Chapter 9: The faeces collide with the ventilator
Nobody will be surprised to hear that the arrival of the clacks – the real clacks from the bank to the guild council – caused a fair amount of stir over the next couple of days. The press conference developed into a rather turbulent affair not much short of a riot, but then, somehow, things settled down. One or two, nay, even three or four of the civic leader gave cautious signs of approval, and once a beginning had been made, more followed. The political genius of Havelock Vetinari alone would have hardly been enough to make the guild council relinquish so much of its power, but with The Idea being so very persuasive, even against some people's better judgement, and The Times trumping it as a fait accompli, resistance turned out much weaker than expected and in any case futile. And while some guild leaders secretly vowed that von Lipwig would pay for this, few felt inclined to deny making a decision which had proved to be so very popular. In fact, some began to pretend, if not actually believe, that it had indeed been their very own idea. Lord Downey was all in favour of it, too. He had no doubt that his superior people skills would guarantee his victory and he revelled in the prospect of having his rule universally endorsed. This time, he'd be the one to have one over bloody Vetinari!
So within three days of Mr Lipwig's astonishing speech, the civic leaders of Ankh-Morpork had generally accepted The Idea - despite the occasional nightmare it still gave them - and started to attend to the nitty-gritty technicalities of putting it into practice. This proved a surprisingly controversy-prone endeavour.
The Idea had come, as it were, with strings attached, in a neat little parcel that planted some preconceived thoughts in the minds of the people. Thus it was largely agreed that while it was a wonderful concept that everyone should have their say, it was nevertheless obvious that "everybody" could not exactly mean everybody. There had to be limits, hadn't there? Surely citizens allowed to vote would have to be of a certain ... standard? One wouldn't want, for example, criminals to vote? Or people who lived under bridges and wore ducks on their heads? And before the influential women in the city could so much as blink, a sizeable majority of men had declared that there was one group of people that certainly could not be included in the process of democracy, and that was females.
"What on the Disc gave them that idea?" asked Cheery Littlebottom after she had read an article to that effect in the Times.
"They say that females can't be trusted to vote rationally," replied Sally von Humperdink.
"Why not?"
"Allegedly, once a month they're not quite themselves," said Angua.
~oOoOo~
Even two days later Angelina was still imagining that the forbidden kiss was visible as a faintly glowing mark on her face. She dreamt of it at night, which made for an embarrassing awakening with her body all tingly and the picture of Chas in her mind where a picture of Havelock should have been. It wasn't as if she wanted to think of Chas. In fact, she'd much rather not, not the least because she was determined never to speak to him again, and she felt sorry for him, and for herself, on that account. It seemed awfully unfair that a rash little exclamation during a trivial squabble (for that was all it had been, and she had made up with Havelock the same evening) should have landed her in such a predicament. She wasn't sure whether to tell Havelock or not. He had enough to worry about as it was.
She turned over and looked at him, at his lean, tanned face with the neat beard resting against the white pillow. He slept so silently - his breaths were barely audible even when she brought her face up close to his. With his eyes closed, he looked less formidable, but by no means weak. The coiled power of his mind and body was almost tangible on his brow. She knew that if she touched him, he would wake instantly.
And somehow, she couldn't resist. She stretched out her hand and ran the back of her finger across his forehead. As she had expected, his eyes snapped open and he sat up.
"Lina," he said. "Is something the matter?"
"I can't sleep."
"Ah. And you wish me to share in your misery?"
"Oh, Havelock!" She fiddled with her braid and wondered if she should tell him about Chas right now. But it seemed silly. He would probably think her very unreasonable. However, some reason for waking him up had to be given.
"I'm so confused about this election business. It worries me. How can you be so sure that you'll win against Downey?" she asked.
"Do you think it's possible that he'll win?"
"Well, no, not really, but how can you be sure? I mean, are you just going to rely on people voting for you?"
"Yes, I think I think I can," he said. "It's a number game. There is bound to be a select minority who will vote for me because they appreciate that my rule is best for the city, and I could never win an election on their support alone. But that is not a problem, because reasons don't matter. There will be people voting for me because of some advantage or other they've had through me in the past. There will be people voting for me because they're afraid of what I'll do if they don't. There will be people voting for me because I've been through a lot, been hard done by, suffered much, la-dee-dah la-dee-dah. Some will even vote for me because I have such a sweet little wife. And I confess I rather count on getting most of the female vote."
"But they just announced that females won't be allowed to vote."
Havelock looked at her with patient incomprehension.
"Did you plan on putting up with that?" he asked. "Do you think Sybil will put up with it? Or Ms Cripslock? Or Mr Lipwig's charming young woman?"
"No, of course not, but… but I can't quite see what we can do about it."
"I'm sure you'll think of something."
Angelina opened her mouth and then closed it again. She frowned and then reached up to her face to smooth out the wrinkles this had caused.
"Have you just given me a task to do?" she asked.
"Yes."
Silence. Then Angelina sighed, a deep sigh of considerable satisfaction.
"Havelock?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"I know."
~oOoOo~
Announcements
A meeting will be held on Sunday, 7th of Grune at the home of Lady Ramkin-Vimes at eight pm to address the question of women's right to vote. All ladies interested in this issue are welcome to attend. Light refreshments will be served.
~oOoOo~
Lady Sybil had underestimated the interest in The Cause. Even given that a considerable fraction of Ankh-Morpork's female population couldn't read or at least wouldn't read The Times, and even given that among those who did read it, a comfortable majority didn't have the nerve to ring the door bell at the home of the Duchess of Ankh, yes, even considering that some women for inexplicable reasons didn't want the vote, the crowd descending on the mansion in Scoone Avenue was still surprisingly large. Sybil had expected maybe a two or three dozen females of the "ladies who organize" variety and had instructed Willikins to set out tea cups and plates with biscuits 1) accordingly. However, under the circumstances she had to admit that even the hall could not hold several hundred people. So the meeting was transponed 2) onto the lawn and instead of handing round delicate porcelain cups of finest Istanzian tea, Willikins was serving cider with a ladle out of a barrel into paper cups that had been left over from Sybil's annual charity garden party.
Flanked by Angelina and Rosemary Palm, Sybil perched on a garden chair on top of an impromptu podium erected from empty dragon fodder crates. Two interchangeable Emmas, who had volunteered to take notes, were seated immediately next to the podium. Sybil surveyed the assembly and identified familiar faces. There was Mr Lipwig's young woman and that Miss Cripslock from the newspaper, and Benelisse Venturi with her eternally vacant expression. That nice girl, Havelock's sister-in-law. The intimidating woman from the post office. That fish vendor with the terrible strabismus. A group of dwarves, not all of them visibly female. Over by the hydrangea beds some watch officers clustered together; Sybil could see Sergeant Angua talking intently to Constable von Humperdink. Sergeant Detritus's Ruby was also there with a few troll friends. Even Jocasta Wiggs had braved the terrors of the Ramkin estate once again; she stood with a handful of other young assassins in a neat semi-circle around their teacher, Miss Alice Band. And in the very, very far corner the golem known as Gladys leaned against the shed.
Sybil sighed in her most genteel manner. She felt furious enough to say some very tetchy things to Donald and she was not entirely convinced that this palaver approach was going to lead to anything good, but Angelina had insisted. And of course, she was quite willing to do her bit to support Havelock, but personally, she'd have preferred to have it out directly with Donald. And that man Snaigilla. But this was supposed to be democracy, so it had to be done in a certain way. She took a deep breath.
"Dear ladies, welcome – "
How did one address such a heterogeneous group?
"Welcome to this meeting. You have been brought here by concerns about the guild council's decision to exclude women from the vote in the upcoming election - "
"Actually, I was brought here by a hired cab," hissed Mrs Palm.
Sybil turned and looked at her.
"Would you like to address this meeting?" she asked.
"Not just now," replied Mrs Palm. "I'm still trying to stop myself from exploding. Maybe later."
With a dignified shrug of the shoulders, Sybil once again turned her face and voice towards the assembled females, who presented a picture of polite attention, though it was obvious that under the calm surface, a volcanic eruption of acrimony was just waiting for its cue.
"I think we are all in agreement here that women have as much right to vote as men. Ankh-Morpork has always respected the power of women."
"Of some anyway! Hem, hem," came a rather catty voice from the crowd. A few whistles followed.
"How come the seamstresses have a guild, but the housewives don't, eh?"
"Right!"
Disgruntled muttering surged up.
"Let's not quarrel, ladies," Mrs Palm called from her seat. "If we want to prevail in this matter, we must show ourselves united. Please let Lady Sybil continue."
Sybil smiled regally.
"Mrs Palm is right. It would be petty to bring up any such grudges here and now, when we are concerned with quite a different matter. The announcement that women will not be allowed to vote has been based on the most infamous allegations against our intelligence and our sanity. We must make it clear that we will not suffer such insult and that this decision is one we cannot accept without protest."
"Hear, hear!"
"Arrogant gits!"
"What kind of protest?"
"Men have no regard for decorum and decency!"
"Why do women want the vote?" said Benelisse Venturi in her valium-tainted voice to Miss Maccalariat, who happened to stand next to her. Miss Maccalariat gave her a look that would have contracted the holes in Lady Venturi's socks, had there been any.
Sybil raised a hand.
"Please, ladies!"
The hubbub didn't exactly die down, but at least suffered the equivalent of a healthy dose of flu. 3)
"The newspaper reports of the guild meeting have been alarming enough," said Sybil, "but contained only the information released by the speaker at the press conference. Apparently, there were other things said at the meeting, things that are an insult to every woman in this city. I will now call on Mrs Palm to give us a clearer picture."
Rosemary Palm rose from her chair and straightened her shoulders. Her face, usually so amiable and inviting, was tense with barely suppressed anger.
"The guild council meeting began with a rather sensible motion to define who should be allowed to vote. It was widely agree that convicted criminals, certified lunatics and those under the age of seventeen should not be included in the electorate. We - "
"And why would that be?" shouted Jocasta Wiggs, who had another three weeks to go till her birthday.
"Darling, we had to draw the line somewhere," said Mrs Palm, "and seventeen is the age of majority in the Sto Plains. Anyway, the motion went through without any difficulties, when it suddenly emerged that Mr Slant had already drawn up a draft proclamation that invited all adult males of good reputation to sign up for the electoral roll. Until then, it had not even occurred to me or my female colleagues that women might be excluded from the democratic process. We were speechless for a moment, while the male members of the guild council applauded."
Angry murmurs and hisses came from the crowd.
"Queen Molly, who is unable to be here today," continued Mrs Palm, "was the first to recover her wits. She demanded to hear reasons for this abominable suggestion. And she was told.... And she was told...." Mrs Palm clenched her fists and closed her eyes for a few seconds. "She was told that a woman's place is in the home."
Stunned silence from the post office clerks, small business women, watch officers, trainee assassins, journalists and other females who spent less time in their homes than the average sloth spends in the gym. The only sound to be heard was that of Sacharissa Cripslock's pencil racing across her notepad.
Mrs Palm pulled a sheet of paper out of her handbag and peered at it.
"Lord Downey," she said into the hush, "then spoke up and declared that he had the highest respect for woman and all the admirable contributions they make to society within the limits of their abilities. I asked him what those limits would be, and then Mr Slant said it was obvious that women had inferior powers of intellect and were less mentally stable."
"That's abysmal!"
"Just let me get my hands on that dusty old fart!"
"How dare they!"
Mrs Palm made soothing gestures from the podium and once again the noise subsided. She referred again to her notes.
"Of course the women among the guild leaders expressed their disagreement with this kind of view, and pointed out that - "
"Don't forget Snaigilla!" yelled a stunning woman at the back of the crowd.
"I was just getting to that, Dixie," said Mrs Palm. "Mrs Dixie Voom here demanded to see some evidence for the claim that women were less intelligent than men, to which Mr Snaigilla replied that the evidence was right in front of him, because where there's so much bosom, there can hardly be much brain."
Cries of rage drowned out whatever else Mrs Palm had to say about the guild council meeting. She was seen for another half minute or so moving her lips, but it had little more than the effect of a goldfish mouthing in a goldfish bowl. She sat down. Sybil, crimson in the face, stood up and boomed over the din.
"Listen up!"
As is well known, Sybil was used to people obeying her commands, and so they did.
"We need to make our voices heard," continued Sybil, encouraged by an emphatic nod from Angelina, "and we need to make it heard loud and clear. For that purpose, Mrs Palm, Lady Vetinari and I propose to form a union. The Women's Ostentatiously Outspoken Political Society with the aim to assure full voting rights for women. We shall write letters to the editorial of The Times and raise public awareness with a poster campaign. For fundraising, we have envisaged a coffee morning next Tuesday –"
A bout of cynical laughter interrupted her.
"A coffee morning? Letters to the newspaper? Do you really believe that's going to change their minds?" That was Mr Lipwig's young woman. Her face was obscured by smoke. "They'll just laugh at you. It takes more than that to enlighten a blockhead."
A murmur of agreement arose.
"I say we give dem de gahanka," said Ruby.
Numerous females turned round and stared at her. After the events that had almost sparked off a civil war a couple of years ago, many Ankh-Morpork citizen knew enough Troll to understand that particular piece of vocabulary.
"Don' look at me like dat," said Ruby. "It der only language dey understand."
1) And figgins.
2) Since there would have been no point in postponing it.
3) We do not carry oxymoron warnings today.
~oOoOo~
The Brass Bridge was as good a place as any for keeping out of trouble on a busy Octeday afternoon, and Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobby Nobbs of the Ankh-Morpork city watch knew this well enough to be seeking out that particular spot significantly more often than their duties warranted. Besides, they frequently used this viewpoint to monitor the continued recovery of what they considered part of Ankh-Morpork's cultural heritage. The combined efforts of Lord Vetinari and his Envious Mental Health Officer to clear up the putrid waters of the river Ankh had not found favour with the two dedicated watchmen.
On the current occasion, they leaned over the parapet to conduct one of their floating experiments. To their right, a banner attached to the railings read "LORD VETINARI. A NAME YOU CAN TRUST," while at the far end of the bridge a placard tacked to a lamppost demanded' "MAKE YOUR CHOICE COUNT. CHOOSE DOWNEY." Nobby and Colon paid no attention to either of these edifying proclamations, but watched with satisfaction how an apple core dropped from the bridge not only stayed afloat, but actually performed a tiny bounce off the surface. Sergeant Colon stuck out his chest proudly and clapped a meaty hand on his colleague's pathetic excuse for a shoulder.
"Look at it, Nobby. That river's got personality."
"Indeed," said a voice from behind them.
Sergeant Colon felt his vital organs slowly sagging. 4)
It was not, as such, a particularly menacing voice or even a loud one. But it had a soggy, muddy, organic quality about it that made one think of silt and slime and half-rotted boots, and more importantly made one feel extremely disinclined to turn round and seeing the owner of that voice. However, with that kind of terrified fascination that has resulted in so many infamous last lines 5), turn they did with the jerky movements of people whose feet are trying to overrule their brains or, possibly, the other way round.
It was huge. Its head loomed way above the roofs of the three-storey buildings flanking the bank of the river. Yet the gut-meltingly horrifying thing about it was not its size but, if one may put it like that, the texture. The doughy brown waters of the river had drawn together into what resembled the body of a man, or maybe a troll, but the surface was anything but solid. Little waves rippled over what might otherwise be considered the skin of the creature and right in front of the watchmen's flabbergasted faces a mushy pizza box floated gently from the navel up to the shoulder of The River.
"Hello," said the creature. "I'm Ankh."
Sergeant Colon had turned white in the face, as narrative convention demands that he does at this point. The cigarette end fell out of Corporal Nobbs' mouth, which was sufficient evidence that his jaw had indeed dropped.
"Um, hello?" he said and gave a little wave.
"I feel like shit," said Ankh.
4) The narratively desirable and the anatomically possible are not always compatible.
5) Such as, "Don't worry, I'm sure it only wants to play."
