Strandpiel Book Two
Chapter Eight
Ice Station Ankh-Morpork
As always, this is V0.04. Still tracking and slaying typos and adding little bits. hopefully this is the final run. On first publication, it's still inserting a whole previous chapter into the new text - has to be an FF glitch as this is not in my word document... takes much editing!
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 –
We are still Snowbound in Ankh Morpork. Three chapters and we aren't even at ten in the morning yet. Here there will be broader glimpses of how the City deals with an extreme weather crisis. Some innovative thinking happens. Also revisiting some middle-ranking characters, more than one-liners and less than principals, who readers wanted to see again. Cameos by several people out of "Price of Flight" will feature. One character in particular appears to be on her way to becoming a reader favourite, so I've written her in even if, strictly speaking, she's only incidental to this tale. Enjoy!
10:00am at the Air Station, where an assortment of grounded Air Witches are making the best of things.
"Alright. Own up. Which of you silly cows went dancing with the Wintersmith?"
Sergeant Hanna von Strafenburg scowled across the loose ranks of Air Witches and ground staff who had gathered for a briefing and update on the Current Situation. She shouted for attention and silence, irked that she'd almost identified the joker.
The spluttered laughter was cut off quickly. Hanna nodded and eyeballed selected Witches.
"Achtung! The Commanding Officer is going to address you!"
To Hanna's right, the Commanding Officer, herself trying not to laugh, composed herself. Her senior ranks, Irena Politek, Nadezhda Popova and Nottie Garlick, stood with her.
"Whoever said that, not a good idea." Captain Olga Romanoff remarked. She didn't add there are Watch cadets here of twelve and thirteen. The Wintersmith is very likely to be out there somewhere. Do not draw his attention to a place where there are young witches of twelve and thirteen. Or else somebody may be tempted to dance, and we do not want that, do we?
Olga trusted that her more thoughtful Witches had probably worked that out for themselves, and there was no point invoking the Wintersmith by name or putting ideas into his head. That sort of thing led to trouble.
"I'll keep this quick." she said. "Some of you have been continuously here since seven yesterday evening. The emergency earlier this morning is over. You will leave, go to the crash room, and get some sleep. Overtime will be paid, and let me remind you that you are getting this for sleeping on the job. Good deal."
She nodded at Hanna. This includes you, Sergeant von Strafenburg. You should have gone off shift at seven this morning. Olga hoped she would not have to spell this out.
"All operational flying, except for absolute emergencies, is still suspended. We are all grounded."
There were the obligatory groans. Some were genuine: the Air Watch was composed of people who lived to fly. Some sounded relieved.
"I have training planned for you all. I have conferred with senior officers, and we have discussed where each of you might benefit. We have this time free from flying. We will use it."
Olga asked the Teks to attend, as far as they could, to routine maintenance, accepting that the broomsticks that had been flown this morning had suffered extraordinary battering and stresses. She congratulated Officer Dospanova for leading a lost Klatchian commercial flight into the City, and said she would mention this to Mr Vimes and the Patrician.
Bekki, to her discomfort, was called up to give an account of her flight into the City and the events that followed. Other Pegasus pilots present asked a lot of questions, and she tried to answer them as fully as she could concerning managing a Pegasus at sub-zero temperatures in a blizzard with vastly reduced visibility.
It felt like an interrogation. Bekki understood why. Other Pegasus pilots hadn't flown in these conditions before. This was sharing hard-won knowledge.
Yes, Boetjie was alarmed and needed calming. My Feegle, Wee Archie Aff The Midden, saw the danger and got us back into Feegle Space where I could think and add more layers of clothing, including gloves. There was no sign of Boetjie's wings icing up, although I did not want to be in the air for very long. I'd heard about normal horses breaking legs by mis-stepping in thick snow. A Pegasus might be damaged more by a bad landing in deep snow, with something as heavy as a Pegasus and its rider suddenly dropping by however far. I wanted to be sure I was landing on solid ground, not a snowdrift. I was sort of, err, reminded, that the riding stables where I learnt to ride were a couple of minutes flying time away. I saw the ground had been cleared back to the earth there. Lots of horses being walked between stables. I'd be landing on actual ground. Minimal risk.
She was aware of the girl Vasilisa watching her with great attention. Well, probably one Pegasus pilot at least knows about flying in deep snow.
"The only tricky thing about landing was that there were a lot of horses, and the grooms who were leading them, underneath me. I didn't want to spook the herd. I know how hard it is to calm a lot of horses when they spook."
"And dangerous." Sophie Rawlinson said.(1) "Horses get hurt in a stampede."
Sophie thought, and after a moment added "Grooms and people can get hurt, too."
"So I put up some blue coldfire." Bekki said. "I tried to spread it over as wide an area as I could. I thought if I used red or orange, that's so associated with an actual fire that it really would have panicked the horses below."
"Good point." Sophie agreed. "Blue light isn't natural. Strange enough to make horses curious, and people look up, but not threatening in any way."
"It really spread, though." Bekki said. "And it kind of sparkled."
"Low cloud cover." Olga Romanoff remarked. "And lots of snow in the air. You'd have been bouncing the light off a mirror, devyushka."
"Interesting to know." Corporal Stacey Matlock said. "I reckon that low cloud bounces it around and lights up a large area just enough. Diffuses it. Really efficient spellcasting." (2)
"We had the same effect from the beacon lights we were sending up here." Irena said. "They went up for a hundred or so feet and the light spread outwards. Probably the cloud, and the reflection through all the snow that was coming down."
"So we've all learnt something today." Olga said. "Any more questions for Firebird or Snowmaiden? No? Okay. Sergeant von Strafenburg, round up everyone who was on shift last night who's still here, and you can get them to a crash room. I don't want to see any of you in here again until she's had a few hours' sleep. Got that? Good."
Olga waited for the off-shift fliers to be marshalled and led out, then resumed the briefing.
"I'm assigning people to training, as follows. You will all get Communicator training if you've not already had it, but I want these people to be priority."
She read the assignments.
The Air Watch settled into training mode for the rest of the day.
A determined rider on a small shaggy black pony made his way down Legitimate Lane towards Chrononhotonthologos Street. He reckoned the going would be easier once he was on a main road, which must have some traffic on it by now that was beating the snow down, and making the going easier. For now, he was content to allow the sturdy little pony to make its own way through the drifting snow. He had the route clear in his head. Chrononhotonthologos all the way and over Maudlin Bridge onto Laywarts End, then right into Holofernes, then along major roads to his destination. A good three or four miles, but he had confidence in his mount, a horse that wasn't interested in speed, but could handle endurance. Especially in this weather.
The rider wrapped himself in his big warm black cloak, pulled his astrakhan perenka fur cap lower over his head, set his face into the snow, and plodded on.
Elsewhere
She moved in the strange place with confidence and assurance. Navigating the places beyond mundane normality, the spaces between spaces, was a part of her job description. She might have been thought of as a voyager, an explorer: she thought of it as an integral part of her life, the consequence of choices made before she had been born into the Discworld, of skills and aptitudes women in her family line had built and passed down to her in secret. Her great-grandmother had been one of the greatest and had interacted with not only the three accepted Gods of the Shaman, she had also encountered the Fourth, the most enigmatic and fleeting. One day she hoped to encounter the Fourth, and begin to learn its secrets.
She reflected she was still learning about the Three, as she moved through what she sensed was the world of Topacxi, god of smoke and mirrors.
Here she moved as the spirit moves in dreams, with no conscious sensation of the motion of legs and arms. This took focus and willed concentration, to maintain a sense of her essential self, the core of her being. Hard to do, when the herbal infusion needed to project herself into this place also stripped away that focus and made it more diffuse, more all- embracing.
Many male shamans didn't manage this and ended up burbling and dribbling in a groovy trip full of colour and sound. She put them out of her mind. She was going to do this properly, as her great-grandmother and grandmother had. If she met them, she just knew they'd express critical comment along the lines of "Didn't we teach you to be better at it than this, girl?" or "You're letting the family down!"
She sighed, resignedly. You had to keep your head completely clear in here and not let yourself be sidetracked. This meant taking just enough of the infusion to make the Crossing. Not the stupidly large amounts some of the male shamans habitually consumed. She suspected a lot of them did it for the trip and had lost sight of what they were actually meant to do while they were out here. You have a Vision Quest. You come back with an Insight. Of worth to the People as a whole, or to specific People who needed guidance, and most of all, for yourself.
And if you met Topacxi Himself, you had to remember he is a Trickster God who likes a laugh. Do not be the punchline.
She almost did not notice the white horse with wings and its riders.
Assessing, she decided not to reveal herself, at least not yet, and made the inward adjustment that allowed her to step in a direction that wasn't quite sideways, where she would be invisible to the rider.
You saw them, very occasionally, in the Realm of Smoke. The previous summer, she had brought Olga Anastacia here on a vision quest, and she had learnt they were a natural thing, from faraway Ankh-Morpork. Olga Anastacia had said this was a stopping-point outside the mundane world, where the little blue people who acted as Navigators adjusted course and then returned the horse with wings to the world, but in a different part of the world. No, she did not know how they did it, they guard the knowledge jealously.
She watched. Ah. This Pegasus-horse also had a little green man on it. For a moment she wondered if this was Topacxi Himself, but dismissed the thought. Topacxi did not swear like that, for one thing.
She watched, aware the rider was preparing herself to go back to a… cold place. She now recognised the rider. The one she had called Firebird, when they had met at the Gathering in the faraway place called Lancre. Witches from all over the Disc had gathered in that place. Lancre, she had realised, was a place of Power. She wondered if the witches who lived or trained there realised this. Did they take it for granted? Not even notice? Lancre, an incredible distance Turnwise, was a place of real Power.
Then she saw the older woman who was trying to make herself known, trying to speak to Firebird. She smiled in recognition. A guardian spirit from her family line. This was somebody else, then, who had Grandmothers. Just when you think they're gone, they come back. And this Grandmother was communicating to Firebird how to get out of her predicament.
The watcher relaxed. No need to reveal herself. She understood barely a word of the outlandish-sounding language they were speaking. Morporkian, which she was learning, was bad enough. It had hardly any common words, and the way it assembled made it frustratingly difficult. Olga Anastacia had said, feelingly, that this language was worse. Worse than Morporkian? Later, she'd travelled with Olga to Howondaland, where worse-than-Morporkian was spoken widely. Olga Anastacia had married a man from this country. She was having to learn it. Her children were growing up speaking it. She felt a sudden warmth, thinking of Valla and Vassily, hoping she'd see them again soon. Apparently the Morporkian word for a woman in this position charged with the welfare of children not her own was godsmother. She understood the concept.
The Traveller saw the old woman fade out of semi-reality in this space. She saw the white winged horse begin to canter, its hooves biting on seemingly nothing. Then the multicoloured magical flash, with octarine predominating, erupting, lingering, and vanishing. Olga had said this was Transition, back into the everyday world. The Watcher had no fears for Firebird. She was clever and resourceful: she'd find her way out of whatever peril that threatened. And Witches had to face their perils, pretty much alone, and spit in their eye. You would not be a Witch otherwise. Besides, a Grandmother had manifested to her.
She frowned. The infusion would be wearing off soon and she would be Returning. So far, the near-encounter with the Firebird apart, without any sort of tangible useful Insight. Maybe I'm trying too hard? Maybe this is a sign that I'll be meeting the Firebird again soon, in the everyday world, and the others, like Olga Anastacia and Irena Yannesovna?
She felt a change in the real world, a ripple, suggesting something was going to happen that would impact on her. It was brief, a shift in the balance, with no clue as to whether the Event it heralded was going to be tomorrow, next week, next month or next year. She sighed. All she could get was that Something was passing, its time in the world over, and it was ready to go.
"Nichevo." she said. Her voice echoed oddly.
She heard the other voice. Sudden, clear, and close.
"Perkele." it said. "You're a Ryssa. First real person I meet in this place and you're a Ryssa."
The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork.
Lord Vetinari, hands clasped behind his back, looked out of the window and reflected that at this moment there wasn't really much to observe, other than swirling curtains of white. Periodically, there had been diffuse lingering eruptions of light in various colours, coming from the direction of the Isle of Gods.
"Drumknott." he said, eventually, "I require the following people for a short conference. Commander Vimes of the Watch. The Postmaster-General and Master of the Royal Mint. Miss Adora Belle Dearheart. Sir Richard Simnel."
Rufus Drumknott paused and listened for more names. None were forthcoming.
"No great rush, sir?" he asked.
"No great rush." Vetinari agreed. "You know, Drumknott, when I saw that moment of hesitation on your face just now, I'm surprised that you haven't asked me how we can get these people here."
Drumknott sighed. He assembled his argument meticulously.
"Sir, Commander Vimes makes it his business to have the Watch walk the city in all weathers. He prides himself on it. Miss Dearheart has Golems at her disposal. I rather suspect that Mr von Lipwig could talk to the storm and persuade it to part in front of him, and allow him unimpeded progress. The difficulty I foresee is not so much getting them here, as in alerting them to the fact they're needed here."
Vetinari raised an eyebrow.
"The Clacks is down, sir. And normal movement around the City is severely impacted."
"There, Drumknott, you put your finger firmly on the issues." Vetinari replied. "There is a need to get the City moving again. The Post Office cannot deliver. The Clacks cannot communicate. The roads are largely impassable. I require consultation with the key people to ascertain how they propose to remedy these things. Therefore, they need to be here."
He raised an eyebrow slightly as two large, opalescent, lights appeared in the sky, moving with purpose. Even through the whirling snow they were distinct, like extra moons.
"For my interest, Drumknott. Discover what the Ankh-Morpork Unidentified Flying Object Research Association is currently thinking. On a day like this, some amusement is permissible."
Drumknott dutifully wrote AMUFORA on his pad.
"Large lights in the sky, sir." he remarked. "Visible through the snow."
"Possibly visitors from another world." Vetinari said, drily. "The possibility can never be excluded. The ladies and gentlemen – in the main, gentlemen – of the AMUFORA serve a valid purpose in tirelessly speculating on this possibility, and I would not like to deprive them of the pleasure they find therein. However, my thoughts turn to the more likely probability that this is down to the ladies of the Air Watch."
He smiled, a slight restrained smile.
"Add Captain Romanoff to the list, would you, Drumknott?"
"Very good, sir."
Vetinari went to the window, and, incredibly, opened it. The swirling snow found its way into the Oblong Office as the Patrician spoke into the air. There was, almost inaudibly over the howl of the wind, an acknowledgement in a non-human voice. Satisfied, the Patrician closed the window again, and fastidiously brushed snow off his clothing.
Drumknott looked on.
"Shall I brief other operatives, sir?"
"Please do. Use them to run messages to the named people."
The Air Station.
Olga Romanoff took the opportunity to expand her own knowledge base with a little training of her own. Knowing the rest of the duty Air Watch were occupied with gainful training, she found herself with Nadezhda Popova out on the flight-deck. A very light dusting of snow was present, but the descending flurries were not so much landing and melting off, as avoiding the area altogether.
This was allowing an island of relative calm in the blizzard in which Olga and Nadezhda were conferring. Olga was impressed: she knew Hanna had a natural affinity for magics involving snow, ice and cold, but still wanted to know how she had done it. The snow-clearing spell she had applied several hours previously was still holding fast.
"You've demonstrated your ideas work, Nadezhda." Olga said. "I know I said not to do this until we can evaluate the risk involved and find out where the snags are. However, there was an emergency where there was no choice. Now we know your magics work. I thank you. What I want you to do now is to teach me."
"Horoscho." Nadezhda replied, trying to look impassive rather than smug. She indicated the ME-110 two-seater they'd drawn from the hangar.
"You get in front. Pilot's seat. I will instruct from the back. Standard procedure."
After a while, and clearance from Ynci Control, the two-seater took off, the flattened opalescent globe forming around the broomstick and its two aircrew, and it started to perform careful circuits in the air above Pseudopolis Yard.
~~Sneguroshka to Ynci Control. Report that I am at…angels two… over main reception area overlooking empty hallway. Can see Fred Colon at desk trying to look busy and reading what looks like copy of Girls, Giggles and Garters. Now he is looking both ways to see who watches, and is unfolding central spread involving girl with back problems because of large bosoms. He is not thinking to look up to upper gallery behind him, where I am overlooking. Over.
"Ynci Control to SnowMaiden. Amusing, Vasilisa, but remember the briefing? Keep it brief, accurate and relevant? No un-necessary chatter? Over."
Sergeant Nottie Garlick smiled. She'd drawn Control for a couple of hours, to supervise the Air Witches being trained to use the communicators. It was an easy duty. She had to train them in the jargon, the protocols and the procedures. As this could not be done under live conditions in the air, the trainees had been ordered to move around the inside of Pseudopolis Yard, to pretend they were in the air, and to make and receive comms calls as they moved.
"Ynci Control to Officer Myers. Report current height and position. And have you thought up a call-sign yet? Over."
~~ Kakapo to Ynci Control. Am currently at angels minus three in the Surgery and have RV'd with Igor. Over.
Nottie winced. Unable to actually fly, and needing to convey the essential protocols, the trainees had been advised to view every flight of stairs as an Angel and to take the point of view that every ascent or descent was like climbing or descending for a thousand feet. The problem was, the Yard also had basements and cellars. Anyone at minus three angels in real life would either be in real trouble, or else stunt-flying in a Dwarf mine. And what's the betting some crazy bugger would try that just to say she's flown at minus five angels- and lived?
"Ynci Control here. Received. And what's a kakapo? You know what Captain Romanoff said about bad-taste or swear word callsigns. No Betty Swallocks. No Ophelia Buttock. No Mary Hinge. Not allowed. Over."
~~Kakapo to Ynci Control. Strewth, Nottie. A kakapo is a sort of parrot from back home. If I'd called myself Oozulum Bird(3), Syren would give me strife when she found out. Over.
"Ynci Control to …Parrot. Message received. Oh, and when Hanna realises the person who made that crack about dancing with the Win... dancing…. has a Foggy Islands accent, you do know you'll be on stable duty for a fortnight? Over."
~~Got it, Ynci Control. Actually, report from Igor: he thinks when things get moving out there, there's going to be a shitload of people with slips, falls, sprains, bruises, possibly broken bones, definite exposure. If they can't get to the Lady Sybil that means the Watch picks up the slack, so he's suggesting we put a duty team in the Surgery. You know, normal Witch stuff. He wants to run a few refreshers in basic first aid for everyone, asking if we should attend? Sounds like a good idea. Kakapo out.
"Acknowledged, Parrot… Kakapo. I'll run it past Syren. Ynci Control out. Firebird, this is Ynci Control. Report. Over."
~~Firebird here, Ynci Control. Report current location is Angels Zero in the Watch canteen. Over.
"Ynci Control to Firebird. That sounded a little bit indistinct, Firebird. What are you eating? Over."
~~Firebird to Ynci Control. Mrs Swindells heard about this morning. She insisted on my warming up, and made me some hot soup and a mug of tea, I couldn't say no, Ynci. Firebird out.
Nottie took a deep breath. Mrs Swindells, the canteen cook, was a grandmotherly woman who fussed over people. She took pride in getting into work whatever the weather, and of course she fussed over "all those young girls in the Air Watch". A little voice in her head wondered if Bekki might in some small way have been aware of this and was taking advantage.
Nottie let this one go, and caught a movement in her peripheral vision. A sleek well-groomed black rat was perched on the edge of the control desk, looking at her with intelligent eyes. She glared at it.
"If you can't talk, you're in deep trouble." Nottie advised the rat.
"Lucky for me I can talk, then." the rat said. "You in charge round here, missus?"
Nottie indicated that she was. For the moment. If the rat wanted Captain Romanoff, she was in the air.
"Just the woman, then." the rat said. "Boss wants Captain Romanoff and Commander Vimes up the Palace. Toot sweet."
Nottie glared at Vetinari's messenger rat again.
"How the Hells does he expect Mr Vimes to get there?" she asked.
The rat shrugged.
"Well, I got here through the sewers, mainly. Not so bad down there. Everything's froze up, so hardly any smell. Or mess."
The rat looked at her mug, speculatively.
"Saucer of tea would be nice." it said. "Three sugars. It's still bloody cold down there. Freezes the fruit off you."
The rat communicated a few more advisory messages from the Patrician. Nottie made arrangements.
Elsewhere:-
The Watcher in the Otherworld turned her head, in a necessarily lazy and languorous way, attempting to track the source of the voice.
She saw somebody who seemed human, taking the form of a young woman wrapped up in thick winter clothing, including gaudily multicoloured woollens and a soft-peaked hat with a bobbly point that flopped over. Once you got past hair that was so blonde it was practically white, you realised she was still only in her twenties. The nearly-white hair just made her look a lot older. She was petite, with a wiry energetic look, and tended to grin in a disconcerting way.
"Swommi." the Watcher remarked. She came from a place a long way away. But she'd heard about Swommis. They did the shaman thing too, she knew. You saw them in the Otherworlds from time to time.
"Juuu." the girl drawled. "Let me see. Riding boots as if you just hop off horse. Long black coat. White tunic under coat. Belt, with places where swords go. Ryssa. Cossack."
"Da." the Watcher said. "You speak good Rodinian. Not many foreign people manage that."
The white-haired pixie preened, trying to look modest.
"Worked with your people in Ankh-Morpork." she said. "Learned from them. Good friend called Tatiana. She dead now. Miss her. Also met Old Boot-Face. We married. Moved to Swommi country together. Have farm and herd. Good life. I learn Ruski language from Boot-Face. Boot-face learn Swommi language from me. It works."
The Watcher knew she had to reciprocate. To freely trade information.
"I am from the Cossack people of the Vulga River. From birth I am a shamanskaya, shamanka. Some things, you are born to. My grandmothers were shamanskaya who lived to great ages, and taught me the footsteps. They showed me where the doors are. And I am also ved'ma. Witch."
"Juu." The pixie said. "Thought I'd just be herding reindeer all my life. Did not like that much. Reindeer are interesting, but not that interesting. Then Old Woman Louhi showed up. Said to parents, give me girl. She is noita. Nobody refuses Old Woman Louhi. I was given to her. Learned to be noita. Witch."
"I'm just betting that was a learning experience for both of you." the Watcher said, trying to visualise the manic fidgeting pixie-girl as a child.
"Juuu. I was idiootti tyttö, I was kiinnitä huomiota, tyttö!, I was Haluatko tehdä minut hulluksi, tyttö? And I was Muistuta, miksi hyväksyin sinut opiskelijaksi, tyttö.(4) Think Old Woman Louhi was relieved when this woman, Miss Tick, turned up to take me to Lancre. Miss Tick even more relieved to pass me to Lancre witches for more training. Learnt to fly there. Good memories."
"I visited there last summer." the Watcher said. "It is an interesting place."
"Must be reason why we have met." the pixie said. "We do not know each other in normal world. The rest of ourselves is in places thousands of miles apart. I am wondering what is reason."
"I agree. There must be a place, an idea, a person perhaps. That we both know."
"Juu." said the manic one. She drawled the single syllable out for a long way. "I almost trust you, Ryssa. I am tempted to reveal name-soul."
"I also."
They smiled at each other. Names had power. A Witch's name had power. In this place where different rules applied, speaking your true name had repercussions. You had to be sure who of you were talking to.
"I am feeling as if I will soon be drawn back to where my body is." the Watcher said, apologetically. "It would be a shame to go without having worked out this mystery."
"I agree." said the Swommi. "More of the story? I learn fly in Lancre. Something Old Woman Louhi could not teach. I meet woman called Olga. She recruited me to Air Watch in Ankh-Morpork. Many times I see expression on her face like that on face of Old Woman Louhi, Miss Tick, or Miss Dimity Hubbub."
"Ah. Now we get somewhere. Olga Anastacia Romanoff? I know her. She is friend." The Watcher had a flashed mental image of Olga, in the sky on a broomstick, fighting gales and driving snow. She frowned. There had been a glimpse of two people on the stick, but it had come and gone too quickly to identify the second person. Nichevo.
"There is our link." the pixie said. "Olga was okay when she was just Air Constable. She was laugh. Fun. Then she gets cursed with promotion. When I left Air Watch after fighting with tummattontut, she was Lieutenant. Hear she is Captain now. Probably even more constipated. Shame."
"She told me about fighting with the Servants of Koschei. That several good people left the Air Watch then."
"Perkele. Boot-Face was finished as fighting pilot. I would have remained. But Boot-Face…"
The Watcher looked on, sympathetically. It was easy to read the unsaid out here. Without the muffling layers of body, spill-words almost wrote themselves in the air. Especially where strong emotion was concerned.
"It is alright. There are women I know in the Cossack host who have similar closenesses. My people are conservative. They do not welcome such things. I do what I can to shield and protect and keep secrets."
"Huh. Men. Full of paska."
She grinned.
"I trust you, Ryssa. Boot-Face is my friend. Like sister, like favourite aunt, sometimes like mother. Keeps me warm in bed on cold night. Is a little bit cold in Swommi country right now. But nights are pleasant."
She grinned.
"Deep snow on ground. Herd is in pens. Stuck in house, nothing to do. Had to get out. Somehow. Chose this way. And you?"
The dark-haired woman in black shook her head.
"Nyet. I live and sleep alone. By choice." she replied.
"So who guards body? Old Woman Louhi taught me to walk the ways. She said when you walk the high airs of Ukko or the dark ways of Tuonela, you hide your trail, that nothing can walk it the other way. And I lived in Ankh-Morpork, where you make sure all windows are closed and all doors locked when you leave house. So nothing can enter while you are Out."
The Watcher considered this.
"My brother is Cossack warrior. He and his brothers in the sotnia guard my camp. That none may approach from outside. To them, it is sacred duty. Inside, as you say, I have checked all doors, windows and chimney flues. Guards outside, guards inside."
"And my Boot-Face guards me. With her life. I know that truly."
The girl grinned, and held out a hand.
"My name-soul is Kiiki Pekkisaalen. I trust you, Ryssa."
The Watcher took the hand. Here, it felt solid and warm.
"I am Xenia Drugoymirovna Galena. Xenia Galena. I now believe that through a mutual friend, we will meet again in the everyday world. It is inevitable."
"I look forward to this, Ryssa. I will bring vodka."
A little while later, both Returned.
Ankh-Morpork:-
Nottie had relayed the message via Comms. Olga Romanoff restrained a curse. This was the downside of comms: you were instantly available.
"Change of plan, Nadezhda." she shouted, over the gale.
"Da. Patrician's Palace it is. It is a short journey."
Olga set off, angling to around forty-five degrees in bearing for the short hop across the city. To her surprise, she felt the tug as Nadezhda, her instructor, took back control of the stick. She concealed irritation. Nadezhda had every right to do this.
"What was I getting wrong?" she called.
"Nothing. You are a good pupil. But this is more important. Vetinari can wait a few moments."
Nadezhda Popova circled the broom, going lower. She was looking down, searching. Olga wondered what was so important. Then she saw one of the few things moving on the ground in the driving snow was a small black pony, its rider hunched in the saddle. Olga watched. The rider looked as if he was in control and not in difficulties. The horse maintained a steady plodding pace. The scene was very familiar. But not what she expected to see in Ankh-Morpork, oddly out of place…
Cossack. A boy… then she realised. Nadezhda circled for a while until she was certain the boy had seen her. Their journey resumed.
"Yuri. My son." Nadezhda explained. "His father had one of his notions. I was not happy, but I had to agree. I wanted him to know I was watching over him."
Olga considered Cossack traditions.
"At least it's happening here. In a city. Not somewhere out in Siber'ya." she said.
"Da. But I'm still not happy. Yuri, however, has to do this. And at least there is a purpose to it. Not just stupid bone-headed male Cossack macho."
A little later, they arrived at the Palace.
Sam Vimes walked unhurriedly up to the Air Station. He asked who was in charge right now.
"I'm on Control." Nottie Garlick reflected. "But Irena's senior officer. She's leading a training class, Mr Vimes. Up in the crewroom."
"Thanks." Vimes said.
He waited until Irena had finished demonstrating how to attach a drone carpet to a Pegasus, noting that somehow they'd got hold of one of those lifesize horse mannequins that tack shops used to display their wares on. Then they'd somehow got it up here. He gave the Air Watch full marks for ingenuity.
"Corporal Matlock, please take over." Irena said, walking out with Vimes.
"Irena, I need to get to the Palace." Vimes said. "bloody Vetinari wants a conference. Have you got a pilot who's trained for one of those bad-weather brooms?"
"Just me, at the moment." Irena said, considering. "Olga had to rush off to the Palace too, Nadezhda's ferrying her. So Vetinari sent you a Rat?"
Vimes shook his head.
"Got my invite via Gargoyle." he said. "Apparently Vetinari stuck his head outside the window and got a Palace gargoyle to put the shout out. Wondered why they were singing. Thought it was just their sort of weather. Anyway, it got as far as Constable Downspout, and he came in and told me."
"Get a good cloak, Mr Vimes. It's cold up there. I'll tell Nottie we're off and then I'll book out a two-seater."
She grinned at him.
"They've actually got seats." she said. "New-fangled-thinking with regard to broomstick design."
Vetinari's instructions at the Palace were short and sweet. As the Air Watch had impressive all-weather capacity, albeit with only a handful of pilots currently trained to use it, he required the following people to be brought to the Palace, thus bypassing the snowed-in roads and the continuing storm. If the three of you could do that, with no great rush? Thank you. Vimes, I need you to remain.
"We'll do one each." Olga decided. "At least for two of them, it's only one visit."
"I will need to refuel first." Nadezhda said. "We were training on this broom for some time."
"Da. We return to the Air Station first. I want no accidents."
Olga went with Nadezhda, each on a two-seater, to pick up the married couple. She knew that Adora Belle Dearheart could get a bit acerbic if disturbed by uniformed government personnel, and she wanted no misunderstandings. Some situations not only called for diplomacy, they shouted for it.
Irena got to collect Dick Simnel, the railway man. As she'd expected, she found him in a marshalling yard, keeping the Rail Ways going. Her problem was that he was excited by the magitek used to power the broomsticks and he was asking lots of questions about it. He was keen to know if the spell used to stop the bristles icing up in flight could be used on Rail Way tracks, as he foresaw a build-up of ice on tracks that might mean train and carriage wheels could lose traction. Don't get me wrong, an engineering solution with no magic involved at all would be best, like. But till we can come up with one, can we adapt yours? Irena tried to answer his questions, but she pointed out this could, perhaps, best be done at the Palace, rather than standing in thick snow and a howling gale on a Rail Way embankment?
Eventually a crisis committee convened. Vetinari combined this with such pressing other work as needed to be done.
The Assassins' Guild, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork:-
The rider on the black shaggy pony reached his destination, with some relief. He steeled himself, and rode in through the gateway, the one where the gate never closed. Ever.
His father had told him there would be a Gate Guardian on the left as he rode in. He saw it instantly; the porters' lodge. Beyond that, he could see into a large open courtyard, with a portico'd walkway along two sides. People in black were moving in there, out of the snow. Yuri wondered if the snow would ever end. It was still coming down and piling in large soft uneven drifts, with the wind picking up fallen snow and driving it into the air again.
And in my parents' country, it is like this for a large part of the year? Yuri thought.
It explained his parents. Mum and Dad had been embarrassing that morning. They'd run out into it playing, as if they'd suddenly lost three decades, laughing and throwing snowballs at each other in a blizzard. They'd also been actually kissing each other. It was embarrassing. Not how parents should behave.
What do you mean, their country? Siber'ya is your country too. The Homeland.
Yuri heard the insistent little voice in his head. It had spoken in Rodinian. He made himself counter in Morporkian.
Home is here. In Ankh-Morpork. Not the Vortex Plains. This city is my Homeland.
"Yes?" a voice said from his left. It wasn't especially sympathetic. "You should have come in at the back door, lad, if you're a tradesman."
Yuri heard adult. Part of him wanted to say "Yes sir. Sorry sir." And ask where the back door was. Instead he remembered what his father had told him, and that he was a Cossack, from a proud warrior Host.
"Nyet." he said. From the back of the pony, he could look the big black-clad man in such face as was visible under the bowler hat. In his peripheral vision, he saw a black-clad shape, bundled against the cold, approaching. It might have been a woman, possibly. Hard to tell.
"I have ridden here from the Equestrian Centre at Garstairs. My father, Yuri Timofeyevich Yermak, is staff there. He said to tell you that I have messages for the Dark Council."
The bowler hat assessed him, and nodded.
"Hop off the horse, lad, and come in the lodge? You'll need to sign the visitor's book."
He looped his horse's reins round a convenient drainpipe, patted his neck and muzzle in thanks, then went into the Lodge. The porter checked the clock and filled in most of a line in the book.
"Just here, lad." he said.
Yuri felt, in an obscure sort of way, as if he deserved less off-hand treatment after slogging through the snow and the wind for over an hour to get there. He deliberately signed the book, in large careful cursive letters, with Юрий Юрьевич Ермак.
The porter sighed.
"In Morporkian, lad." he said.
Yuri, his point having been made, added Yuri Yureyevich Yermak in Morporkian script.
"Three Y's, I see." an amused voice said to his right. Yuri jumped.
"You're the young chap who's been offered a place here, aren't you? Yuri Yermak's boy."
Yuri looked to his right and up. He decided respect was the appropriate approach here.
"That is so, ma'am". he said. "Father is a teacher here. He is for it. However, Mother is City Watch. She is opposed."
The porter cleared his throat.
"The lad's rode in from Garstairs, ma'am, with messages for the Dark Council. I was about to say if he leaves them here, we'll see they get to the right people."
"Just rode all the way from Garstairs?" the woman said. She scrutinised Yuri with, he realised, the look of an intelligent vulture. "In this muck?"
"Yes, ma'am." Yuri said.
She smiled at the porters.
"I think, Mr Maroon, in the circumstances, this young chap is entitled to deliver his report to the Dark Council in person, don't you think? Lots of expensive and hard to replace horses at Garstairs, for one thing. Clacks down. We need updates. Preferably, an eyewitness. And still no mail, I see. Wasn't expecting to see any, but you have to check."
She smiled at him.
"Hope your mother sees sense." she remarked. "A lad who'll ride for hours in this filth is demonstrating something worth bringing on, I think. As I recall, you're pencilled in for Viper House. Mr Nivor is Housemaster. He'll be interested in meeting you. Come with me."
Yuri walked on with the woman who he now knew was Dame Joan Sanderson-Reeves, the Deputy Guild Mistress, and wondered if he would end up here as a pupil. He'd passed a couple of proficiency tests, and Dad, as Guild staff, got a good deal on school fees. It was an exciting prospect.
It meant he would be in Ankh-Morpork for the greater part of the year, and time spent in Syber'ya was therefore limited.
The Patrician's Palace. Early afternoon.
Vetinari kept it short and to the point. The City had been paralysed by the worst snowfall in twenty years. He trusted that no wolves had come into the city seeking shelter…apart from Captain Angua, Vimes. We know about her.
We have one million and three hundred thousand people, give or take a few thousand. They require feeding. Food supplies have been interrupted. We make things. We sell those things. The ability of people to get to their places of work has been interrupted. We depend on the free interchange of information, every bit as crucial to our economy. The Clacks is down. The Post Office is curtailed in its activities. And yes, Mr Lipwig, I know your few golem and troll deliverymen have been performing heroically. Unfortunately, there are not nearly enough of them. The Watch is maintaining some street patrols, and the Air Watch is rolling out training for cold-weather flying as a matter of immediate priority, so as to get units into the air. You are all key people. How can you get this city moving again, before we see unrest beginning?
"No great rush." Vetinari concluded.
"Actually, sir," Dick Simnel said, "We had a few unavoidable delays overnight. And first thing, as this sort of took us by surprise, like. Anyhow, we had a quick think, and we've been bolting snow-plough devices to the front of the engines. Took a bit of organisation, but they're cutting through the snow on the tracks a reet treat. Reckon we're getting all our trains through the city now. Problem is…"
Simnel looked grave.
"Sir, half the city's freight comes in by rail now. We're stuck for people to unload, on account of folk not being able to get into work. And what we can unload is piling up as the usual carts can't get in to collect. Stationmaster tells us we're sending freight rakes into the sidings, and they're just standing there. We're soon going to run out of sidings. And freight wagons."
"So we need the roads cleared to the railway stations and freight yards." Sam Vimes grated. "Then the carters need to get in and start moving the backlog."
"To shops, markets, and so on." Adora Belle Dearheart said. "Noticed we were out of bread and milk this morning."
She paused, and added
"I'm almost out of cigarettes. That's serious."
There was a thoughtful silence.
"I know this is of no immediate help." Olga said. "But from ten thousand feet up, we see things which are not apparent at ground level. A week ago the skies were blue and cloudless, which is rare for January. Five days ago we began seeing black cloud on the horizons on both sides. Two days ago it was closing in fast. My forward stations in Chirm and Lancre reported in, that very heavy snow was falling in both places. I took the decision to evacuate the skeleton staff at the Chirm Station, which was fast becoming snowed in. Then the weather they were experiencing two days ago, which Lancre advised me was fuelled by Turnwise winds, arrived here."
"And your point is, Olga?" Sam Vimes asked.
"We knew this was coming. We were able to make some preparations. But we did not know how bad or how long. We were acting in isolation. I am told, indirectly, the weather-wizards at the University also knew in advance this was going to be bad. But they saw it as of academic interest only. They did not think to tell anyone. We of the Air Watch did not adequately communicate what we knew. For one thing, who do we communicate it to?"
She looked at the Patrician.
"Sir, we need some sort of central weather office. Something that brings together the reports from all sources. To pool knowledge and expertise. Perhaps, Miss Dearheart, Clacks stations could send regular weather reports? To a central office that can analyse the information, look for patterns, make predictions? You are ideally placed for this work. My Pegasus pilots, too, can return weather reports as they return from overseas missions. Ask the Klatchians who fly commercial carpets to assist, and share our information with Klatch. I believe they will assist; overnight they nearly lost a passenger flight, because its crew was not forewarned. The more we know, the better prepared we are."
"An interesting idea, Captain Romanoff." Vetinari said. He steepled his fingers. "Outgoing Pegasus flights for today are cancelled. I accept that in these weather conditions it is too dangerous to send them out and nearly impossible to safely retrieve them. Had we known this in advance, we could have made alternative arrangements, and advised the hosts at their destinations accordingly."
He paused and reflected.
"Drumknott, identify the key wizards, would you? Have Professor Stibbons bring them here for a little chat. As to how we can learn from this situation and improve our response in the future. Thank you."
He looked searchingly at Olga. Then to Moist von Lipwig.
"The location of the Umnian Golems is still a secret?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Then let Captain Romanoff and her pilots in on the secret. I require you to do what was agreed for a time of great need. You are to reanimate one hundred of them, to begin with. Use them to augment such City golems as Miss Dearheart can provide, and have them clearing the roads to allow traffic to proceed. Captain Romanoff, fly Mr Lipwig and Miss Dearheart to a place of their choosing. They will direct you."
He smiled benevolently at Moist and Adora.
"You were prudent enough to wrap up warm, I see. Good. The sooner those golems are animated, the sooner you will be back in the warm."
"Sergeant Popova. We'll fly them." Olga directed.
"Which leaves you, Lieutenant Politek." Vetinari remarked. "I wish you to fly to the Times' offices. I haven't seen an edition today, so remind them a lot of people will be missing the crosswords and puzzles. Advise Mr de Worde from me that the roads will be clear by five even if the snow persists. Therefore I would like to see an edition in the streets and in the usual outlets by six. Also, I require one of you to visit the Guild of Town Criers. In the absence of newspapers, for now, they are to be reminded there is still a place for them. Their members will be issued a digest of what to announce, naturally."
"That the roads are being cleared, you can now get to work, if you're a carter, saddle up and get to a railway station or a warehouse to get stuff moving, if you're a shopkeeper, open up and await deliveries." Vimes said. "On it, sir."
"Capital." Vetinari said. "We have a city to defrost. Let us get to it."
The Assassins' Guild, Filigree Street.
The boy who had brought the reports from Garstairs was led into the Master's Office. It wasn't a full Dark Council meeting by any means. Such senior Assassins who had made it into the Guild were gathered here discussing the Current Situation. Only six actually were Dark Council: the rest were long-standing School teachers who had been brought in to add their opinions to the discussion.
Yuri and his guide stood to one side as a plan of action was agreed concerning Delivery of Education with only half the rostered teaching staff there to do the delivery. A tall and forceful woman identified as Miss Band was agreeing that all edificeering lessons could be cancelled for the day, in the circumstances. It's not that they don't need to know how to climb buildings in weather like this. It was just, in the opinion of Miss Band, that a few would inevitably fall off, which meant there'd be messes to clean up as well as too much un-necessary paperwork afterwards. Miss Band was agreeing to help cover a couple of informal language classes indoors as well as History.
They looked up as Dame Joan led Yuri in. She patted his shoulder reassuringly.
"No mail, Master. But I found this young chap just arriving. Rode here all the way from Garstairs with messages from Mr Harvey Smith. Impressive achievement, on a day like this. Oh, and did I mention he's Yuri Yermak's eldest boy?"
Yuri was welcomed by the kindly-seeming old man, who had the look of a Church Patriarch or a Metropolitan about him… okay, a priest or a bishop - and handed over the written reports he'd been charged to deliver. The old seeming-priest read one, raised an eyebrow, and passed it down the line to the older woman, a little older than Mum, the one with vivid red hair, who read it and smiled.
She passed it on to Dame Joan, who raised an eyebrow.
"Capable gel, Rebecka." she said. "Resourceful. Determined. Always thought if she didn't have magic, she'd have thrived here."
"Better behaved than the one we did get." somebody muttered.
The older red-haired woman concealed the beginnings of a laugh. It looked as if it was combined with a suspicion of embarrassment.
Yuri was then invited to give a verbal report on conditions prevailing at Garstairs. The fact he and his brother had got there to help out was noted and thanked. Miss Garyanova's presence was approved of. Prevailing opinion was that she should get some sort of thank-you gratuity for her initiative.
Eventually he was thanked for his actions and it was noted that as his father was a Guild teacher, somebody who was well thought of and respected, the standard approach had been made concerning a subsidised School place for at least one child. Do you think you'd be happy as a student here, young man?
Yuri said he would feel delighted to study here, sir, and that the School looked like a really good place to be.
Lord Downey smiled benevolently.
"We just need to prepare messages for you to take back, young man. But I'm sure you could do with a chance to get warm and have a hot drink. Food, too."
He looked down the table. The red-haired woman nodded at Downey.
"Doctor Smith-Rhodes, could you attend? Thank you."
"Thank you, sir. But I must also see to my horse, that he is being looked after."
"We cen do thet." the red-haired woman said, in her strangely clipped accent that sounded as if all the vowel sounds had been cut out, shaken around in a bag, and randomly reinserted into her words.
She stood up, and took Yuri by the hand.
After they had gone, Yuri was discussed.
"Impressive. Not even eleven."
"Cossack, though. Yuri's lad. You've met Yuri? One Hells of a riding teacher."
"You're telling me! The things he teaches about lance skills, for instance. Remember young Mariella Smith-Rhodes? She was an absolute natural for cavalry lances."
"Hmmph. Gel kebabbed this villain on a lance. Right through his chest. And she was barely thirteen." (5) Joan remarked.
"And compared to the things Yuri teaches people to do with a lance, Mariella would be a complete novice."
"He's pencilled in for Viper House, isn't he?" Downey asked.
"Yes, Master." Joan confirmed. She dealt with what were called advance bookings in the stock books. "The problem is that while his father's all for it, the mother's a bit opposed. She's a Sergeant in the Air Watch. Long-standing City Watch. So she's absorbed what you might call the full Sam Vimes set of prejudices against us. Which is a bit of a nuisance."
Downey considered this.
"Johanna knows the senior Air Watch ranks socially." he mused. "And Lady Romanoff is willing, or at least resigned, to her own son coming here in due course. Perhaps Johanna could raise this with Lady Olga, to see if she could soften her sergeant's opposition?"
Joan snorted.
"From what I know about Sergeant Popova, Master, she's a total she-bear about her children. Fiercely protective. She also has responsibility for the Watch Cadets. Those young gels, new Witches, the Air Watch are schooling and bringing on. Does dem well at it too, by all accounts. And as far as she's concerned, they're her daughters too. Threaten one and you get their mother hen leaping into your face with a very sharp beak. And I know they don't use hens in cockfighting. This one hasn't heard or doesn't care, as by all accounts she's got damn sharp spurs on her heels and she's willing to use them. Rodinian, of course."
Downey considered this.
"We'll ask Johanna to make a discreet approach and speak to the mother, to try to persuade her." he said. "The young man we've just seen has potential. Too good to lose."
From the Ankh-Morpork Times, evening edition:-
Reaction to today's events, unseen in this city except in the memories of decades ago, has taken many forms. We at the Times always welcome submissions from readers with a view to possible publication. Even so, we were surprised when a delegation from AMUFORA, the Ankh-Morpork Unidentified Flying Object Research Association, braved the extreme weather this afternoon to deliver a communiqué along with a demand(6) that we publish so that The Truth May Be Put Out There. We remind you that The Times does not necessarily share the point of view, nor indeed the often intriguingly different world-view, of its contributors. Thus, this submission is printed for the interest of the , and to contribute to healthy and informed public debate.
Alien Activity over Ankh-Morpork! We demand the Government ceases the cover-up and comes clean!
Since five o'clock this morning, Ankh-Mopork has seen an epidemic of anomalous phenomena in the skies above our heads. There is of course a school of thought that holds the strange lights in the skies are a product of the Disc itself. That somehow the extreme weather conditions we have seen today are reacting with an unquiet Disc under our feet to project lights into the sky.
However, this presupposes that the lights we have seen are manifestations of random insensate geothermic (or geothaumic) energy. This is simply not true, as the lights over our City, which even through the falling snow shone with the intensity of extra moons in the sky, displayed clear signs that they were being steered by intelligent minds and were operating with definite purpose.
Observers, such as AMUFORA member Ginny Ramples (who was awoken by the unearthly light and watched from her bedroom window) will attest to glimpsing pilots inside the balls of light, hard to see through the driving snow but looking like humanoid forms with inhumanly proportioned bodies, so wide in relation to their apparent height that they looked like trolls. No merely human person is of that size and trolls are not a flight-capable race.
One of these moon-bright flying balls was seen to make the same return journey three times, beginning its flight somewhere nearby to Endless Street and the Edgeway Road and flying almost due Hubwards to come rest over the Rimwards part of the Tump. We can suppose that the alien visitors are finding something of great fascination in this region for them to visit so often in such a short time. Another AMUFORA member, Nick Highpriest, is absolutely certain that one of these Alien moon-ball shaped lights had not only the mis-shapen humanoid pilot, but also a far smaller alien on board, the size and dimensions of a human child who showed Grey in the light. Nick tracked this Alien as far as the infamous Area Fifty-Seven at Pseudopolis Yard, which City authorities persist in telling us is merely the home base of the Air Watch but which has repeatedly been shown to host inexplicable aerial phenomena and strange lights in the sky. Indeed, there were massive and inexplicable light displays over Area Fifty-Seven in the twilight hours of this morning, including one truly massive display of light and power that persisted for well over a minute. Regular pulses of light into the sky, as if a beacon was being put up to guide the extraterrestrials, persisted well into the day. In the late morning, more of the glowing balls were seen taking off and landing, often circling the secret air base for long periods of time.
At this point, the intrepid Nick Highpriest, who had concealed himself to observe, was arrested by the Air Watch, who claimed he was clearly suffering from exposure and they were taking him to the Lady Sybil "for his own good". While it is true some sort of emission from the activities at Area Fifty-Seven was adversely affecting his health, Nick maintains he was removed by base security because he was getting too close to The Truth, and that a high-level Government conspiracy is dedicated to covering this up at all costs.
Indeed, he even heard the supposed Air Policewomen who were taking him away– one of whom fitted the description of a startlingly blonde Nordic type - talking together in their bizarre alien homeworld language, such an outlandish language that it could not possibly have originated in this world. He heard himself being referred to in the alien tongue as "summer shedski" and a "glupyi idyot malchick". Even rendered weak by his exposure to radiation, he challenged the supposed Air Witches, one of whom shrugged and said in strongly accented Morporkian "if it makes you feel happier, brat, "summershedski" can mean "seeker after truth."
He passed out after this, no doubt sedated by the aliens.
How much longer can they possibly deny aliens are among us and working in conspiracy with the City government?
Editorial Note: The City Watch confirmed that Officers Dospanova and Budonova of the Air Watch, (who volunteered for a foot patrol on the Isle of Gods, on the grounds that being Rodinian meant they were habituated to this sort of weather) located Mr Highpriest, who was so dedicated to his self-appointed role of watching the Air Station that he did not realise he might be better off out of the cold – especially the sub-zero cold which prevails today. They took the appropriate action and got him into the Watch House at Pseudopolis Yard, where the Watch Igor diagnosed the beginnings of hypothermia and applied the correct medical action. They stress that at no point was he under arrest, nor were any sedatives applied other than a hot cup of tea with lots of sugar. He was left in a safe place in the warm to sleep it off and get better.
On other Pages:
With the assistance of the Air Watch, our intrepid iconographer Otto Chriek was ferried to the City Zoo, which while closed to the public for the day, was happy to allow Otto to take lots of pictures of how the animals are responding to cold and snow.
See:
The truly heroic efforts taken to keep the giraffes warm and healthy – possibly the World's Longest Scarf being wound around the neck of Gerald the Giraffe.
Thrill at snow-leopards Schmert, Bynya and Reznya, in their element and exploring weather more suited to their natural range in the Hublands and the Vortex Plains!
And mother bear Bernice, proudly showing off her litter of Hubland Bipolar Bear cubs!
Full selection of puzzles, crosswords and games of all sorts inside!
Ankh-Morpork.
On his ride back to Garstairs, Yuri heard the commotion behind him, a rising rumble of noise. He'd never heard an avalanche before, but he imagined it would sound something like this. And he didn't want to be underneath it.
He also heard people at the roadside frantically yelling and gesturing for the road to be cleared. Looking over his shoulder, he saw, in the distance, a moving wall of white, with actual colour bursting into the monochrome of winter: glimpses of vivid blue and gold.
He shrugged, and steered his pony into a side-street. He was just about able to read its name: Prandicle Alley. From here, Yuri marvelled at the moving wall, which he saw now was composed of truly massive blue and gold golems. Marching shoulder to shoulder down the width of Chrononhotonhologos Street, they were clearing the road far more effectively and efficiently and quickly than any humans could manage. He sighed, noting that the snow they'd cleared still had to go somewhere; the new drift had been displaced sideways into Prandicle Alley, blocking the street and making it difficult, perhaps impossible, to return to a now cleared main road.
Yuri's Rodinian self shrugged and said nichevo.
He tried to think of how the city map unfolded here. Prandicle Alley. It must connect to Brookless Lane. On the other side of Brookless was a connecting street…. He tried to think. Maisy Lea? Something like that. But that street led to Garstairs. He could report to Father, who was waiting. To say he had completed the solo ride in the winter wilderness. He had found the goal. He had delivered the message. He was bringing a reply back. That he had done this all on his own. And therefore, in the eyes of Syber'yan Cossacks, he had passed a significant step towards manhood.
This keeps Dad happy. So I can be Ankh-Morporkian a bit more now.
He remembered the really pleasant red-haired woman he'd met at the place that he hoped would become his school. Firebird's mother. He liked Rebecka, the girl who had unexpectedly arrived from the sky that morning. She'd been kind, pleasant, sort of big-sisterly. Nice to talk to. And, he dimly realised, in a way he didn't feel fully at home with yet, pretty. Realising he was in a place where her mother was, he'd explained what had happened and how. He reasoned her mother would want to know. In return, she had asked about him and his background. She had known instantly and talked about a state her people called strandpiel. She had hesitated to translate the term and had said it was like having one foot in a beach on one country and one foot on a beach in another. So, a strand, a beach. Yuri had asked if the piel part had any meaning. The adults in the room had gone very quiet. Very straight-faced. Rebecka's mother had said that inevitably, with a foot on each beach, some parts in between will be splashed with seawater. She had not elaborated. Sensing she would become one of his teachers, Yuri had not pushed on this.
Like your parents, I moved to this city from a different country, she had said. I had to learn that things are done differently here, and that my children will inevitably grow up with an outlook on the world which is an Ankh-Morporkian one, not Howondalandian. That was hard to adjust to. A shame I don't know your mother anything like nearly as well as I do Olga and Irena, and Guild teachers at Garstairs live and work in their own space, so I can say I've hardly ever met your father. I should do something about that. Your father is a colleague, and I should make the effort to get to know him socially, as a colleague. His family too, naturally. Irena Politek is a family friend, so other Air Watch people can be there. Would you mention this to your parents?
Yuri suspected he'd made a good impact. He made a left turn into Muddlemug Grove, his navigational senses telling him this was the right way back to Garstairs. (7) He rode on, his rite of passage, the solo ride in the snowy wastes of a Syber'yan winter, almost completed. Above him, the falling snow was beginning to ease off a little. He could now see the lights of clacks towers, the patterns and colours changing all the time as they sought to make contact, and he sensed the world was waking up again. Higher up there he caught the glow of an Air Watch all-weather broom. He smiled. Mum was still up there, then.
Much later that evening, Bekki sat down to dinner with her father and sister. She'd had just enough basic instruction in all-weather flying to be able to put up basic screening around her broom, and a combination of guesswork and dead reckoning had done the rest. She was happy to be home. That is, her other home.
To be continued!
Three long chapters on one snowy day. Blimey. We are moving on, though.
(1) For most of the morning so far, Sophie had been in either the Flight Deck stables with the Pegasi or else, when she was satisfied everything up here was impeccable, downstairs in the main Watch stables, looking after the conventional horses used by the Mounted Watch or to haul the patrol vehicles. With an Air Watch briefing about to begin, Olga had done the usual head-count, asked who was missing, and had needed to send an order out for Air Policewoman Rawlinson to drag herself away from the interesting things and come up for a boring and tedious being-droned-at by her commanding officer. At her earliest convenience, naturally. When she was ready. No hurry, Officer Rawlinson. Sophie could be absorbed by things equine to the exclusion of everything else, but she could also recognise Captain Romanoff Being Sarcastic when it happened.
(2) Actually, a trick used by the British Army in the later stages of WW2 to provide just enough illumination to see by during a night attack, but without dazzling your own men or lighting them up for the enemy to see. Redundant searchlights – there being no Luftwaffe left for them to fulfil their primary purpose – were aimed into ten-tenths low cloud cover to spread and diffuse the light. This worked and was known as "Montgomery's moonlight". It took some training and practice to get it right; after Russian military attachés advancing with the British saw this in action, they wrote home about it. The idea was shared with the Russians, who were attacking Germany from the other side, who haughtily refused the British offer of sending some of our people to show you how to do it. In a rare slip, Marshal Zhukov got it woefully wrong – his searchlights not only dazzled and blinded the Red Army, they lit up lots of lovely targets for the Germans to fire at. The resulting aborted attack delayed his advance on Berlin by another couple of days.
(3) Because according to popular song and humour, the Oozulum Bird's principal defence when threatened is to disappear up its own arsehole. As this is a shy and retiring bird, this is why they are not seen in the wild in Fourecks and the Foggy Islands and the erroneous rumour has grown that they are extinct, or else in a boozer somewhere, sharing a cold one with a Drop Bear. On Roundworld, there is a classic Australian song about it, in fact.
(4) No, I don't speak much Finnish either. With the aid of Google Translate I constructed all these phrases which are intended to show an escalating exasperation on the part of Old Woman Louhi. The word tyttö recurs a lot – just means "girl", apparently.
(5) to my tale Hyperemesis Gravidarum
(6) Soften this to "request". (WdW)
(7) All street names are real places in Ankh-Morpork and the various journeys referenced can be followed on the detailed Aye to Zedde Mappe enclosed in The Compleat Ankh-Morpork. All Yuri needs do now is to cross Brookless Lane and go straight over onto Maizey Lea, then he can right turn into Garstairs. Rite of Passage completed. The only location I have "invented" for these tales is the suburb of Leastways – the City on the other side of the walls is not Mapped, but it appears reasonable to suspect the residential district on the other side of Least Gate has a Least-related name. Or multiple Leasts.
The Notes Dump
The pile of snow cleared from the path to allow the main story to flow, which may be crafted into a snowman at some point, so it has some purpose in life.
Picked up a back number of Fortean Times, FT247 (April 2009). Joys: a long article on shamanism and shaman-like events in Finland. This gave me ideas. Wasn't initially planning on bringing the anarchic crazy Kiiki into this story, but I was inspired – had to write a Kiiki-episode featuring a person, hailing from one of the other not-Russia places on any planet, where this sort of heavy snow is viewed as a minor inconvenience. In the same way people from Northern England might look into pissing-down cold rain and nonchalantly say "Drizzling a bit out there." - as cars and things float down the middle of the street.
Anyway. Kiiki appears to be a favourite character, so this is her cameo appearance.
Also, was advised that the best Russian for "female shaman" is probably "shamanka", and "shamanskaya" (although it sounds good, if you aren't Russian) really isn't all that meaningful - so ret-conning again. Damn, I really do not want to lose that word.
Reply to pm from reader Bissek, edited . On personal cleanliness in the Discworld
That indispensible guide to the City, "The Compleat Ankh-Morpork", lists public bath-houses about town. The fact the city actually has public baths comes as a surprise to visitors. There appears to be a cluster of them around Water Street and Spa Lane and Hopesprings - as might be expected given the names. People living on Spa Lane might even get to plug into the natural springs that appear to be underneath the city in that location - a plus-point for the fastidious house-buyer? (possibly even hot springs, if the Tump nearby is a long- extinct volcano, like the one in Edinburgh; hot springs are usually the last lingering geothermal activity in such places).
Been reminded, during research into peasant life in Russia prior to 1917 (useful for background detail into Krapovits Oblast and a Witch steading there) that given choice and opportunity, most people gravitate to the best possible degree of cleanliness for themselves and their clothing. This seems universal. But a lot depends on the infrastructure being there. Ankh-Morpork would be like a British city for most of its history, even well into the 20th century. No indoor toilets, no dedicated bathroom, and until quite late on, no piped running water, just communal wells and pumps. When the importance of cleanliness became more widespread in the middle 19th century - this was after cholera epidemics in London, and it started to dawn on people that (i) cleanliness is a ward against disease and (ii) once a disease is spreading, it has a communistic disregard for social class, so it's in our best interests to ensure the lower orders have access to running water - you also start to get public bath-houses. There's one here still in South Manchester, not far away from me, although the original Victorian building has since been repurposed. Historically, I've discovered this only closed as a bath-house in 1966 (although the public swimming pool remained open to the early 2000's).
Russian peasant villages with communal bath-houses found they were in continual use as people took advantage of them. Many Russians with access to the banya (a sauna by any other name) were super-clean and fastidious. Those villages without - were squalid. Vasilisa Budonova is set to find this out, much to her disgust.
I see Ankh-Morporkians in a similar bind to British working-class people of the early 20th century. Wanting (in the main) to be as clean as possible, but with limited access t the means for cleanliness. And of course there will always be those who just don't bother. You get them anywhere. (Somewhere I have a newly-arrived Johanna Smith-Rhodes recoiling in nasal disgust and saying "The Morporkians think we Boers avoid soap? Ag, man!")
Lancre, the agricultural economy and state of mind... I guess where everybody stinks, nobody notices. Until Witches-In-Training start to arrive from all over the Disc. Thinking of my Swommi witch, Kiiki Pekkisaalen, and the culture shock of discovering that while this land is agreeable in terms of birch trees, lakes and empty spaces where there aren't too many people... there isn't a decent sauna for possibly two thousand miles. She will be horrified. A real "Perkele!" moment. Hanna von Strafenburg will make a point of bed-bathing her patients, whether they want to or not. ("we have ways of making you bathe") As for Olga and Irena - and Nadezhda, when she arrived as a Witch from a cleanliness culture, for advanced experience in Lancre. Perhaps things are slowly but surely changing.
Apricity was warned at the Witch Trials that there'd be a long line of farmers expecting her to do The Thing With Your Feet on their fields. She is going to have to work around this and tell her farmers that it does not work that way. You must put fertilizer in, then seeds, wait for Nature to take its course, then reap. Burn stubble, repeat. She will be very firm and resolute when this is called for.
Watched an otherwise forgettable Eurovision-ish Russian music video - well, random YouTube links take you in strange directions, in which you learn many interesting if functionally useless things – and there's a sequence where the girl-group give way on stage to a bunch of middle-aged men doing uncomfortable dad-dancing. One of them, who is truly hamming it up, is the spitting image of Scottish comedian Frankie Boyle. Surely not? Has to be coincidence? Noted the date of the music vid was March 2017.
Expecting the answer "no", I googled on "Has Frankie Boyle ever visited Russia?
And discovered. He was indeed in Russia about this time to film a travelogue show. No mention of being roped into a music vid... but you do wonder. Also appreciated the sight of a Scottish comedian, with a very thick Scottish accent, being brought into a classroom where Russians are learning English. You could see the Russians thinking "What language is this that he speaks?"
Boyle also spends time with modern Cossacks – this is a thought-provoking sequence in the doc. (He swings a mean shashka, but he is Scottish, which is to say a scaled-up Feegle. He is also red-haired.)