Strandpiel Book Two
Chapter Six - die sneeu, ys, sneeustorm, снег, лед, метель
This is V0.05. footnotes out of synch. When you leave it for a week and come back - you spot all the lurking typos. All the bits to rewrite, and general tidying and improvement.
And, what do you know. coming back unexpectedly to this one (and others) because I have spotted a massive moment of brainfart. Somehow I have moved Johanna and Ponder and their family two doors down the street to a house-share with the Bellamys at no 14. The Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons family lives at no 18 Spa Lane. They are close neighbours... but not that close.
A continuing family saga charting the interlinked lives of family and friends on at least two continents, with a cast of characters both living and dead. Moving the tale on – it is roughly mapped out and the main incidents are sketched in, some are even already written to be slotted into the appropriate places in the timescale. The trick will be filling in the incidental stuff!
18 Spa Lane, Nap Hill, Ankh-Morpork, Wednesday Night
"Looks like it's getting worse." Johanna Smith-Rhodes remarked, pulling back a corner of the living-room curtain and the net behind it. Several of her house-guests moved forward to take a look. Large flakes of snow danced and swirled on the other side of the window, and such large trees and shrubs as were visible in the white were dancing in a growing wind. "Looks like we need to make a plen."
It was settling in to be the worst snow in years. Ponder had spoken to the weather-wizards at the University, who had advised that with the exciting new breakthroughs in meteorological thaumomancy, they could confidently predict that this one was going to be a bugger for snow. A complete and an absolute sod.
"Indeed, chèrie." Emmanuelle les Deux-Epées agreed. She studied the snow too, feeling thankful she only lived next door, and could view these things from the right side of a window in a warm room, with relaxing drinks available. In her opinion, that was the best way to appreciate snow.
"We're both due at work tomorrow." Johanna said, practically.
"Oui." Emmanuelle said, with the merest hint of hesitation. She tried not to let it show that she had been considering the alternative.
Hélas, weather conditions made it impossible for me to get from my home in Nap Hill to the Guild, this foul morning. I hope you were not inconvenienced too much that I was forced to remain at home…
She reflected that there were Guild pupils present and that it would not do to set a bad example.
"I agree we should do all we can, chère amie. We have responsibilities."
And when I have demonstrated I have done all I can and exhausted all the possibilities, a blessèd day at home. The school can cope without me for a day. Or if this persists, two days. Three even, and a long weekend.
Johanna nodded. Her eyes narrowed slightly and she looked quietly amused, as if guessing Emmanuelle's thoughts.
"I also need to be near the Zoo." she said. "In this weather I will be needed there. The Guild is nearer to the Zoo."
She assessed the other people in the room, who had either had dinner there, or who were neighbours who had dropped in for a social late-evening drink. Wednesday evening dinners at Johanna's were popular, especially after the rigours of Sports Wednesday at the School.
"Evvie, you need to be back. No question."
Miss Ethylene Glynnie, Housemistress of Raven House, indicated assent.
"I need to do the routine checks by midnight." she agreed. "It is now half past nine."
Doctor Davinia Bellamy, Johanna's neighbour on the other side, squared her shoulders. She was also a Guild school teacher.
"I see what you're getting at, Johanna. We should be making every effort to get in tomorrow. The childrens' schooling will be disrupted otherwise."
Johanna nodded.
"I have a cab booked for shortly efter ten. So Evvie can get into School. I suggest a change of plen."
She smiled benevolently at the three Guild School pupils who were Wednesday evening guests.
"Famke. I know you usually have the privilege, end it is a privilege, of staying overnight here on a Wednesday, on the understanding thet you return on time on a Thursday morning," she said.
Her daughter Famke looked on attentively, still not at home with the fact her mother's circle of friends was about eighty percent composed of teachers from her school. Famke considered this was not playing fair and that when you got home on a Wednesday, the last thing you wanted was for the people around the dinner table to be more than half made up of people she was in no hurry to see outside a classroom. Even if two of them were people she'd called Auntie ever since she could remember. Now she wore the uniform, they were her teachers. Different rules applied.
"You too, Thora, Connie." Johanna added. "It is best thet you go back to your dorm tonight. Thet way, if the weather gets so bed thet nobody cen trevel, you are where you are meant to be."
"You can travel back with me." Ethylene Glynnie said. "It makes sense, if we are going to be snowed in, that we're snowed in at the School."
"Yes, miss." Connie Muthelezi and Thors Bryttasdottir chorused.
"So you hed better collect your overnight begs. Sorry you cennot stay tonight, but there will be other Wednesdays."
The three trooped off to collect their bags. Johanna turned to her husband.
"Ponder, it is very likely you will not be able to get to the University tomorrow if it gets worse. I would esk you to keep Ruth off school end look efter her, if you are working from home? Thenk you."
"Maybe I can find out more about what Ruth's up to." Ponder Stibbons said, referring to their youngest daughter. "It appears to be music, this week."
"Please do." Johanna said. She turned to her colleagues again.
"Emmie, Vinnie, we should prepare overnight begs of our own? If we esk the Guild to find us beds for tonight, it et least means we are there in the morning."
"Good plan." Davinia said, approvingly. "Peter's on nights at the prison this week, so at least he's at his workplace. I don't think it'll inconvenience him too much if he gets locked in. It's what the place was designed for, after all. I'll just nip home then, shall I? I'll get Davvie. There's bound to be a spare bed in a dorm somewhere that she can have."
She smiled at Emmanuelle, who made a resigned Quirmian shrug.
"You will perhaps need a bigger cab." Emmanuelle said, in an attempt to find practical objections. "Or more than one cab."
"Good point." Johanna agreed. She called for a duty goblin to clacks the cab company, and dictated brief messages. One was for the Guild advising of their intentions. The goblin, one of a resident family who tended to Johanna's clacks tower on the roof, said he thought it was best you do this now, Red Fox. If the snow gets so bad that even with lights, the clacks towers cannot see each other, then even the Clacks is down.
"Johanna, you could stay over in the apartment at Raven House." Ethylene Glynnie suggested. "It's not as if you don't know your way around."
"If I don't drive you nuts." Johanna agreed. "One of the old Housemistresses suddenly reappearing, end comparing the way you do things to the way she did things."
Davinia grinned, looking at Emmanuelle. "Maybe Antoinette could let you sleep on the sofa in the Black Widow housemistress's apartment?" she suggested. "I'm sure she won't mind."
Emmanuelle made another resigned sigh.
"I'll pack a bag." she said, defeated. The two went to find cloaks, for the brief dash back to their own homes to get overnight bags together.
Johanna grinned and turned to the fourth Guild teacher who'd been a dinner guest.
"Yelena, I'm sure we can go a longer way round, end drop you off et home." she suggested. "You don't need to be on site till Saturday morning, end I'm sure all this will have blown over by then."
Yelena Garyanova smiled an assured smile.
"That is very kind of you, but I can walk home." she said. "So it snows a little. Nichevo."
Johanna reconsidered. Possibly only one ethnicity on the Disc had this attitude to winter. And she'd met a few of them. Was friends with several of them. Nichevo. No matter. No big deal. The thought crossed her mind that even in this snowy weather, Olga Romanoff and Irena Politek, or any of the eight or nine other Rodinians in the Air Watch, were likely to be up there, actually flying in this.
Johanna supressed a shudder. She came from a place where snow was only ever seen on Hogswatch cards. People who had emigrated to Howondaland from the Central Continent several centuries earlier still had a word for it in their language – die sneeu, ys, sneeustorm - but it was rarely used as anything other than a theoretical concept, something that only happened in the Mother Country thousands of miles and four or five centuries away.
Johanna still remembered the biting cold and visceral fear of her first winter in Ankh-Morpork, something hitherto completely outside her experience. She had then made herself learn how to live and survive in Central Continent winters. She still didn't like it, but she could live in it. If she had to.
"Your country has no snow. Famke was saying. In my class." Yelena said, politely.
Johanna smiled, self-consciously.
"Ja. Coming here took some getting used to."
"I think I understand. But at home. We are born to snow in winter. As I taught in my class, when pupils were learning about the seasons and weather, we have many words in Rodinian for snow. снег, лед, метель"
She drew Johanna in for a hug and a quick kiss on both cheeks. Johanna knew this was the Rodinian way of things; it wasn't unpleasant.
"From here, left turn out of door. Then down Tump Lane. Then Pallant Street to Least Gate, which Watch never close at night. This still perplexes me. Why have wall and City gate, but never is it closed? Nichevo. Your city, your rules. On other side, Leastways Road. Then home. Maybe two miles. Nichevo. No problem. Just wear gloves and ushanka, pull coat and cloak closed. "
"I believe you." Johanna said.
Yelena smiled. "Road is paved. The way is clear. It is not as if I am searching for lost horse in a snowdrift on the Steppe. That is winter."
"I believe you." Johanna said.
Yelena smiled.
"Then I leave. Spend half-hour on walk watching for trouble."
She patted the sword-hilt at her waist. She gave the impression of being able to cope with the more usual perils of walking alone in Ankh-Morpork by night. Easily so.
"And thinking of hot tea from samovar when I arrive. Hot tea, Johanna. Is good in cold. And perhaps glass of vodka before bed."
They embraced again.
"Thank you for being good hostess. Is appreciated. You have good man. And two good daughters. I like them both. Your oldest daughter is here tomorrow?"
Johanna felt a sudden unease, then reminded herself Bekki had been taught to fly by Olga and Irena. Thoroughly taught, over several years. If they of all people hadn't taught her how to fly in winter snow, something was wrong.
"Looking forward to seeing her." Johanna said, "So is Ponder."
They watched her leave, striding confidently into the driving snow, till her long black cloak was lost to sight. A little later, the promised cabs arrived for the ride round to the Assassins' Guild. Four Guild teachers and four Guild students got into them. Ponder and Ruth waved them off.
Ponder Stibbons turned to his younger daughter.
"Just you and me, sweetheart." he remarked.
Ruth looked up to her father. She wrapped her arms round him and snuggled.
"That's really nice, daddy." she said. "Can you tell me more about sonic thaumaturgy? It's really interesting."
"Well. You got out of bed to see Mummy and Famke off. You really need to be back there. Then we'll see in the morning."
Ponder wondered, as he got Ruth back into bed, about her sudden interest in the physics and thaumaturgy of sound, and if it had to do with her music. Then he realised that with Johanna's change of plans, he could get away with going to bed a little later himself. A younger Ponder Stibbons emerged from under the laid-down strata of husband and father, and he grinned. In this weather, a pizza delivery was too much to hope for and would arrive cold, if it arrived at all. Ah well. Can't have everything. Still, he felt he could usefully stretch to perhaps midnight, or one in the morning if he pushed it. There was a research proposal or two to look over.
Claude the butler, who looked a little ill at ease in this weather, provided a mug of hot sweet chocolate. He cleared his throat.
"Her Ladyship requested me to advise you to be in bed by midnight, Sir Ponder." he said. "Her actual words were, if I may quote…"
"Tell him he isn't twenty-five any more, all-nighters aren't good for him, and he has our daughter to look after." Ponder said, sighing.
Claude smiled slightly.
"Almost exactly correct, sir."
At the City Zoo, Witch-Keeper Melitta Skepsbasket was working late. She was a Witch: she did the job in front of her for as long as it took. And in the depths of winter, there wasn't too much keeping of her primary charges, the bees in the Apiary. There, with hives winter-dormant and with the Queens and their winter retinues in hibernation, all that was needed was minimal nurture and ensuring the hives were safe from winter snow. Bees managed this in the wild without human intervention, after all. The hives were wrapped in tar-paper insulation, the honey reservoirs filled up to sustain those bees who were over-wintering – this is what they made honey for, after all – and there was still life inside. You took honey during the summer, you gave it back in winter. Balance. Later in the year, new larvae, then new workers. But not yet. Balance.
She was now doing winter work where it was called for. Working with the other dedicated Witch keepers, augmented by a couple of trainee Witches from the City circuit, sent here to help out. Several young Wizards of a Ponder Stibbons sort of disposition, along with the resources of the department of Para, Neo, Eldritch and Cryptozoology, were also pitching in to augment the Zoo's non-magical staff.
The current assignment was Giraffes, who had been herded into a necessarily tall indoor shelter. Giraffes, when you thought about it, were large animals with a massive surface area and no fur to retain body heat. They came from a place that while it got rain, never saw snow or sub-zero temperatures. Of all possible animals, they were probably least adapted for Ankh-Morpork and snow, and, at the moment, an air temperature of six degrees below zero with wind-chill.
Melitta, two young apprentice Witches, and a young graduate Wizard, were engaged in soothing the creatures and keeping them warm. Setting up the necessary warmth would take a little time, after which, the Wizard assured them, the spell would be self-sustaining and self-regulating. Faced with three suspicious-looking Witches with folded arms who were glaring at him, the Wizard had hurriedly said "Professor Stibbons and HEX devised this one, ma'ams, it's pretty safe. Err…" (1)
Melitta looked into the growing whirls of white outside the Giraffe House, and sighed resignedly. It was going to be a long night.
The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork.
Overnight commander Sergeant Hanna von Strafenburg had overseen the shift-switch, and the communicators, too few and precious yet for every Air Witch to have one each, had been signed over from the incoming shift to the Night Witches.
Hanna had warned them to be careful up there and to keep reporting in for updates.
As expected, very little was moving on the ground. The pilots had been instructed to keep low, patrol the major roads, and report on any blockages or obstructions. She had stripped the flights down to the bare necessary minimum and had alternated the active fliers with a reserve at the Air Station at two hour intervals, reckoning this was the maximum time a pilot could stay in the air in these circumstances. Incoming pilots had been directed to warmth and hot drinks on landing.
The only drama had been caused with the incoming Klatchian Carpetways commercial flight due in at two-thirty. The report from Pilot Vorona had come in that she had, on her own initiative, flown out to intercept and guide it in. She had found that the Klatchian pilots had hit a blizzard head-on and become hopelessly disorientated, gone into a wide circle some way short of the City in a search for landmarks, and were in fact heading out to sea again.
Hanna had frowned. The Klatchians would have run out of magic and inevitably crashed into a freezing cold sea.
Pilot Officer Serafima Dospanova had incredibly located the carpet, several miles out, had a shouted conversation with the crew, and led them in, as the weather got worse.
With hardly any magic left, she had led them to an emergency landing in the courtyard at Pseudopolis Yard. The ground Watch had taken over then, leading aircrew and passengers to safety and warmth, with the carpet and cargo in the yard awaiting recovery later. Twenty people had been saved.
Hanna made a note for Olga Romanoff about Vorona's exceptional flying and service over and beyond the call of duty, and had managed to get a report to the Klatchian Embassy for their urgent attention. She had thought about the issues involved, and had vetoed any suggestion the Klatchian aircrew came up to the Air Station. Their commercial pilots, after all, were also Klatchian Air Force officers.
With misgivings, she had called up the duty Pegasus Service pilot, allocated one of the very best available navigators, and sent an emergency comms flight to the embassy in Al-Khali, instructing the pilot to spend as little time as possible in Ankh-Morporkian airspace before going into Transition. The Embassy in Al-Khali was requested to get a message to Klatchian Carpetways about weather conditions here, and to suspend all further outbound flights until further notice. If at all possible, to catch up with and recall anyone who had already set out.
Hanna watched the Pegasus, skittish in the snow, set out and safely make Transition at what would normally be thought of as a dangerously low height, three hundred feet.(2) She saw the octarine flash even through the snow, but also noted it was a lot dimmer than usual.
At four-thirty in the morning, with the blizzard intense and visibility vastly reduced, she put out the general recall order for all pilots in the air to return immediately. All active flying was suspended until further notice. Even, she added, with emphasis, for Rodinians.
Then she remembered there would be two part-time Pegasus witches coming in within the next few hours, both expected between six and seven by local time. And the storm was getting worse.
Officers Budonova and Smith-Rhodes. Both competent pilots, but young, very little actual experience….
She tried to get urgent Clacks messages to Captain Romanoff and Lieutenant Politek. The message came back from the Clacks tower to say they could just about see the next towers to the Hubwise, but nothing beyond that. There was no guarantee the messages would get there.
Hanna reflected again, and reached for the control console. She took a deep breath.
"Valkyrie Control to Syren and Red Star. Syren and Red Star, please respond. In accordance with agreed procedure and protocol, emergency message…"
~~ Syren responding.
It was a far-too-early-in-the-morning voice, a little sleep groggy, but still Olga Romanoff accepting this was Air Watch business.
~~What's up, Hanna? Oh, govno. Over.
"Valkyrie to Syren and Red Star. As previously agreed, I am informing you that all active flying is now ceased. The current weather conditions do not permit flight. I took the decision to recall all active flights to the Air Station at zero-four-thirty-five. I also anticipate an emergency with incoming Pegasus flights. I authorised one Pegasus outgoing, but this flight may well be the last to safely leave or return."
Olga suddenly sounded wide-awake.
~~I'm coming in, Valkyrie. Expect me soonest. Over.
A second voice cut in. This also sounded like somebody roused from deep sleep.
~~Red Star here, Valkyrie. I heard all that. I'm going to come in soon, before it gets worse. Over.
"Valkyrie acknowledging. Be safe out there. It is severe. Over."
Bitterfontein, the Turnwise Caarp
Bekki mounted up after a final check all tack was correctly on and all panniers loaded and safely attached. She noted quite a lot of people were watching, and that all normal farm work in the immediate area appeared to have ceased. Everybody, white or black alike, wanted to see the amazing white horse with wings take to the air.
Well, let's give them a show….
It would all add to her street-cred as the local Witch. Well, the local Healthcare Practitioner, anyway.
She went through the usual pre-flight checks with Wee Archie Aff The Midden, her Navigator, advising him that she'd make Transition at three thousand, with the usual wide spirals to take them up there. Then it's all yours, Archie.
"Aye, mistress!" the cheerful young Feegle replied, standing up in the mane and coming to an approximate salute.
Grindguts the Destroying Demon, squatting lower down, looked sourly at him.
"Ankh-Morpork, right. You do know we're going there. Not bloody Pseudopolis. Not DamHamster. Not sodding Quirm. Ankh-Morpork."
The Feegle glared angrily at the demon.
"Pack it in, you two." Bekki said. She said her farewells to Aunt Mariella, Uncle Horst, and Mevrou Hendricka.
A little voice in the backgrounds was saying
"Knowing you, you'll land us in a ten-foot snowdrift in Blondograd, or something."
"Don't forget my stuff from Pairs." Aunt Mariella said, hugging her.
"Size tens." Uncle Horst reminded her.
Somewhere in the background a voice said "Aye, well. Blondograd is where the bodka comes from, aye. An' Mistress Rebecka has the learning of speaking the Squirellic. She wuz talking it to Red Star, aye. And tae the Stormcrow an' tae the Mother Hen and tae the Hag O' The High Airs hersen, ye ken, so she can get by."
"Stay safe." Mevrou Hendricka said, from her carrying chair. She reflected, and added "Shame Oskar Verdraainer isn't here to see you off. Ankh-Morporkian uniform, in this country. That's something else for him to put on your BOSS file. After he recovers from a fit of the vapours, that is."
Bekki grinned. The local BOSS officer, the resident secret policeman, was regarded as both a black joke and as a very real threat. Aunt Mariella had said it was typical of Rimwards Howondaland that a black joke could also be a dangerous threat. Bekki had thought about this and wondered out loud if this was how sick black jokes got started in the first place. Aunt Mariella had appreciated this and said Bekki was a true Smith-Rhodes. Give you a few more years and you'll be as cynical as your mother. Or me.
A thin drizzling rain was coming down and it was just cold enough to be uncomfortable. Realising it wasn't fair to keep people standing around in Howondalandian winter rain for too long, Bekki was about to get into the saddle. She frowned. If it was rainy and a little bit cold here, it was likely to be - in all probability – even rainier and colder in Ankh-Morpork. She rummaged in the top of one of the big rear panniers where she had stowed her travelling pack, donned her big thick Cossack cloak, a gift from Irena and Olga some years before, and secured this over her uniform. She saddled up.
There was applause as she steered Boetjie into a cantering take-off run, then the big wings bit into the air, and she was airborne.
Twenty minutes and a gentle unhurried climb later, she went into Transition.
Krapovits Oblast, The Duchy of the Turnwise Borders of Zlobenia and Far Überwald.(3)The previous November.
The newly arrived young Witch stood in front of the far older Witch, her head bowed in seeming submission, her pointy black hat removed and held before her, her head bare and her long blonde hair tied loosely back. She was dressed acceptably for Lancre, a long way to the Turnwise, but out here, her style of clothing looked foreign and subtly wrong.
The old lady read the letter with the slow methodicity of one not at home with the written word, went "Hmmph!" a few times, turned her face up to glare horribly at the girl, who did not flinch, then returned to the letter. Eventually she set it aside.
"I'm not denyin' a bit of help about the place would be useful." she said, eventually. "Nor that bein' a hundred and a bit, maybe a hundred and three, I don't need the help. You gets over ninety, you slows down a bit. Mentioned this to Irena Yannesovna when she dropped by. She must've discussed this with Olga Anastacia. Then they goes to this Lancre place. Sounds like a skin disease, some sort of boil. They sees Babiushka Ogg. Decent woman, met her once(4), knew her stuff about vodka. Then they sends me you."
Beady eyes looked up from either side of a long hooked nose.
"You're from the Ronbas. Family moved to Blondograd and settled. You gets sent to the Ron Host to learn to be a Cossack. Good choice, our local lads are Ron, they'll welcome you as a sister. You gets witchcraft. Age fourteen, the local woman packs you off to Lancre to learn more. Gytha Ogg thinks you're fit. In the meantime, you gets one of the wingèd horses."
She nodded to the Pegasus, who was placidly cropping the grass.
"And this little blue bugger."
"Aye, mistress." The Feegle said, his terror having translated for him.
The blonde girl looked at him, briefly.
"Wee Bauchle Alexander. Say "Da, Babayaga." she advised, largely in Morporkian. "Is correct form of address."
The old lady nodded.
"I'm not sayin "da" and I'm not sayin' "nyet", neither." she said. "It won't hurt you to make up a bedroll in the cowshed while I'm decidin'. I'll give you a couple of tasks to do. So's I can judge if you're worthy."
"And if I am not worthy, babayaga?" the girl asked.
The old woman grinned. It was not a nice grin. She nodded to the possibly unique fence around the isba. From a distance it looked like the usual sort of white picket fence. Until you wondered why a lot of the posts were slightly curved, and your eyes took in the fine detail of what was on top of what we shall, for the moment, describe as fence posts.
"Allus room for another skull out there." the old woman remarked.
The blonde girl accepted this with an impassive nod. The challenge was accepted.
Her first challenge involved a large bag which, on examination, contained a well-mixed blend of small fine poppy seeds and fine grains of earth. The Babayaga explained she must completely separate the poppy seeds from the earth and that each should go to its correct and rightful place.
Vasilisa considered this.
"Just this, Babayaga?" she asked. "To separate poppies from earth?"
"Just this." the old lady confirmed.
Vasilisa ran some through her fingers. The poppyseeds were black, or a very dark blue-black. They were small, fine, tiny. Almost indistinguishable from the fine particles of black earth.
She went to milk the old lady's cows, and considered the problem with the mind of a Lancre-trained Witch.
Then later, she solved it. The work took maybe three hours with a spade and fork to break and crush a sufficient area of November earth, in the right place.
Then she went to the old lady, taking care to bring the milk churns to the pantry.
"Show me." the old lady said.
Vasilisa showed her the freshly turned and banked black earth.
"Well?" the old lady said.
"It is done." Vasilisa said, flatly. "The seeds – and the earth with them – are sown. Next summer the seeds become poppies. Inevitably so. The earth remains in the earth while the poppy flowers grow above it. Thus both are separated, and remain in their rightful place. I grant you will not see anything now. But now is November. Come here next June."
The old lady glared at her.
"You didn't put a time limit on it." Vasilisa reminded her.
She got a very slight nod of acknowledgement. It appeared to say "You've won this one, girl."
"You know that milk you took this morning? Make butter." she commanded.
"Is that the next test, Babayaga?"
This time the old lady smiled.
"Is it buggery. Making butter from cream is normal witch stuff, girl. You get the next test after. This way I get some useful work out of you, before your skull ends up on the fence. Vacant post over there, look."
"I see it, Babayaga. On top of that long leg bone from a cow."
Vasilisa got another long glare.
After making a useful quantity of butter, and then a frugal meal for two, and then the washing up afterwards, she was given the next test. It involved a larger sack with a musty unpleasant smell.
She was told that sack contained grains of wheat that were a bit on the turn, like. You now has to separate the good grain from the rotten, and see none gets wasted. Take as long as you like.
This time Vasilisa fed the chickens in the coop outside. After a while she spoke to the old woman.
The task is complete, Babayaga."
"Show me." the old lady said.
Vasilisa took her to the chickens. They looked fatter and more content. The chicken run had been swept clean. Vasilisa had taken care over this.
"The clean grain is now completely sorted from the rotten grain." she said.
"Well? Where is it?" the old lady demanded.
Vasilisa shrugged.
"Inside the chickens." she said. "They ate the good grain and refused the rotten. After a while I was able to sweep up the rotten grain and tip it onto the midden. Where it will rot still further and become new compost to go into the ground and nurture new plants. That which the chickens ate will make chickens. Who will become in their turn eggs, meat, and feathers to stuff cushions and duvets. Everything in its right place. No waste."
Vasilisa got another glare.
"The instruction was to separate good from spoiled with no waste." she reminded the old lady. "I fulfilled this."
"You realise you could still end up as a skull on the fence." the Babayaga said.
Vasilisa met her glare.
I doubt it." she replied. "I do not believe my skull has a label inside saying "Boffo's of Ankh-Morpork"."
This time the old lady laughed.
"Ye Gods, you really are the one, then." she said, extending a hand. "Sorry I had to put you through all that vranyo, but I needed to be sure. The name's Natalia Svetlanavichniya. Pleased to meet you. Olga Anastacia said she'd sort out somebody with a brain and a backbone."
"Vasilisa Danutavichniya." the girl replied, taking the hand.
And that had been two months before. Natasha Vasilisa Danutavichniya Budonova had been working with the old lady, learning the Steading, learning about the people, learning about the history of the place, and finding herself oddly drawn to the remote isba in the woods nearby to several peasant villages and to the Estate House, the seat of Grand Duke Nikolas, Olga Anastacia's father.
She had also thought Thank the Gods I am part-time Air Watch and I can get away for two or three days a week. Being here all the time would drive me insane. Or at the least, eccentric.
And on this Thursday morning, Vasilisa, in Air Watch uniform now, with a despatch for Olga Anastacia that needed urgent delivery, was circling over the treetops, noting the green was now muted and faded by lots of white, looking at darkness to the Turnwise caused by retreating snowclouds. In exactly the direction she was going to fly in.
Vasilisa shrugged, indifferently, and got airborne.
Runecaster Way, Ankh-Morpork
After receiving the emergency message from Hanna von Strafenburg, Olga had groaned slightly and made herself leave her wonderful lovely warm comforting bed. She reflected that at least Eddie and the kids were spared this, as the rhythm of their family life meant that they were currently in Howondaland. She hoped the weather was better there and concluded that it probably was; no snow, for one thing.
Alone in their Ankh-Morporkian flat, Olga had a cursory wash in the warmest possible water and dragged her uniform on. She reasoned that she could use the shower in the women officers' locker room later when the immediate emergency was over. She looked out of the window into pure white, and winced. It had got worse overnight. Nichevo.
She considered, then rummaged for winter wear, her telogreika, her biggest ushanka with the ear-flaps down and secured under her chin, and her valenki overboots. Her biggest and warmest cloak went on over this, a scarf was wrapped tightly around her lower face and nose, and she made sure to be wearing flying gloves.
A front door closed behind her a little later, and her broomstick took to the air.
A minute or so later, as she hastily steered away from a rooftop she had just missed crashing into, a grey blur that had approached impossibly quickly, Olga Romanoff considered her options. For this to work, she had to take the quickest possible route. At least she had been working long enough for the City Watch to have The Knowledge of the Streets.
Visibility is a few feet in each direction. The lights of that Clacks tower have faded within a few seconds and are now invisible. Therefore the Clacks is not functioning if the towers cannot see each other. I should go as low as I can, and follow the streets. I cannot go fast as I have nearly collided with buildings. Twice. Follow Runecaster Way towards the river. Try to follow the centre line of the street. Watch for any people who may be moving below. This opens onto Hen and Chickens Field, which at least is a big open space. After that, the river.
A little alarm bell rag in Olga's head.
Docks. Cranes. I can fly into one. Take care. Then follow the river round to the Isle of Gods? Ships. Masts. Govno. Another flying hazard. Also, frozen rigging. Like flying into an egg-slicer. And immediately opposite, the University. A magical hazard there once caused me to crash. But I could put down there? If needed.
She flew as quickly as she could, concentrating on the middle line of Runecaster Way. Nothing below her, in the twenty or so feet she estimated was between her and the ground, was moving. And the wall of moving white was all around her, impeding vision, and freezing the little of her face that was exposed.
Govno. Should have worn goggles.
What she guessed was Hen And Chickens field, a largely open space, flashed by underneath. Olga used the opportunity to put on more speed, and orientated herself.
I think that is the Bridge of Size leading to the university. So turn right, at right angles to it. I am now over the river. Gain altitude to perhaps a hundred feet. Less likely to hit a ship's masts. Go a little faster. I should cross a loop in the river and come out over Fetter Lane. If I am right, Holofernes is there. Straight down Holofernes and I am at New Bridge, and then Pseudopolis Yard.
Trying not to even think of crashing into the waters of the Ankh, which may or may not be frozen over, and glimpsing the far-too-close dark bulky shapes around her that could only be ships on the river, Olga got as far as landfall on Fetter Lane and the top of Holofernes. Then she saw the dark figures underneath her. Too large and bulky to be human… a suspicion made her fly low. She circled, aware the broom was beginning to get just a little sluggish and unresponsive, and the figures saw her and waved.
She came to land near them, the snow and icy winds not abating, and raised a hand in greeting.
"Captain Romanoff. Do You Require Assistance?"
"I need to get to the Air Station, Mr Dorfl. To be honest, it's not flying weather up there." Olga shouted back, to make herself heard over the howling wind. Golems and trolls didn't have this problem. Their voices naturally carried.
She actually felt relieved there was at least one Watch foot patrol out, and said so.
Officer Schist raised a massive paw and saluted.
"Mr Carrot's orders, ma'am." he said. "He thinks the Watch should be out in any weather. So he's sending out patrols, each consisting of one golem and two trolls. To be honest we weren't expecting to see any Air Police. Sergeant von Strafenburg recalled all the pilots to the Yard an hour ago. You're the last one?"
Olga smiled. Against the roar of the wind and snow she said
"Nyet. I am perhaps the first one of the new Day shift. Didn't expect it to be this bad."
Schist looked at her with big intelligent eyes. Olga reminded herself that trolls became hyper-intelligent in this sort of weather. The sort of weather where mere people froze to death. And he was clever enough to see what was needed.
"You just shivered. Better get you there, then, ma'am. Hop aboard."
Olga and a now redundant broomstick were ferried to the Yard by Troll Express, with a golem in front pushing a way through the blizzard and the banking snow, with another troll close behind offering moving shelter. They moved fast and got there inside ten minutes.
Lieutenant Irena Politek's morning had been pretty much identical to Olga's. She too had had the same reluctance to leave a warm bed, she'd the same quick cursory wash, and the dragging on of multiple layers of winter clothing over her Watch uniform. Irena, however, had remembered her flying goggles. She had the same shock of venturing out into the biting teeth of the blizzard, had paused for a moment to touch the sacred potato of the Great God Epidity she wore at her neck, get her bearings, and had decided to go for broke.
Euphrasy Street, in the Hubwards quarter of Dolly Sisters, fell away behind her as Irena determined that she'd have to do it by dead reckoning. She flew this route every day, after all. So doing it blind was only a little bit more difficult.
The Tower of Art is always over on my right, she reasoned, and that should be hard to hide. I'm a magic user. I should be able to feel it…. Ah. There it is. Keep that sensation of a lot of a lot of magic to the right of me. Remember how it grows as you approach it and fades as you pass it? It's fading now…. Nudge the stick a few points to the right. Bearing one-ninety from home on Euphrasy. I'm at three hundred. Max speed. Big bulky building over on my left. Just a shape in this, but there are lights on. Patrician's Palace, of course. Good. Something to steer by. Street sconces below, just pinpricks... arranged in a straight line. Brass Bridge, which is always lit up at night. Not all bridges get that. Just the important ones. Follow that, Irena, and you're home and dry. Got to be there quickly before the bristles start to ice up, which is a world of trouble. And… I don't know whose idea that was, but it's welcome. Somebody using her brains.
Hanna von Strafenburg stood in the knee-deep snow in the middle of what was usually the landing circle. She watched as a group of groundcrew Teks assisted by Air Witches got busy, sweating in the cold as they tried to make at least a small dent in the accumulation of snow on the landing deck, attempting to clear enough to allow incoming Witches to make some sort of a safer landing. Aware at least two Air Witches were trying to make their way in, she focused, ignored the driving snow and biting wind, and sent a fireball straight up. It glowed a brilliant yellow-orange for about ninety seconds before exploding. Hanna stood dispassionately in sudden warm rain for a count of thirty, and then sent up another fireball, red this time. She hoped they'd be visible from a long way away, even in the middle of all this. She let the fireball ascend to about four hundred before exploding it.
Hanna took a deep breath, and was about to send up a third. Then she heard crunching feet in the snow coming closer, and a voice, shouting so as to carry in the wind, said from behind her
"Hanna? Thank you, but please refrain, for now. If it helps, we saw the fireballs in the sky from the other side of the New Bridge."
"Beg to report that Lieutenant Politek is on her way in, Captain. Giving her a beacon light to direct her will be very helpful." Hanna said.
Olga considered this.
"I agree, sergeant. But once before,(5) you put out so much magic that it nearly killed you. And these are big powerful fireballs. Let me do the next one."
She looked around at the other Air Witches.
"We can alternate. One each. That would be safe. And, perhaps, cold light? In this place, we're heating the snow, and allowing it to come down as rain."
Olga winces slightly as she felt a hard cold sting on her cheek.
"Or else it refreezes as hailstones. And when it lands, rain becomes ice. A hazard."
Olga concentrated, and then put up a blue light, just cold fire, trying to focus on keeping it out there for as long as possible.
The communicator in her top pocket crackled. She had forgotten about it in her haste. She answered it. The voice was muffled and reception was crackly, but it served.
~~Red Star to Control. Are you putting up fireballs over there? Just checking. I'm aiming at them. Should be with you soonest. Over.
"Syren to Red Star. Yes, it's us. Hanna's idea, thank her. Over."
~~Red Star to Syren. Thanks, Hanna. Did you think to put the kettle on? I could use a brew. Red Star out.
Olga, looking up into the sky, blinking her eyes against the falling snow and looking Hubwards by Widdershins towards Irena's home, on her expected line of flight, heard more crunching footsteps in the snow. Even through the whirling snow, she smelt cigar smoke.
"Bloody cold up here." Sam Vimes remarked. "And it's a sod to keep my cigar lit. Just came up to see you're all alright."
"Just got in, sir." Olga said. "I met a street patrol who gave assistance."
"Yes. Carrot's got patrols out to show the badge." Vimes agreed. "Silly bugger's actually gone out with one of them…."
They watched as Irena Politek came in to land. Her feet skidded in the deep snow and she bounced into a snowdrift. But she had landed.
"How bad does the weather have to be before you people stop flying?" Vimes demanded, shaking his head.
"Officially, sir, we stopped an hour ago." Hanna von Strafenburg said. "Too dangerous."
"So your day shift people are meant to be arriving for work now." Vimes observed. "How many are expected?"
"Seven Air Witches, sir." Olga said. "Three Fledglings…" Olga frowned. Air Watch cadets, coming in for a morning of training.
"Hanna? Can we contact them and stand them down? Thanks."
Then she remembered.
"And two Pegasus pilots, sir. But they have no way of knowing what the weather's like here."
"We need a plan." Irena said. She'd extricated herself from the snowdrift and walked over. "I would not land a Pegasus on this. You're just asking for a crash and a broken leg. Which on a horse of any kind is serious. I only just managed it on a broomstick."
Olga breathed in.
"Okay. Command conference. Crew room. Let's have some ideas."
"Get out of the snow." Vimes agreed. "Hold on a moment…"
There was another glow in the sky. It was getting nearer. Somehow the driving snow was avoiding it. All work at clearing the landing deck stopped, as Dwarfs and witches looked up to see what it was.
This Witch appeared to be surrounded by a transparent bubble of some sort. All that delineated it was the way the descending snow appeared to be curving in the air to avoid going anywhere near her. But it suggested some sort of a lens shape, a lens stood on its edge, with a cloaked witch on a broomstick inside it. It also glowed slightly, in a combination of pearly-white and octarine. Olga recognised the witch inside, who was wearing no special winter clothing, with a cloak around her, which also protected a passenger, a sleepy-looking little girl of about six.
Olga reached for her communicator.
"Syren calling Mother Hen. Advisory: the snow is deep. The surface of the snow is up to four feet above the level of the landing deck. You are clear to land, but extreme caution is advised. Especially with your passenger. Syren out."
The incoming witch , who was circling and assessing the landing site, acknowledged. Then she came down vertically, switching off the spell she'd been using, allowing her feet to assess where the true hard surface was.
"Now let's go inside." Irena said. "I need that brew."
In Feegle Space. If Time has any relative meaning here, this will be at the same moment that Olga, Irena, Hanna, Sam Vimes and the newly-arrived Nadezhda Popova are making a brew, and putting their heads together concerning a course of action.
Bekki sat astride Boetjie, waiting patiently as Wee Archie Aff the Midden prepared to guide them out of Feegle Space and into the air above Ankh-Morpork.
Boetjie, a Pegasus to whom this was nothing new, stood placidly in what was otherwise a void with eye-mangling tricks of perspective and impossible angles. He was apparently standing on nothing at all. Bekki tried not to look down. Or up. Or sideways. Feegle Space could take a variety of apparently different ever-changing forms to the eye, and the trick was to try not to stay in it for very long. She'd been in it often enough to know you never really saw the same Feegle Space twice.
"You'd better bloody well get it right." Grindguts said, as Wee Archie went into the mode Bekki thought of as the Seeking Trance.
"Not helpful, Grindguts." she said, setting her issue Flying Helmet straight. She didn't fasten it under her chin, trusting to the snug fit to keep it in place. The aerodynamic pointiness of it and the black leather marked her out as a witch; for this reason, she had not put it on in Rimwards Howondaland, where being a witch was strictly illegal. She could, however, put it on here. Her Very Slightly Pointy Hat, the one Aunt Mariella had given her, was now carefully stowed in a forward pannier.
Bekki thought about lowering the goggles over her eyes, but decided against. Like many Air Witches, she preferred to have her vision unimpeded, especially her vital peripheral vision.
She watched Wee Archie making the standing-on-one-foot-slow-motion-pirouette, like a very tiny and improbable ballet dancer.
Then the trance passed.
"This way, Mistress." he said, and made a strange motion where his arms and legs appeared to pass through each other. Feegle Space vanished. Boetjie's wings began to beat. And then they were in a cold Hell full of snow and screaming wind.
Wee Bauchle Alex completed the ritual crawstep.
"This way, Mistress." he said. Stravinsky's wings began to beat. A typical Rodinian winter morning, but one severe even by Rodinian standards, opened up for Vasilisa Budonova.
So this is where the snowstorm went, she thought. The one that was over Krapovits Oblast two days ago. Nichevo.
She patiently calmed her own racing heart, then set about calming Stravinsky, searching the closing-in wall of white for familiar landmarks to navigate by. Somewhere over to her left, there was a suspicion of sudden brilliant, orange light in the sky. This interested her. A very slight taste of tin in her mouth suggested magic. But then, fresh snow blowing into an open mouth could also taste slightly of metal.
She tried to steer a course in the direction of the magical flash that appeared to be lingering in the sky, an unguessable distance away. There really was nothing else to navigate by.
The Air Station, Ankh-Morpork.
Outside, all available hands were set to at least trying to clear the landing deck of snow. Olga realised at some point she'd have to go out there to pick up a shovel and relieve somebody. But she sensed this was a waste of effort; the snow was still coming down almost as fast as it could be cleared. Even if it could be cleared down to ground level, she susoected there'd just be a layer of trodden-down dangerous ice there, which could be even worse as a landing hazard. They had to do something, however. A Pegasus might try to land on what it thought was the surface. Only to crash through it and drop four feet with an impact that might break its legs. And the moment a horse, any horse, broke a leg, the remedy even today would be a quick euthanasia. A Pegasus was too rare and important to lose.
The other question was – if one was in the air for too long in this, would its wings ice up? A working horse sweats. A horse could stand working in winter, they were hardy creatures, but if that sweat was allowed to accumulate and freeze, they were as prone to hypothermia and death by exposure as any other creature. Hanna had realised this when sending the night flight to Klatch earlier – to spend as little time as possible over Ankh-Morpork, make Transition quickly, and take a longer time in Feegle Space before going into the heat of Klatch. Going straight from one extreme to the other could be injurious, too.
"They will have no idea of the weather here. We need to intercept them as they arrive. Guide them in." Olga said.
The others considered this.
"Sneguroschka has a better grasp of relative time than Firebird." Irena commented. "On past experience, she will be in our airspace at around six-fifteen to six-thirty by Ankh-Morpork time. And she has a consistent navigator. Coming in from the widdershins, he always brings her in above Dolly Sisters or Brickfields. I suggest that is where we look for her."
"Which gives us twenty minutes." Olga said.
Nadezhda Popova looked to where her daughter Tatiana, blanket-wrapped, was asleep in a comfy chair in the crew room.
"I will go and look." she said, standing up. "One of us needs to be out there now. It should be me."
"Nadezhda." Olga said. "I know you're our best cold-weather flier. I know you have ideas as to how we can fly in this sort of weather. But…" her eyes passed to Tatiana. "Some of the ideas you have are, well, untested. Until we know better and we've properly tried them out, they're unsafe. You used that shield idea coming in today, for instance. You also used magic to de-ice the bristles. To run heat into the bristle array. At the same time you diverted the power into that shield, to keep the pilot, and in this case your daughter, in a protected warm space. That sort of thing eats magic. You take as broom with eight hours of flying time and divert so much of the magic that it can barely fly for three. Maybe not even two."
Olga drew breath.
"And you tell me before you flew Tatiana here, you pillioned your husband to work, and saw your sons were safe there with him, with something to do. The teks say that when you landed, you had barely ten minutes of flying time left before the broom dropped out of the sky."
"Da." Nadezhda said. "I hope you don't mind my bringing her with me. But there is nowhere else for now, and I know she will be safe here. As your children are when there is nowhere else."
"She has witch in her." Olga agreed. "As Valla does. Bringing her here makes sense. No blame. She is welcome."
"Not many of you have kids." Sam Vimes remarked. "Not many of you are married, though. Or over twenty. Got to say, I brought Young Sam here a lot when he was the same age. It turned out okay."
"Horoscho." Nadezhda said. She turned for the door. "I will go and get Sneguroschka."
"Nadezhda…" Olga said. "This is your fourth flight today. In this weather. You are going out on a broom whose endurance is being cut down to less than two hours."
Nadezhda Popova shrugged.
"Da. This I know. But Vasilisa was a Fledgling. My pupil."
Olga took a deep breath.
"Da. And also mine." she admitted.
Irena Politek shifted uncomfortably.
"Firebird was my pupil. And she is my Godsdaughter." she said.
Nadezhda nodded. She straightened her shoulders.
"So we are agreed. By your leave, Captain. Commander."
Nadezhda left the room. Olga and Sam Vimes exhaled.
"You know, Olga, I believe she'll come back. And she'll bring the girl in. And her Pegasus." he said.
"She probably will." Olga agreed. "If anyone can in this filthy weather, it's Mother Hen."
Irena cleared her throat.
"Rebecka." she said, meaningfully. "Firebird. She'll be out there too."
Irena stood up. Olga sighed resignedly.
"Just. Be safe." Olga said.
"I intend to be." Irena replied.
She caught up with Nadezhda outside. The snow, if anything, had picked up in intensity. Irena shouted at the snow-clearing party to pack it up for a while, dismiss, get in the warm, and make a bloody brew, They dispersed gratefully.
"They were getting nowhere." she remarked to Nadezhda, in the relative quiet of a tech hangar.
"Da." Nadezhda agreed. "Better they get out of the cold."
Irena nodded agreement. As they selected brooms, Irena asked
"Show me how you do that shield thing. I may need it."
Behind them, Sam Vimes gave Olga a sympathetic look.
"You've got two of your best going out into this muck and as good as telling you that if you gave them a direct order not to do it, they'd ignore you and go anyway." he remarked. "Do you know, I had that with Carrot earlier. Silly bugger went out because he thought it was important we run patrols in any weather. If I'd ordered him not to, he'd have gone deaf."
Vimes grinned.
"When you think about it, that's what makes them the officers they are. You have to let the best break the rules sometimes. Or else, be prepared to bend the rules so far that they snap."
Olga considered this.
"Thank you, sir." she said.
Rebecka Smith-Rhodes felt the cold and the chill blasting wind. She felt lots of snow pouring over her and around her. She heard the screaming wind and saw nothing but white. She felt the unsecured flying helmet dragging itself off her head, now bare and unprotected, and knew it was gone for good. She sensed Boetjie rearing up and whinnying in fright. She heard Grindguts yell "Gordon Bennett" and Wee Archie weakly saying "Jings!"
And the grey wall looming up in front of her. It had occasional square lights in it. Windows. She realised exactly where they were. Only one place on the Disc. Ankh-Morpork. And they were in danger of crashing into the Tump Tower. She'd seen it often enough from ground level. She'd been brought up on Spa Lane, which was in its shadow.
"Archie!" she shrieked, feeling her bare fingers beginning to freeze and watching the tower coming nearer. "Get us back into Feegle Space right…."
The world shifted.
"…now!"
The quiet and relative warmth were a blessed relief. Bekki focused on soothing Boetjie, and trying to flex some life back into her fingers.
"You stupid dozy little shit!"
She sighed.
"Grindguts? Wee Archie wasn't to blame. He wasn't to know there was a snowstorm going on. He got me to the right place, Ankh-Morpork. He saw the danger, and he got us back here quickly. And I'll tell Captain Romanoff that when we get back. Now I need to work out a plan."
Leaving the demon silent and Wee Archie feeling better about himself, she thought, intensely. That was the Tump Tower. So home is a short flight away. Two minutes tops. I can land there and get in the warm…. The idea was incredibly seductive. And there's nowhere to stable Boetjie. I'm not leaving him in the cold and I can hardly take him indoors with me.
Bekki remembered the padded Rodinian winter clothing that Irena and Olga had given her, for wearing in a Lancre winter. Then she remembered the telegroika and the valenki were in the wardrobe at home, in Spa Lane. As was the ushanka fur cap with the pull-down earflaps. She had thought she wouldn't need them for Rimwards Howondaland.
Bekki sighed again.
"Grindguts? Rear right pannier. There's a spare cloak in there. And my flying gloves. Please can you go and have a rummage, the two of you, and bring them to me? Thank you."
After a while Bekki wore two cloaks, one over the other, a scarf wrapped round the lower part of her face to cover mouth and nose, and the all-important gloves on her hands. She was also thinking hard.
If Wee Archie can get me back into Disc space a lot closer to the Air Station, that would work. But he isn't that good at pinpoint navigation. He is not the Feegle you could go to for precision. He is in fact the very last Feegle you would go to for pinpoint navigation. I know he can, reliably, return me to the last point we visited. Which is about fifty feet away from the Tump Tower. Too close for comfort. And can I use Grindguts too. If he doesn't quite know where he is, would he still be able to pixelate himself and run a message to the Air Station? He could be there from the Tump Tower in about ten minutes, normally. But in this? would the cold affect that? I just don't know.
"Liewe heksie?"
Bekki jumped. The voice seemed to come from nearby and far away at the same time. It had odd harmonics and resonations. But she recognised it. And she felt less alone.
"Johanna Livinia?" she asked.
There was a long silence before the response. But Bekki knew her long-dead great-great grandmother. Who occasionally popped back to fulfil the role of a spirit guide. And right now, Bekki needed guidance.
"Hard to talk here in this place, liewe heksie."
The voice moved up and down, closer and nearer, the harmonics and the echoes distorting it slightly.
"Takes effort. Takes strength. But you need help….." the voice faded out. Bekki sighed resignedly.
"… remember where Johanna Famke took you….. when you learned to ride?"
Bekki considered this. she'd been five. Mum had taken her to the Guild's equestrian centre at Garstairs. It was a perk of being a teacher at the Assassins' School. Bekki had been assigned a gorgeous pony… she warmed at the memory.
"…go there."
For an instant, she saw her great-great-grandmother's face, looking anxious and worried. Then the connection broke.
Garstairs…
Bekki grinned. Of course. Garstairs. She thanked her ancestor for the prompt. Then she was in charge again.
"Wee Archie." she said, commandingly.
"Mistress Rebecka?"
"Take us back to exactly the same place. But with the Tump Tower to my right. Not, and this is important, facing it. You have that? The tower, that big grey wall with lit windows in it, on my right."
"Aye, mistress."
The Feegle saluted. Bekki steadied Boetjie.
A couple of seconds later, they were in Hell again.
But this time, Bekki steered Boetjie down in a steady descending path, keeping the Tower a safe distance on her right, looking for the dim shapes of rooftops, glimpsing lighted windows in houses, and finding the line of a road, which she now knew was Lemon Hill, sloping down the side of the Tump to Garstairs. These were the streets and roads of her childhood and growing up. She ignored the wind and the snow and flew on.
And yes, there it was. Horse studs and equestrian centres were places where the day began early. There were lots of lights. And as she got lower still, she could see people. They were moving horses. A whinny reached her ears over the sound of the wind. People on the ground appeared to wonder why the horses were looking up…
Bekki saw the grey-brown streak of a bridleway where the snow was being beaten into submission by the passage of hooves. Perfect. She wasn't going to land Boetjie in a snowdrift and risk damage. But she needed to clear her landing ground…
Her fingers flexed. She extended an arm, then withdrew it. You didn't throw a fireball if you were wearing gloves. You just didn't.(6) She stripped off a glove and tucked it inside her belt, trying not to care that her fingers were freezing. Then she threw a fireball, cold fire, really, into the air, choosing blue, and watched the humans looking up in surprise as the scene illuminated, with blue light reflecting off the snow, making human faces look stark and corpse-lit.
"Emergency landing!" she shrieked, as loudly as she could.
Boetjie took over, and she felt the thud-thud of a fore-and-aft landing, the rear hooves engaging before the front. Not the best landing, or the most elegant, nor the smoothest, but they were down. She waited for the wings to fold, putting her glove back on.
A moment or two later, she vaulted off, skidding slightly in muddy slush and nearly falling into a vergeside snowdrift. But she was down.
A kindly hand took her shoulder and she realised snow was still falling heavily and a wind was still howling.
"Bring horse this way!" a woman's voice urged. It had an accent to it that Bekki could almost place. "Hurry. Bystro! Davaii!"
Bekki placed the accent now.
"Spassibo." she said to her rescuer, a tall woman wearing a Rodinian fur cap and a dark cloak. Her face looked intelligent, amused and kindly.
"We have tea. You need hot drink." she said.
Bekki was safely down. And there was the promise of a hot tea. She remembered something.
"Three sugars, please."
The woman smiled again.
"Ah. Ved'ma." she said.
She looked at the forward panniers carried by Boetjie. Where the nose-art was.
"Pleased to meet you, zhar-ptitsa. Firebird."
Vasilisa Budonova tried to steer Stravinsky as evenly and as levelly as she could to the source of the repeated bursts of magical flame shooting into the air. She had a suspicion that was the Air Station. It was the sort of thing a clever person might do to indicate to an expected arrival what direction to fly in, in the event of, say, a massive blizzard reducing normal visibility to near-zero in what was still effectively night.
Vasilisa appreciated this. It was making flying easier. The current colour was livid red. Easy to see even through the swirling snow. Only magical light and fire had that sort of intensity about it.
She was put out when it abruptly stopped, leaving her guessing again. But she kept on flying in the approximate same direction. There was nothing more for a long, long time.
And then she heard, over the howling of the wind, the unmistakeable sound of an Air Watch syren(7), the high-pitched wailing two-tone repeating nose. She smiled again. Then took off a flying glove, briefly, to throw up a fireball of her own, hoping it would attract attention.
The syren noise drew nearer.
Vasilisa steered towards it. Then she glimpsed a glowing pearly-luminescent disc, looking like a coin rolling on its edge. Inside it she saw a woman on a broomstick. And recognised her.
Nadezhda Popova flew alongside and made urgent pointing gestures. Vasilisa saw she had a second broomstick slung across her back, and wondered why. But she gratefully fell in and flew in the indicated direction, realising she must have over-flown the Air Station without realising it, while the beacon lights had not been fired up.
She saw Nadezhda speaking into a small box, but couldn't make out the words. Probably one of these new communicator devices you hear about. They must work…
~~Mother Hen to control. I have found our lost fledgling. Am taking her back to the Nest. Over.
"Roger on that, Mother Hen. Stand by."
Olga Romanoff took Sam Vimes by the arm as Hanna von Strafenburg stepped out in the middle of the landing deck, heedless of the snowstorm. Air Witches and ground crews were running for cover.
"I really wouldn't stand here, sir." she said. She knew what Hanna was going to do and had reluctantly given permission. Hanna had done something like this once before. It had nearly killed her.
Vimes, reasoning that if the entire Air Watch were scrambling to get into cover, something big and potentially dangerous was going to happen, fell back with Olga. He glimpsed Hanna stretching her arms wide to the snowstorm, as if challenging it, and half-singing something that sounded like "Let it Go…"(8)
There was an enormous actinic WHOOMPH!. The deep snow that had accumulated on the flight-deck fountained up, returning to the sky. Hanna staggered forward a little. Kindly hands caught her. But the flight deck was completely clear and its usual stained dark grey colour.
Olga spoke into her communicator.
"Syren to Mother Hen and Sneguroshka. You are cleared to land. Over."
~~Acknowledged, Syren. We now have a very clear visual on the Air Station. Landing in thirty seconds. Over.
The first Pegasus came into land, a perfect four-hoof touchdown. There were cheers. Olga ran forward shouting "Don't just stand there! Get this Pegasus to the stable! Move!"
And she welcomed Vasilisa Budonova to the Air Station, with formal salutes and then a hug.
This only leaves Rebecka, Olga thought. Irena is out there, against advice, looking for her. I want both to be safe.
"I have news you need to know, Olga Anastacia. From Krapovits Oblast. Concerning Natalia Svetlanavichniya. You should know first." Vasilisa said, gravely.
"We can talk over tea." Olga said. "Samovar's on."
And here we leave a long chapter that I'll put out there. I will come back and revise, having at the end set up the very first chapter of The Price of Flight with the necessary backstory and written a lot more about the Air Watch in extreme winter weather. As always, all comments and criticisms are welcome….
To be continued.
More soon!
(1) Ponder Stibbons pointed out the this was an essential rite of passage for a Wizard, and that if a student Wizard had not even once been in a situation where he was being glared at by at least one Witch with folded arms, then he wasn't properly a Wizard. "It's good for them. Essential practical experience." Ponder had said, with uncharacteristic callousness, but with the experience of having met Granny Weatherwax. (mayhersoulhavemercyonthegods).
(2) Because you never knew what you might end up colliding with. In Ankh-Morpork, it was known the Tower of Art could interfere with any other airborne magic, and Witches treated it with respect, taking great care on flights around University airspace. Pegasus pilots wanted to get a lot higher than eight hundred and eighty-eight feet before Transiting, for instance, and ideally at least a mile away.
(3) The dialogue here will be in Rodinian, but translated into its equivalent Morporkian vernacular as a courtesy to readers.
(4) Nanny, Granny and Magrat took their time getting home after the events described in Witches Abroad. I'm just betting a place deep in "Russia" with a Babayaga vibe going on would have drawn them in. The sheer power of that body of stories, and the way the Prince Ivan cycle crossed a continent to mutate into the Cinderella fable - Granny Weatherwax would have been pulled, like a magnet. I see her thinking "not again, I thought we just dealt with that sort of thing in Genua. It's like a bloody rash." (Thinks – is this writeable?)
(5) Go to The Price of Flight. In which Hanna overdoes it with the snow-and-ice magic.
(6) A moment's thought tells you why…
(7) that good old Ankh-Morporkian spelling.
(8) I know. Couldn't resist. I am trying to keep "Frozen" parodies to a bare minimum. But a character like Hanna...
Notes Dump: a Township, exiled by statute to the very edge of the main story, where surplus ideas, observations and concepts go into a pool of reserve labour but – very strictly – are not allowed to interact with the main story more than is absolutely necessary.
Vranyo – the Russian art of creative lying to avert/postpone trouble and to tell the people above you exactly what they want to hear - or ther people below you exactly what you want them to hear. If this meshes with actual reality at any point, then this is a bonus.
Going back to Price of Flight to remember what the hell names I assigned to Nadezhda "Mother Hen" Popova's husband and children… and indeed how many children and what type. I know I assigned him a job at the Assassins' Guild's Equestrian Centre, but I may have given him variant names in a moment of brainfart…. He's definitely Yuri Timofeyovitch Yermak when the Times writes about its Woman of the Week (Nadezhda). But I'm sure I gave him another name in a different chapter.
Nadezhda's youngest daughter (approximately five – six) is named Tatiana, after a departed friend. She has two older brothers. No names, yet. Better fix this.
Current Reading: Derek Robinson, black comedian and historical satirist, whose magnificent black comedies/tragedies of WW1 and WW2 air combat influence my depiction of the Ankh-Morpork City Air Watch.
His latest novel, pretty much a coda to his WW1 trilogy, is about the British involvement in the Russian Civil War, where a motley of veteran pilots of the First World War decide peacetime flying in the new RAF is indescribably boring. They volunteer for service in Russia as pilots attached to the White Army, to further British foreign policy goals of reinstating the Tsar, or failing that, anybody but Lenin and Trotsky. They are joined by newly-qualified RAF pilots who are miffed that November 1918 happened, and they were deprived of their chance to get up there and kill Germans.
"A Splendid Little War" is also a potted history of British involvement in Russia in 1919-20 and how the revolution played out – reading that the White Armies failed because their generals were corrupt, or incompetent, or drunk, or still stuck in a 19th Century idea of the natural superiority of the aristocracy, or all four. It was as if Rust, Selachii, Venturi and the Usual Suspects (with their shrewd grip on actual reality), were charged with defeating a popular revolution that seemed like a better deal than going back to being on the bottom of the heap in a feudal society. The Red generals didn't need to be stellar – just better. And they did the repression thing less than the White side – at first, anyway. Also – foreign armies invade Russia at their peril. This always seems to do the trick of uniting Russians to throw the intruders out – in this case uniting behind the Red Flag to chuck out the British, Czechs, Americans, Japanese, et c.
Also lots of good incidental detail about Russia and Russians. And British society in the period after WW1.
A different research tack – the (up to Three) Impossible Tasks, in Russian folklore, set by the terrible old Witch, the Baba Yaga, to the seemingly pure and innocent young girl Vasilisa.
Babayaga's isba is really a nili, or a domovila (House of the Dead, or crypt, or burial place). Domovila associated with cremation. A place of edges, borders, a kaplyn: "Hut, hut, turn your back to the forest and your facade to me".
Babayaga is also a shamaness, who intercedes with the world of the dead. So – enter my character Xenia Galena, the young (middle twenties) shamanskaya. Xenia – (Greek) – the Strange One. Didn't intend this but it fits!
"Boney-leg". (Russian poem)
The idea of the animate semi-sentient skulls as servants of Babayaga – Eumenides Treason, the 113 year old witch. Who gets her own Vasilisa to test in the form of Tiffany Aching.
Her three servants, Dawn, Day (Sun) and Night (moon).
Vasilisa The Beautiful: owns a doll that will aid her if fed. Dead mother, wicked stepmother (a facet of Babayaga) and the origin of the Cinderella myth. Sent to Babayaga to beg fire (Prometheus).
Man in white, white horse; red with red horse; fence made of human bone, skulls as guardians and gatekeepers; third rider in black, black horse. 3 servants. (Red, white, black – the Apocalypse riders. No green?)
Confronts Vasilisa. The impossible tasks. Cleaning, cooking and laundry. Poppyseeds separated from soil; good corn from rotten;
"With my mother's blessing" (Babayaga becomes hostile.) Vasilisa was given a skull. Her stepmother and stepsisters then die horribly. (All Vasilisas become Babayagas in time?) Babayaga remembers having once been a Vasilisa, and is jealous?
Three horns to summon, command and control the three Babayagas – in the Prince Ivan myth, Babayaga is maid, mother and crone, the Ladies of the Wood, three sisters.
But this is Discworld "Russia"'s Baba Yaga….
From a discussion on FB concerning the cleanliness, or otherwise, of the English! -
Thanks to Lotta Raatikainen
The Swedish name for Saturday, lördag, is a modern form of the old Swedish laugrdagr, "bath day". It never stops amusing me that the British copied all the other names for weekdays from the Norse, including the days of Tyr, Odin, Thor and Freyr, but kept the old Roman name for Saturday as if a day dedicated for bathing would have been too much even compared to days dedicated to foreign gods