The MGC returns? C15+4
Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles, a large, self-satisfied man, with a classic bay window stomach straining underneath a dress shirt and cummerbund, stood in the doorway of his home on Speedwell Lane, welcoming the guests. Long since run to fat, a certain way of standing and moving indicated to the professional observer that there had once been a lot of muscle where there was now flab. But he still radiated the aura of a large, powerful, man, albeit one who was out of his comfort zone in trying to make those final, agonisingly elusive, steps from the upper middle classes into the upper classes proper.
It's comparatively easy to move up the social ladder if your beginning point is the bottom and he only way is up. The rungs are spaced comparatively closely and there are a surprising number of them in the working classes. Cockbill Street is a more desirable address than Elm Street, for instance; and Elm Street is several rungs above the ironically named Paradise Street in the depths of the Shades. And Shamlegger Street would need the ladder to have negative rungs.
As you move into the middle classes, the rungs begin to space themselves out further and wider and it requires more time, money, investment and often just sheer fluke luck to move between them. It has rightly been said that the upper middle classes , the ones engaged in making the money here and now in this generation, are the most insecure and socially unstable, simply because of the fear of losing it all and sliding painfully down an assemblage of broken rungs. And when money and material comfort are assured, at least for today, an uncertainty about status takes over. The lower classes may have crab-bucket syndrome, an unconscious malicious desire to prevent others ascending to heights they have written themselves off from even aspiring to.
To move from the middle to the upper classes is like crossing an abyss. It can be likened to deep-sea diving – the deeper you go, to the depths where the really nasty monsters lurk, the more the waters press and crush and every extra yard in depth feels like a mile. It brings on what divers call the bends. Or it's mountain-climbing without oxygen: the higher you go, the more painful and unsure it becomes. This brings on the dissociative and hallucinatory disease called altitude sickness. It is possible to aspire to climb too high.(1)
And the established upper classes, that is, the people living on money gained by previous generations, (as Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles has discovered), do not like newcomers. Collectively, they have retreated into the high castle and pulled the drawbridge up behind them. Making that final step, in to the not-just-wealthy-but-also-noble, means that to climb those final rungs of the social ladder, the aspirant must wear seven-league-boots to get between rungs.
And any wizard can tell you about the stresses involved in placing your left foot twenty-one miles in front of your right foot. The only way around it is to tread very, very, lightly. But for people fixated and obsessed with social climbing, treading lightly is a thing they find impossible to do… .
Mrs Damietta Langworthy-Eccles stood small and pale in the lee of her husband. She was wearing a lot of make-up and felt over-dressed. Every nerve in her body sang with tension, and really, really, prayed that nothing would set him off tonight, some real or perceived slight on the part of one of the great Lords who were happy to descend on him for free food, drink and entertainment, but who ridiculed him behind his back and condescended to his face. She wished he could just be happy with what he'd achieved and where they were. It was more than most people born in Seven Sleepers ever achieved. And that one, final, step into the nobility obsessed him. It was tantalisingly close but she feared would remain out of his reach.
Her jaw throbbed dully as she stood, welcoming the guests. Dr Lawn thought he might have broken a tooth and had recommended a good dentist "not a tooth-butcher, one who knows what he's doing".
And the little voice in the back of her mind that said Why protect him? Why defend him? Why excuse him? It was over the first moment he set a hand on you, in his frustration and rage.
However often she tried to fight that voice down, it came back stronger. To distract herself, she looked around her at the bustle of a busy household.
At least those temporary staff Keeble's found for us have been absolute wonders. Hard workers all of them. It can't be fun having to go out to work at fourteen. Thank the Gods I escaped that.
Some days earlier, fourteen hand-picked senior students had been gathered in a conference room at the Assassins' Guild. Composed of seven of the best senior girls of fourteen and fifteen, and seven older boys undergoing various stages of the Black Syllabus, they sat down together and wondered why they had been selected and what for.
Then Lord Downey, Joan Sanderson-Reeves, Alice and Johanna had walked in.
"Thank you for attending" he said, briskly. "As you know, it is rare, but not unknown, for a student to be asked to assist in a contract operation involving full Assassins. Miss N'Kweze here has already participated in one such mission…"
All eyes turned to regard Ruth, who sat serenely, inwardly feeling pleasure and pride at having been asked again.
"..in which she performed admirably and exceeded all expectations. This is the reason why she has been asked again. The rest of you now have a chance to begin building similar solid working records, that will stand you in good stead in later life after qualification."
Downey allowed this to sink in, and continued:
"The absolute precondition for your participation in this mission is discretion. Anything you are about to hear in this room must be left in this room. You are not to discuss it with anyone except the members of staff here present. If you think you are not able to refrain from gossip, nor fend off the interested questions of your peers who will be wondering why you are all here, then you are free to leave the room now, and no blame will be attached."
There was silence. Nobody got up or asked to be excluded.
Downey nodded.
"The Guild is putting a great deal of trust in you," he said. "But you have all been selected as outstanding students who have shown great promise, and who in the opinions of your teachers may be safely entrusted with greater responsibility. I believe, based on my knowledge of you all, that you will live up to that trust. Now I will invite Miss Sanderson-Reeves to explain more about what you will be called upon to do. On behalf of the Dark Council, I thank you."
Joan stepped forward.
Reinforcing Downey's words about secrecy, she explained about the Marriage Guidance Counsellor investigation, emphasised she was a little bit peeved the wretched woman has taken my old working name (this raised a laugh) and explained to the students their assistance would be needed in undercover covert surveillance missions over the coming month.
"Miss N'Kweze, you've met her face to face. The rest of you haven't. Well, you are now going to view iconographs of the woman you will be alert for."
She nodded, and Johanna started projecting slides.
"Study, and remember, this face. This is important."
Discreetly-taken iconographs of Davinia Bellamy began to appear on screen.
"This is how she normally appears" Joan said, quietly. We have reason to suspect that for some of her inhumations, she has been wearing wigs or otherwise disguising her appearances. These are copies of iconographs which have been adapted by our art department, showing how the target might look if disguised."
Pictures of Davinia as a brunette, a redhead and dark flashed across the screen.
"We have identified six possible victims from existing contracts held at the Guild. These are men who fit the critieria for the attention of this lady. If nothing else, the wives are all capable of meeting her completion fees, just as the clients move in social and business circles where they encounter people who are most able to pay Guild fees. But to avoid any confusion, the contracts from the Guild will be under suspension for the period of this investigation, as we have no wish to impede our own colleagues."
Alice took the floor.
"This is why, during the coming spring school break, you will all be going into one or other of those houses as temporary domestic staff, to watch and observe. Is anyone dismayed yet? Good! Any questions?"
"Why us, miss?"
The inevitable question. Alice smiled.
"Because the majority of you are Scholarship pupils and we believe you will be able to carry off the essential deception so much easier. To the people you will be working for, you will be ignored as just another maid or waiter from Dimwell or Dolly Sisters or the Shades. We could not have used a Selachii or a Venturi or a Rust on this task. They would not have been able to act in a servile enough manner, as their upbringing has conditioned them to be the people who are waited upon, rather than doing the waiting. It is more likely that some socially upscale guests would have recognised them and demanded to know why they were slumming it among the servant classes. You do not present these concerns."
Alice briefed them on the job. They would go in under their own names, but were expected to familiarise themselves with the fake life histories provided for them that would be recorded at Keeble's job shop, in case of inquiries. These would only be falsified in a few crucial respects, ie "safe addresses" would be provided in their home districts which would belong to friends of the Guild who would be briefed to support the stories. She did not think this would be very likely, but they were covering all eventualities. Details of education would of course be changed. They would then be allocated jobs according to current availability from Keeble's, so that at least two people would be covering each suspect home at all times. They would not be live-in staff, but day employees with their homes elsewhere in the City. On leaving for work in the morning and returning, care would be taken to watch for anyone tailing them. You have all done the relevant course modules, and some of you have already had practical tests, and know the signs about living and working undercover.
Alice answered another raised hand.
"Please, miss. As you said we were all brought up in places like the Shades and Lobsneaks. But so were a lot of people we all know as friends and neighbours. What happens if we go undercover as a waitress or an underfootman, and we meet somebody we grew up with in Lobsneaks who knows us and knows we're a pupil at the Assassins' School?"
Joan took the question.
"In that case, the best defence is the truth. But as you're not a complete bloody idiot, or we would not be using you, you will not tell the whole truth, will you, miss Higgins? In those circumstances, yes, admit to being a pupil at this school. But point out you are a Scholarship pupil. You need to get some money in from somewhere, if only to meet the costs of personalised equipment."(2)
"You also need personal money to catch up with your more financially fortunate contemporaries."
The students in the room all nodded, wryly
"So you then come clean, tell them you're working illicitly as the Guild does not approve of this in its students, you need the money, please don't give me away. Appeal to their sympathy – you're at heart a Lobsneaks kid needing to make a honest dollar too. Should work!"
"And you will be paid, at standard rates, by Keeble. We have made sure of that and negotiated on your behalf, so work damned hard and do not give the client cause for complaint!"
Joan nodded to Alice, who repeated a list of do's and don't's.
You work hard and work as directed. The world is going to see nothing but serving staff and trainee waiters and waitresses.
Above all, you remain alert for deliveries of flowers. You time and date these. Where possible, you check the identity of the person delivering flowers. If it corresponds with Davinia Bellamy, alert the Guild at once.
While the client in all cases is a contracted case for inhumation, on no account seek to conclude the inhumation yourself. I know two of you are only a short time away from doing the Final Run, but you are all still students and therefore ineligible to conclude contracts. Look upon it, for the moment, as a bodyguarding contract where you are expected to assess risk and save the client from death. In fact you are saving him from an unlicenced killer, for the attentions of a fee-earning licenced Assassin later.
Lord Downey intervened at this point and said, helpfully
"Do you know, it occurs to me that while you are in a situation of, ah, deep penetration, observing clients the Guild has an interest in, your time might also fruitfully be occupied in covertly assessing the premises and the daily routine, so that you may write a report afterwards which may be attached to the relevant contract file, so as to guide the Guild operative who eventually concludes the inhumation. You have all been taught how to prepare such a report, after all. I will add a personal note suggesting the Assassin who eventually takes the case shows generosity, when thanking you for your assistance."
"They could pay off your personal equipment loan balances, perhaps" Joan said, thoughtfully. "So you graduate with the same clean slate as any Venturi or Selachii. Makes sense!""
And now it was the following Saturday night and a dinner-ball was beginning at the Langworthy-Eccles home on Speedwell Lane. This was a socially select address on the Rimwards side of Kingsway, one where the houses were less grand and the gardens a little less spacious than at neighbouring Scoone Avenue on the Hubwards side of Kingsway. It marked, in fact, the space separating two of those final rungs on the ladder of social ascendancy.
But an entrepreneur and would be commerce-magnate like Gerald Langworthy-Eccles drew great crowds to his little soirées. At least one of the great Lords was bound to be present, to eat and drink the finest at somebody else's expense. Tonight it was the choleric Lord Venturi. Senior Guild dignitaries were present. Langworthy-Eccles noted the presence of Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild and Mrs Boggis. He'd never been able to attract Lord Downey of the Assassins, who'd always slipped out pleading previous commitments. Instead, a couple of teachers from the Guild School were circulating: that sultry Quirmian woman who always made him feel steamy and in need of a real woman. Where was that wife of his, anyway? Never mind: that damn' Quirmian attracted a crowd, usually male, all of her own. And that Miss Band, long and slender, a dam' fine looking piece in her own right, but rumours you wouldn't dare say to her face suggested she made exactly the opposite sort of arrangements. He recalled a private display he'd paid to witness once at the Seamstresses' Guild, and a laviscious smile spread across his face. His tongue licked his lips in an oddly reptilian way as he tried to visualise Miss Band and the Quirmian woman together.
Shaking the pleasant thought out of his head, he carried on taking stock. Who was that just arriving…. Could it be?
He ran to the door.
."Welcome to my home, My Lord!"
Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, nodded acknowledgement to his host. His two escorting Derk Clerks moved in closer.
"And your gentlemen are?"
"Mr Brown" said one.
"Me {{Cough}}" said the other. "I regret his lordship has a poorly throat at the moment and is capable of not a great deal of speech. However, he was desirous of seeing one of your evenings for himself."
Vetinari again nodded.
"I'm sorry to hear that, my Lord. A soothing drink can be provided?"
The Patrician nodded assent, and his party moved on
Fingers were clicked and commands made, and a young maid emerged from backstairs with a tray. She curtsied appropriately, and Mr Brown smelt the drink
"A standards soothing preparation for a strained throat, my lord" he said. "I detect honey, lemon juice and perhaps a single serving of tonic wine."
"Rather have a bleedin' double!" the Patrician muttered. Mr {{Cough}} leant forward to him and whispered something urgent in his ear.
"Whoops, sorry!" the Patrician said. He took a sip, and appeared to get into character.
"Thank you, young lady."
The maid, whose name was Sharon Higgins and who was normally one of Joan's scholarship form at the Guild School, said
"Think nothing of it, my lord!"
"What's your name?"
"Sharon, m'lord!"
"Lovely name, lovely. Thank you, Sharon!"
She dipped again, then returned back stairs. A gaggle of not-yet-needed waiting staff were clustered in the kitchen. A motherly-looking cook took the tray back from Sharon and frowned, looking at her hard.
"Is it really him out there, luv?" she asked, curiously. "Vetinari's always refused the invitation before!"
The cook looked again, and frowned hard.
"You know, you really do look like that Sharon Higgins from Dimwell. The one with nobby ideas who went and signed on at that posh Assassins' School."
Sharon looked from one side to the other and feigned distress.
"I am that Sharon Higgins from Dimwell." she said, in a low worried voice. "But please don't give me away. It ain't no fun at that school when you don't have no dollars! And they don't like you taking on side jobs to earn a crust, they think it's demeaning and brings the school into disrepute. And I need a few dollars. Please?"
The cook softened, hearing and responding to the universal plea for the working classes to stand together against them, who made all the unreasonable demands and kept you down.
"Don't worry, luv" she said, in a loud voice. "I must have been mistaken, Sharon is a popular name round these parts, nobody with a common name like that goes to that school!"
Sharon smiled She leant up, and in a low voice against the hubbub of the kitchen said
"Favour for a favour? That ain't Vetinari out there We know he keeps an identical body-double called Charlie for jobs like this that he doesn't want to do himself. Charlie is a complete ringer except for two things. He can't do the voice and left to himself he'll get blind drunk. Just watch him!"
The cook grinned.
"Is that so?" the cook said. "Well, it'll fool the Master."
Her smile said that a fooled Master would be no bad thing, and Sharon moved on, knowing the secret was safe. She could think of a couple more nuggets of gossip and low-level rumours circulating the Guild that people outside never got to hear, and trade those against her continued anonymity.
And so the evening went on. Langworthy-Eccles wondered why Harry King, a man normally so eager to attend society balls, had never attended any of his functions. What did King know? What did he have on him? He shuddered, and put the thought as far out of his mind as he could. At least, against all hope, the Patrician was here…
Ruth N'Kweze and Darleen O'Hagan had been sent down to the cellars to pick up a bucket of ice. They were on the way back up with it when they were blocked on the stairs by three or four of the other temporary waiting staff, boys and girls of about their age. They had a definite backstreets-of-Morpork flavour to them.
Sensing trouble, Ruth and Darleen settled the ice-bucket and adopted subtly different positions allowing them to fight, if necessary. They made eye-contact with the one who appeared to be the leader, a tough-looking youth of about sixteen.
"Who the hells are you?" he demanded. "You're not ordinary kids, wherever you're from. And there are a few of you here tonight!"
"The name's Darleen O'Hagan" came the reply "From Worralorrasurfa by way of Bugarup and a fast tramp boat taking me to the big city . I'm from Fourecks and there are a hell of a lot of us in this city, cobber!"
Ruth scrutinised the threat. Why should they have been approached inside the building by people they were working alongside, and not by the permanent staff of the house… those people confronting them had an air about them, a way of carrying themselves, that was like looking into a slightly distorted fairground mirror… they seem to think we're getting in their way..
Then she had it.
"Wait." she said, raising an empty right hand in a gesture of peace. "You're from lower Broadway. The Old Courthouse. Yes?"
"What's that to you, you bloody stuck up Assassin?" one of her assailants demanded, hotly.
Darleen burst out laughing. "Stuck up? Me?" and in as many words added they should go and perform an intimate act on a wombat.
Ruth carefully turned back the lapel of her maid's outfit and revealed an Assassins' Guild badge. The four people opposite her relaxed, but didn't quite drop the fighting positions.
"OK" said the leader "We're Thieves' Guild school."
"So we're all here to case the joint, as it were?" Ruth inquired. The thief smiled sheepishly and offered a hand. Ruth took it.
"You know the Flannelfoot accord. " Ruth pressed. "In the event of Thieves and Assassins meeting on business.
"You rob 'em. We kill 'em." she quoted.
The head Thief nodded.
"So as long as we're both aware the others are here…"
"Then there won't be room for disagreement" finished Ruth.
"And you're not unlicenced Thieves. That was the other possibility."
The two groups parted as working colleagues who understood each other, Ruth reflecting that Langworthy-Eccles was certainly accumulating a lot of enemies.
Meanwhile, Alice and Emmanuelle were circulating, knowing they had a legitimate right by invitation to be there, enjoying the party, and making observations of their own. Periodically, one of the young servants they had planted would come up and refresh their drinks; they would exchange a brief message in the standard ginger-code, and move on. Emmanuelle was the centre of a flurry of male attention; Alice didn't begrudge her this, knowing the other woman was enough of a pro Assassin to drop the pose and do what was needed if and when necessary. This left Alice, the more retiring and less favoured of the two lady Assassins, to move more inconspicuously in the background, to look, assess, ask discreet questions, and find things out.
She had already discovered the flowers were not provided by Bellamy's of Pelicool, which disappointed her slightly. But things could change.
Things changed with a discreet message from Sharon Higgins.
Thieves Guild active in building. Operatives RN and DO forced to break cover. So far only Thieves aware.
Alice walked the length of the ballroom, found Mr Boggis, and exchanged professional courtesies, Alice following it up with a "I would like a word, if you please. Somewhere discreet?"
It had developed into the next dance, the short and portly Boggis barely coming up to Alices's…
Ugh, ugh, ugh, she thought, wishing she could flout convention and dance with a woman. Or that Boggis were six inches taller. Or she not five foot ten.
"I hear we've both got undercover people in this building right now" Alice said, pleasantly as she could muster. "And I am speaking for lord Downey here."
"Yes.." said Boggis. "Langworthy-Eccles's overdue a raid."
"It's in both our best interests if our respective people are not exposed. Yes? "
"Agreed" Boggis said, somewhat muffled.
"He can steal a look she thought. He is head of the Thieves' Guild. But just dare he enjoy it too much.
"And you can work out we have a contract out on these premises. Again, Mr Boggis, please treat that as privileged information."
"Agreed!" said Boggis, who was somewhat entranced by his proximity to her bosom. Alice was more than happy when the music ended.
She elected to sit on the Boggis table for a while and make small-talk about the relationship between the Thieves' and Assassins' Guilds. She know she could brief Lord Downey on any interesting remarks Boggis made, and Boggis knew she had Downey's ear. Besides, Mrs Boggis, normally a small, fussy, conceited little woman, was remarkably relaxed about their dance together. Mrs Boggis had guessed Alice was no threat to their marriage, and genially asked her about the Blue Cat Club, a shame it only allowed women to be, er, associate members, wasn't it?
Alice smiled, and steered the conversation round to the Boggis-Downey Cup, the newly inaugurated challenge between the edificeering teams at both Guilds. The previous year, the Thieves had won: Alice looked for great improvement this year.
And she also watched Emmanuelle, surrounded as she was by men. The principal contender appeared to be a tall, loud, burly man with… was that a Howondalandian accent? She shrugged. Johanna wasn't the only one in town by any means. She wondered if she know him, but Johanna was leading a Wilderness expedition during the week's school holiday. Or she'd have been here.
Alice took a sip of her wine.
And then things started happening. Several previously unrelated phenomena all came together, in much the same way random unrelated spells do when fired by wizards.
Ruth N'Kweze was circulating with a tray of drinks. From her point of view, the evening was going nicely, and she was even picking up the occasional cash tip from people who appreciated prompt friendly service. It would all go towards paying for additional equipment, she thought. Some of the concealed weapons sheaths, like those she'd seen Miss Smith-Rhodes wearing. And then she ran into him again. He was paying court to Madame Deux-Épées, but recognised her instantly.
"Well, hello!" roared Jakob de Beers. "I know you, keffir-girl!"
"What is wrong, mon brave?" she heard Madame Deux-Épées say, concernedly.
"I saw this keffir some weeks ago. Then, she wes the personel maid-servent to that milksop girlie with the red plaits, the one sent to me es a bodyguard, would you believe it, by your Guild!"
"You are referring, I believe, to my colleague Miss Smith-Rhodes. I can most assuredly say that milksop, she is not. Or she would not be a licenced Assassin."
De Beers shrugged.
"But I do not see her tonight. But I see her nigger maid."
He turned to Ruth.
"Hev you ebsconded, girl?" he demanded. "Run ewey from your owner? The Embessy is not far away!"
He made to grab her arm. Ruth evaded him, and he suddenly found Madame Deux-Épées standing between them. The room had gone quiet and other people were watching. Emmanuelle registered movement towards them.
"Ecoutes, mon brave!" she said to him. "The truth is that Johanna is leading a School expedition into the hills this week. She has no need of a maidservant in this time, and has graciously permitted Ruth here to work for other people as a casual waitress, to earn more money. This is the truth, ne c'est pas?"
Ruth submissively lowered her eyes.
"Yes, madame."
Emmanuelle nodded.
"C'est bon, everything is in accord, and you need not concern yourself any more with the maids. When perhaps tonight, you might have me."
She made eye contact. De Beers found himself agreeing. He could deal with the runaway nigger later.
The Duke and Duchess of Ankh, late arrivals at the ball, hove into sight. De Beers tore his eyes away from Emmanuelle and looked into the less appealing features of Sam Vimes.
"Any disturbance here?" Vimes asked, gratingly.
"You're the police chief? Then errest this nigger! She is an absconded citizen of Rimwards Howondaland!"
Vimes' eyes narrowed.
"We can sort this out now. I've heard the latest nasty trick you people use is to tattoo your servants with their identity numbers, so if any go running, you can claim them later. I won't ask the young lady to expose her arm here. But if she goes somewhere private, with say two trustworthy ladies – my wife and Madame Two-Swords here – they can witness her arm, and if there's a number there, I'll send her to your Embassy guarded by MY watchmen. If there isn't a number, she's a free woman and there's no case to answer. Is that acceptable, Mr De Beers? "
DeBeers reluctantly acceded, and Ruth left the room, accompanied by Sybil Ramkin and her teacher.
Ruth, knowing the temporary marking applied some weeks ago had since washed off, allowed herself to be led away. There was an awkward silence in the ballroom until she returned.
"Nothing, Sam." said Sybil. "And might I say I think your attitude is an absolute disgrace, young man?"
"I concur." Emmanuelle said. "Nothing on either arm. Now with ze farce over, we have a party to return to?"
Amazingly, she returned to the arms of DeBeers, who she had concluded was a handsome man, but brash, bullying and in all regards, Boorish. For now, she had to protect her student. It was an obligation.
Dancing with him, she steered him to clear view of where Alice Band was sitting, and allowed her fingertips to trace what he thought were pleasing patterns on his back.
In reality, she was finger-signing to Alice.
I intend to get this idiot outside she signed. Remind Boggis that he assuredly has no Thieves' Guild insurance. Recall the night his stupidity might have killed Johanna. He requires a lesson.
"Well, that was street theatre!" Mr Boggis said.
"I shouldn't have read that message, Miss Band, it was for you, but that oaf with your friend?"
Alice remembered that Thieves also use and read finger-sign.
She related about the night where Johanna had had to confront a Thieves' Guild party to prevent them from robbing DeBeers, and his refusal to take out theft insurance with them.
"Johanna felt bad about that, as your people were only doing their job too. But would it make amends if my friend steers him outside and you, perhaps, might want some of your people to pick up where they left off? I can assure you Mr DeBeers is under no bodyguarding contract at present. You would have a free run, and Madame Deux-Épées would not seek to defend him."
Boggis grinned a long slow grin.
"Is that so…"
He went of to talk to people who can run messages to people. Ten minutes or so after his return, Emmanuelle came back in, re-adjusting her clothing. She joined them.
"The threat to miss N'Kweze and the insults to our friend are suitably dealt with, I think." she said.
Some time after that there was screaming from outside. Vimes went running to see what it was about, Later, the Lady Sybil hospital had to be contacted.
"What happened to the, er, Patrician?" asked Alice.
"He took a little sickness, I think" Emmanuelle responded.
"Mainly in large glasses. The Dark Clerks accompanying him returned him to the Palace. Charlie should really learn to control ze drinking, I think. Thankfully these are still only low-level training outings for him in his new job."
Following the discovery of the unconscious, naked and beaten DeBeers in the street outside, the party concluded sooner than it might. It put a cloud on the night, that the Thieves Guild had been allowed to get so close to a private house where the Patrician had briefly visited. Damn it all, was nobody safe? Hadn't the damn man Langworthy-Eccles paid his Thieves' Guild premiums?
The damn man, his face thunderous at another soiree gone wrong, saw his guests away at the door. His wife read the signs and quailed.
Emmanuelle and Alice left by coach, but parked up on a quiet layby in Kingsway, waiting for the students to surreptitiously join them for debriefing.
Meanwhile, the temporary waiting staff, under the eye of Mr Gillespie the elderly butler, set about cleaning up, washing up and tidying down. They were allowed breaks to go in twos and threes to the remnant of the buffet and eat their fill before the food was thrown away. Finally, they were filling in timesheets for Keebles, when there was a noise of crashing, raging and screaming.
Mr Gillespie raced in the direction of the noise.
"Sir!" he called. "This is not seemly!"
Final-year student Asassins Richard Webbley and James Coogan followed on, discreetly. Dressed as footmen, they saw the old butler seeking to restrain his master's fist, the lady lying sprawled and moaning weakly on the floor.
Seeking to conceal his disgust, Richard stepped forward.
"Nobody asked for you!" Langworthy-Eccles snarled. "Go away!"
"Perhaps a soothing drink before retiring, sir?" Richard asked evenly, noting with distaste that the man had already had too many unsoothing drinks. He poured a large brandy, his hand smoothly adding the powder from the sachet he had taken from his pocket.
Langworthy-Eccles nodded, took the drink, and drained the glass. Then his eyes closed and he fell over. Good. The rules say we can't kill him, but a big dose of sedative should keep him asleep for twenty hours and give his wife a break.
"Dead drunk." Said Mr Gillespie. "Look, you two are strapping big lads. Get him upstairs and in bed, and don't say a word to anyone about this, and there'll be a bonus in it for you?"
Richard and Jim nodded and set to their burden, as Ruth and Sharon ran to the Lady, lifting her and assisting her to a chair, looking for fresh injuries, calling for compresses and hot water to help repair the damage. As they worked on her, they helped her back to consciousness, and Sharon said, after first checking for listeners:
"You don't have to suffer this, my lady. One of my aunts had a husband who beat her up. She asked people who know people and…. well, she found someone to help."
Damietta was dazed and in pain, but interested.
There's a woman who ends things. Makes widows. She does it in such a way the Watch think it's natural causes, so you're free to pick up the inheritance and the insurance afterwards. She don't come cheap, but you can pay her out of the insurance."
"Where is this woman?" Damietta asked, through bloodied lips
"Just go to Bellamy's florists on Pelicool later in the day. Ask for Davinia. She knows who can help. And really, she will. She charges around six grand a time."
"I have been there" Ruth said. "She is very good."
And later in the evening, Sharon could report that the fly was on its way to the spider….
(1) In popular legend, the great craftsman of ye olde days, Daedelus, had a son, Icarus. Cautioned from flying too high on the majestic wings crafted by his father, Icarus disregarded the warning, flew too near the sun, and the Sun duly melted the wax holding the wings together. Leading, as it did, to a brief argument with Gravity, unhappy that mere men were taking the piss. The truth takes two forms. At thirty-seven thousand feet, it's bloody cold. As any pilot will tell you, your wings need damn good de-icer. Icarus was in fact killed by a build-up of ice leading to wings that stayed in the air about as well as giant hailstones. The second version is that Icarus actually flew too low, over the estates of an ancestor of Mustrum Ridcully, who bellowed "Tally-Ho!" and shot down that bloody damn big bird. The Ridcullies are reticent to talk about this and claim their family history doesn't go back that far.
(2) This was true. While the largest part of the equipment the student Assassin needed to learn from and to familiarise themselves with came from a communal stock owned by the Guild school and issued for lessons, the longer the pupil remained as a student, the more they required certain items to be bespoke and personalised. While the Guild subsidised this generously for poorer but able students, the student was still expected to meet a part of their own equipment cost. They could come to the end of their training for the Black owing over a thousand dollars to the Guild in, albeit interest-free, loans. While one good inhumation could clear this after graduating, a student proceeding to Palace employment as a Dark Clerk could end up still repaying this four or five years on. And the Guild had a direct way with defaulters…