception room, where a cool fountain played, richly decorated with mosaic, brocade and well-lit from well sited windows. It demonstrated taste and style.
A woman was reclining on a couch, being fanned by two slaves, who we could not help but note were well-proportioned young men, naked to the waist and otherwise clad in loose diaphanous trousers. Of the sort a rich Caliph might insist were worn by slave girls.
The woman herself was dressed comfortably and stylishly in richly decorated clothing with restrained jewelled and gilded decoration, her midriff bare, a jewel of some sort in her navel and loose leggings of the sort described as "harem pants". She wore expensive-looking earrings, bangles, anklets and necklace, and a headband in satin and silk. Her long black hair fell to her shoulders and the dominant motif of her clothing was, in fact, black. She was also voluptuously beautiful, although in my opinion and that of Rivka when we discussed the matter later, she had a large platter of Klatchian Delight to hand, and should really cut back on the stuff if she did not want those voluptuous hips to become three times as wide when she got older. We agreed this is a little surprise her thirties and forties will undoubtedly spring on her. Cowbag.
It was a long way from the modest uniforms of the Guild School, even the more relaxed dress code permitted to senior girls, which does grudgingly acknowledge there are people of the feminine gender in there somewhere. (Johanna, why is it that only in the sixth form are we allowed to experiment with the sort of clothing we will be wearing as adult women outside the School, and then only under strict guidelines? We should get tuition in style and presentation of this sort if we are expected to move confidently in social circles which do not insist on school uniform. And the only institutions which expect adult women to dress as schoolgirls are in the purview of Mrs Rosemary Palm, who heads a different Guild with different priorities!)
In the presence of this dark sophisticated Klatchian beauty who only a few years ago was a School pupil like us, who we remembered as having worn the same School uniform as we did, we suddenly felt like gawky and awkward schoolgirls again. Please forward our suggestion that this is a psychological weapon which can be used against female graduates? It was, I think, deliberate and it worked on us. We were overawed, to a degree.)
"Mariella Smith-Rhodes." she said. Her voice carried an Ankh-Morporkian overtone, which is perhaps inevitable after living in that city for seven years. People from Home remark on my sounding like a bloody Porkkie, what's wrong with your voice, Mariella?
"A younger sister of the greatly respected Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who in her disciplines I remember as a most exacting tutor. And Rivka-ben-Devorah, one who her male counterparts describe, often in hushed voices, as the Scary Mary all other Scary Maries bow down and do homage to. A Cenotian, one who by rights is barred forever from entering Klatch. Yet she is here. Interesting. Both from Black Widow House, initially under the somewhat indulgent care of Emmanuelle les Deux-Epées, Comptesse de Lapoignard, who left her personal stamp on all girls she mentored. I was under Miss Alice Band in Tump House, by the way, whose care of us was also loving, in its way, but a sterner and more austere form of tough love. Often indistinguishable from casual sadism, we thought, but always with a purpose to it. How we envied you more fortunate ones in Black Widow! Especially when you passed into the pastoral care of the eccentric-but-kindly Quirmian-Acerian with a passion for ice-skating, and combat with axes as her preferred weapon of choice. It must come from chopping down inconvenient trees. Of which there are many in Aceria, I'm told. Never been there."
Miriam bint-Alhazred smiled a warm sensual smile.
"But I forget my manners. Please be seated."
She reached for another Klatchian Delight as we sat, and clapped for a slave to offer the salver to us. We noted that he smelt of some sort of rich heady perfume and was impeccably groomed.
"It is made to the recipe taught by Miss Sanderson-Reeves, of her own devising." Miriam said. Rivka paused with a piece of sweetmeat, richly dusted with what we had only assumed to be icing sugar, halfway to her mouth.
"Is this some sort of test?" Rivka asked. "Like the almond slices or mint humbugs the Master always offers you?"
"Whatever may justly be said about Mrs Mericet, she knows how to prepare foodstuffs." Miriam said. "And I assure you these lack the special additives she recommends on the Advanced Domestic Science module. I was pleased to study both with her and with my Lady T'Malia at advanced levels."
I noted for the first time that Miriam wore a lot of rings. Among all the other jewellery, they had escaped notice.
Well, she was eating the stuff too. I took a piece. It's amazing how you crave sweet things after going without for weeks.
"Please be at ease. You are guests in my household. For seventy-two hours, as the law of sacred hospitality demands." Miriam said. "This means that your welfare is paramount, your health and ease are my concern, I must offer you the best of everything, and if a foe attacks this house with the intent of harming you, I am obliged to defend you as if you were family. Which in a sense, you are. Congratulations on receiving the Dagger of Honour, by the way. I placed highly in my year but not that highly."
"And on the seventy-third hour?" I inquired.
Miriam smiled. There was a sort of humour in it.
"Plenty of time for that later, I think." she said, not answering my question. "You know, when a pair of my eyes reported seeing two women in this remote oasis who were dressed as men but on close observation were not men, my curiosity was piqued. Women in Klatchian society are expressly bound not to dress as men and are strictly prohibited, Where It Is Written, not to carry weapons. Some women in this society resent such arbitrary restrictions. I employ the best of such women and give them an outlet. Is that not incorrect, Sofia?"
She indicated the captain of her guard, who bowed respectfully.
"And I thank you, my lady." said the warrior-woman.
"That pair of eyes reported one of the two was Klatchian in appearance. The other, however, had a pale skin and red hair. Which could simply mean she was from Candwa al-sher Alahmir, or else another strangeness peculiar to Ur. And last night, after unpleasantnesses at the Ankh-Morporkian Consulate, a pair of ears in my employment reported that the red-haired one from Ur had been moved to celebrate the sunset by singing a song in a strange infidel language. The song somewhat moved my listening ears, and as they are a very good pair of ears, the associated mouth sang me such lines as he recalled of her song. He said it had an agreeable but simple rhythm, as of a jody taught to children. Ah!"
A large dog bounded in. A very large dog. Miriam moved to pet him, and parts of her body moved in a most graceful and attractive manner. The cow.
"Fido! My beauty!"
I had recognized the dog breed. I wondered how many such dogs patrolled that garden at night. I felt we had a smaller chance of leaving, if Miriam bint-Alhazred did not wish us to leave.
The dog allowed himself to be petted, his tongue lolling out appreciatively. He looked to myself and Rivka with doggy suspicion.
"Anyway, I recalled a lesson with the most-respected Doctor Smith-Rhodes. She was pleased with our progress, and digressed for some minutes, as teachers who are relaxed and in a good mood will. She spoke to us about what her people call the War of Independence, which Ankh-Morpork calls the Boor War, and the name and salient history of a hero called General Koos de la Rey was described. Her point was that history can be inaccurate and misleading. Her nation reveres the memory of de la Rey as a great general of great talent, a gifted tactician who defeated the Ankh-Morporkians in detail in many engagements. Her case was that he did not in fact need to be a great general. All that was required of him was that on the day, he was a better general than Lord Rust, or Eorle, or Selachii. Which she said is not a great requirement and that this sets the bar rather low. Yet De la Rey is remembered as a great Vondalaander leader, and songs are sung about his exploits."
She looked at me, amused.
And when my pair of ears reported a red-haired woman with pale skin and freckles singing about a hero called General de la Rey, in what I recognized to be the Vondalaans language, my curiosity was greatly enhanced."
I admit it, Johanna. I had been incautious.
"A red-haired Vondalaander woman travelling incognito in my area of interest." she said. "For one moment I was concerned it might turn out to be Doctor Smith-Rhodes herself. I decided even then to request her to visit. And with your sister, such things are best phrased as polite requests."
Miriam smiled and petted her dog again. I was surprised. I had made her out as the sort who will own many cats.
"But I knew Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, these days, to be a mother of small children. So unlikely to be travelling too far as she was once wont to. The situation intrigued me. As their aunt, you must tell me about her children, Mariella. I even thought of coming out to take a look myself, in open defiance of Prince Khufurah's decree concerning me. But I chose to sleep on it. And earlier today I received a communication from the Guild of Assassins explaining a certain delicate situation, and asking me to provide aid to two travelers."
She nodded at a letter on the table. Even from where I sat, I could recognize the Guild's notepaper and letterhead.
"When I was reminded that Doctor Smith-Rhodes has a sister who recently graduated from the School, the conundrum was explained."
The dog padded over to us to investigate. He chose me. I admit I was a little irritated that our hostess was being so quietly smug, as if she felt she had everything wrapped up entirely to her own satisfaction. I determined to stop that and throw a little soap powder into her fountain, as big hearty men with little sense of humour or originality will when they see a fountain and have soap powder.
I stood, and stared out the dog.
Johanna, did I mention that she owns Boerboels? You know the breed: the only dog in Rimwards Howondaland which can make a Ridgeback look small. Bred for hunting, to guard, to defend. Enormous mastiffs. But they can be loyal, affectionate and very friendly to those who they love and respect. I understand you may soon be looking for new puppies to raise, to replace the much-loved and much-missed Kaffee and Crème who died at a good old age. Consider Boerboels, Johanna, rather than new Ridgebacks. That way they will not be in competition, in people's minds, with the much-loved dogs they are replacing. And brought up from puppies, they are gentle and loving to children.
"Bly!" I commanded. "Sjit!"
I placed my hand on Fido's rump to encourage him to sit. He sat. His tongue lolled, and without losing eye contact, I fed him a piece of Klatchian Delight as a treat and praised him as a big strong good boy.
Miriam looked on impassively, and her eyes flickered for an instant. Good.
"Very impressive." she said. "I did not take into account those dogs originate in your nation. But Fido is something of a house-dog. I counsel you not to attempt that with the other Boerboels. The ones who roam my garden at night. Who I do not allow into the house."
"Why Fido?" I asked. This name means "I am faithful" in Latatian and is bestowed by unimaginative people who cannot think of anything more original. Lots of dogs in Ankh-Morpork are called Fido.
She shrugged. Parts of her jiggled, divertingly. Hag.
"It amused me at the time." she said.
Rivka let out a long-held breath.
"The Guild communicated with you." she said. The question was implicit.
"It happens now and again. It has to be done in such a way that nobody becomes suspicious. Fortunately there is a regular communications flight from Ankh-Morpork. The pilot carries messages for me, when required, as well as for the complete oaf at the consulate."
We both looked at her. Fido nuzzled my leg and began dribbling.
"That means he likes you. You are fortunate. Look. You witnessed the mock combat between a carpet pilot and the flying horse from Ankh-Morpork. I represent Khufurah's interests in this place. Flights from Anhk-Morpork are escorted, as is customary. Who do you think was flying the carpet? And drew so close that Irena Politek could pass me a discreet letter?"
We recalled that even as a student, Miriam flew missions for the Guild. I stored up the memory of her disastrous Vimes Run as a possible barb for use later. Miss Band sent her to target Sam Vimes from the air. Being young and incautious she had not stopped to think there is such a thing as an Air Police who would counter her approach. It had resulted in the inevitable dunnikin. Although Sir Samuel paid for the carpet to be cleaned. He is a fair-minded man.
"Irena never told us that." I said.
"She works for Vetinari. She is not obliged to tell you everything." Miriam replied. True, of course.
"But I will show you to your room. By now your baggage will have been conveyed there. My stablehands are tending to your camels, by the way. You can freshen yourselves, as frankly you are both beginning to smell of deserts and camels. And later on there will be dinner. We can then discuss the business of the fool called Lensen, and what will be an ever-more pressing need for you to cross a border soon."
She clapped for a servant. Or a slave. We were led upstairs to a very well appointed room. There was only one bed in it, but it was big enough for perhaps six or seven.
"The Sultana apologises for the need to place you both in the same room." said the servant. "It means your movements are easier to monitor, and you will be together for mutual reassurance. She considers you are inseparable friends and it is courteous not to separate you."
Rivka sighed.
"Oi vey. At least I know you don't snore." she said.
"There is a bathroom through the curtain, esteemed ladies." The servant said. "People have been detailed to attend to your needs."
"does she have any women servants?" I said, pointedly.
"There are maids." the major-domo said. "The Sultana considers there are limits to what male bodyservants are capable of, and she prefers manicures and pedicures and so forth are best delivered from skilled women. Her men provide other services."
He hesitated for a second.
"I am instructed to attend most attentively to your every wish." he said. "If you prefer male servants to attend on you, I can facilitate this…"
There was something in his emphasis.
Rivka hurriedly said
"No! Send women!"
"As you wish, esteemed lady."
He bowed and departed.
Twenty minutes later, we were relaxing in a bath the size of a swimming pool, and allowing our hair to be tended to, by very skilled maidservants.
"And we get this. For three days. Gevalt." Rivka said. "It beats shivering in a blanket on the side of a sand-dune."
"Seventy-two hours." I reminded her. "And to be on the safe side, let's say the clock started ticking when Sofia and her archers stopped us in the souk."
"So we need to be gone by… ten in the morning, on Friday."
"Exactly."
But for now, we felt we could relax.
(1) See my early tale The Graduation Class. In which a much younger Johanna has to show some proficiency at something musical, as per syllabus and requirement for a well-trained Assassin to demonstrate some sort of cultural and musical inclination. Although Alice Band, in the same class, was really put through the mill of hideous social embarrassment.
Notes Dump:
Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text. Somewhere in the text but not necessarily here.
Margot Fonteyn was for many years the prima ballerina with the Royal Ballet Company in London. She must have an alter ego at the Ankh-Morpork Opera house.
A woman for duty, a boy for pleasure, a (water)melon for ecstacy:
An alleged quote from Persian verse epic, The Rhubiyyat of Omar Khayyam. Often used as evidence to support the alleged partiality of men in the Islamic continuum for, er, variant pleasures.
Research suggests this is an "urban myth" and Omar Khayyam's poetry does not anywhere contain this phrase. Although his translator Sir Richard Burton (the Victorian adventurer, not the actor) did translate a lot of classical Persian poetry that points in this direction, and whose translation of The Perfumed Garden got him a court action for indecent publication. Elsewhere this is listed as "an alleged Turkish/Persian/Pashtun (Pakistani/Afghan) proverb and "melon" is often replaced with "goat" or "sheep". For this proverb to be attributed to so many nations suggests this is one of those nomadic slurs which people in one country will use to libel people from another – "It's not us who are weird in a bad way, it's those Turkish/Pakistani/Iranian/Afghan bastards, they're the ones who are into melons(*), honest!"
Also note the related joke, possibly from Kurdistan:
Q – why did Allah the all-merciful and all-compassionate invent women?
A – because sheep can't cook or keep house.
- Researching this, the conjunction of "boys" and "melons" brought up some very dubious links. "Seriously into melons" sums it up. Ugggh. Literally. Had to pour a large glass of brain bleach. It was legitimate research, Officer. Honestly. There are some truly weird people out there.
