Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.

Chapter thirteen: Tea in the Sahara (1) or even Behind My Camel. With a Policeman. Stung?

A shorter chapter. I'm currently thinking out what sort of letters form Ankh-Morpork would have reached the girls via Olga and what they might reasonably say.

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 African region may or may not be getting the treatment here.

Mariella and Rivka have with reluctance (and possibly ninety minutes to spare) left the hospitality and luxury offered by the most honoured and esteemed Sultana. A contract completed, they have shouldered their rucksacks and are moving on and heading for a border, which once crossed puts them outside Klatchian jurisdiction and a bit nearer Hubwards and their destination. They make a new acquaintance and are reminded of a specific variation on the Seventy-Two-Hour rule of Sacred Hospitality.

With a nod to Humon. Who has done some pretty interesting not-Scandinavia -And-The-World stuff.

Now read on…

From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Klatch.

Hi Johanna!

I am writing in the relative cool of the late afternoon, before we strike camp and travel by evening and night, as this is much cooler and moonlight offers adequate light – and stars – to navigate by.

At present we are in the silence and stillness of the true desert. Our camp is underneath a shaded awning on the shadow side of a sand-dune, although "in the shade" is a relative term here. As a zoologist, you would probably question the assertion that nothing lives or moves here except three human travellers and a small herd numbering five camels (two of whom carry nothing but waterskins. This is vitally necessary). There is life here. Things come out from self-burial in the deeper and cooler sand layers, at night. This is not noticeable by day, but in the cool of the night you are aware of rodents, insects, arachnids, lizards, and all manner of fauna you would swear the desert could not possibly sustain. I think you would like it here for that reason. Especially since some of the wildlife is distinctly inimical and puts up a fight.

Sand gets everywhere. I am missing the taste of luxury and the ample baths we enjoyed at Miriam's. I find it difficult to believe I can get all the sand out which has worked its way into some most inconvenient and hard-to-access places. But our guide assures us you get used to it. He also assures us that he is reasonably sure there will not be a sandstorm. I hope so. This is apparently not sandstorm season. Ah, will I ever have a bath again?

We left En-el-Sams-la-Raisa on the Friday morning. Miriam and most of her household went to the religious service at the local temple, and we said our farewells in advance. She was, I thought, genuinely sorry to see us go. A token guard was left on the building, as was the wretched boy Lensen. He seemed put out we were not taking him with us.

I took the opportunity to point out in no uncertain terms that we had done him a favour. If he kept his eyes and ears open, there might be an opportunity to escape, (I did not go into any specific detail. It is now for him to work out) which was more possible and certain from here than from anywhere the fat and disgusting slave-driver would have kept him. If he really wanted to attempt escape from a march, in chains, from the middle of a desert, we could give him back to Ali Raschid. But here he was going to be well treated, well nourished, and allowed space and time to recuperate and get his strength back. I advised him to keep his eyes and ears open and be attentive. And not to annoy the Lady Miriam too much. Graduate of Tump House or not, here she was an imperious Sultana in her own country. With access to whips and other corrective remedies.

"And another thing, Horst. My friend Mariella paid to get you out. You now owe her. Four thousand dollars. And she was overcharged. You have heard of Scary Maries? Well, if you get through this continent and you try to evade repaying Mariella her four thousand dollars, I will pursue you as far as it takes, for as long as it takes, and I will find you. And you will find out that of all the Scary Maries you ever met or even heard of, I am the scariest. I will be the Scary Mary who haunts your nightmares. My people have something called a Yenta who never lets up in her pursuit. You will discover I am the Yenta of Scary Maries."

I am satisfied that he got the point. By the way, he had been bathed and groomed and was now dressed in the minimal attire of Miriam's special house slaves. Damn the man, he is a good-looking male, in a coarse way. I suspect his special training will begin soon. The major-domo saw us and led him away, berating him for disturbing the peace of an esteemed friend of the Sultana, and berating him with the flat of his hand. The cracks of the slaps on bare skin resounded in a satisfying way.

Mariella joined me and we set about loading our camels. We had been loaned a third camel, which was laden largely with filled waterskins and some food rations. We were assured it would be returned.

Then we noted a strange thing. A slightly ragged individual was squatting silently in the shadows by the gate. He was a small stocky individual, and the seemingly absurd thing was the overly large sword he wore strapped to his back. Then we reflected, much at the same time, that nobody in this place would carry a sword they did not know how to use.

He stood, seemingly aware we had noticed his presence, and as he stepped out of the shade, it was obvious that most of his exposed skin was composed of old scar tissue. Old scar tissue, indicating he had survived a lot of fights.

He sala'amed respectfully to us.

"Greetings, offendi ladies! The most esteemed lady Sultana Miriam, who is an old and a trusted acquaintance, sent word and asked that I be your guide over the desert. She is concerned that even such capable ladies as you might go astray and die, without a good guide."

He grinned, with a flash of gold teeth.

"And you present me a difficulty. I have heard, through mere souk gossip, admittedly, that two ladies, one red of hair as though she were from Candwa al-sher Alahmir, and one a Cenotian spy, have entered his domains illegally and with evil intent, and that the Prince is keen to have them detained."

He shook his head and sighed.

"As the appointed wali of the Prince, one who enforces the Law which is one and the same as the Seraph's will, I am therefore bound to that will, and must seek to arrest such people as have aroused his displeasure."

He smiled at us again with a renewed flash of gold. None of us went for weapons. I think this is called a Klatchian Stand-off.

"But my lady Miriam is from Tump House and was a pupil of the renowned Miss Alice Band. The two ladies the Prince seeks are of Black Widow House, tutored by the most respected and worthy of honour Madame Emmanuelle. I have met her. She is not a woman to slight.(2) And woe unto me, women and girls at the Guild came after my time in Viper House. Floreat School and all that!"

There was more flashing gold.

Realisation was dawning.

The swarthy Klatchian spread his hands in a gesture of resignation.

"What is a poor wali to do when faced with conflicting loyalties? Woe is me!" he declared, theatrically.

There was a long silence.

"But I think. If I meet two travellers in the inhospitable desert, extend the compassion of the most merciful and the most forgiving Offler to them and offer, as a deeper Law dictates, to escort them to within sight of the border with Ymitury, that obligation transcends all. And for seventy-one hours, they are as daughters to me and I am sworn to defend and protect and to do right by them. And if then I ride back to an outpost, where the written will of the Seraph awaits me, with his official seal so I can be in no doubt it came from the Prince, describing such people and ordering me to find and detain them… well, then, I received the directive too late. I may ride back and seek them. But if they have by then passed into the neighbouring nation from which we have no extradition treaty, then it is clearly the will of Offler."

He paused.

"Mariella Smit'-Hrodes. Rivka ben-Devorah. It seems Offler has spoken and I am to be your guide and protector for seventy-one hours. I swear I will lead you truly."

Mariella took a deep breath.

"I'm not going to ask if you really meant seventy-two hours." she said. "Because I heard about you at the Guild School."

Seventy-One Hours Ahmed bowed.

"Be fair." he said, in a Morporkian accent. "If I made it seventy-two hours and people got to hear about it. They'd think I was getting soft. I have a reputation to maintain."

And so we rode into the desert with Seventy-One Hours Ahmed and five camels and a lot of waterskins.

Dear Johanna.

We are now two days into the Desert. The ride has been monotonous and has involved a lot of sand-dunes. We have learnt that you do not ride over the top of a dune even if it is the shortest apparent route. They get more unstable the higher you go and too much energy is expended. And higher up, they are unstable and prone to collapse. You do not want to be caught in a collapsing sand-dune. Therefore you follow a contour around them. This leads to a lot of tacking and zig-zagging. But Seventy-One Hours Ahmed is a veteran of these deserts and knows them intimately. We are learning much about desert survival.

A range of mountains is appearing in the distance. These are apparently The Mountains of the Moon and other nations, which are not Klatch, lie on the other side. The border is largely unguarded as Klatch has no issues with these neighbours. Ahmed has warned us, however, that the Klatchian Foreign Legion has several outposts here and sends out patrols, when it remembers. They may have been officially notified about us. We will seek to avoid them.

I discovered Miriam packed a gift for Bekki and Famke, which is thoughtful, and has asked to be kindly remembered to you. She says the jewellery is formerly that of her deceased sisters-in-marriage and she has no need for it, it was only cluttering up the house. She thinks it can go into the trousseaux for your daughters as something they can take into marriage with them when the time is right. I have only looked briefly at it, but I would suggest you get it valued as – wow. She encloses a personal letter for you. I will forward this unopened.

This desert is making me think mathematically. A voice in my head is repeating the axioms of geometry of the old Ephebians. I am fighting a desire to do quadratic equations in my head. Rivka says she is feeling a similar compulsion to perform calculations in Base Twelve mathematics. Perhaps this is inevitable when the only thing moving which is of interest is the backside of the camel in front. Your mind has to occupy itself with something. But those mountains are getting closer all the time. Ahmed says there are some watercourses, but they drain on the Ymiturian and Laotoan side. They get the water, Klatch gets a desert. Insh'Offler. I need a wash. At least. Sand is getting into some strange and uncomfortable places, despite the desert clothing. I feel I am being sandblasted in places I would only trust Matron Igorina to look at. She once spoke about something called Sandfly Fever,(3) but only to senior girls who could appreciate the humour, and speculated as to that being the reason why male circumcision is universal in desert nations. She then said that she could sew one back on again, if needed. This evokes unpleasant mental images concerning exactly what she keeps in those jars down in her cellar. Unfortunately they are hard to dispel, given the nature of desert travel. I prefer to think about mathematics. Mr Mycroft would be proud. I am coming to believe I am getting the female version of Sandfly Fever. I did not think this was possible.

I will write more at the next rest halt.

From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Klatch.

Hi Johanna!

A pleasant surprise. Olga Romanoff has found us and will take back our completed despatches, reports for the Guild, and the gift for Famke and Bekki which Miriam generously provided. I think she misses Ankh-Morpork and would like to return there when her house arrest ends, if only to catch up on old acquaintances. She also, I suspect, has a wistful longing for what might be called normal interaction with an ordinary family, if yours could be called that. She dealt fairly with us and I would like to see the "Ankh-Morporkian" side of her, rather than the imperious and capricious Sultana.

Well, Ahmed and Mariella are preparing what looks to be a most delicious and unexpected dinner, of kebabbed rabbit meat and the inevitable couscous with hummous and flatbread. As the desert night draws in, a warm dinner with tea – not Klatchian coffee, as we intend to sleep – is a luxury to anticipate.

The fresh rabbit is being cooked over dried camel dung, aslas, but it is plentiful, dries quickly, and burns with a fierce heat. It may not count as kosher on two counts – rabbit cooked over camel dung – but frankly I'm too hungry to care and the great G-d can be beseeched to forgive me later. I will have a full stomach and forgiveness is then His problem.

Rabbits in a desert? I will tell more later. Olga has been prevailed upon to take a freshly-killed specimen directly to you, as I believe they are a species unknown to you and would merit study and preservation at the Zoo. The University's wizard-taxidermists moved there, I understand? The ones with long experience at creating stuffed alligators as the indispensable accessory for old-time wizards? And if all else fails, the corpse is stable in the evening chill and will reach you in a not-disgusting state where it may be possible for you to do a scientific study of the meat. Ahmed assures us it is palatable and judging by the smell, I believe him.

We were breaking camp in the afternoon, ahead of the evening cold where movement and progress is easier and keeps us warm in the desert night. We had slept as well as possible in the heat of the day.

We saw the Pegasus circling in the air. It must have appeared from Feegle-Space as no Klatchian carpets were rising to challenge it. It circled lower and saw us, then came down. The pilot had evidently been briefed.

Any shadowing Klatchian would have seen the Pegasus merely landing near a small desert caravan, and under the law of hospitality to fellow travellers in the desert, seeking water for herself and her mount, and being politely offered food.

Mail from the City was passed quickly to us, and as we were inviting Olga to stay a while, the camels brayed with alarm. Then they attacked.

Ahmed shouted to us to arm ourselves, quickly, as they were the accursed al-miraj!

At first we saw only rabbits. Just rabbits. Then realised they had unicorn-horns in their foreheads and sharp teeth. And they attacked aggressively. They jump high and seek to stab.

As we fought with swords, Ahmed said this was very bad indeed, as legend has it that only a witch may slay them. Olga grinned and said "Oh dear for them, then."

Two of us with swords chopped them out of the air. Olga used fireballs. Her flight-Feegle, mr Wee Mad Arthur, took the fight to them on a very personal one-to-one basis. And Mariella, with the lance gifted to her, gave us the idea for kebabs. She is good with a lance. And both an iron-shod Pegasus and five camels, stamping with precision, have solid hooves and lots of muscle behind them. Camels also bite. With mathematical precision.

"Take a faceful of heid, bunny-rabbit that ye are!"

"They're going off like exothermic alchemy devices, aren't they?"

"those rabbits are... explosive!"

Eventually the survivors of the pack attack had taken enough and sped off, defeated. Ahmed breathed out and said these may be creatures originally of the foul djinns, the ones you call elves. He touched the metal of his blade. Olga said we should make sure, then, and stabbed each corpse through the heart with a silver hairpin. The ones killed with fire we felt needed no further attention. This perhaps explains the Klatchian folk-legend that only a witch may kill the al-miraj, the unicorn rabbit. She has left the silver pin through the heart of the body we are sending back for your zoological interest, by the way. Best to be certain. The rest are going to the sort of place where no (possible) Undead has ever returned. Apparently, in Witch-lore, there is observational proof concerning a tomcat and a vampire in bat form.

Thank you for the mail. When we have finished our tea in the Sahara (apparently this is a very old word for an inhospitable dangerous desert) we will read it. It is a distraction better than being stuck for long hours behind that camel in front. (4) And now, I think, rabbit and couscous is ready.

(1) OK, so the Sahara doesn't exist as such on the Discworld. But the Police did a song of this title and it's too good to miss. Come to think of it they also did a memorable instrumental called Behind My Camel. An even better title?

(2) OK. Go to my Hogswatch tale il se passait au Nuit de Pere Porcher.

(3) A debilitating minor ailment of British soldiers of the Eighth Army in WW2, who fought, wearing shorts, in the Egyptian and Libyan deserts. Britain is not, in the main, a society that circumcises its infant males. American soldiers in the desert, coming from a culture where circumcision is more widespread for medical reasons, suffered less from the abrasive action of sand trapped in an unfortunate place underneath a mobile skin layer.

(4) I admit it. Shoe-horning in references to both Police tracks. And there's a Policeman, of sorts.

Notes Dump:

Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text. Somewhere in the text but not necessarily here.

Klipdrift (Gold in Every Drop)

A brand name of South African Brandy. Largely due to the efforts of visual comedian Casper de Vries, it has much the same status in SA as Buckfast Tonic Wine or McEwan's Special does in Billy Connolly's Scotland – ie, lunatic soup of preference, for alcoholics to get hammered on.

There is something so wonderfully Jimkin Bearhammer about that sales line "Gold In Every Drop". Got to use this somewhere.