Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.
Chapter Twenty-six:
Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.
Our Princesses are still travelling, having picked up a Knave.
Damn, I may need to revise an earlier chapter as there's a seriously out-of-sequence bit in one of them. I just didn't realise it would take this long to get them over the kaplyn into Smith-Rhodesia. So, an earlier extract from Rivka detailing their arrival there needs to be moved. Headache. Ah well.
Taking that orphaned and out-of-sequence bit from several chapters ago and putting it into its proper context. Blame its earlier appearance on History Monks or something.
Now read on….
From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, the Sub-Nef, and the Great Plains, becoming a honorary member of the Ogglala Sioux Nation with the warrior name of Prickly Pear Girl, alongside her friend who was given the warrior name of Ginger-With-Freckles. Now after many adventures in the jungle and pursuit by many annoyed people with assegais, on the brink of becoming a guest in, err, Smith-Rhodesia.
At this point in the story, in passage by water with the very singular captain of the Howondalandian Queen, a trading riverboat.
The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon. Later in August.
Hi Johanna!
Well, after many eventful adventures, a short trip through the jungle belt, a fight or two with Zulus and a hair-raising trip on a boat during a severe tropical storm verging on a hurricane, we are now guests in the town of Chirundu in the interestingly-named semi-autonomous state of Smith-Rhodesia. In fact, because of the unorthodox method of our arrival and the direction from which we travelled, we were briefly taken for unwelcome illegal border-crossers and the three of us were detained on arrival for questioning. Apparently, we should have crossed in the approved manner at the Otto Beit Bridge and petitioned for admission at the heavily fortified customs and border guard station on the Smith-Rhodesian side. As at the time we were being pursued by a determined impi of Zulu soldiery, we pointed out that while the Smith-Rhodesian authorities were making their minds up as to whether or not we were legitimate travellers, it could very quickly have become an academic point. At assegai point. But more of this later.
Chirundu is right at the very Hubwards extremity of the confederation of states known as The Union of Rimwards Howondaland. It marks the furthest Hubwards extension of your peoples and is essentially the place where the Boors and others could no longer Trek. It is largely reclaimed from the surrounding wild forests and jungles your great ancestor encountered According to the standard history, this place marks where the white man civilized the wilderness and brought it into settled prosperity, despite unfriendly and hostile natives in need of Civilisation, where a wilderness neglected for millennia by the blacks (thus proving their inferior status) was brought into prosperity and bloom.
I suspect this is not the whole story.
The town marks the only possible river crossings over the B'Ware and Brown rivers, which converge here into the Lake M'Boli system, known to White Howondalandians as Lake Karibou. This wide lake system is many miles wide, almost an inland sea, and flows to the majestic Verrucania Falls. (Or so we are told: we won't get to see them on this trip.)
Chirundu, the only place where the rivers might be forded, say by a large army composed of either Matabeles or Zulus, is therefore of strategic importance. The town thus has the appearance of a very large Army barracks with a settlement attached as an afterthought. The people here have a mentality akin to a garrison besieged in a fortress.
Immediately over the river is the notionally independent Howondalandian state of Urabewe. This very minor kingdom is sandwiched in between the Matabele Kingdom and the Zulu Empire, and is allowed to exist as the two great Black Howondalandian powers agree that the less direct contiguous border they have, the better. Rather like Djelibeybi persisting beyond all reason long after its time, because both Tsort and Ephebe agreed there were advantages to a neutral "buffer zone" in between them. And diplomats like Lady Jane Greystruck, a woman who seriously went native shortly after her arrival here, are also formidable people in fighting for Urabewean independence and neutrality. No doubt her forceful views are backed, at the higher level, by the considered policy opinions of Lord Vetinari.
Urabewe has a sort of peace treaty with Rimwards Howondaland and a degree of trade and mutual interaction goes on – hence the freedom to travel between the two countries via the Otto Beit Bridge. Manufactured goods out of Rimwards Howondaland go one way; a reserve of dependable cheap labour, hired for the day and strictly vetted, comes the other. The Urabewian economy – at bottom, the daily wages of many of its citizens - depends on the goodwill of all three of its neighbours, and its leaders dance on a very narrow wire. But the country is powerless in itself with no standing army and perhaps a handful of ramshackle patrol boats (the obsolescent hand-me-downs of the Rimwards Howondalandian Navy, provided as "goodwill aid") policing the maritime border on the Lake. As we discovered, Matabele and Zulu troops come and go through Urabewian territory as they will at need or whim. And as you have read by now, did we ever discover this.
We do not plan to stay here very long and in fact, arrangements are being made for us to take passage to New Scrote, the state capital.
But first, how we arrived here.
Having beaten off the Zulu warriors who were intent on capturing or perhaps killing a member of the Smith-Rhodes family (and a bonus Assassin of Rimwards Howondalandian nationality), we made safe our weapons and busied ourselves with stowing our packs and equipment about the Sailing Ship Howondalandian Queen. Our imperturbable Captain, the wiry and weatherbeaten Charley Walnut, indicated appreciation of our fighting skills and asked if any of us had any experience with boats of any kind. For Mariella and myself, this is a skills gap. All we know is that they float on water (ideally), a large sail catches the wind and drives you forwards, and a sort of rudder arrangement attached to the back permits you to steer. We were perfectly happy to allow other people to know all the fine details connected with this general perception. As sailors, we have a skills base comparable to the agricultural knowledge of kibbutzim recruits.
Surprisingly, Horst Lensen said he knew a little, having gone boating and yachting for pleasure in the ocean coast nearby to the Caarp. Apparently his family vineyards are near enough to the coast, and to a significant river system, to allow this. Captain Walnut nodded approval and supervised his taking the long handle thing that controls the rudder. Then pronounced himself satisfied and went forward to set the sails.
With Lensen at the long handle thing, called the tiller apparently, Mariella and I took inventory of weapons available. We had expended quite a few crossbow bolts in the combat, both regular and pistol. This was on top of those expended in the earlier engagement with the jungle pygmies, and those unavoidably lost when hunting game on the central plains. We also had Horst Lensen to consider. Our estimation was that we had enough munitions for one more intense engagement, then the crossbows would be functionally useless and it would be close-fighting weapons only, a dozen or so throwing knives excepted. All three of us had swords and machetes, but Mariella expressed concern that Horst might not be able to fight effectively until the Igorina-restored chest and upper body muscles had properly settled in and healed. Light work steering the boat was probably as much as he could reasonably do for a few days.
We considered him as we settled into the river voyage, watching the river widen as we approached the lake system. Somewhere on the misty opposite side would be a safe landing in a friendly country where Mariella could count on family and friends. It was a tempting prospect. Captain Walnut was aiming on running us directly into a port town where, after minimal customs and border control checks, two of us at least would be welcomed as citizens and compatriots. Then a hotel and a bath and a good dinner and we could make travel plans to move on. Mariella wants to get to a place called New Scrote, the biggest city.
She has solid family reasons for that. There's a statue of the Founder in the main square that she wants to see. This will be interesting.
There is also a regular carpet flight to points further Rimwards. We think that even though the Klatchians run the carpet service, they will refrain from arresting a Rimwards Howondalandian in her own country, despite a price being on our heads. This would cause too much strife, diplomatically speaking. And at least we can pack Horst Lensen on a carpet to Pratoria, so the last stage of his personal odyssey is done in comfort, after his privations.
We considered him, placidly working the tiller as we sailed on. Horst was subdued, quiet, seeming faraway. This could partly be attributed to his injuries. But remembering the loud, abrasive, largely unsympathetic person we'd endured for seven years, I wondered if there might be deeper reasons for his silence and the strange sense of reflective thoughtfulness. He'd been captured and enslaved. He'd said nothing of his treatment at the hands of Miriam bint-Alhazred. I wondered what effect she had had on him. It can't have been too bad, given her stated purpose for keeping him a prisoner for at least a month.
Then he'd managed to escape (with Miriam's covert assistance). He'd crossed the same desert we had. No small feat. He'd presumably avoided the Klatchian Foreign Legion who guard the border. He'd crossed Laotan and Smyrrit. And gone a long way across the Central Plains before being captured by the Ogglala Sioux. Who had tortured him with the Sun Dance. Impaled by hooks through his chest, suspended from a pole, and being made to suffer days of blood loss, dehydration and exhaustion. Would that have brought about a vision, a change in his mind?
After minimal recovery, he'd managed to stagger through forest and jungle into Smithville, three-quarters dead with the beginnings of gangrene in his chest wounds. And survived that too, admittedly with our intervention. Oh, and he acquitted himself well in the fight with the Zulus. That should count too.
Maybe he does have what it takes to qualify as an Assassin. In fairness, the Guild should take all this into account. And facing all that, and having been close to death twice and surviving. Could this have changed the man, turned the horrible loud callow over-confident boy into a man?
Horst Lensen, perhaps, has grown up.
I raised this with Mariella. She shrugged.
"Perhaps not a complete doosis bliksem." she said. "But it will be a long time before I stop attaching the word "pielkop" to the name "Horst Lensen."
"Why break the habit of seven years?" I agreed. While considering the food reserves available to us to feed four people, we discussed other things.
"Wish I'd brought a whip." Mariella said. "But I'm only really just competent with one. Johanna tried to teach me some of the things she knows and I can do a few things, but we agreed it would just be dead weight. I'm nowhere near as good as she is."
"There's one or two in the hold, miss." Captain Walnut said. "If it's any use to you, you can have one. I kind of never got the knack."
"You may as well." I said. "I'm getting the feeling that in your country you'd be under-dressed without one. Like the way Madame Emmanuelle says an Assassin should always wear a sword."
"Ain't never seen a people like yours for whips." Captain Walnut remarked. "Kinda get the feeling a lot of you only wear them for show, though. Accessories."
Horst Lensen stirred uncomfortably. I reflected that at this point the old Horst might have made some loud appalling remark, intended to be humorous, about their not just being there for adornment, and needing to be used on the blacks every so often. You know, to keep your hand in and show them who the baas is. But he remained very silent. I found this remarkable. Maybe he has changed.
We prepared a modest meal for us all.
The river widened.
We were aware of being watched from the port-side bank. Zulu warriors were keeping station with the boat, monitoring our movements. This was ominous.
"You trade all the way up this river. Will you get into trouble with the Zulus for helping us?" Mariella asked.
Charley Walnut considered this and shrugged.
"Hell, probably not. A man has a right as captain of a boat. Anyone tries to get on without your say-so, the Captain can throw him off. By force, if he has to. Otherwise, guy gets on with weapons making a fight, tries to attack your passengers, that's piracy. The Zulus understand that. My ship got attacked. I fought. They respect that. 'Sides, I trade with them. They got landing stages and trading kraals on the River. I trade in goods they want to buy, I trade in information they want to hear. I'm too useful. The local indunas accept I got a living to make."
"Do the Zulus have any sort of fleet?" I asked. The possibility of being attacked from other ships could not be ruled out.
Charley Walnut shook his head.
"They got small fishing boats." he said. "They know the White Howondalandians have bigger boats geared to war and they can't compete. Informal agreement says the Zulus can fish and the whites won't interfere and let them be. Any battle between boats, the Zulus get sunk. They know it."
He paused and reflected.
"For now, anyway. Word is the Klatchians want to train Zulus as fighting sailors. But they got difficulty in getting fighting dhows here. Heard they got military advisors in a military kraal upriver. It's sealed. Can't get close. Fancy talk of enabling parity with the whites, in terms of naval capacity. Godamm Klatchians stirring things. That's bad news for a peaceable river trader. Two bunches of guys who don't get along squaring off with warships. Bad for business."
Mariella winced. I could see her point. I also remembered the Klatchian dhow I'd seen moored at Smithville. What if that was not all it seemed to be? Lady Jane's guarded warning concerning a Captain Sinbad.
Walnut stirred, and considered us.
"News travels slow. But I heard talk of two girls who caused a hell of a stir in Cenotia. A fight on the border. Then a few big fires at a military base. Made the fancy papers. Heard the Klatchians want their heads on spikes. Talk is they popped up again heading Rimwards. Then two girls answering the broad general description on the Klatchians' wanted posters come outta the jungle, and into Smithville."
He grinned and extended a hand.
"If you're the same two, then, hell. I wanna play on the same team! Seems to me they put the word out and it ain't too hard to figure. In return for assistance with upgrading their Navy, the Klatchians asked the Zulus to haul you in. Seems like you little ladies got a problem."
And then the rain started. And didn't stop. And carried on not stopping for two or three days.
From the journal of Mariella Smith Rhodes, Licenced Assassin (Black Widow House), on the river B'Ware, in Urabewe and, we discovered, the Zulu Empire:
Hi Johanna!
At first it was just rain. We steeled ourselves to the possibility of having to bail out the boat. Captain Walnut reckoned it wouldn't be too bad and felt if the winds didn't pick up, he could run us to somewhere on the Smith-Rhodesian side fairly soon. We gathered he was well disposed towards us, and wanted to get the news of Klatchian-sponsored naval activity on the Lake to my country as soon as we could. And heaving into shore was now impossible, as from our point of view the nearest shore was a hostile one.
We were committed. Monsoon or not, the boat had to keep going.
We dropped anchor on the first night in the cover of what Captain Walnut laconically described as man-grave swamp. Not "mangrave". Man-Grave. Apparently nothing can get in from the landward side. So, safe from Zulu incursions. And concealed. We rigged tarpaulins, remained fairly dry in the cabin, kept a watch for activity on the river (the monsoon had seriously affected visibility and nothing else was moving out there), and played cards and Travel Word Scramble. A tolerably good hot meal was had by all. We also took stock of weapons and defensive strategies. Captain Walnut was carrying cargo, sacks of mealie grain and beans. We conferred with him, and part of the cargo was redistributed on the deck. Well, at Lawkes' Drain, mealie sacks were proven effective at absorbing crossbow fire. Just in case we came under fire, a minimal defensive screen was established at key points on the deck and lashed into place. "Rather lose the cargo than the ship", as Walnut laconically remarked.
Horst Lensen did as we directed capably enough, but still seemed subdued and faraway. This wasn't too alarming; he'd snapped out of it well during the Zulu attack to remember his Assassin training and fight creditably enough. I felt he could be relied upon again at need. And he was getting his strength back – I checked the operation site as Matron Igorina had instructed, to be absolutely certain he was not asking too much of healing tissues. But everything was knitting together, as you might expect, and it was as marvellously fast as you could expect from Igoring.
And we talked more. He was reluctant to talk of his time with Miriam, except to say he'd heard of the Hashishim and the way their training suddenly takes the candidate from near-Hell and he wakes up in a comfortable place with good food, good drink, soft beds and a beautiful woman. From Hell to Heaven.
He saw me frowning and hurriedly said he was aware he owed me four thousand dollars and that I'd paid for this. And thank you, Mariella. Since you technically own me, I heard, do I call you Mistress?
Rivka laughed. I had the feeling that he was testing me again, damn the man. And being put on the defensive by Horst Lensen is a new and not especially welcome thing. I really didn't think he had either the brains or the sensitivity. I sensed the tables turning. Something new is emerging in him and damn him, damn him, damn him, damn him, it's actually quite pleasant. I can endure being in a confined space with the pielkop and not want to either strangle him or run away.
We set off again the next morning, in the driving rain, navigating by instinct and dead reckoning. Rivka and I discussed strategies for dealing with any attack from water. Ideas emerged.
And then the damned wind set in.
From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. At this point in the story, in passage by water with the very singular captain of the Howondalandian Queen, a trading riverboat.
The howling wind came from nowhere and sent the boat pitching uncontrollably forwards. It was all we could do to get the sail down before it was ripped away and even then it was a fight to fold and secure it.
I recall a nightmare of surging forwards in the water with no visible shore on either side. I glimpsed a line of moored buoys which I sensed marked the border between Urabewe and Rimwards Howondaland. There was an impression of blue, white and orange about them. Well, how else would you know whose nation you were very nearly in if they didn't mark it with the national colours?
Between us we kept the boat upright and headed forwards into the wind, pelting forwards at a far faster speed than we thought a boat could go. With the sails down there was a sensation of gradual slowing: but it took several hours of hurtling, with the four of us tied into safety ropes lest we be swept overboard. Captain Walnut and Horst Lensen, the two people who knew about boats, appeared to take it in their stride.
I remembered the tales in our holy books of Prophets who encountered bad seas. One was swallowed by a whale, as I recall, and the story of Nonpo did not fill me with much solace in religion at that time. And another was destined by the crew to be thrown overboard as a sacrifice to the false water god, but persuaded them of the eternal truth of -m. There is also an apocryphal story of one who got out of the boat during a storm on a lake and walked on the water to calm his friends' fears. I seriously doubted that one. Or it would be official. Canon, even. No way was I trying to walk on this water. I doubted the apocryphal Prophet was walking on water with crocodiles in it, for one thing. That would have tested anybody's appreciation of the miraculous. You can get out of a whale, yes. Out of a crocodile, not.
No, we Cenotians are not made to be sailors. The great G-d -m divided land and sea for a reason.
And then the waters narrowed, high bluffs were visible on both sides, and we were shooting at speed between the pillars of a bridge. It hung about a hundred feet above, a thin ribbon in the sky.
"The Otto Beit Bridge." Mariella called. "Smith-Rhodesia!"
Apparently the bridge is the approved, and possibly the only, officially sanctioned crossing point out of and into Rimwards Howondaland. And we were still plummeting forwards at high uncontrollable speed. Oi vey.
"Can still make landfall at Chirundu!" the Captain called, steering the tiller deftly. "But we got the rapids here… most of the time you can pass them, carefully. In this weather, better brace!"
We braced as the boat appeared to bounce on land and skid forwards, dropping by about ten or twenty feet over a couple of hundred yards. It was bumpy and not good if anyone was feeling seasick. But it contributed to bringing the boat to an eventual halt, several miles downriver from the tantalising bridge that meant home and safety.
I suspected the bridge might have been an illusion of safety, anyway. The Zulus would surely have known to block the far side and wait for our approach overland. We'd have tried for an easy route home and been caught out by overconfidence, trapped in a place we couldn't get out of.
But for now, it was time to check the boat for damage. We were still floating and had not been beached or stranded; small comfort if the passage over the rocky rapids, in just the wrong place for a boat to try and pass them, had holed the hull. Checking ourselves for bruises could wait.
Fortunately there were no breaches in the sturdy hull. The rudder, however, had been damaged and needed attention. Crocodiles precluded going into the water to check. Therefore its mounting had to be carefully dismantled, and the whole thing dragged up into the boat for inspection and repair on board ship. Even with four of us to lend strength, this took most of a day and a lot of ingenious carpentry to remove and patch up splintered boards.
"Guess it'll do, miss." Walnut remarked. "Gotta get it onto dry dock sometime for replacement. It'll hold up till Chirundu."
I felt guilty his boat had suffered damage in our service. Mariella offered to contribute to repairs when he got us to port. The captain grinned.
"Thanking you mightily, miss! We'll see when we get there, huh?"
We appeared to be at anchor on the cusp of a confluence, with one river passing Rimwards and another, meeting it here, flowing more to Hubwards in the jungle forest. Apparently the aptly and unimaginatively named Brown River, and the B'Ware river. While Walnut and Lensen set about manouvreing the patched-up rudder back into its place, Mariella and I did the accepted girlie thing and set about preparing food and beverages. Strangely, with no digs from Lensen about a woman's place being the galley. He'd been only too ready with similar comment for the previous seven years.
The gales having receded to merely "gusty", we were just setting out to follow the B'Ware river to the port town of Chirundu – part of Smith-Rhodesia and therefore of Rimwards Howondaland – when we were waylaid.
We were steering carefully to the Rimwards Howondalandian side of the river for safety, when we saw the boat in the distance making sail to catch us up. Captain Walnut had warmed us that damage to his ship and to the rudder meant he could at best make only half-speed. And that looked like a Klatchian dhow, a vessel that could move at speed over water and which in normal circumstances could outpace him easily. And it had the wind behind it and full sail.
We conferred. It could be an innocent trader out of Smithville. But we'd been warned about the dangerous Captain Sinbad, who – officially – didn't deal in slaves.
Horst remarked that the poor fellows, the Howondalandian blacks, who he'd been fettered with in Klatch, had had to come from somewhere. We saw where his reasoning was going.
"I'm not inclined to be a slave again." he said, simply. We agreed.
Mariella looked at me.
"Operation Romanoff?" she said.
"And Operation Perry-Bowen." I agreed.
She took up a concealed position behind the makeshift sandbags and we checked the weapons we would use. We were only going to get one go at this. It had to be right.
Keep going. Straight ahead." I instructed captain Walnut as the long sleek dhow drew closer. It was twice our size and while some crewmen were obviously Klatchian, the majority were dark-skinned.
"Four Klatchians." I called to Mariella. "At least twenty Zulus."
"Only twenty-four?" she called back. "Ag. Hope they can swim!"
The Klatchian in the prow was shouting at us over the water. The words were unclear but the meaning was obvious.
"Ignore him." I said to Walnut. "Straight ahead!"
The ship drew nearer. I relayed to Mariella that only a few of the crew appeared to have bows. The rest seemed to be a boarding party of Zulu soldiers.
"Zulu marines." She replied. "Now I've seen it all!"
Now the orders were distinct.
Heave to! Prepare to be boarded. Resistance will be futile.
"Tell him to go voetsaak!" Mariella called back. She had loaded both crossbows. Horst Lensen had my over-and-under with instructions to pick his targets carefully when the moment came. And he would know.
"You are in Rimwards Howondalandian territorial waters!" I shouted back. "We have no intention of stopping. Do you really want to start a war?"
Which was a diplomatically phrased way of telling him to go and voetsaak himself. I have no idea why "foot-sack!" should be such a dire insult but I'd guess it's rather like Quirmian Acerians and sacrées. "Tabernak!" isn't that bad a word in itself, but in Quirmian Aceria….
The Klatchian sailor grinned gold teeth.
"Do you see any other Rimwards Howondalandians here, Cenotian lady?" he asked. "You will disappear without trace. Now surrender!"
I told him to kibinimat and added a kuss ummuk for good measure – they're like a Cenotian "voetsaak"(1)– and noted that in the distance, another boat was rounding a curve in the river, but a long way ahead. It looked military. A second boat was in the distance astern, some way behind the Klatchian but catching up. It looked like a second dhow. We had to settle this quickly.
"Not sure about the one ahead, miss. It could be a Rimwards Howondalandian patrol boat." Walnut called. Possibly an ally, good.
And then the dhow had pulled slightly ahead, maybe a hundred yards to our let. Or port. Or starboard. Whatever. The grinning Klatchian captain motioned to two of his crew, They uncovered a thing in the prow and a long nozzle tilted to point to us. I went to cover quickly as a flame ignited.
There was a rush of fire and heat as a jet of flame passed maybe ten yards in front of our prow.
"Gods-DAMN!" shouted Walnut. "Shot across the bows! They really want us to stop!"
A Klatchian Fire Engine.
"If that vessel ahead is White Howondalandian, miss, they ain't got firepower to match! And they'll know it!"
"Makes it easier." Mariella said. "Fire and water don't mix."
She got into a firing position in the prow and picked her spot to aim.
I lifted the second primed crossbow and activated the weapon. Now we only had five seconds.
Of course, Johanna, you'll remember the training exercise where Natasha Romanoff and Catherine Perry-Bowen turned the tables on you and Miss Band? (2) That passed into School legend.
They only had training thunderflashes. We still had some of the explosive Devices you sent to us in Cenotia. Not many, but enough. And we'd tied them to crossbow bolts. We'd kept them safe and dry and in good order. Now it was time to expend them.
We'd only, at first, decided to hit on or below the waterline to hole their hull. Now they'd given us a gift of a target. Mariella counted to three and loosed. My shot followed a second later. We ducked low as return fire came from the few archers. We heard Horst returning fire and a scream as he got one of their archers. As we were reloading, Mariella's shot exploded. Right on top of the oil reservoir for the Klatchian Fire Engine.
It was a very satisfying explosion.
We each fired a second explosive bolt, aiming this time into a milling mass of panicking men trying to get away from an exploded Klatchian Fire Engine. Then the shockwave from the explosions rocked over our vessel and we had to fight to regain our balance.
When we looked again the dhow appeared to have broken in two halfway along and both prow and stern were sinking into the river.
Looking around, we saw Horst Lensen meaningfully pointing his crossbow at the head of Captain Walnut, who had his hands raised and was backing towards the tiller. Mariella made to shout something angry at Lensen, but the Captain winked and said
Mr Lensen's idea, miss. He'll explain!"
Horst did, later: he said that while we'd soon be Home and safe, Charley Walnut still had to sail this river and deal with Zulus. Best any survivors of the attack saw a man who'd been boarded by desperate pirates, overpowered by them, and forced to do their bidding. (Mariella said "Why didn't I think of that?")
Meanwhile, our Captain looked out at a spreading patch of blazing oil spreading over the water, with a few survivors desperately trying to swim away from it, and made speed to get away from it himself.
Mariella stood in the stern, shook out her long red hair, and shouted that Zulu war cry again. Something about the Red Death having returned, and don't you forget it! Well, it does pay to advertise.
And then we followed the inexorable law of the river and gave assistance to survivors of a shipwreck. Well, the Klatchian captain who'd only a few minutes before been arrogantly telling us resistance was useless. He'd been frantically swimming to avoid the burning oil, and floundered retching on the deck as we sped away. The other dhow coming up behind had stopped to pick up survivors. As it was carrying no deck armament we let it be. Meanwhile the vessel flying the orange, white and blue national flag of Rimwards Howondaland was hailing us. Horst went forward to do the talking.
Mariella informed the Klatchian he was now our prisoner. He shook his head with unwise arrogance.
"You will never be able to keep me." he said. "Pressure will be applied. I am a diplomat, and too important."
Mariella had a machete at his throat in a second.
"Diplomats don't fight." she said. "Or if they do, they don't keep diplomatic immunity for very long. And I could always throw you overboard again. Right into the middle of all that burning oil, for instance."
"I could drag the miserable son of a bitch through it on the end of a rope. Slowly." Captain Walnut offered. His face had all the mercy and compassion due to a miserable son of a bitch who'd just tried to incinerate his vessel with a flamethrower.
The Klatchian shut up quickly.
And then we were under tow from the inshore patrol vessel Klara Rijker. Whose captain and crew had witnessed the battle and were full of admiration and compliments.
Three hours later, we docked at Chirundu, Smith-Rhodesia. Mariella stepped ashore first. She was Home. I felt happy for her. Horst followed, the expression on his face saying he really couldn't believe he was home again. In a place where the majority language all around was Vondalaans. I even felt happy for him too. I can say this: he stood by us in two hard fights and didn't put a foot wrong. Credit where it is due. He perhaps deserves to be an Assassin.
I followed, the disregarded third.
The mood of elation at having made it Home lasted maybe five minutes. When theimmaculately dressed somewhat fussy little officer turned up, we thought it was somebody coming over to offer congratulations.
Instead he looked Mariella up and down and said
"You have arrived in this country by way of Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, Laotan, Syrrit, the Central Plains and Urabewe. Very good. This is a formal Customs inspection. Have you anything to declare?"
Mariella turned and looked at me.
"What do you know. I'm Home." she said.
Hopefully this letter can go via surface post to New Scrote and be picked up there by the Pegasus visiting the Consulate.
Closing for now
Lots of love and thank you for the teaching, both formal and informal!
Rivka
To be continued….
Notes Dump:
A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text. Somewhere in the text but not necessarily here. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.
Reading the Wikipedia article on the film "The African Queen." Ideas are forming. This cannot be omitted in a Discworld Howondalandian context. If I missed this one, forgiveness would be hard to obtain. The unorthodox attack on the German ship that thinks it's got the upper hand, for instance….
(1) Hebrew, as an old language resurrected from religious liturgy for everyday use, lacks swear words of its own. The Torah and the Bible are somewhat lacking in profanities. so modern Hebrew borrows some hair-raisers from Arabic. The Klatchian would have known exactly what he was being told to go and do by a Cenotian.
(2) See my story Fresh Pair of Eyes.