The MGC returns? C7
The first half of this story was only meant to be a couple of pages of A4 long, to establish the concept that Licenced Assassin Johanna Smith-Rhodes performs odd jobs for her country's Embassy now and again, including bodyguarding assignments of various kinds. It also illustrates the growing gulf between her and the country she grew up in (this story is set roughly five years after "Graduation Class" and three or four before "Nature Studies"). I wanted her to have a tough night, and then get back into the main theme of Murder Most 'Orrible and what her special expertise could contribute to the investigation.
But if you think her evening as a bodyguard is long here... it's severly edited from the thing I ended up writing, which may well become a story all in its own right...
Johanna Smith-Rhodes sat in an angry diplomatic silence that didn't sit well with her natural red-haired temper. She realised she had to do the occasional little job for the Embassy: as the Ambassador's niece it was expected of her, and besides, she well remembered her first year in Ankh-Morpork and all the unlearning she'd had to do, all the painful reassessment and setting aside of old opinions and patterns of thought, all the learning of new ways and coming to terms with the fact that life in a multi-species, multicultural, city required the adoption of a more liberal frame of mind.
There were no trolls at home, for instance: the all-year heat of Howondaland was not a good environment for them. A few clans of Dwarfs, allowed citizenship to run its gold and diamond mines, were resident in Howondaland. But they were very rarely seen outside the Mine Zones that they managed for the Staadt, in return for ten per cent of the gold and gems.
Johanna inwardly fumed that unthinking incivility could sum up the very worst of her people's attitude to life. And that unthinking incivility, manifested by a White Howondalandian used only to living and moving only among other white-skinned humans, could be fatal in a city populated by a bewildering assortment of races, ethnicities and species. Several newcomers from Home hadn't lived long enough to grasp that calling trolls rocks to their unappreciative stony faces wasn't a good idea. And there were brown, red, yellow and black-skinned people in this city who took their equality with whites as being so basic that they didn't have to think about it. Until they met Boors, who believed in the exact opposite.
After a few instances of what the Watch had chosen to call suicide, Ambassador van der Graaf had instituted orientation lessons for new Embassy staff and other visitors from Home, just off the boats. A handbook, written in consultation with Patrician Vetinari's staff, had been published for newcomers, and it was now the practice for long-time Howondalandian residents to escort newcomers to the city, point out how to blend in, and attempt to sooth over any little difficulties caused by ignorance and cultural misunderstanding.
Which was why Johanna was currently squirming inside, thinking Was I really this stupid when I arrived in this city?
Asked to act as escort and guide to two newcomers from Home, she had met them in the Springboek Club, the Howondalandian bar and social club that had been built in the Embassy grounds as a place where the city's expatriots could meet and enjoy the comforts of Home. Here, Howondalandian law and custom legally applied, and even in the early evening, ruddy-cheeked Boors were being provided with strong drink by downcast and submissive-looking black servants imported from Home.
She had accepted an iced tea from a servant with a word of thanks: as always, the fact she'd thanked a bleck servant drew a mixture of responses, mainly raised eyebrows, but in one case a derisive jeer. It had come from a well-dressed, big-built, young man, about Johanna's own age, who was leaning on the bar quaffing from a stein.
"Where ere you from, girlie? You never thenk the blecks! It spoils them!"
"I'm from the same country as you." Johanna responded, in Vondalaans. "And if you are Jakob DeBeers, I have been living here five years longer than you have! The Ambassador has arranged for me to take you and Mr Lutjens on a walking tour of the City. I will show you what to look out for and, very importantly, how local culture differs from our own. Outside the Embassy gates, there is a very different world. And a potentially lethal one."
Johanna had known DeBeers was going to be trouble right from the start. Unlike Lutjens, a small, serious, diplomat who was not built for fighting, he was brash, arrogant and trouble on legs. He was eldest son of one of the richest familes in Howondaland, and had come over to take his rightful place in the family diamond business in its Ankh-Morpork office. Proud of his status and name, he wasn't prepared to take instructions from a mere girlie – part of the Boor male chauvinism Johanna had left her homeland to escape from – and certainly not from a member of a fading family whose days were over, such as the diminishing Smith-Rhodes.
Four hours later, after a terse argument with him, as he laid in his bed at the Lady Sybil, she wished she'd never met the man. He hadn't listened to a single word she'd said, for one thing. He'd precipitated a situation with the Thieves' Guild while she had been trying to explain how the system worked and what a Guild premium entitled you to. DeBeers had loudly refused outright to pay protection money to scum from the gutter.
This had provoked a near-fight where naked blades had been drawn, and Johanna had been forced to explain that however obnoxious the client, if an Assassin has been retained to bodyguard, then she bodyguards. Try to rob him, and I might be forced, with exceeding reluctance, to inhume somebody. However, should you ever see this bloody idiot out in the street and he still hasn't bought a Guild premium, and I am not there, then he's all yours, and don't spare the cosh.
Lutjens, on the other hand, had paid over a year's protection on the spot – he could reclaim it from the Embassy as a valid business expense – and, under Johanna's stern uncompromising gaze, the head Thief had said
"There you go, sir! See what happens when you're sensible?" and delivered only a very token tap with his cosh. "That's you paid up for a year, and have a very nice stay in our City!"
Fuming with rage, she had then led her escortees to the Mended Drum in the hope of a make-or-break demonstration of holding your own peace in Ankh-Morpork.
This involved Sam, the latest barman-cum-informal diplomat-cum-bouncer at the Drum. His family were Howondalandian too, if you went far enough back, but were a different sort of Howondalandian.
"Trouble, Johanna?" he'd said, amiably, displaying perfect white teeth in a very dark brown face. Before she could reply, DeBeers was in there growling
"You speak to a white lady with respect, boy!"
"Oh, kak!" she had thought. A black man on first name terms with me. It's just not done at home!
"I always speak to white ladies with respect, chum. I married one, din'I!" He indicated the pretty blonde barmaid with a sweep of a long, muscular arm. She grinned back.
Johanna had heard the rasping of a chair and a distant yelp. Whenever life took her to the Drum, which wasn't often, she'd learnt to treat Professor Rincewind from the University much as a coal-miner treats a canary. When he dived under his table for cover – and without spilling a drop of his beer – then there was about to be an explosion of coal-damp. And down the bar, the Librarian was unfolding two long, long, red-haired arms with that dreamy far-away look on his face that most regulars at the Drum had learnt to dread.
"I see." Said the haughty DeBeers. " A cheeky kaffir behind the bar. A kaffirnaaie. And a bloody monkey on this side of it!"
Johanna knew it was time to cut her losses and get out. And DeBeers had dropped himself right in it. Several times over.
"Don't hurt him too much. I want this to be a learning experience!" she said, trying to take in the Librarian and Sam at the same time, as she began to hustle Lutjens to the door.
She hailed a cab, holding it ready to take what was left of DeBeers to the Lady Sybil.
There had been more than one Assassin in the Drum: the soon-to-be-fighters held back for just long enough for the Guild members present to courteously leave the premises, as most sane pub brawlers know better than to mix it with the professionals, and most Assassins are above low brawling. (Unless they really have to or they've developed a taste for it. Or are just angry enough.)
They made polite small-talk in the street as the fight raged, and then faded into a few residual clangs, crashes and clatters.
"I hear this new serial killer's struck again" Martin Wilder-Young (Cobra House) said. "It's all over the Times and the latest Bugle"
With unspoken accord, the Assassins all took a few paces to their right, Johanna pulling Lutjens with her. Seconds later, a body was propelled through the door, landing with a crash where they had been standing.
"Interesting business." replied Arthur Ludorum (Viper House). "Apparently a copycat killer. We bagged the original, didn't we?"
"Not only bagged her but signed her up, by all accounts." agreed Martin. "Fairly solid rumour says Mrs Mericet…" he paused, embarrassed, looking at Johanna, who smiled, "that is, Miss Sanderson-Reeves, has been given full QCIC powers to investigate. It shows how much trust Downey's got in her!"
The three Assassins paused, reflectively watching as the Librarian dragged Jakob deBeers' unconscious body into the street. He looked at Johanna and embarassedly said "Ooook…"
"No need to epologise, old man!" Johanna replied. "He wes the one who… well, got it completely wrong ebout you!" She took the Librarian's paw and reassuringly squeezed it.
"Oook.." said a suddenly bashful orang. Johanna smiled: she and the Librarian were, in a way, old friends who understood each other. He regarded her as one of a few humans he could really talk to.
"Ah. Your client for tonight." Martin said, thoughtfully. "Will you get into trouble for this?"
"Probably." Johanna said, shrugging. "But I'm beyond caring now. Thet bleddy fool did not listen to me once, end nearly got me killed by the Thieves' Guild! When he wakes up, he will, I hope, hev learnt a lesson ebout this city. Several, I hope!"
Sam, the barman, came out whistling. There was a swelling bruise on one cheek, but he didn't seem overly concerned. His muscles glistened black under a tight white vest that announced his membership of the Dimwell Amateur Pugilist Society. He was holding a bucket.
"I never touched him once, Miss Smith-Rhodes."
Johanna was relieved he was being formal. Having to explain being on first-name terms with a black man could cause her problems in the expat community. Even after five years, she was still a little bit shocked by open mixed-race relationships – some forms of conditioning are hard to overcome – but she'd learnt not to be judgemental. People were people and lust and love, she had come to suspect, were not bound by mere apartheid laws.
"The Librarian got to him first and gave him the usual nature lesson."
She smiled. The Librarian could be abrupt when explaining the biological differences between monkeys and apes. But he knew when to stop bouncing the offender's head off the floor, usually long before permanent damage was inflicted. Exactly the lesson DeBeers needed.
Atrhur Ludorum, a quiet and reflective Assassin, nodded.
"You can only do so much on a bodyguarding contract if your client refuses your good advice, and insists on not making friends and influencing people." he mused. "In those circumstances you save what you can, especially if it puts your life in danger, and make the best of it. You won't get the fee now, Johanna, but if Downey has a "what went wrong?" inquiry, I'd be happy to give you a witness statement!"
"Thenks" she said, sincerely. Arthur was a good friend to younger Assassins and had no prejudices about women in the profession. He had a solid record of successes and his word carried weight in the Guild.
Sam the barman, she noted, was carrying a bucket and had a mischievous glint in his eye. His petite, pretty, blonde wife Gloria, a native Morporkian girl, also had a bucket, which slopped.
"Johanna" Gloria said, thoughtfully. "That word he used to describe me? Kaffirnayer, or something?"
"It is a bad word." Johanna said, unwilling to precisely translate. "A nasty, hateful word." she added, with complete truthfulness.
Lutjens had coloured bright red. Gloria nodded, reading his face.
She had been a ladies' boxing champion when she met Sam. A good one. Her face was hardly marked. It gave her an edge when working in the Drum, as unwary drinkers using a phrase like "I likes a woman with spirit!" before making unwanted physical contact soon learnt exactly how much spirit she had.
"Well" Sam said, "I remember he asked me for a drink. And I don't want to be inhospitable to a visitor to our fine city!"
He upended the bucket. It was brimful of slops from several days of bar trade. Sour, stale, beer. It slopped all over deBeers' head and face and left him coughing feebly.
"Your beer, baas!" Sam announced, in a parody of a black servant. "And here's one on the house, from the wife!"
Gloria followed through, gleefully, with her own slops bucket.
The game over, Johanna signalled for him to be poured into the waiting cab, paying the driver well over the odds for cleaning afterwards, but being sure to extract the money from deBeers' ample wallet first.
__________________________________------
And later that evening, after making herself see the idiot in hospital first, and assuring herself of his essential health, she bought a late edition of the Times and the latest Tanty Bugle. She read them in a late-opening coffee shop, to distract her mind from the rest of the evening. Then she realised where she needed to be, and headed back to the Guild.
____________________________________----
The informal investigation team in Alice's rooms at the Guild had swollen to five. Alice, Joan Sanderson-Reeves, and Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom had been joined by Sergeant Angua von Überwald and Constable Sally von Humperdink.
They had reviewed previous findings pointing a finger in the direction of florist Mrs Davinia Bellamy, and were reflecting on how the latest murder in the series, suspected to be that of the new Marriage Guidance Counsellor, fitted the known MMO of the suspect.
"Have we identified the flowers yet?" Joan asked, briskly.
Cheery coughed. "They're under special guard at the Yard." she said. "We took every caution in collecting them in, after we worked out from the prison killing that they're likely to be the poisonous agent. To be honest, nobody really wanted to touch them or go near them. I'd have gone in with gloves and protective clothing, but then I thought we've got Constable Dorfl, and Constable Shoe, neither of whom need to breathe as such, and neither of whom can easily be poisoned. Reg and Dorfl put their heads together on getting them back to the Watch safely and discreetly. They're in a locked and airtight evidence locker at the moment, and Nobby's been absolutely warned not to go looking."
"Did you collect them discreetly?" demanded Joan. "If our Mrs Bellamy is the one we want, and she's imitating my old working method, then it's likely the wife commissioned the killing and she will recently have had direct contact with the lovely Davinia. We don't want her going back and warning her we're on the trail!"
"We've got a couple of gargoyles in place watching the shop." Angua said. "Although that's a risk, as you would have had every interest in watching the building opposite your cookery school. If the skyline had suddenly sprouted a couple of extra gargoyles…"
"Which I did notice, Sergeant!" Joan said. "Just before you people tried a set-up on me."
"And there are undercover CSP people trailing the wife. After we questioned her at the Yard, she went straight home and so far has made no attempt to contact Mrs Bellamy. She is known to have visited the shop two days before the killing, though."
"As for discretion, the victim's study has been transferred, right down to the carpet and pictures on the wall, and set out exactly as it was in a spare room at the Yard. The flowers were a small part of that. We've told the wife we don't know what poisoned her husband, so we need to look more closely at everything. She's happy with that."
Alice, who had been comparing photos, said "No doubt about it, though. Similar bouquets were there in four of the previous murders. So one of these flowers, or more, could be the lethal poisonous one. And we can't narrow it down any further than probably lilies?"
"We need a botanist!" sighed Cheery and Joan together.
"Lilies have an old, old, association with death, though." Sally said. "Maybe that's a statement in itself?"
"Hum.. .Mr Mericet…. isn't available tonight, and in his specialist area he's the nearest thing to a botanist that we've got" sighed Joan. "So we'll just have to bash on regardless. What about the florists' shop cards from the various murder scenes?"
"Here's a funny thing. None of them are from Bellamy's." remarked Sally.
"Well, you wouldn't expect them to be. Too easy. Given that they're randomly assorted from ten different florists' shops, you wonder if she's muddying the waters here. Diverting attention. "
"I've looked at the writing on the cards." Sally said. "Even though some is in italic, some is in capitals and some is copperplate, I'd bet good money they're all written by the same person. Too many similarities."
The cards were circulated and discussed, with Sally pointing out what she'd seen. Angua briefly considered sniffing them, then reflected they'd all been attached to lethally poisonous bunches of flowers. She'd get nothing of the human, and everything of the flowers. Scent only, if she was lucky.
And then Johanna joined them. She was welcomed and provided with hot coffee.
"Hard night?" Alice asked, sympathetically.
"Occupational hezerd of being en Essessin! I nearly got killed!"
She explained her evening, and the rest offered sympathy and hugs.
"Mr Vimes insisted your people get some sort of basic orientation before they're allowed out on the street in this city." Angua said, carefully. "There have been just too many incidents. The Patrician backed him up, and made a strong case to your Embassy."
"I understand." Johanna said. "Culture shock cen be a terrible thing!"
"So this chap thought he knew better?" Sally said grinning. "Just off the banana-boat, in town for half an afternoon, and refused the good advice of somebody who's been here five years. If you ask me, he got off lightly with concussion. It sounded halfway to being a suicide!"
Johanna snorted.
"Ach, Boor men are born pre-concussed!"
"We have six in the School at the moment. I think of their re-education as a positive duty! Send 'em back improved, that's what I say!" Joan said, cheerfully. "Anyway, m'dear, see what you can make of these. Fresh eyes, and all that."
While Johanna studied reports and photos, Alice thoughtfully said
"Have you noticed something? There are six of us in this room. Three Assassins and three Watchwomen. Yet we're completely at ease around each other and we're not, for instance, one short step away from strangling, killing, insulting, or plotting to inhume one another, nor are we generally behaving with all the mutual courtesy and respect Lord Downey and Commander Vimes normally show towards each other."
"Well," Sally said, pondering this.
"There's a distinct absence of testosterone in the air, whatever other poisons we may be dealing with. In the main, we go to the same hairdresser's. We're women. We don't have time for macho posturing and all that pissing about. There's a job to do and we're getting on with it. " She paused, and added
"We should go for a drink together. Now THAT would be a whole lot of fun!"
Joan had heard of the Watchwomen's idea of a good night out.
Ankh-Morpork had heard of a Watchwoman's idea of a good night out. Part of her winced at what Downey might say the next morning, but just enough of her was still in her twenties and refused to believe the body carrying a twenty-five year old Joan about was now in its early fifties. A delicious image arose, of Downey calling his female teaching staff in for a disciplinary the morning after. A smile spread across her face.
"Whyever not?" she said, softly.
Johanna's head rose.
"I'm no expert" she said, "but this is something from Home I thought I'd never see over here. This is the Howondalandian Death Lily! There is just one, look, in the centre of each bouquet."
They crowded round to look.
"It grows in the Hubward jungles. Efter it is fertilised, it spreads its pollen in a single explosive puff end cen fire it for up to fifty feet. The pollen is ebsolutely deadly, end kills in seconds. I learnt ebout it when I did my Jungle Survivel course. You learn ebout the things thet cen kill you, or you die."
"Who would have access to it here?" Angua asked.
"Enkh-Morpork is too cold end too damp – in the wrong way – for this lily to grow neturelly. You would need a commercial hothouse to grow it, end you would need to take precautions egainst being exposed to the pollen. Hothouses are not cheap things to build end run. Who in this city hes them?"
"So we need to know where the hothouses are in the city." Cheery said. "And who has access to them. I'll get onto it."
"We need a file on the Bellamys" added Joan. "If Mrs Bellamy has access to such a hothouse and these things grow there, then it's another piece of evidence!"
"On it" said Cheery, making a note. "I'll find out what CSP have got and if they aren't looking, I'll get them off their arses."
"We also need to get into her shop. Have a jolly good root around."
"How?" asked Angua. "Mr Vimes won't give a warrant without clear evidence. Any other way is just breaking and entering, and the Patrician… well, you know Mr Vimes is getting a taste for that black yeasty breakfast spread from Fourecks? The one you either love or hate? He spreads it thickly on his toast, according to Lady Sybil. And after the Patrician's bollocked him, say after Nobby's entered somewhere without a warrant and taken informal evidence away, that's exactly what he does to the Watch. He takes something nasty and hard to swallow and lays it on thick, that's the point I'm trying to get at here."
"And while we're trained in stealthy entry, lockpicking, and defusing traps, Lord Downey isn't happy if we use those skills outside of pursuing a lawful contract." Alice mused. "If we break and enter into anywhere and the Thieves' Guild gets to hear about it, Mr Boggis gives Lord Downey an earful about demarcation. Then Lord Downey calls the offenders to the office, gives them the lecture about overconfidence, and makes them eat the almond slice."
She shuddered, expressively. "Oh, you get the antidote afterwards, but that isn't the point. A sub-lethal dose of arsenic has a powerful laxative effect."
Assassins and Watchwomen paused, in a sympathetic mutual understanding of each others' troubles and limitations.
Joan looked furiously reflective.
"So. We can't get in and pose as customers because Assassins walking into the shop would fire her suspicion. There are only a handful of Watchwomen who could go in undercover, and all their faces are too well known. And, no offence, undercover Watch do tend to stand out in civvies. You're too used to wearing uniform! That's what tipped me off to the gel you sent to trap me, by the way. She was just a dem' sight too uncomfy in regular womens' clothes. "
"No offence taken. You're dead right." Angua said, evenly, storing up a useful bit of policecraft for future use, and reflecting that informal links to friendly Assassins could be very useful, even if Mr Vimes was going to go utterly spare when he heard about the degree of fraternizing that was going on. Or is it sororizing?
"Your Nobby Nobbs has been heard to say that when he tries out shop doors at night, as is his duty, sometimes a door just….you know… falls open, and he then has to go in and make sure nobody else has been stealing from the premises." Joan said, her brain working furiously.
"As is his duty. Now, let's say myself and a friend who is skilled in these things were to be having a late-night stroll on Pellicool Steps one night, after he's just bought my dinner. Just a little post-prandial stroll by moonlight. To aid digestion."
"Of course, Joan!" everyone else chorused, keeping their faces very straight.
"Let's say we're admiring the flowers in Bellamy's window. And her door…er… was in securely locked and swung open. As public spirited citizens, myself and Mr Nivor might be forced to go in, just for a moment, and secure the premises, yes?"
Angua looked doubtful.
"And this is the same Mr G.D. Nivor, who appears on the Assassins' School teaching staff roster as senior lecturer in lockpicking, traps, deadfalls and stealthy entering?" she enquired.
"Perfectly coincidentally, of course. And what if one of us were to be carrying one of the new iconographs, with night-vision imp. I don't pretend to understand all the dark magic involved, but apparently the imp can see and paint in the dark with no need for a flash attachment that gives you away the moment you fire the salamander.. The little blighters are bred to see into the infra-red, or something."
"You've actually got those?" Cheery squeaked, bouncing with excitement. "I thought the wizards said we're at least five years away from that sort of technomancy!"
"That's for public consumption, m'dear." Joan said, cheerfully. "We funded the wizards to advance the research, so that the Guild could have first divs. They're just prototypes for field testing right now, but we're doing the testing!"
Joan added, slyly, "I could arrange for you to have a go on one, if you like. Then you can bung a secret report on Sam Vimes' desk to say these things exist, and can he buy you one for Hogswatch?"
Angua appeared to reach a decision.
"OK, then. You're with an expert in his field. You're posing as an old married couple out for the evening." Angua waited for the muffled laughter to die down, and added "Just so long as it's a straight in-and-out, and you tell me exactly when you're doing it, I'll see there isn't a Watch patrol in the area for twenty minutes. But any sign of trouble, you're on your own, and we haven't had this conversation, OK?"
"Perfectly acceptable, m'dear!" said Joan.
Alice interrupted them.
"It's eleven-forty now. Two of us have got dorm checks to do. Shall we call it a night and meet up again tomorrow?"