And we return to Darkest Howondaland chapter 12
Resolutions
War is brewing. Ankh-Morpork has insinuated a diplomatic mission on Howondaland for some very good diplomatic and (sort of) humanitarian reasons, on the site of a slave farm instituted by the soon-to-be-late Gravid Rust. In a remote jungle corner of Howondaland on the borders of two nations who do not see eye-to-eye with each other, the slave farm escaped notice until Sam Vimes stirred things up in the distant Shires. Now the two warring nations are beginning to eyeball each other across that disputed and formerly demilitarised border. It is the job of the Ankh-Morporkian delegation to make sure one side, or preferably both, blinks first. And quite a few other nations have a legitimate interest here… In which the conflict comes to a head in a very short war. Almost the end of the story: after this one last chapter and an epilogue will finish it.
The Royal Kraal, Matabeleland (flashback to earlier in the day)
Irena Politek sat back and breathed heavily as one flying carpet detached itself from the long unwieldy-looking linked convoy. She circled her broomstick, watching it spiral down towards the roughly circular town below. Her job was to escort it down, ensure the delegation riding on the carpet were appropriately received, and then to report back to the convoy, which for now was proceeding over the jungle in real space. Once she landed on one of the carpets, its directing Feegle, Wee Mad Arthur, would crawstep it into what she was thinking of as Feegle Space, for its last leg to the jungle base. She reminded herself not to land on any of the carpets containing barrels of nameless substances which had been identified as rations for several hundred goblins. Or maybe she didn't need to land at all on a pitching, rolling, carpet: just fly alongside and grab onto a trailing tassel or a fringe. The magic should extend from Buggy or Arthur through the Pegasus being steered by Olga into the linked carpets and by extension to her. She wondered if there was a theoretical limit to this. And as she was a broomstick thaumatologist, she idly speculated on a really big carpet acting as an aerial base for up to twenty, maybe thirty, broomsticks or carpet riders, a sort of broomstick carrier. It would get round the Lancre Problem (1) if broomstick pilots could coast on the magic of a larger aerial object until launched, and retrieved, at need.
She angled downwards, glimpsing a single elusive goblin among all the food barrels, wondering if some of them had travelled back to the city to assist in reloading. Or if city goblins were stowing away for the adventure. Shrugging it off as not her problem, she followed the carpet down.
The Matabele Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork was not a happy-looking man. He sat hunched on the carpet while its pilot, a MOKO (2) called Billy Achmed, steered its downward spiral over what looked like a shambolic haphazard settlement. Only the original circular kraal looked anything like well-maintained and cared for. Here and there in the sprawling surrounding shanty, there were larger and more ornate houses: the rest had a roughly patched-up look to them. As they got nearer, the others on the carpet registered the smell.
"Looks like the Shades…" Constable Visit said, thoughtfully.
"Smells like the Shades." agreed Constable Reg Shoe. Reg had been hastily ordered by Vimes to provide an escort for the Ambassador in his native country, after a prompt by Vetinari. It was his first visit to Howondaland.
"Stinks worse nor the meat bazaar in Al-Gebra at high noon." grumbled Billy Achmed.
"Ah, yes." The ambassador said, in a glum voice. "The smells and scents of Home. Gentlemen, have you anything of value on you? You might be well advised to conceal it as securely as you can. Many of my countrymen have a very flexible attitude towards personal possessions."
"They nick things." Reg translated for Billy's benefit. "We're here to guard the carpet. Don't leave it unattended, Mr Vimes and His Lordship both said."
"Don't need to tell me, guvnor." Billy replied, reaching underneath the front of the carpet. His hand came up holding a sturdy cudgel. He tucked this through his belt. "I've had Matebelians on the back of me carpet on late night shifts. Thieving buggers, the lot of 'em."
They waved at Irena, who was flying escort on the port side. Already, they noticed, their appearance in the sky was attracting a small crowd below.
"Do not land inside the Royal Kraal." The ambassador advised Billy, urgently. "To do so is to break a potent taboo. Land at the gates. I will seek to gain entrance."
"Understood." Billy said. He steered downwards, in slow lazy spirals, for what he recognised as a gate. A huge black-skinned warrior stood to either side, using his assegai spear to threaten the growing crowd away. From the other side of the gates, a file of equally large warriors was doubling forward to reinforce them. Their spears were long, well-maintained and had the same flat leaf-shaped point. They glinted in a manner that said big and sharp to onlookers.
"Hope they're friendly." Reg muttered.
"Leave them to me." the Ambassador said. "I have credentials to show."
"Landing in one minute." Billy announced. "Final descent…. And…. Down."
The passengers stepped off the carpet and were immediately mobbed by natives. Irena tried to put her broom in between the carpet and the natives, but it was a lost cause.
Two huge warriors blocked the way to the gate. They did not look friendly at all. Reg and Visit recognised the universal characteristics of Palace guardsmen everywhere – large, unblinking, formidably beweaponed, not especially clever, and dedicated to preventing entry. The two Watchmen tried not to look intimidated as the Ambassador stepped forward, waving what looked like some sort of ornamented fly-switch at the guards. He spoke in rapid Matabelian that had an air of alpha-male about it. In the background, another heated conversation was going on. Irena was involved.
"No, I don't care if your cousin is the disgraced former finance minister who needs to get a million dollars out of the country into Ankh-Morpork! Look, you silly man, I'm not going to give you my bank account details, now or ever!"
Reg Shoe sighed, philosophically. It was going to be one of those mornings. And to think he'd joined up because no two days in the Watch were ever the same, welcome variety to one of the Undead who had, for all he knew, eternity ahead of him. He suddenly realised he was alone.
"The offer of your sister is all very well and fine, but I have to advise you that renting your siblings for purposes of Seamstressing is against the unchanging world of Om. I have a pamphlet here on the subject of sexual immorality…. And you're only making things worse for yourself at the Final Judgement by offering me your younger brother. Or a goat. Om has much to say on those subjects too."
For some reason the Matabelians were giving Reg a respectful wide berth. While he was grateful not to be pestered, it still reeked of naked vitalism. He turned and looked at the crowd, which shrank back from him.
"Look, just because I'm a Zombie…" he began.
There was an ululation of fear and dismay. The word "Nzambi!" was heard. Reg also picked up on words like "Bokor!" and "Damballah!" He resolved to ask the Ambassador later.(3) He reflected that Vetinari, when he had specifically requested Constable Shoe be sent to Matabeleland as the Ambassador's escort, had had one of those odd little half-smiles on his face. Mr Vimes had scowled, darkly.
Meanwhile, the Ambassador was still remonstrating with the gate guard. Reg heard "Vetinari" in the stream of Matabele. The guards looked uncertainly at each other. The Ambassador followed up a little later with "Sam Vimes", the name spoken with deliberate emphasis.
"And I say unto you, brethren, Om is not deceived and Om will judge! You may wish to read the pamphlet "On The Last Judgement of Om" which I have here…"
In his own way, Visit was clearing a space too. This only left Irena, who had cleared a space by swinging her broomstick, allowing Billy to roll up his carpet and sling it over his shoulder. His other hand was resting on his cudgel and his expression was grim.
"Leave this for a second and they'd nick it, miss." he said, to Irena. She nodded, grimly.
"What's keeping those bloody guards? We need to be on the other side of those doors!"
"It's a bit embarrassing, miss." Billy said. "Far as I can follow, which ain't far, they agree the ambassador should be allowed in to see the Paramount King and the Council of Wise Princes and Jujumen. No argument there. It's just that they, er, they want payment of five dollars a head. Wear and tear money, see, on the gates, against renewal of the hinges…"
"They want a BRIBE!" Irena shrieked. "To let us IN!" She deftly cracked the staff of her broom against a hand that was reaching for her belt-pouch.
"It is the way my country runs, Officer Politek." the Ambassador said, resignedly. "Bear with me. I believe I can beat them down to two dollars per head."
And then the officer in command of the Guard turned up. There was brief consultation. Irena thought she could see money change hands. But the gates opened.
"Captain N'Centif will lead us to the Paramount." The ambassador said, relieved. I may bring my pilot and escort. Even my Nzambi servant, provided I keep him under my word of command and prevent him from eating any human brains, livers or hearts."
"Reg? Forget it. Please?" Irena asked. She tried to look official.
"So the Captain has formally received you, you are under his protection, and he will take you to the King?" she asked.
"It would appear so." The Ambassador confirmed.
"Good." Irena said, straddling her broom. "My orders from Mr Vimes and the Patrician were to witness your going in, and to get a name of whoever received you. That way, if you don't come out again or otherwise disappear, Lord Vetinari and Mr Vimes can start asking questions. And I know Captain N'Centif understands Morporkian and has got the gist of that. Or they wouldn't have sent him out to assess us. Right? So we're agreed. I'm off. See you later!"
Irena nodded at the Guard captain, and got airborne as quickly as she could. She circled and then headed Rimwards, following the trail of a slow-moving aerial convoy in real space. Next stop, the camp. (4)
The jungle track near the former slave camp.
"Step exactly where I step." Johanna Smith-Rhodes instructed the patrol. "If you see me, or Miss Band, step long or short for no apparent reason, or step to right or left, follow exactly in our footsteps. We have set traps and alarms."
She repeated this in Morporkian for Alice's information, and set about guiding the six Howondalandian soldiers into the camp. Julian Smith-Rhodes sighed resignedly and allowed his cousin…. well, my second cousin several times removed, and a Boor, but still a Smith-Rhodes. And she is extraordinarily capable…. to lead the way.
Then there was a sudden twang, a scream, and an explosion of multicoloured light.
Extract from "My Journey Through Howondaland and Klatch", by The Honourable Miss Lucinda Rust, Raven House (Licenced Graduate Assassin). As previously, annotated for peer review purposes by interested persons from the Guild, whose marginal comments and footnotes will be identified by initials.
My stay in the lowly native camp ended very suddenly. There was a flurry of activity by those wretched native drummers. Men ran to the village chief who appeared, looking agitated and straightening a rather moth-eaten head-dress. Men and women raced at the word of command and a suddenly indolent and rather lazy collection of natives became very, very, busy. Women were tidying the village and preparing animal carcasses for a feast. The men were renewing rotted thatching on their squalid huts. Other women were rushing out on foraging expeditions and bringing back some admittedly lovely native flowers. I sat and watched them weaving the flowers into bunches and garlands. As I was bored beyond belief, I accepted their invitation to join them and the time passed tolerably pleasantly.
Then the new arrivals were welcomed into the village. These were new and different natives. Thirty or so of the tallest and most muscular black men, whose height was augmented by tall plumes of ostrich feathers, and who were ornamented with accessories in lion skin. Compared to the miserable local natives, they were in the peak of health and physical perfection. Each man carried a long, flat, and roughly oval hide shield, with an outer design suggesting a sort of commonality, as if they belonged to the same tribe, or clan, or family. Each also carried a short javelin with an absurdly large leaf-shaped head. Not much good for throwing as it would not go very far and would be woefully inaccurate!
[[Good grief. We don't use the assegai for throwing, Lucinda. It's for stabbing. That way you can use it more than once. R N'K]]
Only some, I noticed, carried a sword, a clumsy long blade that looked like the common machete and which a civilised weapon could easily outwit and evade.
[[It's called an iklwa, Lucinda. It has enough weight to chop one of your sabres in half and the speed to spit you while you're looking at the broken blade in your sword hand. R N'K]]
[[And of course your people copied it from us after we demonstrated its many uses. I wear the original version with pride. J S-R]]
These new warriors carried themselves with pride and hauteur. The local villagers appeared wary and frightened, but respectful, of them. A double file of these warriors opened as the local chief prostrated himself on the ground in obeisance. The reason was a warrior carrying more ornament than the rest, with a full lion-skin cloak and what looked like ornamentation in gold, silver and plain stones interspersed with worthless-looking coloured beads. Probably obtained from some missionary or jungle trader such as N'Dbhlwa.
[[ Lucinda. Those were uncut diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. My own "missionary glass beads" are worth $AM90,000. Some "worthless stones!" R N'K]]
N'Dhblwa elbowed me in the ribs.
"Whatever you do, miss, be respectful!" he hissed at me. "This ain't any old Zulu."
The Zulu prince bade the local chief to stand up and fired a question at him. The voice sounded familiar.
The chief looked at me and nodded. He then said something that sounded almost like a plea. Presumably asking the Prince to speed me on my way with all haste. And then the Prince looked at me. He said:
"Lucinda Rust. Black Widow House. You will step forward and kneel in front of me. I will not insist that you prostrate yourself in full submission."
He spoke in Morporkian. And with horror – and a little relief – I recognised him. All I could think of was to say
"Sir. I am here."
Canon Clement nodded.
"I perceive that. Now step forwards and kneel."
"Sir, a pupil at the Guild school does not normally kneel for a teacher!"
"You are not at the Guild School now, Miss Rust. Nor am I. Now kneel before a Prince of the Paramount House. That is expected here."
I hesitated. Canon Clement, normally a pleasant fellow, was different here in his own country. He frowned at me. His warriors stirred and growled, perceiving insult to their Prince.
"You are still undergoing your final exam, Miss Rust." He reminded me. "Do not make me have to Fail you for inability to read a situation, incourteous and unwise behaviour, and sheer bull-necked Rust family stupidity. Now – kneel!"
I made myself kneel and bowed my head, feeling the rich red flush of base shame. However, I felt the atmosphere ease, and the warrior escort relaxing as I made obeisiance to their Prince. Canon Clement smiled.
"Good enough. Now listen to me. I am to escort you to Ulawayo. That is the principal kraal of my father, who has asked to meet you. I requested this command, as I was concerned that any half-brother of mine who has not known you for seven years would not be prepared to make allowances for your personality. Some brothers of mine would have killed you on the spot for disrespect, for instance. Some of them are so touchy as to be insane."
He bade me stand.
"Now. Your recent hosts are preparing a feast for me and my men. You are invited as a guest of this village. They are poor people. Remember to thank them when you leave. My men know you are under royal protection, by the way. But still – do not provoke them. They are proud fighters. Now shall we dine?"
Over the native feast, I asked Clement how he had got here so quickly. He smiled.
"Initially on a faster ship than yours." he said. "The Guild has an arrangement with a graduate from Viper House who owns a very fast ship. And you arrived later and have been stranded here for several weeks."
He nodded to N'Dbhlwa, who sat a way further down the social order.
"Mr Bash Me Brains Out With Me Own Knobkerrie N'Dbhlwa is a useful person." he remarked. "N'Dbhlwa does not only trade in tawdry goods and shoddy merchandise. He trades information too. My father finds him both amusing and useful. He sent word you were here. We knew exactly where to find you. The Guild did not ask me to come out and search for you, not in so many words, but they will need to be informed as to your progress. Which was rather stuck here, wasn't it, and needed a discreet nudge?"
I nodded. He may have been correct. I asked how far it was to Ulawayo.
"Oh, no great distance. Perhaps a hundred and fifty miles. We will make good progress when we leave the jungle and get out on the veldt, naturally. You can run? Good. We should cover the distance inside six days, then!"
[[And I also felt a duty of care towards one who had been my pupil for seven long years and who was stranded in a foreign place. I am also a priest, remember. I looked upon our journey together as both penance for my own sins and opportunity to deliver further testing and teaching to a pupil who was never entirely stupid. Merely misdirected. I can report her physical fitness began as good, and was tested to the limit on what, to my people, is the pleasant exertion of jogging thirty miles a day for five days. Making allowance for the poorer endurance of white-skinned people, I would pass her as "outstanding" for endurance and stamina. Can. C N'C]]
[[you're all heart, dear brother. R n'K]]
[[Noted and taken into consideration when deciding whether to pass Miss Rust. I am satisfied you gave her no improper assistance. DD. Guild Master]]
The air battle over the Matabelian fleet
Jocasta Wiggs relaxed as she realised the broomstick was flying fairly straight and level and did not appear to be about to crash at any time soon. Looking back over her shoulder, she could see Irena was silently slumped in the pilot's position, and appeared to still be breathing slowly and regularly. Jocasta wondered if in need she could take control. For now, assessing herself as being in no immediate danger, she watched the boats, about three hundred feet below. The capering little magic-user who had just sent a fireball up was going to be a problem… she eased the stock of the bulky repeating crossbow into her shoulder and tried to sight it on the boat which had fired. She hoped this was being observed and would act as a deterrent. A stray thought nudged her conscious mind.
Something odd about those seagulls….
Irena had quickly identified the alpha seagull, the older dominant female whose lead the others would follow, albeit with squawking and argument. After making the necessary minor adjustments so that the broomstick had a course to follow – a trick she had learnt from Nanny Ogg and other Lancre witches – she relaxed her mind and allowed it to drift out of focus, albeit in a uniquely directed way. This was something Granny Weatherwax had graciously permitted her to observe and learn from.
Right. She vocalised, inside the mind of the alpha gull. If we're both sensible, I have a suggestion or two for you and then I can be out of your head again. I want you to do something for me. It's simple, it's fun, and I know you birds do this for sport, I've seen you do it. One of you just did it to Jocasta for the thrill of getting a moving target. All you have to do is follow your biological imperative. If you don't know what that means, I can introduce you to Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Now think back. How long ago was it since you last ate? Your croup or whatever is full. You feel a little uncomfortable. You have excess weight to eject. Let's make a game of this. And let's get some of the others to follow your lead…. That's it. Judge line and distance and relative speed. Target in sight. Swoop. Gliding dive. And….
Jocasta saw a single seagull cry, swoop, glide… and then the magic user on board the main boat was unerringly hit by several ounces of warm guano. The bird screeched triumph and swooped up again. And then others were following on their respective bombing runs. She sat and watched, amazed. Those birds seemed almost to be guided by some other mind. That was not random bowel evacuation going on there.
Irena passed from mind to laridean mind. Finally satisfied they'd got the idea, she grinned to herself and returned to her human body. She jerked back into consciousness, fighting an urge to go and eat some delicious rotting fish, and clenching down hard on a need to evacuate her own bowels. Granny Weatherwax had warned her trainee witches about this inconvenient aspect of Borrowing any form of bird. Birds did not have sphincters and bowel control was not part of avian evolution. Witches had indeed been inconvenienced, and learnt this the hard way.
"What did you do?" Jocasta asked. Below them the front of the main boat had suddenly turned chalky-white and one individual was plastered in evil-smelling bird droppings. The huge man sitting a little way behind him, who had barely been splashed, made an impatient gesture. One of the rowers raised an oar and pushed the luckless magic-user overboard, where he hit with a large splash. He was allowed to grab a gunwhale, but was prevented from climbing back in by order of the fat man.
"It's called Borrowing." Irena said, appreciating the show. "Witch skill. I put a suggestion in the mind of some of those birds. That little yebeni kutsynsin was the one who hurt my Pegasus with a fireball the other day. And he has the jajzca to try it again now!"
Never annoy a witch, Jocasta reflected. Assassins were taught wisdom like this early. The Guild still spoke about a member who had accepted a contract on a Weatherwax woman two centuries earlier. It had not ended well, and was held up as a textbook example of overconfidence.
The broomstick fell into its lazy figure-of-eight around the boats. Whilst some bows were pointing up at them and trying to track them, no arrows were being fired. Yet. Jocasta meaningfully swivelled the repeater crossbow round, following the boats. She noted she could safely angle the weapon downwards without any arrows falling out, as the design incorporated a clever retaining catch to hold the quarrel in place. Depressing the trigger retracted the security catch and allowed for free firing. She appreciated refinements like this in her weapons.
For now, it was a stand-off between broomstick and an off-shore fleet. Irena hoped Olga and Buggy would get back soon from their mission to the Rimwards. Wee Mad Arthur had returned to Ankh-Morpork with the carpet fleet. Ponder Stibbons, she knew, could fly a broomstick, but he had no experience in air fighting. Which only left her, as the one operational flyer. She sighed. So far it had been a challenging day. And it wasn't even lunchtime.
The garrison, Trekopje, Rimwards Howondaland
Kolonel Pierre van der Louw was alerted by his adjutant to something strange happening in the sky. Apparently it was that bloody odd white horse again, sir. The one with wings. He sighed, put his bush hat on, and walked out onto the stoep of the battalion office. Soldiers had paused in their duties all around and were looking up in wonder. The Kolonel assessed the situation. "Two riders. Looks like it's about to land. Hold your fire! Well, Dries, we'll soon know one way or the other. That fellow's in uniform, isn't he? Looks official. The… girl…. doing the steering's in a uniform too, but not one I recognise. And what's that little blue thing sitting in the mane?"
The adjutant, Captain Dries, was paid to answer questions.
"Ankh-Morpork City Watch, sir." he said promptly, hoping he wouldn't be asked again about the little blue creature. Who seemed to be making rude gestures.
"Bit out of her usual beat, isn't she? And the chap on the back. Diplomatic sash. Wonder what Pratoria's sent us this time?"
"We're about to find out, I think, sir. She's landing."
The Kolonel, the adjutant, and Major de Keonis, the second-in-command, went to greet the new arrivals. The authoritative middle-aged man in the orange diplomatic sash leapt off the back of the creature. He was holding a large sealed brown packet. The Kolonel winced. Large sealed brown packets meant trouble.
"Pieter van der Graaf. Bureau of Foreign Affairs. Diplomatic Section." the newcomer said, brusquely. "Orders from the highest level. We need to talk privately and make a plan."
"Come into the office." the colonel said, receiving the packet. "Major. Captain. Be present."
Olga let herself down to ground level, watching the group walk into the building. She had a shrewd idea what the packet contained. Nodding amicably at the ring of armed soldiers surrounding her (and knowing Buggy Swires was sizing them up speculatively), she wasn't surprised, a few moments later, when the youngish Captain raced out and yelled for the Regimental Sergeant-Major and Battalion Quartermaster-Sergeant to attend the conference. Oh, and all company commanders! The soldiers started to look at each other nervously.
"They know they're going tae get some serious orders soon, lassie." Buggy said, amicably. "Mobilization, ye ken. Full field service marching order, aye."
Buggy sat back into the pegasus' mane, happy in the knowledge that the place was going to become very busy soon and he could just sit back and watch.
"And ye will ken that laddie asked for the RSM first. He only thought afterwards, for tae invite all the other Ruperts. A guid sense of priorities, there."
"They say Rimwards Howondaland has a very good army." Olga agreed.
"Lots of practice. Can ye be surprised? In places like this, ye either soldiers well or not at all."
Disregarded for now, they watched as a sleepy backwater garrison stepped up through several gears and its pace went from leisured calm to double-time speed. Officers came and went to the HQ building. The RSM and BQMS arrived. Sergeants were briefed. Squads and details were formed. Crates and boxes of stores began to stack up, even on the hallowed parade ground. Braying and resentful pack-mules were dragged out and loaded up with crates and sacks. Sweating soldiers ran everywhere, laden with loads and kit. Olga watched, appreciating the speed with which seven hundred men could be despatched with all they needed, to what might become a war. NCO's with clipboards moved among the men, marking, noting and ticking things off. She noted that these were principally the smaller, neater, more Pessimal-like sort of sergeant, and reflected that any uniformed organisation needed such men. Idly, she wondered how her own Pessimal was getting on in the camp; some deep-down witch sense was nagging at her and insisting she got back there as soon as she could.
Pieter van der Graaf watched preparations for war from the CO's office window, with a heavy heart. He remembered a thirty-years-younger version of himself who had performed conscript service just after graduating from university. In deference to his acceptance in the Civil Service he had been given officer rank: but that had counted for little on the jungle beat, in the province of what was officially called Smith-Rhodesia after its founder. He winced, recalling the border skirmishes of Hubwards Rhodesia and his own part in the fighting. He smiled, without humour, at the ubiquity of the Smith-Rhodes family and how they remained a powerful force in the nation. Annexing the Hubwards territory and naming it after themselves had been the start of it.
And he had asked the colonel, feeling an obligation to Charles Smith-Rhodes.
"Young Julian? You're too late, Pieter. When we got rumblings of something irregular going in, I sent him up-country with a patrol to investigate. He's got the sense to avoid combat with the bloody Mats, and an experienced sergeant. So unless he ran right into them – in which case he's dead – my hope is that we'll find him and pick him up and he can brief us. He's a sensible fellow. My guess is he's evaded them and he's either watching, or he's on his way back to report. We'll find out. One way or the other."
"No blame attaches, Pierre. I'll see Charles knows that, if the worst happens. You sent your best young officer out on a patrol to investigate rumours. Small enough in numbers to evade in a jungle, and with experienced men."
"And Verkramp, gods help me. But I wanted that fellow off the base, Pieter. He was driving me mad."
Pieter nodded, soberly. Having to explain to a powerful and well-connected politician that you'd sent his son out on a suicide mission would kill anyone's Army career stone-dead. And he dealt with a Verkramp every day, himself, with no option to send him on detached service. He perfectly understood the Kolonel.
"There is another Smith-Rhodes out there." he said. "One with jungle experience, formidable fighting skills and Ankh-Morpork Assassin training. She also holds the rank of Major in our army. I have trust in her."
"Ah yes. The Red Death. Who served with the Slew.5(5) But will her reputation against the Zulu be known to the Matabele?"
The Kolonel was, in his way, a progressive who believed vocationally inclined women soldiers could fight in the front lines. For one thing, it doubled the available manpower. And he knew from his marriage that a determined and angry woman could fight like Hell. Often in inventive and ruthless ways no man would ever think of.
Pieter smiled.
"The advantage of being a diplomat is that I am in a position to speak to my counterparts from nations such as Matabeleland." he said. "You may be sure such human contact includes a proud uncle boasting of the ability of his talented niece. They will know, alright. I have taken good care to ensure this is so."
The Kolonel grinned. "And you are related by marriage to the Smith-Rhodes family. So you'll know how to fight. Those buggers might have a finger in every pie in this country, but nobody can call them cowards in a fight. What's your rank in the Reserve?"
"Kolonel. But strictly honorary. As a Regular you of course have seniority."
Kolonel van der Louw nodded.
"Another officer on attachment. Always welcome. So you're coming up-country with us, Pieter?"
"I do not see I have a choice in this. As our instructions dictate, Ankh-Morpork is to be viewed as an ally in this situation. The young lady patiently waiting outside is under orders to be at my disposal as a personal pilot. As an officer of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, she will follow orders to the letter. Perhaps she can help insert advance patrols to scout ahead? However fast you move, it will take a good two days for the bulk of your unit to arrive. We may not have two days, as the Matabele are already there."
The Kolonel considered this.
"Perhaps she can take you direct to this slave camp so you can look at the current situation personally? Then report back to me. Any sign of young Julian and his patrol, from above, would also be useful. I would be grateful for your assistance, certainly. But her wonderful horse would be subject to limitations. No horse can take more than three people, and then only for short distances. Even so, two-man patrols inserted ahead of us at intervals… it may work."
"I will speak to her." Pieter promised.
And preparations for war continued.
The former slave camp, in the border region.
Inspector Pessimal, flanked by Bash Me Brains Out With Me Own Knobkerrie N'Dbhlwa and Cheery Littlebottom, watched the distant boats gloomily. They observed Irena's broomstick shadowing the patrol and witnessed the fireball attack from below.
"Well, they fired first." Cheery observed. "We can report that back to Home."
"If you've got anybody left to send home." N'Dbhlwa mused. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but there are no flying horses here, or those little blue pygmies."
It was true: the empty carpets, and Wee Mad Arthur, had returned to Ankh-Morpork shortly before the boats had been spotted. They would have craw-stepped shortly after take off and may never even have seen activity at sea. Even if they had seen boats from several thousand feet up, they would not necessarily have connected them with an attack on the camp. Pessimal squared his shoulders. We're on our own here. Even the bulk of his Assassins were out on patrols and were not expected back for a good hour. He wondered if any of them would have noticed. He doubted it. They were all in deep thick jungle.
"What are our strengths here?" he asked, out loud.
"Errr…. Miss Smith-Rhodes insisted the gaps between the buildings were closed with barricades of barrels and boxes and sacks." Cheery pointed out. "As we got them off the carpets, she had them moved to make sort of walls with. There are quite a few deliveries worth of barrels there now, and as she had the empty ones filled with sand and earth, they can't easily get knocked over."
"Lawkes' Drain." N'Dbhlwa said. "I'm not saying she ain't capable, not sayin' that at all in any way, you understand, but Rimwards Howondalandians, you know? Just because Lawkes' Drain worked once, they got it on the national brain. Like Tsorteans with wooden zebras, horses, that sort of thing."
"I appreciate her reasoning about having a Redoubt." Pessimal said. "But the problem with building a redoubt is that it presumes you will be surrounded by the enemy. With nowhere to run to. Which means a Glorious Last Stand is built into the concept from the start. And I am aware of His Grace the Duke of Ankh's feelings concerning Glorious Last Stands."
"Don't have one." Cheery summarised. "Or make sure it's the other side who do. And what are those seagulls doing? Oh… wow…"
They appreciatively watched a sustained attack by well-fed seabirds. Ponder Stibbons had come out to join them.
"Borrowing." he said. "There's a witch in Lancre who can Borrow a whole hive of bees. All at once. I never knew you could do it with seagulls."
"Officer Politek is buying us time." Pessimal said. "Delaying them. And I note without Miss Wiggs having to retaliate with real crossbow bolts. Thus far we have not fired a single shot. The aggression is all on their side."
"There's a magic user out there. On their side, I mean. The fireball. And I can taste tin." Ponder said. He had thought to carry his staff. With a certain trepidation, he realised it might be needed.
And then a multicolour fireball erupted in the treeline on the Rimwards side. Everybody turned to look.
"Can we find out what that was?" Pessimal enquired, mildly. "I note Miss Smith-Rhodes and her patrol are out in that direction."
"That was one of the magical traps I set the other night." Ponder said. Strictly not lethal, thankfully. But something's tripped it."
He nodded to Cheery, who readied her axe. They went off together to check. He wondered why the goblins all seemed to have disappeared. Several hundred goblins can't all have gone to ground at once…. Maybe a goblin tripped the wire…
Johanna cursed using Vondalaans terms some of the soldiers were surprised she knew. Private Desmond Dekker stored a new phrase up for use later, if a suitable opportunity presented itself. He considered it was down to her coming from the Veldt country where bewilderbeeste were in profusion. And farmers, den Boere, they dealt with that sort of thing every day. Only natural she has the vocabulary.
Liutnant Verkramp had stopped screaming, but was curled up whimpering in the bottom of a pit. He was fortunate Johanna had heeded Pessimal's advice and not put any sharpened punji spikes in the bottom, and certainly not ones tipped with any Assassin tradecraft.
At the same time as he had fallen through the thin layer of brushwood and jungle floor detritus over the top, he had triggered one of Ponder's spells, which had set off an actinic flare designed to make life difficult for any prowling magic user, shapeshifter or Undead. Ponder had reasoned that as actinic light was inimical to vampires and would kill the night-vision of a were-creature, it would doubly guard against magical intrusion by night.
"Good one." Alice Band said, approving. "I might not have noticed that one till I was on top of it." Alice taught Traps at the Assassins' School. Johanna felt gratifying pride at the professional recognition involved.
Get that bloody idiot out of there." Johanna dictated. Julian Smith-Rhodes shrugged.
"Sergeant, do as the Major directs. Help the bloody idiot out." he said, glad to be able to repeat a Major's instructions with word perfection.
There was a pause whilst the political officer was helped out of the pit. At Johanna's direction, they renewed the covering over the top so as not to waste the trap for anyone who followed.
"What the hell!" shouted Private Maarlei, levelling his crossbow. Alice Band reached out and politely pushed it away.
"They're goblins, soldier. Never seen one before?" she asked.
"They're friendly." Johanna said. "Julian, these are the people we came here to rescue. The former slaves."
He got the point.
"Strictly no firing, men!" he ordered.
Five or six goblins stood, deferentially, in the jungle path.
"Please, m's." the spokesgoblin said. "Were watching you. We saw the clumsy one fall into pit. Know where traps are. We should guide."
Johanna smiled.
"Julian. Each of your men will be escorted by a goblin. Do exectly es they say. You perticulerly, Liutnant Verkramp. They will lead you safely into our cemp. We cen telk more there."
Ponder and Cheery met Ruth N'Kweze, trotting in a fast but easy pace down the track. He gulped and closed his eyes at a certain bounciness evident in Ruth's running.
"Hi, Cheery. Glad they sent you out. Can't talk, better I'm somewhere else. You'll see why. Johanna, Alice, six soldiers. For me, the wrong sort. One of them set off the flare. They'll be friendly to you. Got to run, see you!"
She moved off quickly and was lost to view in the green.
And then a mixed party of goblins, Assassins and Rimwards Howondalandian soldiers came round the bend in the track.
"Hi, Ponder!" Johanna called, cheerfully. "We've got new guests!"
"So I see." said Ponder, taking in hard-looking men with weapons, including a young red-haired man whose look and carriage were vaguely familiar to him. He'd seen somebody like that before…
Introductions were made. Ponder reflected that he very rarely met relatives of Johanna. Her younger sister was a Guild school pupil, yes, and was pretty much a younger edition. Her uncle was Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork. Julian Smith-Rhodes was a new one on him, and they talked together as they walked down the path. He noticed the soldiers treated Cheery with a certain respect. But a Dwarf in gilded chainmail carrying a big axe as if she knew how to use it conferred a certain respect, he reasoned. And Cheery was used to giving orders to Watchmen. That bred self-confidence. And she wore her Watch sergeant's stripes. That helped too. Soldiers learnt to respect three stripes.
"My father thought about sending one of us to the Assassins' School." Julian said. "But what with family teaching there and everything, he decided against. My older brother was packed off to Hugglestones."
Julian paused, reflectively.
"He's still in therapy. I'm glad I escaped that. So you're a professor of magic?"
"Unseen University. Magical advisor to this expedition."
He looked at Johanna. She nodded back. "Tell them everything, Ponder. There's no reason not to. They're on our side."
"We've got a field-wizard with our unit." Julian said. "Qualified from Witwatersrand at the Department of Wizardry there. You might meet him."
"I'd like that." Ponder said. He'd heard some Armies recruited wizards for combat duties. Whilst shuddering at the thought, he realised it would be useful to find out more. "I'd also like to see the university there. We don't know nearly enough about it and it might be good to find out for my Arch-Chancellor."
"I hear mr Ridcully is an interesting character." Julian said, politely. "Stories about him get into the papers here."
Ponder did not find this especially surprising. He made a note to try and find clippings. He could leave some on Ridcully's desk for his gratification that he could make the news several thousand miles away. For whatever reasons…
Meanwhile, the other patrol party had worked its way down from the high slopes and was now at the fringes of the jungle area, overlooking the cleared tobacco fields and the sea. Emmanuelle and Heidi accepted Precious Jolson's earnest advice not to go into the fields. The untended growth of tobacco plants and encroaching jungle was were where the goblins chose to live. And they were doing things in there, she wasn't sure what, but Miss Smith-Rhodes was adamant they should be left alone to do it. And Johanna was aware of more than she was letting on, Precious thought.
"Bien." Emmanuelle said, watching the boats out at sea. They had missed the aerial fight on their way downhill through thick jungle, but were aware of the broomstick orbiting the boats, which had stopped out at sea, for some reason.
"Those ships should heve beached by now." Heidi remarked. "Whet's stopping them?"
"The large vessel appears to be at anchor. Its crew have rested their oars and are drawing up buckets of seawater. They appear to be washing something off the boat. Whatever it is, their reactions suggest it is noxious. There is a dignitary on board who appears to be insisting on this. Even at this distance I can infer he is not amused." Emmanuelle said. She had very good eyesight. Her profession as swordfighter dictated this.
"I wonder what Irena and Jocasta called down on them?" Precious remarked. "Whatever they did, it's delaying them and giving us time."
"Which is for the good, mes amies". Emmanuelle said. "We can skirt around the edges of these fields and return unseen to the camp. Then we confer with the capable Inspector Pessimal and offer him our services. Allons!"
(1) The Lancre Problem: getting round the borders of a large country in a single night when no single broomstick could carry that much power. Irena thought a broomstick carrier could eliminate all that tricky and dangerous need for in-flight refuelling. Refer to Wyrd Sisters by Terry Pratchett for details.
(2) MOKO: Watch shorthand for Morporkian Of Klatchian Origin, a second-generation immigrant. Many worked as flying-taxi drivers for Joe-Le-Tahksi.
(3) Yes, there is a Zombie tradition in West Africa too. You'd expect it, as this is where Voudou was born….
(4) Apologies. Matabeleland, in the best Pratchett tradition, is turning out to be Nigeria with all the associations and stereotypes turned up to eleven. Well, most of West Africa is a bit like this too, not just Nigeria.
(5) The Slew: on our world, the pre-1980 Rhodesian Army had a unit of feared, elite jungle fighters called the Selouis Scouts. Or "the Slew" for short.( Odd fact: Liverpool and Zimbabwe goalkeeper Bruce Grobelaar served with them). It's only right that in the Discworld Smith-Rhodesia, this unit should have a counterpart. And that Smith-Rhodes family members can pull strings to join them.