Strandpiel Book Two
Chapter Seven ix - die sneeu, ys, sneeustorm, снег, лед, метель
Подметаешь, разметаешь, только без толку метёшь!
Or: One Of Our Pegasi Is Missing
As always, constant vigilance, revision, and reader beta-reading, thank you! V0.09. Embarrassing error corrected... the Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons fmily live at 18 Spa Lane. For some reason I had them in with the Bellamys at 14 Spa Lane. More trimming of rogue elements from the previous chapter - still wondering how the hells it all ended up being copied over. I'm not sure what happened, but the first publication of this tale had a vast amount of the previous chapter plonked randomly in the middle, which I'm damn sure wasn't in the original Word document... editing it out. Is this FanFic having some sort of meltdown? No wonder it was 22,000 words long... now only 13,536.
This is still long... almost triple usual length... no wonder I feel word-dry!
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 – tough going with this one, I feel like I've been plodding at it for ages and I'm lagging a long way behind in the writing from where I feel I should be.
Interesting article in the Guardian today – Saturday 20th February – about "Writing in Lockdown"'. Pertinent quotes I'd like to share:
Time at home is surely an opportunity to write, so why are so many novelists struggling?
"Stultified, is the word." says novelist Linda Grant. "The problem with writing is that it's just another screen, and that's all there is… I can't connect with my imagination. My whole brain is tied up with processing, processing, processing, all that's going on in the world."
At work it's a computer screen; at home it's just another screen. I resonate to that… the screen I do boring things with at work travels home with me…
"There's no space to create fiction. I don't have the emotional and intellectual energy to give to these shadowy people, to bring them out of the shadows". (Linda Grant)
"It's hard to let my characters speak to me when somebody is asking me to print their stuff off, or what's for lunch, or where their thing is. It's hard to paint a fictional setting when the constant drone of my actual setting is scrambling my thoughts." (author Holly Seddon).
Yup… that's writing right now…
The Tanty Prison, the Isle of Gods, Ankh-Morpork. Five-thirty on Thursday morning.
The snow was still sweeping down from the dark night sky. Even at street level a strong wind was blowing, funnelled by the wide streets with towering buildings on both sides.
Deputy Governor Peter Bellamy, a man in charge of one of the higher and most bleakly imposing buildings on the Isle of Gods, currently on a night shift, and well wrapped against the cold and the wind, stood in the courtyard and surveyed the main gate of the Tanty Prison from the inside. He wondered if the plan he'd agreed last night was not now going to be overtaken by events.
We've got to do this, he thought. Or everybody's trapped inside. Prisoners and staff alike. I've currently got eight hundred and forty-five people in here and I'm responsible for all of them.
He heard the shuffling early-morning noises of the work detail being assembled, even over the crying of the wind. He saw the line of early-risen prisoners moving towards him through the snow, and nodded acknowledgement at an escorting guard. Then he realised a nod wasn't enough, not in this muck, and went over to talk to the guard.
"Let's get them inside, for now." he shouted, from close to. The guard acknowledged this, and the dozen prisoners were motioned to go into the equipment stores.
Bellamy sighed, knowing that this was an invitation for the cons, under minimal guard in an indifferently lit place, to nick anything interestingly small and portable, but there was no help to it. He had to get them out of the howling snow so he could talk to them without needing to shout over what felt like a developing gale.
He waited for the prison officers to assemble them as far away from invitingly thievable things as possible, then surveyed the crew.
"Good morning, gentlemen." he said. "Thank you all for turning up. Everybody made it to work, I see."
There was the obligatory dutiful ripple of laughter. Bellamy grinned.
"Listen up. When I asked for volunteers last night for this duty, I wasn't expecting things to have got worse this morning. But the way I see it, we have still got to at least try. However things pan out this morning."
He nodded to the escorting guards.
"This isn't going to be easy for anyone. But out there is the main gate. On a normal morning we have deliveries coming in. New inmates under escort. Supplies. Food. For up to nine hundred people."
He let the implications sink in.
"I also have to see things get out. Yes, got it. We're a prison. I make sure the only things that get out are things that are allowed to leave."
Peter Bellamy smiled pleasantly at the work detail.
"We have to get prisoners to court. The Patrician is holding Assizes this morning and it's not going to look good if we can't get the defendant in the dock. Also, believe it or not, inmates do occasionally get released. We have seven discharges today. I put it to you for consideration, gentlemen, that Crusher Mullins is not going to be a happy bunny if he physically cannot leave the prison on the last day of his sentence. He is going to feel a little bit inconvenienced by that."
Again, Peter Bellamy let this sink in.
"I'm sure he won't want to stay away for very long, but the moment he's signed off, that's not my problem, and I expect Sam Vimes will be keeping a lookout. So."
He nodded to the guards again.
"You've all been issued heavy-duty clothing, gloves and warm hats. You will now receive a shovel each. Your first duty will be to clear all the bloody snow that's accumulated behind the main gates so we can at least physically open them. After that, we need a clear path to the road, big enough to allow a cart, or a Watch hurry-up wagon, and you all know how big those are, to get in."
A big bulky prisoner, in layers of clothing that made him look like a troll in an overcoat, diffidently raised a hand.
"Yes, Joe?" Peter invited him.
"Last night's agreement still applies, Mr Bellamy, sir?"
Peter smiled.
"We're still on, Joe." he confirmed. "Although in the circumstances, I'm prepared to concede you work for fifteen minutes on and fifteen minutes off, in the warm. We've got to keep those gates clear."
Joe "Lifer" Busheyhead(1) was the nearest thing the inmates had to a shop steward. Peter Bellamy had been a prison officer for a long time; he knew the realities of prison life, and that there was an alternative power structure in the nick. In the Tanty, this was Joe, the head of the Guild of Lags and Lifers. Deputy Governor Bellamy took care to include Joe in any informal discussions on prison management and took his opinions seriously, aware all the time that a situation where you had eight hundred inmates, and only forty or so duty officers, involved an element of prison management by consent and agreement. It paid to read the mood of the prison, and Joe was a reliable barometer.
"Still applies, Joe. You do the work, we provide a thank-you."
Joe grinned. He turned to the other cons.
"Alright, you blokes! Grab a shovel and let's get clearing!"
Peter Bellamy smiled again. He had no doubts the gates would soon be open and there'd be no issues. He let Joe select five prisoners to go out on the first shift with him, and Bellamy ushered the remaining six into the guardhouse and reception area by the gate. Here, they were detailed to getting a tea-urn and drinks station up and running, with options for hot chocolate and coffee.
"Take breaks from work in here, under guard." Bellamy said, accepting one of the first hot drinks and motioning that the duty guard should be served next.
Within the first half-hour, despite the snow that was still coming down, it was possible to open the gates all the way. Peter decided they should be left open. Usually the main gates to the Tanty were closed by default, but he reckoned that today would be an indoors and lockdown day for everybody. If the weather eased later – if – then they'd get back to business as usual.
"From what we can see outside, Mr Bellamy, nothing's moving much." a junior guard remarked. "Usually by now, you get all manner of traffic coming up Holofernes and over New Bridge to the Isle. Even at this time in the morning. Lots of it comes down Body Street and Don't Look Back, past the Tanty. But so far today, nothing. Couple of Sir Harry's honey wagons, but even they're struggling."
Peter considered this.
"Hells, they visit here after morning slop-out." he said. "If they miss a couple of visits, there's nowhere to put the stuff."
They tried to put this appalling prospect out of their minds.
"Put a message out for the Principal Officer in the canteen, would you? I need to know how many days we can reliably feed the prison for, out of what we've got in stores right now. Also, I'm going to need to know how many people we're going to have on the day shift. And whether or not people going off shift soon are going to be able to make it home. Thanks."
Peter Bellamy contemplated the driving snow. If it didn't ease up soon, getting back to Spa Lane would be impossible. He wondered if his wife and daughter were even at this moment taking a look out of the window and deciding to give work and school a miss. He sighed. The idea of being in a warm room right now with them both was an appealing thought. But for now… he contemplated the men working outside, now being deployed to keeping the access to the outside road clear, and instructed they be brought in.
"Well done." he said. "But we're not even half-way done yet. You've cleared the gateway, but it's seriously piling up in the street outside, from the gateway to Body Street. We need that clear too, if we're going to stand a hope of getting things in and out."
Bellamy smiled pleasantly. His wife Davinia thought he had a really pleasant smile. The prison staff knew that smile said Mr Bellamy had everything worked out, and was completely confident. It was reassuring and good for morale. The prisoners knew it meant that somehow, they'd been outmanoeuvred and outclassed.
"So you all get a chance to see the wide world outside the prison. Well, Body Street, anyway. Working party outside the Tanty, gentlemen. Starting now."
He paused. Then said
"Yes, Joe?"
"Errr… Mr Bellamy. If this snow is going to be this heavy over the whole city, like… than isn't what we're doing here a bit pointless?"
Peter Bellamy appeared to contemplate this.
"Can't afford to assume that, Joe. It's still only a quarter to six. A city this size won't close down completely. It can't afford to. We're doing our bit here, which is to keep the gateway and the access road clear. We can't do any more than that."
Joe "Lifer" Busheyhead took a deep, steadying, and very cold, breath. He ventured a look out through the gate. The sight of any sort of vista that didn't have any part of the Tanty Prison in it usually made him feel clammy and giddy.(2) And Body Street, when you looked at it from the right direction, was one of the few parts of the Isle of Gods from which the Tanty Prison was not visible.
Joe usually performed hard work uncomplainingly, if there was a point and a reason to it, or else, he worked just to pass the Time. But stepping out through the prison gates into the wide world outside was somehow really scary. He felt his heart beginning to race.
"Six of you had better step out and start clearing." Mr Bellamy prompted them. "If you need to hear it, I'm giving permission."
This time another con raised his hand.
"Mr Bellamy, sir?"
"Keep it quick, Dipper."
"You're, err, lettin' us out?"
"For as long as it takes to clear the access road and the immediately surrounding street, yes." Peter Bellamy confirmed. "Then you come back in. Minimal guard."
The prisoners were all looking thoughtful and uncertain, except, Bellamy noted, one who seemed as if he had no doubts whatsoever. He made a mental note to have that one watched. Just in case.
"Well, let's get it out in the open, shall we? I'm sure most of you have been weighing up your chances. Be surprised if you haven't, and if I was in your situation now, I probably would too. No offence taken. One, it's blowing a great big snowstorm out there. Which is why I really don't think anyone… most of you… would get very far if you did a runner. "Two…" he nodded pleasantly at a prison officer, who grinned happily back, "You are going to be guarded by Officer Dovlatov. Who knows more about this sort of weather than the rest of us put together. Lots of experience."
The taciturn-looking prison guard grinned back, from under his ushanka fur cap, which had the earpieces pulled down and tied under his chin.
"Is correct." he confirmed. "Is pravda. Back in Blondograd, we have Lubyanka for naughty boys. I was guard there. In Far Überwald, we also have Gulag. Where really naughty boys go. I was guard there too."
He patted the crossbow slung at his back. The prison armoury had them, but most of the time Tanty officers went without.
"We have three-step system if prisoner tries to escape." Dovlatov went on. "First we shout warning. If prisoner persists in escaping, we fire warning shot. If prisoner does not surrender, we fire second shot. We are instructed to shoot to wound, but hey, accidents happen."
"So now you know." Peter Bellamy said, pleasantly. "And I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that your caps and overcoats are all bright orange. Standard working party apparel. And in this snow, it makes a very good target." He paused, for effect. "So whichever way it goes, do a runner, and I'm sure Mr Vimes will put it down as suicide, or attempted suicide."
He sniffed the air. Right on cue.
"Besides, if anyone tries to escape we're withdrawing the privilege of a bacon sandwich." he added. "You will then get the same breakfast ration as anyone else. That's all? Off you go."
The prisoners trooped off to start snow-clearing. Peter Bellamy relaxed, knowing they'd work hard for the promise of a bacon or sausage sandwich, and that they'd self-police against attempts to escape. Not that they'd get very far. Not in this.
"Sergei?" Peter said, to his Rodinian officer. "Keep an eye on Prisoner Oblamov, would you? If any of them can make a break in this, it's him."
Officer Dovlatov grinned back.
"He will know I watch. And that if he runs, I hunt him. Rodinian prisoner, he needs Rodinian guard."
"Just don't kill him." Bellamy said, loudly enough to be heard. "Creates paperwork. I also have to explain it to Dame Amorine."
Everybody looked up then as an unearthly light brightened the sky. About a hundred and fifty feet up, it was a pearly-white opalescent light, a large flattened globe standing on edge. And in some indefinable way it appeared to be illuminating the forward path for the person inside, who even through the driving snow was briefly recognisable as a uniformed Witch on a broomstick.
Bellamy exhaled. Pseudopolis Yard was a close neighbour to the Tanty and the Air Watch was based there. The glowing Witch overhead looked as if she was in the landing circuit, descending as she overflew the prison.
If the Air Watch was still flying, that was good news. The City hadn't shut down completely, then. The watchtower guard on the Pseudopolis Yard side had reported that a Pegasus had taken off for somewhere, just over an hour ago.
And out there, Oblamov was singing as he worked. In Rodinian, naturally, but the chorus sounded like it was all nonsense words, with a lot of raspberry-blowing. If the men were getting in step on a song, they'd get into the snow-shovelling with more heart. That was good too. Peter Bellamy heard a voice that sounded like Sergei Dovlatov joining in with the song. Probably some age-old snow-shovelling ditty from Blondograd, (4) Peter thought. Or from points Widdershins, where the Gulag prison camps are.
He wondered about the Gulags for a moment. Anybody working in prisons had heard about the Gulags. Or the Katorkas, which had been there since Rodinia had been a coherent country. Even after the collapse, they'd still been useful and had found reasons to stay in existence with lots of customers. Prisons at first, now entire convict settlements, like small towns, almost, in the remoter reaches of the Vortex Plains and the really remote country out towards Lake Mouldavia. The Gulag prison colonies, too remote to escape from, with Cossack tribes living in the vicinity who would cheerfully recapture escapees. The system still made a living from countries like Zlobenia and Far Überwald who would happily send prisoners there, for a price. A sort of prisons-for-hire system, tell us how many and for how long and we'll give you a quote, three jailed for the price of two, sort of thing.
Peter Bellamy had heard mixed stories about the Gulags. With so many Rodinians living in the city these days, it was inevitable some would end up in the Tanty. He'd needed Rodinian-speaking officers. Sergei Dovlatov, a man with Gulag experience whose wife had been getting at him for a chance to bring up the kids in somewhere less remote, had turned up along with several others. Okay, they'd needed a bit of retraining, like being told to leave the whips at home. He did have to admit they'd adapted well, and the cons knew not to take liberties. It worked.
He tried to make sense of the singing, Oblamov leading the verses and the rest quickly picking up the nonsense-word choruses. Damn, even Officers Dovlatov and Andrianov were joining in. And that snow was flying.
Ты летаешь или таешь? Ничего тут не поймёшь!
Подметаешь, разметаешь, только без толку метёшь!3(3)
Everything went well, until the moment Prisoner Olcher found the abandoned flying helmet that had fallen into the street.
The Guild of Assassins Equestrian Training Centre, Garstairs, Ankh-Morpork.
The woman who had rescued Bekki from the driving snow led her and Boetjie into a well-lit and blissfully warm stables. Taller than Bekki by several inches, she looked down at her with concern and sympathy from underneath what looked like a Cossack fur cap.
"Here! Drink!" the woman urged.
Bekki took a sip and her mouth was full of fire. She recognised the taste. This was something she'd tried once, and was in no great hurry to try again.
"A little vodka." her rescuer said. "Pepper vodka. With hot paprika. Gives warmth in cold. It is good for you."
She politely took the flask back.
"But, in cold. A lot of vodka is not good idea. Trick is to know how much."
"Spassibo." Bekki said, when she could trust her voice again. She realised she really was feeling warmer.
"Nichevo." the woman replied. She carried on speaking, this time in Rodinian. Bekki caught the sense of what she was saying: the words for "your horse", "care" and "look after" came to her.
They set to together, Bekki learning her rescuer was called Yelena and worked at the Guild School.
With nothing else to do and aware of the job that was in front of her, Bekki fell in with the depleted staff of the Guild Stables, and helped with the hundred and one maintenance jobs that were needed wherever there were horses. She was just grateful to be on firm ground, and in the warm. That snowstorm outside sounded like it was getting fiercer, heavier and louder, for one thing. And she didn't fault the logic of moving horses from the outlying stables and paddock shelters to the fully enclosed buildings in the centre of the complex. Lots of horses in the same space created a lot of warmth and staved off hypothermia. But they still needed feeding, watering and grooming.
"You are ved'ma." the woman called Yelena said. "Water here needs warming for horses. Also it is going to ice. Not good for horses."
Bekki took the unspoken request, and focused herself. This had to be done right. A Wizard asked to warm up some water would have it boiling or flashing to steam. A Witch needed to be more subtle and more careful…. Bekki asked herself what temperature was good for horses to drink. Not tepid or lukewarm. But not with ice floating in it either. Somewhere between the two….
There were noises of appreciation as the pumps started to draw up water that was pretty much right, a few degrees above freezing, cold but not too cold. Try for cool. Bekki focused on directing the magic into the ground, trying to sense and reach the aquifer somewhere underneath…
"Is good, Firebird." Yelena said, patting her back. "You can come back to us, now."
Work finished for the moment, with the horses tended to and calmned, they sat on hay bales in a semi-circle of light cast by an oil lamp hanging from a rafter, in the comfortable warmth generated by many horses, and drank mugs of tea. Bekki's had three sugars in it.
There were other Rodinians here too. A neatly-built energetic little man of about forty, perhaps forty-five, with the sort of face that suggested he'd seen the joke and was prepared to laugh at the punchline, clean-shaven, and with a tidy moustache. Like Yelena, he was in a loose baggy tunic, loose britches and high riding boots. He was introduced as Yuri Timefeyovich. Two boys, looking like brothers, one about ten or eleven, the other about eight or nine. They were also dressed as Cossacks, but carried no swords. Both were dark-haired, with something definitely familiar about them.
Yelena, a new teacher at the Guild school, one Bekki hadn't met yet. was also in a Cossack tunic, off-white with red trim, but with telogreika britches and valenki overboots on her feet. Apparently, she'd been having dinner at a colleague's the previous evening when the snow had begun. Recognising the signs of bad weather that was going to stay for an appreciable time, she had returned home for long enough to have a warming drink, change into her winter clothing, fill a pack with useful things, then to set out again to be here, where her horses were.
"You walked? In this?" Bekki asked, amazed.
Yelena laughed.
"Well, You flew. In this. I am a Cossack. I go where my horses are. If I thought otherwise, I would not be a Cossack. I look after them. The walk took perhaps three quarters of an hour, but I arrived here. Checked my horses. And other horses that were anxious. Slept for several hours in hayloft. Then when I was needed, when Yuri Timefeyovich arrived with his sons, and other grooms arrived, such as could get here, we began work of tending to horses."
"Da. Is pravda." Yuri confirmed. He grinned again. "I teach my boys. Without horses, a man is nothing."
"My mother says the same." Bekki replied. "Look after your horse first. If you are deep in the Veldt or the Bush and you lose your horse, you can die. So you look after the welfare of your horse."
"Good teaching." Yuri replied. "Your mother, a woman who I may know, is wise woman."
"And you are, perhaps, an eldest daughter, due to fly in from Howondaland this morning." Yelena said.
Bekki suddenly realised which Guild colleague Yelena Garyanova had spent time with the previous evening.
"You have sister. Called Famke." Yelena prompted her.
Bekki sighed.
"What's she done this time?" she asked.
Yelena laughed, delightedly. She clasped Bekki's shoulder.
"Why do people always say that? In my classes, Famke is good girl. Clever, keen, well-behaved. Maybe other teachers see different Famke?"
"Have not had her in my classes yet." Yuri said. "But I hear about Famke Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons. Get the idea every teacher at Guild School hears about Famke Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons."
Bekki then discovered one taught Rodinian Language and Culture, and the other taught Advanced Equestrian Skills and Equestrian Combat Proficiencies. Famke studied one on Saturday mornings but was not – yet – considered ready for the other.(4) Bekki had a suspicion that when it came to crazy things like controlling a horse while standing upright on top of the saddle, switching to a remount at the full gallop, or knife-throwing with unerring accuracy whilst at a fast canter, sooner or later Famke would be in there. She could ride as well as anyone in the family, after all.
They continued with the jobs, Bekki practicing the Rodinian she had picked up from being around the Air Watch for a long time, and picking up more from the conversations going on around her. After a while, a short but broad man in his fifties joined them. He had the unmistakably bandy legs of a man who'd spent his whole life working with horses, and today he had a slightly worried air.
The new arrival took off his cloak, shook the snow off it, and hung it on a peg. He had a discussion with Yuri about the situation for fodder, deciding that, with care, there was enough in the stores for two days, and hopefully by then this bloody weather would have lifteded.
"Bloody for you. Normal for us." Yuri said, shrugging. He nodded to his two sons, and spoke to them in Rodinian. Bekki got the gist: you only get to see the Homeland in summer when we send you there to learn to be Cossack. Well, you need to see it in winter, too. To be truly Cossack and Rodinian.
The two boys, who when they weren't speaking Rodinian, spoke with Morporkian accents, looked resigned to this.
"So, err, Rodinia. From part which?" Bekki asked, carefully assembling the phrase. She noted Yelena, the language teacher, then corrected her about her word order and said "V kakom rayone Rodinii? Repeat it with me." (5)
Yuri grinned.
"Mesto s khoroshimi zimami!" he said, with pride.
Bekki got it: The place with proper winters. Real winters.
Nikita, the younger son, sighed a resigned sigh.
"The Vortex Plains." he said, giving the impression he'd far rather be in Ankh-Morpork, regardless of where his parents came from.
Yuri, the elder, corrected him.
"Siber'ya." he said, giving the Vortex Plains their Rodinian name.
"Da!" their father said, looking sternly at them. "Sibir'ya. Otkuda my. Gde dom."
Mr Harvey-Smith, the Guild's Head of Equestrianism, cleared his throat.
"How are we doing for water?" he asked, insistently. "If the pumps freeze up, we're in trouble!"
"All dealt with." Yuri said, as if it were no big deal. "We got a ved'ma who came down from the sky. She has fixed water. No problem."
Harvey-Smith looked over, seeing Bekki for the first time.
"You're Air Watch, aren't you?" he asked.
"Forced landing, Mr Harvey-Smith." she said. "I needed shelter. So I've been helping out."
He looked at her, and the penny dropped.
"Rebecka, isn't it? Johanna Smith-Rhodes' oldest? Haven't seen you in ages!"
Conversation stopped as a hay-bale moved across the stables, seemingly of its own volition. Close observation saw that it was floating about six inches off the ground. Muffled conversation was going on underneath.
"I'm steering this bloody thing, right? That way it's going to get there."
"Go bile your heid, Green Yin! Noo bide a wee moment."
The earnest face of Wee Archie appeared from under the bale. He looked up at Yelena.
"Hey, missus! Whaur d'ye want this thing to go?"
Yelena looked amused, and directed them. The hay bale scuttled on. The ground-level bickering dopplered off with it.
"You don't see that every day." Harvey-Smith remarked.
"They came with the Firebird." Yelena explained. "We set them to work with us. They are willing hands."
"You do not see horse with wings every day." Yuri added, indicating Boetjie. "But one arrived."
"Mother sees them every day." Nikita said. "She says they are like all horses, except that they have wings."
"Your mother?" Bekki asked.
"Nasedka." Yuri said. "She is Air Watch also. She brought us all here this morning, by broomstick."
"Mum's a Witch." Nikita said, with a certain resignation. "And, Dad, she doesn't like you calling her "Nasedka"."
Yelena supressed a laugh.
"Nasedka." Bekki said, trying to work it out. "That's almost Nadezhda, isn't it?"
Yuri the father laughed again. "Pune, or play on words, Firebird!"
"In Rodinian,каламбурить." Yelena told Bekki. "Kalamburit'. To make a pun, you say kalambur. No Rodinian word, we use the Quirmian."
Bekki, none the wiser to the specifics, got the essential: Nasedka was a punning word of some sort. She also grasped that calling Sergeant Popova Nasedka, whatever it meant, might not be a terrifically good idea. Yelena did not explain further.
She also knew it was a lot later than seven o'clock and she was well overdue at the Air Station. But the wind was still howling out there and snow was still coming down, even though a sort of heavily muted daylight was creeping in and making it easier to see further than fifty yards. And the Clacks were down, so there was no way of getting a message to the Air Station. And she wondered if in this sort of weather there'd be people out there looking. Bekki really hoped they'd realise she'd had to make an emergency landing and seek shelter, for herself and Boetjie. As the next job involved wrapping up warm and making sure the stable doors were unobstructed, she and the two boys set to with shovels, their father amiably saying this is good training for Siber'ya in winter, I never thought you would experience it here in this city, but here you learn to be properly Siber'ski!
Bekki was still hard at work an hour later, realising why the stable doors had to be kept open as she manoevred a full wheelbarrow of horse-droppings out in the hopeful direction of the nearby midden, hoping to get this done quickly so she could get back in the warm, out of the snow.
She saw the light and the movement in the sky and realised there was only one thing it could possibly be – a search party. Dropping the handles of the barrow, she focused and sent up a ball of cold fire.
Within minutes, Nadezhda Popova and Irena Politek had landed. The light around their broomsticks died as they shut off the power, and they were running for the lit stable door.
The Tanty Prison, the Isle of Gods, Ankh-Morpork.
Prisoner Olcher brought the dropped hat to Officer Andrianov. He studied it, and looked inside the brim for clues as to the owner.
"It looks like a Watch flyer's hat, sir." Olcher said, helpfully. "Got goggles attached to the front. There's a name inside, look."
Joe "Lifer" Busheyhead took his hat off in respect, despite the driving snow.
"Ain't that a shame." he said. "One of them young girls in the Air Watch."
He indicated the Watch badge, a fabric patch sewn to the forward crown.
"Must've come to grief up there."
"Well, yeah. They're Watch, though." another con said, in the sort of voice that considered one Watch officer less was no bad thing and added to the sum of human happiness.
"One of them arrested me." Prisoner Oblamov said, resignedly. He was doing time for grievous bodily harm and attempted murder. He had thought this was unfair. A man has a vodka or two, he gets into a fight with another man who has had a vodka or two and, well. You deal with it, as men. Then the terrifying woman in Watch uniform had shown up and, even more terrifyingly, had screamed at him in Rodinian. Oblamov had made the error of raising his shashka to her. Then his world had become one of semi-unconsciousness and discomfort and handcuffs.(6)
He was fairly sure his arresting officer had flown over the Tanty not too long before. Called Officer Popova, he recalled. She stood out in a crowd. Mad woman from Siber'ya. And this weather is practically midsummer to Siberski.
Busheyhead glared at the con who had made the another-dead-pig, so-what comment.
"Half them young girls aren't even twenty." he said. "A lot are younger. This one will have a mum and a dad. Family. Mr Andrianov, we got to get this to Pseudopolis Yard. So they at least know."
There was a chorus of things like
"Yeah, poor kid. Awful waste."
"They got a sense of humour. Calls themselves the Flying Pigs. Gotta respect that."
"Yeah. They're okay, for coppers."
Andrianov and Dovlatov looked at each other. Then Officer Andrianov took the hat to Mr Bellamy in the guardroom.
Peter Bellamy looked inside to read the name, winced, and said "Oh, no…"
"You know the girl, sir?"
Peter paused before responding. He looked down at the nametape that read R.M.I. Smith-Rhodes.
"Her family are my neighbours. Known her since she was born." he said. He wondered how to tell Johanna and Ponder. He also wondered how he'd feel if it was Davinia. Who was a friend of Bekki. She'll need to know too.
"Maybe hat just blew off. Strong wind up there."
"Perhaps." Peter said. He noted the flaps and ties meant to secure it under a wearer's chin had not been fastened. Could be right. A quick conference saw Officer Sergei Dovlatov detailed to make the quick run to Pseudopolis Yard. Peter reckoned a Rodinian who knew about moving in this sort of snow would just see this as a pleasant stroll. "If the Air Watch know anything more, find out for me." he requested.
Dovlatov grinned and waved cheerfully as he set off down Body Street. Pseudopolis Yard was normally two or three minutes' walk away. Might be a lot longer in this.
The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard:
Irena and Nadezhda had conferred in the quiet and relative silence of the main hangar. With several of the Teks looking on, a group of grimly silent and worried-looking Dwarfs and the odd goblin, Nadezhda had tried to compress what would normally be a few days' worth of instruction to Irena, concerning how to divert power from the broom's reserves to keep the bristles warm and de-iced, how to generate the shaped magical field that kept the snow off and, in theory, deflected the howling winds past you, rather than to have them buffet you around the sky. Irena had tried normal unprotected flight in her race to get out there to locate Bekki, but within twenty minutes had been forced back to the Air Station, frozen and buffeted with a suspicion the bristles were beginning to ice up, deciding this was going to be pointless without additional protection.
The memory of her earlier flights that day fresh in her mind, and all the compensating and course-correcting she'd had to do to keep going in what was even vaguely a straight line, Irena sought to learn the new flight skills as quickly and as well as she could.
Both agreed that given Rebecka's erratic sense of relative time and Wee Archie's even more erratic navigational skills, this would be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. There was no guarantee she was even here yet; Wee Archie might have come out of Transition in the wrong country, never mind the wrong city; and in this murk they could fly right past each other and not even notice. But they still had to try.
"Stay at three hundred, safely above most obstacles." Irena said. " Keep the comms unit switched on to a live channel, so Control can keep in touch, and we can talk to each other on an open network. We each keep an eye on the time, so we know when our three hours in the air are coming to an end…."
Tek-Sergeant Mig Oyeff cleared his throat, diffidently.
"It is safer to assume two hours, ladies." he corrected them.
Irena accepted the correction.
"Two hours. At least there's some sort of daylight out there now. Nadezhda, you're going to the widdershins, over Morpork."
"And Irena, you to the turnwise, over Ankh." Nadezhda confirmed.
They clasped hands.
"Watch for the Tower of Art." Irena advised.
"Da. And you for the Tump Tower."
They advised Control. Control noted this and said they would now count down two hours. Beginning now, Red Star, Mother Hen. When you are ready to return, we will put up cold fire from the Air Station, beacon flares.
Irena put her head down, and shot off into the sky, trying to ignore the cold and the roar of the wind. She tried to compensate for the weight slung across her back. She and Nadezhda were both flying with an insurance policy. A heavy, inert one. She lost sight of Nadezhda very depressingly quickly.
"Nichevo." she said, and flew on.
From below, Prison Officer Sergei Dovlatov, finding the middle way between growing snowbanks, watched them taking off. He hunched down into his cloak and stomped onwards.
Sam Vimes was getting regular reports about which members of the Day Shift had struggled into the Yard to start work. He put out the order that Morning Prayers would be cancelled for now. No point, just yet. Watchmen coming off the Night Shift – make your way to crash rooms and get some sleep in. Be advised you are on instant recall, and yes, you can claim it as overtime. Olga, your Night Witches might as well go to the Watchwomens' crash room and try to get some sleep in? Same arrangement. Everybody else, stand by.
Vimes, up in the Air Watch control room, noted it was full of Air Witches, including several Night Witches who while they could go to a bed in a crash room, seemed to want to wait on for news of a lost and overdue Air Witch who was out there. That was serious. Vimes appreciated this. He waited with them for news, grimly smoking a cigar.
Three very young Air Witches walked in, shaking snow off themselves, with their broomsticks slung over their shoulders. Vimes blinked. They were no older than about thirteen?
"Excuse me, sir." Olga said. She went quickly to them, and said
"You could have stayed at home today. No blame would have attached."
The oldest drew herself up to attention. She looked frozen-cold, but said
"Air Watch Cadet Alexandra Mumirovka reporting for duty, ma'am."
Olga returned the salute. Then said
"Come over here where you can get warm. Blankets, please!"
Sam Vimes nodded approval. Watch Cadets were a new thing, but if the system generated potential Watchmen who'd slog through a blizzard to be at work on time, then as far as he was concerned, it was working.
"I've got nearly thirty no-shows so far." he grated. "But three Cadets of twelve and thirteen can still get in. When I've rounded all mine up, I will tell them that!"
He watched the girls, who were being fussed over by Air Witches, blanket-wrapped, and led to the warmest part of the room.
"When I can get close enough to tell them so, that's a "well done" and a handshake from me." Vimes added.
Then the visiting prison officer was led upstairs. He shook snow off his cloak and boots, and walked briskly to Olga, then clicked his heels, came to attention, and bowed. Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom, who had escorted him, looked worried and anxious.
"I brought him straight here, Olga." she said. "you need to know this."
"Okay, Cheery." Olga replied. She looked up at the man, returned his salute, and asked, in formal Rodinian, recognising him from Church on Octeday,
"Sergei Mikhailovich, isn't it? What do you need to tell me?"
He handed over the Watch flying helmet. Vimes supressed a groan. Air Witches who recognised its significance were groaning too.
"I regret to have to inform you, Olga Anastacia Ekatarinovna, this was found on Body Street within the last half hour, by prisoners on a working detail, clearing snow. I thought it best to bring it straight to you."
Olga turned it over, and checked the name inside. She tried to make herself think clearly, reminding herself that finding the helmet was not the same thing as finding a dead pilot.
"Hanna?" she asked. Hanna von Strafenburg took the helmet. She scrutinised it carefully.
"It is Rebecka's." Hanna confirmed. "But may I remark that the leather cords used to retain it under the chin have not been tied? Officer Smith-Rhodes has a persistent sloppy habit of not securing her flying helmet. I have rebuked her about this before. And the wind up there is very strong. I hope it only blew this helmet from her head."
"The prevailing wind is strong and from the turnwise, is it not?" Olga remarked, feeling a flood of relief. Rebecka never secures her flying helmet. She complains that it constricts and cuts into her chin.
Hanna confirmed this.
"Reprimand her again when you see her next." Olga said.
Hanna smiled.
"As you command, Captain."
Olga nodded to Officer Dovlatov.
"Thank you, Sergei Mikhailovich." she said. "At least have a glass of tea with us and warm up before you return to the prison."
"I thank you, Olga Anastacia Ekatarinovna."
Vimes looked concerned and puzzled. Olga remembered she had been speaking in Rodinian to Sergei Dovlatov, and quickly gave him the gist.
"Mr Dovlatov, you say one of the cons found this?"
"Da, Commander. He saw significance and quickly handed it in. I believe outside prison, he has family with daughters."
Vimes nodded, and rummaged in a pocket.
"I know this isn't snout." he said, handing over a packet of cigars. "But I don't smoke rollies, and this is as close as I can get. Would you see the man gets these, with a discreet thank-you? Thanks."
A Watchman ran into the crew room. He looked first at Vimes and then at Olga.
"One of the first patrols just come back, sir. Officers Kvitz, Sliveneck and Karlik. Errr… for Captain Romanoff, ma'am. They report they saw a Pegasus overhead about two hours ago. Didn't know it was significant till they got back to the Yard and heard one of your pilots is missing. Ma'am."
The Watchman gulped, aware the best part of thirty Air Witches had ceased conversation and were glaring at him. Olga frowned.
"And they can't come up here to report it for themselves?"
Olga thought again, and realised worry was making her snappy and ungracious. And stupid.
"Sorry, constable. Two trolls and a golem. The only way up here is a rickety staircase that would collapse under any of them. Of course they couldn't come up. I'll come down."
"I'm coming too." Vimes said. They braved the blizzard together and found the patrol in the yard, unaffected by the cold. Lance-Corporal Slivenec(7) saluted briskly.
"You saw a Pegasus, Lance-Corporal?" Olga asked, trying to keep it professional, and not to hurry her witness.
"Yes, ma'am. We were patrolling Brookless Lane towards to the intersection with Chrononhotonthologos. In accordance with orders to walk the major roads and report back if any are impassable."
Olga bit back an urge to demand he got to the point. Some Trolls in this extreme cold got both intelligent and pedantic. You couldn't hurry them. Even if you yourself were in a blizzard without a cloak or gloves, and there were other reasons to get the necessary information quickly.
"Over to our right, ma'am, towards the Tump. She was flying low, or we'd never have seen her at all. White horse against a white background, you see."
Olga said she could get that. But what direction?
"Just a few glimpses, really. It didn't look like she was in trouble and the Pegasus was flying steadily enough, but she was low, not far over the rooftops. From where we were, it looked as if she was further Hubwards-by-Turnwise, out towards the Tump. It looked as if she was looking for somewhere to put down and land. As far as we could reckon, she went over to the turnwise, and we lost track of her then."
Olga considered this. It wasn't Vasilisa the trolls had seen. She'd arrived on the other side of the city. So this one must be Rebecka. And her flying hat had blown into Body Street on a turnwise wind.
"And this was two hours ago?"
The troll confirmed this. Olga thanked him and ran back upstairs again.
She raced to the control desk and tried to stab the control buttons with frozen fingers, aware of an anxious crowd falling in around and behind her. Eventually she hit Transmit.
"Red Star! Mother Hen! This is Syren. Come in, Red Star…"
~~Red Star here, Syren.
Irena's voice sounded like she was having to shout over a bitter wind.
"Current location, Red Star? Over."
~~Somewhere over King's Way. Possibly two hundred feet. Might be three. Can't be more definite. Too much snow in the air. Over.
"Read you, Red Star. Where are you, Mother Hen? Report. Over."
The control panel crackled. This time there was no background noise.
~~Here Mat'kuritsa. I am at Unseen University, currently on ground. I thought if Firebird was in trouble, she may have force-landed at places where her parents are, where she is welcome. University tell me her father has not arrived at work yet, and she has not been here. I will try Assassins' Guild next. Over.
Olga considered this. It made sense.
"Syren responding. Read you, Mother Hen. Good thinking…"
~~May I speak, m'dear? Olga? Can you hear me? I say, is this blasted thing switched on?
Olga sighed.
"Arch-Chancellor, it is switched on. And I can hear you perfectly well. No need to shout. Over."
~~So our girl's missin', Olga? I'm going to get me best scryers and far-seers on the case, see if we can pick up a trace. Wherever she is, we'll bloody well find her!
Olga reflected that Mustrum Ridcully had become Rebecka's grandfather(8), and that he'd most probably be frantic. She decided to be understanding. And diplomatic.
"Thank you, Arch-Chancellor. Any assistance you can give will be welcome, and we appreciate it. But please may I speak to my pilots? Put Sergeant Popova on. Thank you."
She waited a moment.
"Syren here. Red Star, Mother Hen. We have a confirmed sighting. Two confirmed sightings. A ground patrol saw a Pegasus over the Hubwards-by-Widdershins side of the Tump, two hours ago. The pilot looked as if she was seeking a safe landing in the area. Mr Vimes is sending out ground patrols. Also, we have clear evidence that the pilot is Firebird. Please focus your search in this area. Acknowledge. Over."
Irena and Nadezhda acknowledged. A third voice joined the conversation.
~~Syren, this is Captain Carrot. I'm with a foot patrol at Longwall and Savage Gardens. I believe I can be in the general area to join in the search within half an hour. Over.
"What the Hells are you doing still out there, Carrot?" Vimes demanded. "You might be a bloody Dwarf but you're still human. And Dwarfs get cold too. I don't want you dead of exposure out there. I mean. Be realistic, Carrot. The Air Watch have suspended all routine flying, the Clacks is down, and the bloody Post Office aren't delivering. That says really bad weather to me. Three times over."
~~ Actually, sir. This was a new voice. It was low basso-profundo, but sounded aware, intelligent and capable. I've strongly suggested to Captain Carrot that he stays in the Watch-House at Longwall and I lead the foot-patrol. He's susceptible to hypothermia. We are not. This is our kind of climate, in fact. There was a long pause. This is Sergeant Detritus, sir. In case you're wondering. And I haven't been able to think so clearly for a long time. Invigorating weather. Is Captain Romanoff there?
"I'm here, Sergeant." Olga said, trying not to sound amused.
~~These communicators are marvellous devices, aren't they? But if the intention is to roll them out to all Watch officers over the next couple of years, please could you consider a bigger version with larger buttons that trolls can use? I might get hyper-intelligent in the cold but my fingers are still the same size relative to the device. Which means from a troll point of view, it is not user-friendly. At present Captain Carrot is activating the communicator while I talk. And I believe I'm meant to say "Over" at this point?
Olga said, keeping a completely straight face, that she would certainly make a note of that to advise the Wizards who were building the Devices.
Vimes burst in.
"Stay in the watch-house, Carrot." he said. " Get warm. Don't make me rephrase that as an order. Sergeant Detritus, you've got another troll and a golem. You're in charge. Get out there and patrol. Look for Officer Smith-Rhodes. You know what she looks like. There are two Air Watch brooms up there with some sort of weather-shielding but I gather they can't stay in the air long. Make yourselves known and help them. Vimes out."
~~Red Star here. Syren, Mother Hen gave me a good idea for where to go next. Reporting my next stop is Spa Lane. If Bekki was last seen near the Tump, her home's not far away. I'm betting she might have put down there. I'm nearest, so I'm going to check. I'll call in again when I land. Red Star out.
"Syren acknowledging. Mother Hen, did you get that? RV with Red Star at 18 Spa Lane. At least Claude can fix you both a hot glass of tea. If Ponder's there, he can refuel your broomsticks. You'll need that. Stand by for updates, Syren out."
Olga exhaled. All she could do now was to wait.
Senior Prison Officer Sergei Dovlatov looked on politely. He'd been offered hospitality and hot tea by the Air Watch before he braved the walk back to the Tanty, and had been an enthralled spectator to the Air Watch at work. This beat guarding prisoners in the cold by a long way.
18 Spa Lane, Nap Hill, Ankh-Morpork, Wednesday Night
Claude had been a butler for a long time now. Answering a knock on the front door, he knew to be professional and unflappable, especially when a black-clad figure with a covered face had just appeared on the doorstep. A cloaked figure with an obscured face and a suspicion of weaponry was almost certainly going to be a professional colleague of Her Ladyship.
"Yes?" he said, inviting a response.
The dark figure said something muffled and instinct against the roar of the snow. Then uttered what sounded like a profanity and reached up a thickly gloved hand to uncover its…. her…. face.
Claude swiftly ran through an index file of faces and social ranks.
"Please come in, Lieutenant Politek." he said, recognising friend of my employer and not wanting to be stuck in an open doorway. Not in this unknown-in-Howondaland sort of weather. "I regret Her Ladyship is not present. Sir Ponder and Miss Ruth are at home."
Nobody else?" Irena asked. She stepped forward, and bounced off the doorframe. "Govno." she said, realising. She tried to wriggle free of the reserve broomstick that was slung over her back and which had caught in the door. Eventually she gave up and wriggled in sideways. Claude caught the main broom that was in her right hand, and deftly helped her off with the reserve. As he closed the front door, Irena tugged off the heavy and cumbersome valenki overboots.(9) And left them in the hall, snow still on their upper surfaces.
"Irena?" Ponder Stibbons said, half-rising from the breakfast table.
"Bekki's not been here, has she?" Even as she spoke, Irena belatedly realised there was nowhere here to shelter a Pegasus. While houses on Spa Lane had mews stables, the one here had been converted into a music studio. There'd not even be a door big enough to get a full-grown horse inside.
"Well, no." Ponder replied. "We're expecting to see her here later today after she's done her duty day with the Air Police…."
Ponder Stibbons pulled up, realising.
"She's not arrived?"
"Nyet." Irena replied. "Ponder, with the weather being this foul, and Bekki having no way of knowing how bad it would be when she arrived, I suspect she has made an emergency landing somewhere. She may have thought of here."
Ponder Stibbons considered this.
"How overdue is she?"
"Two hours. We have people out searching." Irena smiled at Ruth, who was looking worried.
"We will find her. Your sister is sensible. It is a case of finding out where."
She looked at Ponder Stibbons, who appeared to be thinking hard. Then he grinned.
"Irena. Has Olga ever said anything to you about one of our projects? The Seeing-Eye Ray?"
Irena considered.
"The Ray. Da. She was impressed."
"It's still in the prototype stage yet. Nowhere near good enough for issue. But it might work here. Come this way?"
Ponder led Irena to his study. Ruth followed on. Going into Daddy's work room, to her, was a treat.
"The Clacks are down. The house goblins say they can't send or receive. I get the Post Office isn't delivering. I get you're having problems getting flights up, the weather's that bad?"
"Da." Irena said, reluctantly. "There is one other flier in the air at this moment. She has been instructed to make her way here and meet up with me so we can decide where to look next. Visibility is extremely bad, there are very strong winds, and we can only navigate by going low, flying along the main roads, and making guesses. And one of our pilots, and her Pegasus, are at the moment unaccounted for."
Ponder took this in. He indicated the screen and console on his desk, and triggered a control. The screen, a rectangle of eighteen inches by twelve, lit up with eerie green light.
"HEX!" he called.
++I hear you, Professor.++
"Load Research Programme Seeing Eye Ray."
++Loading. Stand by.++
"Unfortunately this is only a small screen." Ponder said to Irena, as what looked like an outline map of Ankh-Morpork came up on the screen. As a lot had to be compressed into a small space, detail was lost, although it was recognisable by the shape of the river and the jagged irregular lines of the main roads.
"to make it really work, we need a screen that is big enough for the operator to be able to see every street in the city without needing to use a magnifying glass. Unfortunately, omniscopes are rare and we only have one to break down for parts. Like the operating chips in your communicators." Ponder said. "Ah, we're here…"
The screen now showed a green line, beginning from a fixed central point at Unseen University, swinging round like a single hand on a clock. Wherever it passed, the city map underneath glowed brighter green for an instant.
++You are now looking at a picture of air activity over the City in real time. On a normal day, there would be a lot more activity to monitor.++
Irena frowned. There was something there, just one moving point of light, on the upper left-hand side of the screen…
"HEX. Explain the bright green trace over… Water Street."
++This is untypical, Lieutenant Politek. Usually an Air Watch broom leaves a slighter and less prominent trace.++ However, this very vivid emission is typical of a strong and persistent discharge of magic in the air, far more powerful than the usual Air Watch standard.++ I have seen this eight times previously today."
"Looks like it's heading this way." Ponder remarked.
Irena smiled.
"I believe I know what it is. Who it is. Excuse me a moment."
Irena returned to the front door, braced herself against the cold and snow, and fired a cold light flare overhead. She nodded to Claude on the way back in.
"Please bring Sergeant Popova to Ponder's office when she arrives? Thank you."
She quickly returned to the office, and asked HEX to resume his demonstration. She noticed the moving vivid green flare in the display getting closer.
"That is Sergeant Popova. She will be here in… HEX, please magnify? Thank you. Ah, she is on - over – Welldrake Lane. I believe she will land here within minutes. I just gave her a beacon to home in on. Ah, I see that is appearing as a splash of light immediately overhead on Spa Lane."
++Exactly so, Lieutenant. ++ I deduce you just sent a magical flare into the sky to alert your colleague, who is approaching.++ Professor, I can start the playback of recorded events when this person is present?++
"Please do, HEX."
Claude knocked and entered.
"Sergeant Popova of the Air Watch, sir. Lieutenant Politek advised me to bring her here directly. I will provide hot refreshments."
Nadezhda, still brushing snow from her shoulders, was briefed about Research Programme Seeing Eye Ray.
" The Ray. Da…" she said, half-understanding. "But can it locate Firebird?"
++We can certainly infer as to where to look.++ HEX said. ++Let me replay events since the Air Watch suspended routine flying at four-thirty this morning. The last outgoing flight at this time does not easily show.++ However, we see a single large octarine flash in the region of the Air Station. ++This dies quickly. ++ This is consistent with an outgoing Pegasus flight going into Transition.++ The next activity occurs here, at Runecaster Way.++ A single octarine trail begins here.++ A little later, another octarine trail begins in Dolly Sisters, at Euphrasy Street. ++ Both appear to be vectoring on the same point.++
"Olga and myself called into the Air Station." Irena said. It all seemed a long time ago now. She watched the green streaks on the screen, fascinated by one of them being herself.
++The octarine trace, left by a broomstick in transit, is clear, but relatively faint compared to the super-discharges beginning here, at Irrisory Street.++ This massive discharge of magic, three or four times heavier than the norm, is seen in the following hour to make three return flights to a location Rimwards of the Tump. ++Then it crosses the city, from Irrisory Street to Pseudopolis Yard.++
"Ah. Home is on Irrisory Street. That is me." Nadezhda admitted. "I use strong spells on my broomstick, to keep family safe. I take first husband, then sons, to his place of work where they are safe, and there are things to do. Then I take Tatiana and fly her to Air Station, where my daughter is safe."
She leant forward.
"HEX. You can read all this?" she demanded.
++It is my job.++ It is what I am designed for.++ Observe.++ The two flights from Euphrasy Street and Runecaster Way.++ There are three discharges of magic from the Air Station during this flight, which I now know are magical beacon lights.++ One makes it to the Air Station where its light switches off. ++ The other comes down at the top of Holofernes where its light dies. ++Did you lose a pilot here?++
Irena grinned.
"We can account for her, HEX. She simply walked the rest of the way to work." Just wait till I tell you about this, Olga Romanoff.
++The broomstick using the vastly enhanced magical charge, which I now know to be Sergeant Popova, then takes off again.++ Meanwhile here, over Dolly Sisters, there is the octarine flash consistent with a Pegasus making Transition.++
"Vasilisa." Irena said. "But why does the green die almost instantly? She has become invisible."
++Because a Pegasus is not in itself a thing of magic.++ Its flight is explicable by normal principles of natural science and requires no magic to propel it++ When the craw-step, which has an element of magic, is done, there is no more magic to detect.. ++ In normal flight, a Pegasus is invisible to me.++
They saw the Nadezhda-trace turn in the sky as if she had met somebody, saw it begin to orientate itself on the Air Station, watched the regular blooming of the beacon-light, and then there was one truly powerful explosion of magical light that persisted for some seconds and left after-images. The Nadezhda-trace landed, and extinguished.
"Hanna, clearing the landing-deck." Irena said.
"Da. But look left. Towards the Tump." Nadezhda replied.
They saw it. Now they knew what to look for, the octarine flash of a Pegasus transiting into local airspace was unmistakeable. Almost as soon as the flash died, it erupted again and died a second time.
"That was Firebird." Nadezhda remarked.
"If I read that right, she went back within seconds of arriving." Ponder said.
++She was dangerously close to the Tump Tower, Professor Stibbons.++ In my judgement, close enough to potentially crash into it.++
Irena sighed, exasperatedly.
"Wee Archie." she said, and tried not to consider an awful possibility. But there was a double-flash...
"Evasive flight? Perhaps she aborted her mission, and returned to Howondaland." Nadezhda said. "She took off from warmer country. And she did not know what she was flying into. If she was dressed for Howondaland, she would have been in great difficulties. It could be as simple as that."
++Except, Sergeant Popova, this happened twenty-five minutes later.++
Hex showed another octarine flash over the Tump. This died. Hex then magnified the picture so a smaller section of the City map came into sharper focus with more detail.
"Garstairs?" Irena said.
"I was there this morning. Delivering Yuri and the boys to his workplace." Nadezhda remarked. "Guild of Assassins stables and horse training place."
Ponder sat up, excited.
"The girls learned to ride there. Johanna took them!"
They watched another magical discharge over Garstairs.
"Only a wizard or a witch can do that." Ponder said. "Not Assassins. Not grooms or stablehands. There's the answer, then. Bekki's at Garstairs."
"A place with stables." Irena said. "If she couldn't get to the Air Station, she still needed to get herself and Boetjie under cover. That's where she is. Where she learnt to ride as a little girl."
She reached for her communicator.
"Red Star to Control. Come in, Control."
~~Syren here. Report. Over.
"Red Star reporting. I am with Mother Hen on the ground at 18 Spa Lane, Nap Hill. Firebird is not here, but we have a definite fix on her location. We believe Firebird and her Pegasus are safely landed at the Assassins' Guild Equestrian Centre at Garstairs. We will now proceed there and give a definite confirmation. Over."
Irena heard cheering and relief in the background. It was a good feeling.
~~Good work, Red Star, Mother Hen. Retrieve Firebird, check on health of Pegasus, and bring her back to the Air Station as soon as. Syren over and out.
The two pilots quickly retrieved their valenki and their broomsticks.
"Sorry we can't stay, Ponder. But this is important." Irena said.
"I understand. Air Watch business." he agreed. "Can you, well, see she gets home for dinner tonight? Remind her she just managed to worry the hells out of her father and her little sister?"
"Da. And – that Ray system. We want it." Nadezhda said. "Was amazing."
Their next stop was Garstairs.
Irena looked sternly at the full wheelbarrow. And then at Bekki.
"Hope the Assassins pay you for two or three hours working as a stablegirl, devyuschka." she said. This was followed by a hug and a kiss.
Nadezhda looked at her, very sternly.
"No flying helmet. Improperly dressed." she said.
Bekki sighed.
"I have to report that I lost it somewhere over Ankh-Morpork, sergeant. It blew off in the wind."
"We know." Nadezhda said. "Pay will be docked for replacement."
Then she hugged Bekki and kissed her on both cheeks.
"When Fledgling falls out of nest, mother bird finds her." she said.
Yuri, a man Bekki now saw was a lot smaller than his wife, grinned broadly and with pride.
"That is my Nasedka." he said, sidestepping her disapproving glare. "Your Mother Hen."
Again, Bekki made a note to find out what "Nasedka" meant. She also stored away the mental image of Nadezhda, a woman taller, broader in the hip and wider about the bosom, and the dapper, below average-height, man she'd married. It was an interesting picture. She also wondered why she'd never, ever, pictured Nadezhda Popova as having a home life and a family. It had never even occurred to her that Sergeant Popova had a life outside the Air Watch. Then again, I was really surprised when I discovered Olga was married. I just never noticed.
She said goodbyes to the new friends she'd made, Mr Harvey-Smith said he'd try to get a message to the Guild so your mother knows, Gods knows how we'll get it there with the Clacks down but we'll certainly try, and we'll keep Boy-Ett-Key fed and watered till you come back for him, one more horse won't make a difference.
Then they were in the air again, Bekki on one of what both older witches described as a "remount" broom, stopping off initially at 18 Spa Lane just so your father and sister can see you're safe, devyushka. And for one other thing.
Godsmother Irena trooped Bekki upstairs to her bedroom, so she could drop off the pannier bags Boetjie had carried from Bitterfontein, and…
"I am going to stand here, devyushka, until you locate and put on the winter clothing Olga and I got for you. When you went to Lancre. Remember? You will find your ushanka, your telogreika, both the jacket and the trousers, and your valenki. Then, as they are no good sitting uselessly in a wardrobe, you will put them on."
Bekki found the winter clothing. As she donned it, she asked Irena
"err… Chto oznachayet «nasedka» po-rodinianski?"
Irena contemplated this. Bekki noted she had suddenly gone very poker-faced.
"Well. Usually the word only means "hen", in the sense of a mature egg-laying bird. But I notice you are asking me here, out of earshot of Sergeant Popova, who is downstairs demanding your father tells her more about how the marvellous ray-detector-machine works."
Irena paused for a moment.
"A woman who is "nasedka" can be a fussy over-protective mother to her children, she can be like a hen sitting on an egg, who will fight you if you try to take it. The word has a meaning of "broody" and "bad-tempered". I understand Yuri Timefeyovich uses it in good humour to Nadezhda, and she understands that well enough to tolerate it. I understand this is what is called "a good marriage", but what should I know, I'm single. Never been married."
For an instant Bekki detected a sense of melancholy in her Godsmother, but this passed too fast for her to get a proper fix on it.
Then she was dressed for winter flying, and they went downstairs together.
Bekki flew in between the two older and more experienced pilots on the cold and scary white-out flight to the Air Station. She was heartily glad to see the beacon lights exploding over the sky, visible through the ever-present snow in the air, and landed on a surprisingly clear deck. She sensed magic, a lot of magic, had been used to keep it clear.
Reporting in to Olga Romanoff, stern and severe, noting she was three hours late reporting for shift, handing back her lost flying helmet with "Don't lose this again, and fasten the bloody thing when you fly. How many times do we need to tell you?"
Then Olga smiled.
"Not your fault you were late, devyushka. There's no flying today until further notice, and therefore we have training classes pencilled in."
Olga rummaged, and handed over a rectangular box with a bronze casing, small enough to fit into a top pocket.
"I've decided. We only picked up Vasilisa by sheer fluke when she flew in today. It took three hours to find you. Therefore you are both getting communicators. The moment, the very moment, you arrive in Ankh-Morpork airspace from Howondaland, you will report to Control with your height, bearing and location. Without fail. So if things go wrong, we know where to find you."
Olga smiled again.
"Pegasi are valuable. I do not wish to lose even one. So your first lesson is how to use the communicator. Important, Firebird."
With nobody else in the CO's office, Olga gathered Bekki in for a hug.
"I won't say I wasn't worried." she admitted. "Welcome home, Firebird."
That's it for a long gruelling chapter. I sense it's a bit flawed but I won't be able to see where the glitchy bits are until it's up and published. And preferably after not looking at it for a day or two, so that I can see it with a clear head and see with a fresh eye where any problems are. Also setting up a theme raised by a reader who asked about Irena Politek's back-story and why, among the principal players of the Air Watch, she remains single and unattached while her contemporaries Olga and Nadezhda are both married with children. Romance will figure in forthcoming tales for various Air Witches and there's just a little foreshadowing here.
I will be back!
To be continued.
More soon!
(1) Look up British comedian Joe Wilkinson, who does a routine based on his persona as a looming, unkempt, heavily bearded, slightly menacing borderline nutter who you'd cross the road to avoid. Wilkinson's form of surreal non-sequeterial borderline lunacy is exactly the sort of persona I see Joe Busheyhead as having.
(2) The Prison Igor, its Medical Officer, had told Joe that this was agrophobia. To Joe "Lifer" Busheyhead, this was a load of old wahooney. He'd never been scared of aggro in his life. Not being scared of aggro was one of the reasons why he was in the Tanty, doin' life. But he did feel uneasy about being outside the prison. "Okay, just between you an' me, a bit worried. Alright then, scared. But I ain't admittin' it in front of any other cons, and if you tell anybody I said that, I'm gettin' intense, you get my meanin'?"
(3) From the Janitor Song (the Snow-Sweepers) by Otava Yo, seen from the point of view of those lowly people in Petrograd/Leningrad/St Petersburg, who in the middle of a Russian winter are tasked with shovelling and clearing snow from streets and pavements. A moment's thought will suggest this is a thankless and possibly futile endeavour. The lines quoted here are to do with endless, eternal and perpetual useless shovelling.
(4) Watch a typical YouTube video on Cossack horseriding, the kind of visually spectacular evolutions the public sees in equestrian displays, and then the practical and useful stuff involving the short sword, the long sword, the lance, and sometimes firearms. Substitute "crossbow" for "rifle" and this sort of thing explains why the Guild now employs a Cossack equestrian master, despite his not even being an Associate Member.
(5) Bekki took no offence. She thought this sort of thing was normal for teachers. They couldn't help it.
(6) He had become a model prisoner in his time in the Tanty, and something of an intellectual, reading everything the prison library could offer and requesting more books, so he could reflect on the nature of good and evil and Crime and Punishment while stuck in the House of the Dead. Oblamov had also been assured that on release, his swords would be given back to him, as Officer Popova and her boss Lieutenant Romanoff had made representations to the Patrician, citing cultural pathways and ethnic weapons. The Patrician had conceded that on release and exile from the City, a Cossack should have his weapons back, and had asked Commander Vimes to have them securely stored for the duration of a ten-year Tanty sentence. Oblamov was grateful this wasn't a Gulag. He'd heard the stories too.
(7) Slivenic and Karlic are varieties of marble found in Central Europe, mainly in the Czech Republic. Look, Troll names… after a while you have to go further for types of stone…
(8) He is persuaded to accept this position in Strandpiel Book one. Olga had been present at the same time to be one of the three Witches to make a wish, as is Traditional. Olga had wished for the child to travel far and wide and to be good at languages.
(9) Mrs Marietta Cosmopilite would tell anyone who listened about the savage tribal hordes from out of Far Überwald who would one day ride into the city, bent on rape and pillage, who would charge into your homes one day, and not even stop to stamp the snow off their boots. Sometimes she could get it half-right.
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.
Current reading: The current "Fortean Times" (FT403) has a really interesting account of a haunting in South Africa ('n geraas-spook? I'm also advised "poltergeist" also works fine in Afrikaans - well, a German word, universally taken up in other languages) where a Boer ghost does terrifying things in a remote plaas and has a particular downer on women with long hair. I have got to work this in as a task for Bekki in her Steading.
Also reading up on the history and development of radar, as the steampunk Discworld version figures in this tale, to see if any obvious puns and references can be worked in.
Vranyo – the Russian art of creative lying to avert/postpone trouble and to tell the people above you exactly what they want 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.
Каламбур - noun – kalambur - quibble, wordplay, play on words, equivoque, quirk
игра слов - noun - igra slov - play on words, quibble, wordplay, quirk, equivocality
каламбурить - verb - kalamburit', to pun
Looking for Russian characters from novels about prisons, crime and punishment (apart from Ivan Denisovich - too obvious):
Sergei Dovlatov – real person, spent his conscript service as a prison guard in the USSR both in city prisons and in the Gulags – he writes about the roles overlapping – "Almost any prisoner would have been suited to the role of a guard. Almost any guard deserved a prison term."
Dostoevsky and Pushkin – both ex-prisoners
"Crime and Punishment"
"Notes From The House of the Dead"
Brothers Karamazov?
Also… wrong bit of Africa, I know, but discovered Warangi – made in Uganda and nearby parts from banana wine, alcoholic drinks fermented from bananas.
Banana brandy, banana moonshine. Who would have thought it….one for a certain Librarian.
Dumping this here as the song is referenced: it has lots of blowing raspberries and rude noises and I suspect it is the sort of thing a Russian rugby team might appreciate. The video is fun – Otava Yo perform it dressed as lowly street-cleaners tasked with sweeping up snow in Leningrad/St Petersburg. It's done as slapstick silent-movie sort of humour.
Дворник – Dvornik – The Janitor/the Street-Cleaner, as performed by Otava Yo.
Original Russian:
В шубе, в шапке, в душегрейке дворник трубочку курил,
И, усевшись на скамейке, дворник снегу говорил:
Вир-вир-вир-вир бум-бум-бум-бум
Трррррр-ра-са-са, риласа, раласа, джумлай руды ра-ла-ла
Ты летаешь или таешь? Ничего тут не поймёшь!
Подметаешь, разметаешь, только без толку метёшь!
Да к чему ж я говорю? Сяду я, да покурю
Риласа, раласа, джумлай руды ра-ла-ла
Вир-вир-вир-вир бум-бум-бум-бум
Трррррр-ра-са-са, риласа, раласа, джумлай руды ра-ла-ла
Дворник трубку курит, курит и глаза от снега щурит
И вздыхает, и зевает, и внезапно засыпает
Вир-вир-вир-вир бум-бум-бум-бум
Трррррр-ра-са-са, риласа, раласа, джумлай руды ра-ла-ла
Transliteration:
V shube, v shapke, v dushegreyke dvornik trubochku kuril,
I, usevshis' na skameyke, dvornik snegu govoril:
Vir-vir-vir-vir bum-bum-bum-bum
Trrrrrr-ra-sa-sa, rilasa, ralasa, dzhumlay rudy ra-la-la
Ty letayesh' ili tayesh'? Nichego tut ne poymosh'!
Podmetayesh', razmetayesh', tol'ko bez tolku metosh'!
Da k chemu zh ya govoryu? Syadu ya, da pokuryu
Rilasa, ralasa, dzhumlay rudy ra-la-la
Vir-vir-vir-vir bum-bum-bum-bum
Trrrrrr-ra-sa-sa, rilasa, ralasa, dzhumlay rudy ra-la-la
Dvornik trubku kurit, kurit i glaza ot snega shchurit
I vzdykhayet, i zevayet, i vnezapno zasypayet
Vir-vir-vir-vir bum-bum-bum-bum
Trrrrrr-ra-sa-sa, rilasa, ralasa, dzhumlay rudy ra-la-la
Blind Idiot translation into English, backed with intuition and my growing but still minimal Russian:
In a fur coat, in a hat, in a shower jacket, the janitor smoked a pipe,
And, sitting down on a bench, the janitor said to the snow:
Veer-veer-veer-veer boom-boom-boom-boom
Trrrrrr-ra-sa-sa, rilasa, ralasa, jumlai ores ra-la-la
Are you flying or melting? You won't understand anything here!
You sweep, sweep, but sweep uselessly!
But why am I talking? I'll sit down and smoke
Rilasa, ralasa, jumlai ores ra-la-la
Veer-veer-veer-veer boom-boom-boom-boom
Trrrrrr-ra-sa-sa, rilasa, ralasa, jumlai ores ra-la-la
The janitor smokes a pipe, smokes and squints his eyes from the snow
And sighs, and yawns, and suddenly falls asleep
Veer-veer-veer-veer boom-boom-boom-boom
Trrrrrr-ra-sa-sa, rilasa, ralasa, jumlai ores ra-la-la