Strandpiel Book Two
Chapter Nineteen
Every so often this will overlap The Price of Flight where the events of that story will be revisited, but from a different direction.
As always, revision for issues and typos. This is V0.02. Only a few continuity/editorial issues in this one. I'm pleased.
Blimey, another long one that barely covers a day in real time...
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.
Story notes will be added at the end for anyone wanting insight into how these stories get constructed.
July 2021, Northern England. Extreme heat scrambles the brain and saps energy. Aaargh! This was constructed over a longer time than I'd have liked, produced by a brain fried by heatwave and bloody work. Hope the double-length makes up for it.
Also, plotting out the resolution of the Hartebeeste story arc. I see this as three separate episodes (interleaved with all the other stuff that's going on), with a deepening of the tension, and a lot of pressure building up in the cooker, till it explodes and there is a denouement. Other Air Watch witches will be there at the end. I'm not sure who yet: Olga will be in one of the episodes, but will she be there at the end, or will it be another Air Watch big-hitter? Have an idea it might be Nadezhda, demonstrating that the worst nightmare for a malevolent psychic entity is when it meets Mother Hen on a mission…
The Forward Air Station, Chirm. February.
Debriefing was concluded quickly for the crews who were mustered for an overnight stay and pretty nearly two full days' advanced pilot training at the Forward Air Base in Chirm.
Senior Sergeant von Strafenburg conceded that those who had been Trained had performed "satisfactorily" and added, ominously, that over the coming months, you will get better at the skills in which you have just received initial and intermediary training. As time and normal service permit, you will return to Chirm for further skills-training, in an environment where there are no imposed limits as to what you can do. Where you are not police officers and you learn to become something else.
Bekki, who had spent an uncomfortable night under canvas feeling alternately chilled and sweaty, looked forward to getting home and being able to take a long hot bath. Then into dry clean clothes that weren't saturated with damp cold Chirm, sweaty sticky discomfort, and alternate bouts of terror and elation in the skies over Chirm learning about combat flying, ground-attacks and how to fly the two-seater 110 model, both with and without aircrew and the weight of fully loaded weapons. Apparently once she got her official certification, the next stage would be to take one of the new Air Auxiliaries aboard as her crewman…crewman…. And to spend a day on the live firing ranges.
Bekki winced. She had got to fire the forward-facing multiple repeating crossbow at a live target, a flying drone.(1) And she just hadn't been prepared for the way the recoil pushed back at her and slowed her broom.
She had missed the target completely.
Worst, Robyn Myers, who had been towing the drone, had opened a Comms channel and had demanded
"Firebird, do you think I'm bloody well pushing the bloody thing?" (2)
Returning to the ground, Sergeant von Strafenburg had cracked a rare joke.
"If we are ever at war with the Foggy Islands, Flying Officer Smith-Rhodes, with shooting like that I will be sure to take you in my Wing."
Hanna had then instructed her in how to compensate for things like torque and recoil. Torque applied a force that twisted your broom in a predictable direction while you were firing the weapon. Recoil was to be expected. As several heavy crossbow bolts are propelled forwards with a great deal of momentum and kinetic energy, Officer Smith-Rhodes, what do you think will happen to the broomstick upon which that repeating crossbow is mounted? you will learn to compensate in your shooting.
In between technical and weapons training, they had flown long mock combats, dogfights, using cold fire. The trick was to get up close to your opponent and tag her with a cold fireball, the sort that wreaths somebody in harmless light and lingers for a while before dissipating.
It had been fun and it had been exhilarating, but it could get cold over Chirm in February. Bekki wondered if they'd be allowed to land for a teabreak or something. Or else to warm up. But Hanna was up there with them, watching, cajoling, impervious to cold and wet, occasionally instructing via the communicators. Enough comms units had arrived off the production line by now to ensure every duty pilot in Ankh-Morpork carried one, with surplus left over for every pilot training in Chirm to carry one as standard issue. Apparently, Captain Romanoff wanted Hanna to test out how they could be used to control and direct combat flying, as opposed to routine Watch work. (3)
Hanna von Strafenburg kept them in the air for nearly five hours, finally ordering them to return to base where they were assured a warm nourishing lunch was being prepared.
"Valkyrie to all pilots. We have been active in the air and simulating combat flying for four hours and thirty-seven minutes. Did any of you think to look for landmarks, and to orientate yourself of where you are, relative to the base?"
Bekki had looked down into the depressingly featureless hills and low mountains that, basically, were Chirm. Somewhere down there was an air base. The problem was finding it.
The communicator crackled into life again.
"I did not think so, somehow. Fortunately for you all, I know where we are. Consider this a lesson."
Bekki looked over to her right. In the distance was open water. The suspicion of a town, maybe a small city. It was hard to tell from several thousand feet up in February skies. But if the Circle Sea was there, Ankh-Morpork was over to the right, and if I hazard a guess based on what I saw when we flew in yesterday….
"Bearing two hundred for the Air Station?" Bekki wondered, aloud.
"Who said that?" Hanna von Strafenburg's voice said, sharply. Bekki reddened and confessed.
"You left an open channel active, Firebird. Again. That is not efficient. The open communication channel to all pilots is for my use only."
Bekki accepted the rebuke.
"And besides. It is a bearing of one hundred and ninety back to the Forward Air Station. On two hundred you would have missed it by nearly half a mile. Inefficient. Valkyrie out."
Bekki sighed. This was Hanna. Almost right did not get you any credit.
She understood when Hanna led them back. The Forward Air Station occupied flat ground in the bottom of a shallow valley in between two ranges of low undulating hills. Even being a few hundred yards out in her reckoning would have put her in the next valley, where if you were flying low and looking for the landing ground, the hills would have hidden the Air Station from view. Hanna was right. Your reckoning had to be dead on, in country like this. Anything else would not cut it. And in the air, you needed to know where you were, relative to your base, at all times. Flying over Ankh-Morpork and always knowing where you were and where the main Air Station was, had dulled them to this reality. When you knew where everything was, you didn't need to navigate.
They passed their broomsticks to the Teks for routine maintenance and recharging, and Hanna gathered the six trainee pilots for debriefing.
"Feeling cold? Fingers and feet frozen?" Hanna remarked, pleasantly. "Wondering how long it was going to go on for, and when the Golem is going to allow you to land for coffee and perhaps for sweet biscuits, even cake? You are thinking that I am being unreasonable, driving you too hard, being Überwaldean and Prussican, nicht wehr?"
Sergeant von Strafenburg smiled at them.
"Listen to me. In the air fighting over Lancre and the Chalk, I was once in the air, continually, for nine hours."
She let this sink in.
"Five hours, six hours, in the air, buffeted by the wind at five thousand feet, having to stay continually alert for the enemy in the air, and to be prepared to fight instantly. That was normal in Lancre. That war did not stop at regular intervals for a kaffeeklatsch."
Hanna von Strafenburg smiled slightly.
"This is what we are training for here. This is what this place is for. Teaching you to fight and to endure in the air. And I will make combat pilots of you. Trust me."
She nodded.
"Pilot Officer Smith-Rhodes. You almost got our return bearing to the Air Station correct. It is clear to me you had given this some thought."
Hanna nodded. Bekki realised this was, by her standards, a commendation.
"I am curious. What was your reasoning for this? You are in an unfamiliar place where everything below you looks like everything else, after all."
Bekki explained how she'd got a fix on the distant coast and the Circle Sea, which had allowed her to orientate where the Hub was, and had reasoned back from there.
"My family are from Howondaland, sergeant. The veldt is a place where everything can look like everything else and until you are taught, by people who know how to navigate, you can easily become lost. My family taught me how to read the veldt. To know where I am and where places are. Errr…."
Hanna von Strafenburg nodded understanding. The other trainee pilots looked at Bekki.
"I see. A transferable skill, perhaps. Impressive. When time permits, you can explain to others about your family skills and how to adapt them here."
"We do this also." one of the other trainees said. "As Cossacks. Learn to read land. Learn to find way in wilderness."
Hanna nodded to her.
"And could you have found your way back to the Air Base without needing to be guided, Air Cadet Mumurovka?"
Bekki glanced over. Alexandra Mumurovka had suddenly gone a little redder.
Hanna smiled slightly.
"While the rest of us have a hot drink." she said, pleasantly. "Pilot Officer Smith-Rhodes, Air Cadet Mumurovka. I require you both to take off and fly circuits in the immediate vicinity of this Air Station. Ascend no higher than angels two and remain in sight of the Air Base at all times. Remain there till I instruct you to land. Familiarise yourselves with the landmarks, the approach routes, and the immediate area. Schnell! Bistro!"
Bekki sighed. A hot drink would have to wait. Grinning Teks stepped forward with fully charged brooms, the standard ME109 model. She and Lexi took to the air again, bonded in adversity.
Brookless Lane, Ankh-Morpork
She had arrived by night, ferried over by Pegasus, for a short stay in Ankh-Morpork. Her employer had graciously said she could afford to do without her for ten days or so while she set a few useful things up, and that this needed to be done relatively discreetly with no official involvement. But she would find, on arrival, that certain doors would open to her, in a deniable and highly informal sort of way. I've even fixed you up a place to stay, and I have got a suspicion you'll find it completely to your taste.
Lieutenant Irena Politek had dropped her off at her Embassy in the city and had advised her, once the formalities were completed and necessary introductions had been made, to take a cab to this address in Nap Hill, and the fare with tip should be around seventy pence. Don't let the driver pull the trick of taking you the long way round, with the meter running.
To any eyes watching, it would just look as if the Pegasus Service had completed a taxi run on behalf of a friendly government's Diplomatic Service, which was nothing out of the ordinary.
She had found an Embassy in a state of smooth transition, the staff engaged in facilitating the handover between the old retiring Ambassador and the incoming replacement. To her pleasant surprise, both Ambassadors received her together. She had been expecting to be processed, with regard to visas and so forth, at the Consular level, at most by a lowly Third Secretary.
A uniformed soldier, dressed in a way she found oddly bizarre, saluted her and led her to the Ambassadors. She shrugged. This was Ankh-Morpork, after all. Apparently within the past few weeks there had been the worst snow this city had seen in years. It wasn't surprising to see Zulu soldiers wearing local Army boots and greatcoats, when you looked at it like that. And somebody had taken pains to try to make it look like a smart and stylish uniform, not just shapeless winter wear.
"I trust you had a pleasant flight, Major?" the younger Ambassador asked, politely. He seemed genuinely pleased to see her. She warmed to him: a powerful and good-looking man in his late forties. She also noted that he wore the clerical collar of a religieux.
"Exhilarating." she replied. "And deeply strange, in the place they call Transition. Lieutenant Politek said it is perfectly safe, most of the time. And then suddenly, here. Ankh-Morpork. I really want to know how this is accomplished."
The Ambassador shrugged.
"Very many people do. But I gather the secret is extremely well guarded. The best guess that we can make is that this involves the witch, her wingèd horse, and the rather aggressive little blue person who sits in the mane and is called the Navigator. All three are required for the magic to take place."
The older Ambassador smiled slightly.
"There is a whisper that it is not entirely without hazard." he remarked. "Apparently not so long ago they discovered that seven of the magical wingèd horses travelling together are too many at one time, and this provoked an uncontrollable burst of disruptive magic. Or something. No damage, in the end, but Captain Romanoff was called to the Palace to make a report."
The Major considered this. She wondered about asking whichever Pegasus Service pilot who would fly her back, when work here was completed. She shrugged.
Rien ă chose. No great matter.
"And how is my sister?" the incoming Ambassador asked. "And my nephew?"
Marianne smiled.
"They thrive, Monsieur Ambassador. She asked me to carry mail to you, with family iconographs."
After a while, they got on to discussing the reasons for her visit, which had to be necessarily clandestine as the Ankh-Morporkian Administration had stressed there could be no official acknowledgement of her purpose.
"The Patrician, officially, does not know you are here. Unofficially, he has signalled that in any coming strife, it would be infinitely preferable that the next Paramount Monarch who emerges triumphant is not Prince Simbothwe." The older Ambassador said. "Therefore when you meet certain people in Ankh-Morpork to discuss your ideas, such as the Naval Architects' Office, it cannot be done at, for instance, Chavham Naval Base."
"I understand completely." Marianne replied, politely. "Patrician Vetinari cannot be openly seen to be interfering in the sovereign affairs of another nation."
"Which would be gross and unwarrantable interference in the internal politics of the Zulu Empire." the older Ambassador said. "In which case I would have no choice other than to make a public protest."
Marianne smiled, understanding the intrigue.
"And you would serve, impartially and without reservation, the Paramount Monarch who succeeds to the Lion Throne. Regardless of whether it is a King or a Queen."
She noted the two Ambassadors did not reply to this. They looked at each other, and then the older one changed the subject.
"Preparations have been made. A certain amount of preparatory work has been carried out in the last couple of weeks."
The older, outgoing, ambassador smiled happily, crossed the room, and took the cover off a low shrouded almost-rectangular model. Marianne stepped across to look. Then she beamed with delight.
"This city has skilled model-makers." Ambassador Prince Canaan Banana remarked. "A socially awkward and withdrawn genius in the general service of Ankh-Morpork, a Djelibaybian called Mr Gringer, was shown your sketches and ideas, and made this. Patrician Vetinari was very encouraging of his work, as he always is, and said "most ingenious." This is not the only model, but this is the only one we were able to borrow. So as to assure you that your ideas are being taken very seriously."
"Très magnifique!" Marianne breathed, looking down on the realisation of her idea which now, existed as something other than a description and technical sketches on paper.
It was a ship, a fat-bellied and wide cargo freighter rather than a warship. The model was the hull only with residual stubs on the deck illustrating where the masts would go. The modeller had been told masts were not important, please do not add them, although I realise you take pleasure in adding all the fine details of the sails and the rigging and the catlines. The important thing, the thing we want to demonstrate about this sort of ship, the thing to catch the eye of the viewer to whom we wish to demonstrate that the idea is feasible, is in the hull. And it needs to be a working model with moving parts, I understand you really like doing those?
Entranced, Major Marianne de Menières, the principal military engineering and artillery advisor to Queen-Regent-Elect Ruth N'Kweze of the Zulu Empire, was shown how her brainwaves would work when applied to real ships. Captivated, she was shown how the mechanisms worked on a functioning scale model.
Later in the evening she crossed the city, realising the distance between Brookless Lane and her destination was not very far at all, and if she knew more about the City, she could have walked it.
The Forward Air Station, Chirm.
When it got too dark to fly safely, fatigue duties were assigned and the evening was largely spent in theory and instruction classes.
"Night flying tuition will come later." Hanna von Strafenburg assured them. "Especially in how to navigate and how to land safely. But for now, you will learn how the standard model Brno and Besa repeating crossbows operate, and how to dismantle and rebuild them. Pair off and go to a weapon. Schnell!"
The weapons class was taken jointly by Senior Ground Armourer-Tek Schwjeiksson,(4) and by a new Air Witch who Bekki hardly knew. Initially she had a look of anxious nervousness that Bekki associated with her father, and ummed and erred a bit when in general conversation. Bekki watched her intently, wondering if this was how her father might have looked, had the vagaries of genetics had flipped the fundamental coin-toss the other way. It was an interesting thought: the slight build, the dark-brown hair retained in an awkward bun, the round-lensed glasses, the sort of general air of "errr…."
But when she talks about technology and technomancy, her professional specialities, it all goes and she becomes very definite, very professional…
Technical Officer Gertrude Schilling was a new hire by the Air Watch. Apparently Captain Romanoff had seen potential in her and had signed her on, assigning her to the Teks as a trainee. That made a sort of sense: why shouldn't there be a human Tek or two among all the dwarfs and goblins?
She spoke Morporkian with the very slightest hint of an accent from somewhere. Bekki noted that she could speak very fluent Überwaldean with Sergeant von Strafenburg, but there were occasional little incomprehensions and just a little bit of edge, suggesting they came from different parts of the Überwaldean-speaking world. She frowned; their respective accents and intonations sounded different, too. Shame I didn't get to do Überwaldean in school. Mum says if you speak Vondalaans, it's not too difficult to get into. She had to take a foreign language, one she didn't already speak, when she joined the Assassins, and she chose Überwaldean, as it's so close to Kerrigian and Vondalaans….(5)
"I'm really pleased to meet you all properly." Gertrude said. "Most of my time is spent either here or at the other forward base in Lancre, so this is really the first time I can get to meet the people who do the actual flying. Errr."
Bekki got to speak properly to her later, when Hanna von Strafenburg landed them with one last important task. The trainee pilots were shown a crate full of tinned and packeted foodstuffs. Bekki frowned. They'd eaten breakfast in the early morning, in Ankh-Morpork, before flying out. During the day training had been punctuated by welcome hot drinks and a lunchtime thing where they'd had a mug of hot soup and some slightly stale bread. She had gathered they could not expect too many home comforts out here, and anyway Hanna, austerity made flesh, was in charge.
Along with the other pilots, she had wondered about what sort of main meal was on offer. They had noticed the company of soldiers who were in residence in their own closed-off area, men who seemed to be providing base security, or else were working under Technical Officer Schilling's direction, digging and building things. They seemed to be from a military engineering unit, and had brought trolls and golems with them.
The girls had speculated that they must have a cook, or a field kitchen of some sort, and we'd be eating there.
Hanna soon disabused them of this notion.
"A lesson." she said, calling them together. "On active service, I was in the Chalk, where we had to establish, from nothing, a forward air base. Lieutenant Politek was in command. Until other arrangements could be made, we were in a position where we had to feed ourselves or go hungry."
She let this sink in.
"This box contains as near as possible to the Eiserneportion, the iron rations, that we lived on. Your task is now to work out from this how to prepare some sort of acceptable meal, preferably hot, for ten people. Yourselves, plus the directing staff. It is now six-thirty in the evening and getting dark. I expect a meal to be ready by nine. If I were you, I would get started. And by the way, I will be eating with you. I expect no special treatment."
Hanna nodded at them and walked off, disappearing into the gloom.
Bekki looked around at half a dozen dismayed-looking Air Witches. She took a deep breath.
Gertrude Schilling gave them an apologetic look.
"This is part of the training, right?" Bekki said. Gertrude looked sheepish.
"Field conditions, and everything." she said. "I am trying to improve things here for everyone, I really am. That's why the soldiers are here. Why I'm here. Building things. But as you can see, we've barely started. It'll take months to finish. Errr."
"Reckon they could be persuaded to cook for us?" Robyn Myers asked. "They must have arrangements."
"What, trolls? They eat rock." Jennifer Johnston pointed out. "And golems don't eat at all."
Bekki was thinking furiously. She and Lexi Mumurovka were sorting through the box. Tinned meat. Some sort of cheaply packed stuff for soldiers and sailors. No labels, just stencilling. And ye Gods, it even says "Government Property". Some elderly-looking potatoes and carrots and things. I can do something with this.
"Greshka." Lexi said, investigating a sack. "Kasha oats."
Bekki looked as Lexi allowed a handful of what looked like coarse porridge flakes to run through her fingers back into the sack.
That's a start." she said. "And those are lentils and peas… Lexi, can you find things to carry water in? If nothing else. Porridge is quick to do and we can throw the lentils in."
Lexi nodded, stood up, and started talking to people. Bekki noted that for thirteen, she could be definite. Girls four or five years older were following her instructions. And not arguing.
"I'll show you the water source." Gertrude said. "It was the first thing I set up when Captain Romanoff posted me out here. Water's vital."
Bekki smiled. Lexi was doing the ordering-people-about stuff. Which was good. She could now do her thing. And thanks to Mum and Aunt Mariella and her Howondalandian family, she knew exactly what to do.
"Gertrude? Can you scrounge me up a large pot of some sort, please? Ideally something with a lid? And at least one handle? Thanks."
She was digging a fire pit and asking some of the other girls to get stones when Gertrude Schilling came back with – joys – a cauldron. And a tin-opener.
Bekki now knew exactly what to do.
"You need firewood." Jennifer Johnston said.
Bekki indicated the crate their rations had come in.
"Can a couple of you destroy some government property for me? And I need three or four thick sturdy poles. Dankie. I mean, thanks."
She noted hesitation.
"Sergeant von Strafenburg hasn't said we can't." she said, practically. She went back to considering the cauldron, which had a convenient centrally-mounted handle.
"Ooh, I've heard about this." one of the girls said. "Hardy Boers living off the land, and everything. Why we lost the Boor War. Errr…"
Bekki grinned at her and slapped the side of the cauldron. There was a dull metallic ring.
"We'll light a fire next." she said. "When there's enough broken wood. Listen to me. In my other language, one of these is called a poetjie. We cook in them. I'm going to show you how. Everything needs to be layered, with lots of water, so it cooks off quickly. I need people to open tins and peel veg. Anyone need a knife?"
She pulled out her boot-knives. Then showed her fellow trainees one of the most absolutely fundamental things a Witch can do with a cauldron. Skills she'd learnt from her mother, her aunts and her ouma on Treks into the bush and the veldt. How to light a fire without resorting to magic, how to set up and layer a poetjie, how to suspend it on the fire so it cooked, and how to tend it while it cooked. And how some of the larger and better potatoes might be directly cooked in the ashes at the bottom of the fire itself. How a smaller pot could be used to boil water for tea and coffee.
By nine, the potkiekos meal was pretty much ready. Even Sergeant von Strafenburg, who had returned from wherever she had retired to, gave tacit approval. She appeared to be in a mood to give grudging approval.
She looked, disapprovingly, at the ruins of the packing case the food had arrived in.
"Flying Officer Smith-Rhodes, where do you propose to store the rations now?" she asked.
Bekki supressed a frown. Would it kill Sergeant von Strafenburg to say "well done", even only just once?
She indicated one of the few straggly, struggling, trees to be found in the Chirm Hills. A large sack was hanging from a branch.
"Over here, sergeant." she said, neutrally. "I am making the assumption this is what we'll be eating tomorrow. Therefore, the remaining foodstuffs need to be out of the reach of foraging animals and insect life."
Hanna studied this, critically.
"The rest of the crate is tomorrow's firewood, sergeant." Bekki said, helpfully.
Hanna von Strafenburg took her time in speaking. She looks vaguely dissatisfied at not finding anything she can criticise.
Then she smiled slightly.
"These are skills you learnt in Howondaland?" she asked.
"Ja, sersant. Reis saam met my gesin die veldt in." she replied, risking a little creative insolence. "My family take me and my sisters out into the bush and the veldt. They are good teachers."
"Good." Hanna said. She addressed the others. "Flying Officer Smith-Rhodes has some useful and impressive survival skills. You should learn from her."
She turned away.
"I require two of you to wash and clean the mess tins, cutlery and the cooking pot." she said. "Thoroughly. They will be acceptably clean for breakfast. I will check."
Hanna assigned people to the chore. Then she pointed out the tent line. At least, Bekki thought, we don't need to put our own tents up.
"Two to each tent. People will share, as follows."
She made tent allocations.
"Tomorrow will be a busy day, and sleep is the next duty. If you ask me where you can wash, I will be inclined to laugh in a slightly mocking sort of way, and point out that, on active service, opportunities to wash and cleanse are infrequent, and you will have to learn to live with it. Be thankful that tomorrow night, you will be back in Ankh-Morpork. That is all, we have had a good day of training, gute nacht, I will see you in the morning."
Bekki found herself sharing with Lexi, the Fledgling.
Elsewhere, Hanna had retired to a larger tent, the one used for classroom training, where she and Gertrude pulled out and set up camp beds. She noted that compared to the trainees, they were adequately stocked with blankets and pillows. They got into bed without speaking.
"Do you consider that I'm being too hard on them?" Hanna asked.
Gertrude, a woman relatively new to the Air Service and one given the vague rank of Technical Officer, was careful in answering. For one thing, she suspected a Technical Officer was a lot lower in terms of prestige and rank than a veteran Sergeant, one with combat experience and the manner of a senior Prussican army officer.
"Anspruchsvoll." she replied, carefully. "Aber strengliche so? Errr... "
Gertrude wondered if she was going too far. Calling Hanna von Strafenburg "demanding", and wondering if she was overdoing it, might not be tactful for a new hire.
"You are Borogravian." Hanna said, in a neutral voice. "Sometimes I suspect the only thing my people and yours share is a common language."
Gertrude's silence was as good as a long "Errrr….". Hanna sensed the spill-words of "Of course this is so. You're a Prussican squarehead in jackboots, from a country with lots of uniforms and no culture. I'm Borogravian and while I know the people who rule my country want to be Prussicans, unfortunately for them the rest of us don't really have the heart for it, so they manufacture a war with Zlobenia over a handy pretext, and keep it going so they can strut about in all the gold braid and sashes and things. I'd far rather be sitting in a good coffeeshop somewhere with a slice of chocolate cake in front of me. I'm just stuck for a tactful way of saying this out loud."
Hanna smiled. Being a Witch meant spill-words of this complexity sometimes didn't need too much effort to get in their entirety.
"Technical Officer Schilling, I know all the words." she said. "My people are Piefken. I might be a Saupreiß or a Schwab. I know the Borogravian word for an infestation of cockroaches is die Preusikanen."
She smiled again, across the bedspace.
"And those are just the nicer words." she remarked. "In unguarded moments, our Rodinian comrades refer to Fritzes, kolbasniks and Bundes." (6)
Hanna shook her head, seemingly sorrowfully. "Everybody appears to have a word, in their language, for my people. Borogravians have more than one. I get the general impression that we Prussicans somehow managed to make ourselves rather unpopular. Sometimes I feel quite relieved that my nickname among the pilots is simply The Golem."
Gertrude felt uncomfortable. She decided to push it.
"You know, you'd better not let it get out that you've got a sense of humour." she said. "That could be viewed as letting the side down."
Hanna von Strafenburg looked at her with a superficially detached and emotionless expression.
"I strive not to let this become widely known." she said. "So now you know my guiltiest and most shameful secret, Technical Officer Gertrude Schilling."
"You'd be expelled from the Prussican Officer Corps, I imagine."
"Ja. A court-martial, and my swords would be broken while I stand in the hollow square, receiving the judgement of my peers. Shame. Ignominy. Disgrace."
Gertrude decided to push a little further.
"But. Giving them a box of raw rations and telling them they're on their own if they wish to eat tonight. Errr…"
Hanna considered this, and shrugged.
"But we ate well, in the end. I suspected this would be so. I know enough about the backgrounds and the skills of the girls to know leadership and organisation would emerge. I retired to the background and watched, and I was pleased. You limited yourself to locating the necessary equipment. Officer Smith-Rhodes is Howondalandian. Her people defeated Ankh-Morpork, a country whose army depended on lines of supply, regular food deliveries and field kitchens. When their army starved, hers fended for itself. And won its war. I know she was taught these skills thoroughly. She is a Boer. She emerged to organise. Meanwhile, a girl with great promise and leadership skills gave instructions to others. Although she is only thirteen, Air Cadet Mumurovka is showing clear abilities to lead. Captain Romanoff said this would be so. She did not fail me. I am pleased with both."
Hanna smiled again.
"They were told the training would be under field conditions as we know them from Lancre and the Chalk. It was necessary, so as to thoroughly train them. I am not heartless, Gertrude Schilling. Had they failed in fending for themselves, I would have prevailed upon the Army detachment present here to furnish minimal hot soup and not quite fresh bread, so they would be fed, and also learn a lesson about failure. But they got it right. As I knew they would."
Gertrude hesitated.
"You do know the Army engineers have washing facilities?" she asked, pointedly.
Hanna shrugged.
"We are here for two days and one overnight stay." she said. "It will not hurt them to be dirty and uncomfortable for one night. Another lesson. Were we here for a week and people get to really stink, I imagine ingenuity, by such people as Rebecka Smith-Rhodes, would find a way. I would certainly point them in the right directions after, say, four days, when the smell begins to get offensive."
16 Spa Lane, Nap Hill, Ankh-Morpork
Marianne de Mènieres was delighted to find a comrade present alongside her hostess. She hugged and kissed Sissi N'kima and politely asked about the state of her health.
"It's healing." Sissi said, touching the neck-brace with her fingers. Matron Igorina and the other Igors are debating the best way to operate, as necks are difficult and even an Igor could get it wrong and make it worse. They think because there was a few hours delay before the first Igor got to me, and that he was operating in a makeshift hospital, and he was mainly concerned with stabilising the injury and not making it any worse, a couple of the small fine bones haven't set properly and the major nerves are either cross-wired or getting pinched."
She sighed, resignedly.
"So they need to fix my originally broken neck by breaking it again, and then rebuilding. Therefore they can't hurry it, Igorina said."
Her hostess expressed sympathy.
"At least, chèrie, you were attended to by a Lancre Witch who saw the seriousness of the injury, and who was able to ensure your neck and head remained immobile. I understand this is mandated for broken necks."
Sissi grinned, ruefully.
"For a horse-witch, she didn't do so badly." she remarked. "I really must see Sophie while I'm here and thank her."
"Bien sûr." Comptesse Emmanuelle de Lapoignard agreed, sympathetically. "I understand the Jimmy Folsom principle applies, with the witch Sophie Rawlinson. To treat all patients as if they are valuable horses, and to reason back from equine anatomy and ailments, to the treatment of people. And most of the time, it works."
She refilled her glass from the decanter on the table.
"I am to host you and to look after you in this city for as long as it needs." Emmanuelle said, pleasantly. "We can begin with conversation over a civilised glass of armagnac. This is from the Gascoigne departèment of Quirm, and is very well aged in the cask. If you prefer, there is cognac, or calvados. Perhaps, or as you are Howondalandian, Sissi, there is also the drink called klipdrift. I got a bottle from my neighbour, whose sister manages a vineyard and a distillery in the Caarp Winelands. It is strangely palatable."
Emmanuelle looked amused. Sissi added two and two and then grinned.
"Would the name Lensen appear on the bottle?" she asked.
Marianne realised she was in the middle of an in-joke where she did not know all the details. Emmanuelle explained.
"Ah, oui." Marianne said, understanding. "The patronne of this distillery was at school with Sissi. And is White Howondalandian. You were, I suspect, schoolfriends?"
Sissi considered this, and shook her head. She grinned.
"I wouldn't go that far." she said. "My best enemy, maybe. And that's more reliable than a best friend, when you come to think about it. A best enemy never lets you down."
"Now I begin to understand." Marianne said. She considered the bottle, the characteristic flattened tear-drop shape of brandy from the Armagnac region, and felt a tug of homesickness. A thought struck her.
"Perhaps our employer might be amused by the gift of such a bottle?" she asked, practically. "Direct trade between our nations is not at the moment permitted. But in her time in this city, Princess Ruth, I understand, taught at the Guild School. She must have taught the woman now known as Mariella Lensen?"
Emmanuelle laughed. Jokes of this kind always amused her.
"I shall speak to my neighbour." she promised. "Johanna will see humour in this too, and she not only taught Ruth N'Kweze, she mentored her. Ruth was always a welcome guest in her home, next door."
She became serious.
"Mention of Ruth, mes amies, brings us to why you are both here." she said. "I am charged by the Guild, Major de Mènieres, to keep you safe and to be attentive to your needs and to assist in your duties here. And behind the Guild, the City is, unofficially, requesting that every assistance be given to you. Much rests on this."
"I understood as much." Marianne said. "If somebody is brought here directly by the Pegasus Service, and not by a rank-and-file pilot, but by its second-in-command, and if it is made clear I can call for a Pegasus when I need one, then importance is being placed on the situation."
"Bien sûr." Emanuelle agreed. "Let me first speak for the Guild of Assassins. It is always a matter of prestige, when a Guild graduate who enters the political arena ascends to a position of power and rulership. And the highest rank of all is to become a monarch, a Queen, in this case the Paramount Queen. One who could also be fairly described as an Empress, ruling not just the Zulu people, but also its subject and allied peoples in neighbouring lands. Première. Ruth N'Kweze is a Guild graduate. Prince Simbothwe is not. While officially we are not taking sides in the internal affairs of the Zulu Empire, which side do you think we are covertly favouring?"
"The one that brings the Guild the prestige." Marianne agreed. "And also, a degree of influence."
"Naturally." Emmanuelle said. "Sissi is also a Guild graduate. She is destined for a position in Ruth's administration. Your mutual friend Chakki is another. And all three are ex-pupils of mine, to whom I feel a very human affinity and liking."
Marianne digested this. She realised Ruth N'Kweze had a lot of friends, allies, and people who were disposed to be sympathetically inclined. She wondered how many allies Prince Simbothwe had in the wider world outside Howondaland. Not many.
Emmanuelle smiled, genuinely friendly.
"You are not an Assassin, chèrie. Mais, tu es quirmienne. We share a nationality and a people. For that reason alone I would show you hospitality in this foreign city. And we share friends. Your employer is my ex-student, a woman in whom I have pride as a former pupil who learnt my lessons well and in some respects is not so much my equal, as my better. And I do not say that lightly. And it is my hope that she regards me as a friend. I would esteem that."
She smiled.
"Sissi is also my former pupil. Another who has exceeded expectations. And, I hope, a woman who considers me a friend."
Sissi smiled.
"If you can get me that bottle of Lensen's." she said, affably. "So I can tell Mariella I've tried it." (7)
Emmanuelle said she would do this, chère amie. She suspected the key might be Johanna's oldest daughter. "You have not met her yet, Sissi? No matter. She is a Witch, and skilled in matters of practical healing."
Emmanuelle looked at Sissi. She smiled slightly.
"I understand you are filling in as a teaching assistant while you are here. You have had occasion to meet the younger sister, Famke. Ah, oui. We all adopt that face at this point in the conversation. If it can be said that Famke is a pain in the neck, it is entirely possible that Rebecka, the older sister, might provide a measure of pain relief to your neck. Witchcraft, as I understand it, is all about balance and a system of obligations. One sister is the pain in the neck, the older sister has an obligation to provide pain relief and thus restore balance. You will like her, I think."
Then she became serious again.
"Marianne, we should now talk about what you are here to achieve to support Ruth and strengthen her as the Queen." she said. "Such meetings as you will have here will be strictly unofficial and off the record. You will, I think, have an opportunity not to meet the Patrician."
Marianne must have looked puzzled.
"I haven't met the Patrician on three occasions." Sissi said, helpfully.
Comprehension dawned.
"Ah I see. Forgive my slowness, I am but a humble working engineer and a designer of useful things." Marianne said. "Other people attend to the politics. I provide ideas that help them realise their visions."
"Like, perhaps, the first stone-built chateau and city walls in the Zulu Empire." Emmanuelle remarked. "Which emerged with surprising speed when Ruth realised she needed a City, not a mere kraal, which by its very nature is temporary."
"Enticing Dwarfs to the Zulu Empire helped." Marianne said, self-effacingly. "They came for the gold. But they hew the stone, as a by-product. Mining waste from the goldmines, once cleansed of harmful substances used i the extraction of gold, paves the roads. All peoples require water. They built the public aqueduct and conduits that enable all to have access to running water. This is the first and primary thing a city needs. Water. I worked with the first Dwarfs to provide this as a matter of urgency. After that, everything else could proceed at leisure."
"And that gold pays for all." Emmanuelle agreed.
"Mais certainement oui. The gold. And the silver. And the platinum, which on the commodities market is worth ten times more than gold, but which does not have quite the same allure."
"Lead too." Sissi said. "And iron. And mercury. Then the rare earth metals, whatever they are. Apparently they're worth more than gold. Chakki tells me the Dwarfs are getting deep enough now to find diamonds."
"Therefore Ruth has no cashflow problems." Emmanuelle remarked. "And apart from some iron mining and steel smelting, your nation has just not bothered to look for these things before? Remarkable."
She smiled a friendly smile.
"And, Major Marianne de Mènieres, a bay, on the sea coast, at a place called Sagalo, previously untouched by humans, is as we speak becoming a port. To a design based on your survey."
Marianne shrugged.
"It is true, ma Comptesse. Trusted subordinates are supervising the improvements. Dwarfs in the service of Princess Ruth, who know how to work stone. There will be a stone-built mole leading to a deepwater pierhead, one capable of allowing large ships to dock and unload speedily. The original wooden jetty is being widened and strengthened. The next transport ships are not due for six weeks, and I calculated that sufficient manpower under skilled direction, with much of the work being done on shore to create prefabricated sections which may be floated out and sunk in the right places, will by then create the pierhead. In time, a proper dock built along the line of the bay, and a beacon, or perhaps a lighthouse."
"Vetinari has somehow obtained copies of your plans and designs." Emannuelle remarked. She and Marianne tried hard not to look at Sissi. Who had said she had not met Vetinari. On three occasions.
"He is impressed. He remarks that some of the ideas you propose, if they work, could be incorporated into the next phase of The Undertaking. The Chirm Project."
Marianne digested this.
"So he is predisposed to assist? Even if we do not meet face to face?"
"You spoke of transports." Emmanuelle remarked, skirting the question. "For those intrepid Cossacks who are being moved to travel to Howondaland for the excitement and the adventure of serving a Queen in a coming war. I have heard that it requires many ships to transport even a few hundred of them, and the loading and unloading of such ships is painfully slow and fraught with hazard."
"I had ideas for making this faster and safer." Marianne said, allowing the brandy to roll in the bulbous bowl of the glass. It put her in mind of a lazy sea moving with the tide. "Seeing those ideas realised is the main reason for my being here."
She paused, and looked dreamy.
"I saw a working model. Of my idea. At the embassy."
"Vetinari has indeed moved quickly." Emmanuelle remarked. She rolled her glass in her hand and watched the brandy making slightly oily wakes on the inside wall of the glass balloon. "And in this city, a good idea can become a reality in a matter of weeks. If Lord Vetinari wishes it to be so, chèrie, it will become so. But you still have to convince the key people."
She leant forwards.
"Remember." she said, more urgently, "Ruth is the preferred Paramount Monarch, although people here cannot openly say it. On the one hand, a Prince who is inward-looking, has never left Howondaland, speaks no other language than isiZulu, disdains innovations, and wishes the Empire to be run as it was centuries ago. He will close the borders. Ultimately, the Empire will stagnate, left behind by time and progress. Today, however, this Prince has great energy, if nothing else, and commands possibly twenty-five thousand spears. He intends to use them against the Empire's traditional enemies. Those neighbours, principally the Matabele kingdoms on one side, and White Howondaland on the other, are getting nervous, and counting the fighting men they can mobilise, if there is need."
Emmanuelle sipped her brandy.
"On the other hand, Crown Princess Ruth. She was educated in Ankh-Morpork, she is urbane, clever and witty, she speaks several languages fluently and even has an understanding of the traditional enemies of her people in White Howondaland. She is looking for détente, not war. She wants the Empire to modernise and draw in the very best from elsewhere. She is building a city. She wants industry and enterprise and more than subsistence agriculture. Alors, who would any intelligent outsider want as the ruler of potentially the most powerful nation in Howondaland? However. Simbothwe has twice the number of fighting spears as Ruth. He disdains her fighting women."
"Weak and feeble though we are, and no match for men." Sissi remarked. She kept a very straight face.
"In a physical fight with a man, a woman will tend to lose, if strength alone is the only consideration." Emmanuelle said. She smiled. "Men tend to be taller, larger, and stronger. She therefore has to be clever, and use other skills. Speed and agility, perhaps. Or superior weapons. Simbothwe may have nearly three to one advantage in mere numbers. But he has neither cavalry not artillery."
"He disdains cavalry." Marianne said. "Ruth knows this. She believes the more cavalry we have, the better. But there are few native horsemen or horsewomen in the Empire. Ruth has them all and they are training others. But their numbers alone are few. In the coming battle not, on their own, decisive. My artillery, and the logistical support that any Army needs, is drawn in the main by horses. We do not have enough horses. Or horsemen. Therefore, when she proclaimed that all who genuinely wish to serve her are welcome, and a few Cossacks answered the call, she saw what horsepeople they are, and she wanted many more. The problem is getting them safely and swiftly, with their horses and families and wagons, to Howondaland. Ankh-Morpork is key to this. Which is why I am here."
Emmanuelle smiled. She indicated a large ornate chessboard, which appeared to be more of a decoration in her salon than it was a game for playing. The board looked strange and different to Marianne.
"Regard. I rather suspect a game of chess is playing out. On the one hand, the Black Queen. Often people are surprised to discover the most important piece on the board is not the king. It is the Queen, always. In the Zulu Empire, the Black King will shortly become a mere babe in arms, not quite a year old. It is the duty of his mother, the Black Queen, to guard and protect him. In front of her, her loyal impis, the pawns. Around her, her key people."
She nodded to Marianne. "You built her fortress. In bringing you to Ankh-Morpork, she has castled her pieces. She has manoeuvred for greater strength and flexibility. You are the castle. Her cavalry legions, as they assemble in her service, are her knights."
Emmanuelle reached over and removed the two knights from the opposing side, Red, rather than White.
"Simbothwe is handicapping himself by refusing to play with Knights. So it goes."
"The bishops?" Sissi asked. Emmanuelle shrugged.
"One is her brother Clement, perhaps. Soon to be Ambassador here and one whose quiet words and soft power are persuasive. Many waverers have come to Ruth's side after speaking with Clement. The other, perhaps, standing protectively to the left of the infant King, is his father, General Denizulu. He is absolutely loyal to Ruth. Her rock. And of course, on this board, she has her Assassins, out in the Slurks."
Emmanuelle removed the corresponding pieces from the Red side.
"Simbothwe has none. All Assassins in the Empire have declared for Ruth."
They contemplated the chess board together. Sissi reached down, and said "by your leave, Madame." to Emmanuelle. Then she removed four black pawns.
"Simbothwe still has twice our number of footsoldiers." she said. "This may prove decisive, by sheer weight of numbers."
Emmanuelle shrugged.
"Then we must nullify that advantage." she said, practically.
She smiled at Marianne.
"You are an officer commissioned into the army of a friendly state." she said. "You are therefore entitled to wear a sword on the streets on Ankh-Morpork. I should. This is a dangerous city."
Marianne shrugged.
"It would be for deterrent only." she said. "I had basic lessons, obviously, but I do not flatter myself. A real sword fight, I suspect, would be nothing like the formal moves taught in a drill hall."
Emmanuelle smiled.
"I can offer some basic tuition, if it pleases you. I would dispense with the formalities, and teach you some possibly useful swordfighting."
Sissi grinned.
"Take it from me, Marianne. She does."
Eventually Marianne went to bed, wondering what a busy day tomorrow was going to hold.
The Forward Air Station, Chirm
Bekki and Lexi huddled under blankets in a very small cramped tent. Bekki put up a very small, very carefully crafted, ball of muted cold fire, so that there was light to see by. It helped.
"Those soldiers have banya tent where they can wash." Lexi said. "I recognised it."
Bekki considered this.
"Well, yes." she said. "But they're soldiers. I'm not inclined to strip down in a tent where they know, for instance, where all the holes in the canvas are."
"Da. Pravda." Lexi said. "I know frontoviks. My father is colonel of regiment."
Bekki listened as Lexi spoke about her upbringing in a cavalry family, with her father ascending to the rank of Colonel Hetman of the Blondograd Cossack Guard Regiment Kazachok. She had three older brothers, all going to the Officer Training School at Dorki, and was the youngest child and only daughter.
"Blondograd Oblast pays for Guards Division." she said. "To be ceremonial, to put on shows for tourists, to parade in smart uniforms. Father commands cavalry. Also, Guards infantry and artillery. We are maybe last of great Imperial Rodinian Army."
Bekki had a mental image of a flickering flame, keeping alive against all the odds, waiting for the day it could spark a greater fire.
When Rodinia rises again and needs an Army, we are the seed.
Second Thoughts kicked in, in her mother's voice.
And at that point, they will perhaps need an Air Force. Have a guess as to who will train and lead it.
She gathered that, in theory, the Romanoff family were Colonels-in-Chief, nominal leaders and overlords, but suspected if it ever came to actually needing to use them in warfare, somebody like Lady Margolotta would give the necessary orders. This was Far Überwald, after all, and Blondograd these days was a satellite city of Bonk.
Olga Romanoff had apparently seen potential in Lexi while on a visit to the city, had spoken to Colonel Mumorov about his talented daughter, and Lexi had arrived in Lancre. Olga's being a Romanoff had probably swayed it.
"So I am pupil to Olga Anastacia." Lexi said. "But in Air Watch, Mother Hen takes charge."
"She hardly ever taught me." Bekki reflected. "Didn't see very much of her, in fact. But then, the Air Cadet thing hasn't been official for very long."
They discussed this. Training for girls with Witchcraft and an airborne vocation had been informal and largely unofficial, with the senior pilots of the Air Watch following the traditional route of taking pupil witches who were a long way behind their sixteenth birthdays and therefore ineligible for official Watch membership. Mr Vimes had accepted that there would be a small clutch of girls as young as eleven present in the Air Watch family, and had taken the point of view that if this later generated Watch recruits of the right age, or failing that well-adjusted citizens who would join the City circuit as accepted Witches, then there was nothing to object to.
People like Nottie Garlick had started out this way, mentored by Irena, Olga and later, Nadezhda. Bekki had arrived later, Irena Politek's pupil.
Shortly after Bekki had moved to Lancre for further Witch training, aged fourteen, the Air Cadets had been formally incorporated into the Watch and had become Nadezhda Popova's professional responsibility, with official recognition, uniforms, and a formal training programme. Young witches had come the opposite direction, after initial training in their home countries, Lancre and the Chalk, and spent part of their week apprenticed to City witches on the urban circuit, and part of their week getting more specialised flying and Air Watch experience. Lexi had arrived this way. Officially, insofar as Witches had an official structure, she was still Olga's pupil, respecting her sponsoring Witch, but Nadezhda supervised her Air Watch training, and the rest of her week was spent as apprentice to old Biddy Huxtable, who had a Steading on Short Street near Dimwell.
Girls adopted by Pegasi always came to the Air Watch, This was mandatory. Lexi, a Cossack, had found her foal, or the foal had found her. She had named her Pegasus Shashka, for the Cossack long sabre. (8)
"Is good." Lexi said. "I come to learn Morporkian. Olga Anastacia says this is vital. To learn to be Witch. Is good. But I want to be Air Watch. That, is better!"
They found themselves curled up together under the blankets and their spread cloaks, trying to keep warm and shut out the February chill, trying not to move too much in the cramped and inadequate space of a small tent.
"Wait a moment." Bekki said, remembering. Something her mother had said, aware Bekki would be camping out in the cold… she had suspected Mum and Godsmother Irena had been Talking and her mother had agreed to stand back, say little, and see how things went. Her mother usually took the point of view that this sort of thing was good for you and it toughened you up. Mum could be callous like that. But one thing her mother had said about wilderness living and training…
Bekki found her pack, and rummaged.
Mum, thank you.
Always make room for chocolate…
Lexi's eyes lit up as Bekki brought out a large bar of Higgs and Meakins' Dairy Milk.
It weighs light, it remains edible even if the packaging is crushed or torn, and you will be surprised how it can restore your spirits. Always make room for chocolate.
They shared the chocolate bar together and talked, cuddling under the blankets and clothes. Bekki reflected on how a girl who uncomfortably struck her as a thirteen-year-old Olga Romanoff, with the same sort of born-to-command air about her, suddenly became properly, normally, thirteen again in the presence of chocolate. Chocolate, she reflected, was a powerful magic.
They ate the chocolate and talked, in a fading-into-sleep sort of way, discussing their life as Witches, life in the Air Watch, Bekki's new Steading in Bitterfontein, and the intriguing subject of the Last Words given to them by the dying Babayaga, Natalya Svetlanovna. Bekki wasn't surprised about the prophecy that just possibly, if she didn't die, wash out or do anything stupid, Lexi might eventually rise to a command position somewhere. She had, Bekki reflected, the same sort of family imperative behind her that was so strong it kind of dictated a direction. Military family, her father commanding a cavalry regiment, all her brothers in military careers, a girl who kind of resented having been born a girl in a culture and tradition where women couldn't easily become Army officers, and thus unable to emulate her brothers. Then suddenly, she got witchcraft, and a career direction opened where she could wear a uniform and had a clear career progression in front of her.
She had not only grabbed it with both hands, she had run it through with a cavalry lance so it couldn't get away.
She's thirteen. How old is Olga? Middle thirties? So in twenty years time, this girl could easily be commanding the Air Watch. Or something like it. She's got the Right Stuff. I'm guessing this is why Olga took her as a pupil. She's looking to the future. Making very long-term plans.
Bekki looked into the intent eyes of the young girl.
But right now she's still only thirteen. What was I doing four years ago? Learning Witchcraft, yes. But also having lots of friends of my own age, being thirteen, one of Shauna's Gang, being normal at the same time. Famke's about the same age, maybe a bit younger. She's learning how to be an Assassin. But she's got lots of girls the same age around her. Famke's Gang? How many friends of the same age has this girl got to show her how to be normal, to keep her anchored, ground her?
The answer came to her.
Not many. The other Air Cadets, mainly. But she can get bossy with them. They seem a bit intimidated by her. The day of the snow, she practically dragged in the other two who were rostered on shift. They were more scared of Lexi than of the blizzard. That's probably not good. And talking just now, she skipped over the bit where the Babayaga said to her to unwind and rein it in and be normal for her age.
Right now, Lexi was half asleep, nestling against Bekki with her arms around her. Bekki sighed. The warmth wasn't unpleasant.
I'll ask Mum. She must have seen this sort of thing at the School.
Bekki had an uncomfortable feeling she was, in some unspecified way, now going to have to be some sort of a role model to Lexi, and life was thrusting a new responsibility on her. Big Sister Obligations.
She fell asleep as the conversation faded, her head full of confused domovoys, ovinniks, a stern-looking Krimba, and the suspicion that a bannik was prodding her in the back, trying to get her attention.
"Nadezhda Popova made a request of me." Hanna said. "She has concerns about Air Cadet Mumorovka being too serious, too intense. I was asked to put her with Flying Officer Smith-Rhodes. Sergeant Popova believes a sympathetic older girl might act as some sort of correcting influence and steer her, in small useful ways. Officially, the reason is for Air Cadet Mumorovka to improve her spoken Morporkian, and for Flying Officer Smith-Rhodes to improve her spoken Rodinian."
"Ah." Getrude Schilling said, very carefully. "This is the one called Mother Hen, I think."
"Ja." Hanna agreed. "She has operational responsibility for the Cadets, and treats them more like daughters than as recruit pilots."
Gertrude sensed a little disapproval there. She remained silent.
"I was allowed, however, to bring the outstanding very best Cadet here for training. She was told there would be no special treatment for her on the grounds of age or cadet status, and she would be considered as an adult pilot like the rest. She has not failed me."
The next morning saw the girls woken before dawn, and paraded to make breakfast and be told the outline of the coming day.
Bekki was called aside by Sergeant von Strafenburg whilst Lexi was assigned to cleaning fatigues. Bekki heard the not-completely-concealed spillwords of "Da, Sergeant Kolbasnik" underneath her respectful "Yes, Sergeant", and kept a poker face, wondering if Hanna had picked this up too. She wasn't too clear what a kolbasnik was in Rodinian, but gathered it wasn't complimentary.
"A different flying assignment for you, Flying Officer Smith-Rhodes." Hanna said. She nodded to Technical Officer Grace Schilling, who looked both nervous, attentive and somewhat apprehensive.
"The Technical Officer was accepted to the Air Watch for skills not primarily to do with flying." Hanna explained. "Part of the contract of employment agreed with Captain Romanoff was that where we could, we would give her flying lessons. You have almost six years of general flying experience, you are of above-average competence on two-seaters, and I am happy to tell you that you now have pilot's certification. Therefore, no need for you to attend this morning's first class."
Hanna extended a hand. Bekki took it.
"Well done. I am pleased. You are now, therefore, to take a one-ten into the air. You will occupy the rear position, as flight commander and instructor, while Technical Officer Schilling flies. You will give her flying experience for three hours and control of the broom is yours in the event of any problems. I know you can navigate acceptably. Choice of route and flying plan is yours, and report back to me via comms at regular intervals. Draw a broom, and get airborne. Schnell!"
Gertrude Schilling wasn't as bad a pilot as Bekki feared. Just inexperienced, and more used to the standard everyday Yak of the working civilian Witch. Bekki also sensed she simply would not be up to the advanced flying and aerial evolutions the Air Watch taught as standard, and at most, with air experience, would be a mediocre pilot. But she got into the air competently enough, if a bit uncertainly.
"Take it steady." Bekki said. "Go slow and carefully, for now. We can build up to speed later. When you aren't used to it, a one-ten can go far too fast, faster than you think."
"Built for speed and performance." Gertrude said. "Top speed is a hundred and seventy-five with a full crew and weapons load, although at higher speeds you need to activate the aerodynamic thaumaturgy." (9)
It sounded as if she was reading the pilot's manual. Bekki wondered if Gertrude had helped write the pilot's manuals.
"Just remember you're actually flying it." Bekki requested. "I imagine that's going to be a lot different than workshop testing on the ground."
She remembered the ground Tek who had respectfully, and very meaningfully, said "Look, miss. This is a finely tuned air broom and state of the magical art. It's precision, is this. Don't bloody well wreck it." before they took off.
Bekki now understood why Godsmother Irena had been so curt and brusque during her first few flying lessons. Being in the backseat, and knowing your life depended on an inexperienced and unproven novice pilot, tended to do that to you, especially when you just had to sit there hoping the novice wouldn't do anything stupid. Inside, she was refreshing her memory of how the magic worked, so that she could take over in an emergency. The manual over-ride. She wondered if it was too late to land again and humbly request parachutes.
They took to the sky at a steady pace, a thousand feet up, heading Rimwards.
To be continued – more to come. This should have covered more ground ad more than one day, but again the detail and the scene-and-character-setting got away with me – like filling in a little of Gertrude Schilling's backstory and place in the Air Watch, for instance. Bekki learns about Chirm, the Undertaking, and why it's so important. Marianne has to sell an idea. Only to learn a far better and more persuasive Salesman has already done most of the work.
There will be a teachers' meeting in Johanna's living room, much to Famke's irritation. Ruth (the not-quite-ten-year-old-one) gets to show off her latest idea, in which more is revealed about nesting dolls. Bekki does a bit of basic osteopathy. Emmanuelle makes a performance assessment of Yelena's ability with swords. At the same time, Famke makes an acquaintance. Sparks will fly.
Linking to The Price of Flight, we are almost up to the point where there will be Elephants in the Room. Let us say the design plans for the Forward Air Station will need to be revised upwards. And outwards. And downwards.
(1) An Air Watch drone target was usually a large threadbare room-sized remnant, bought or scavenged cheaply, cut to the approximate size of a typical Klatchian Air Force carpet, and loaded with just enough magic for it to able to hold the air, towed on a very long rope behind an Air Witch who had merited a dogsbody job. As Sergeant von Strafenburg had pointed out, when you make jokes from the back during a briefing, sooner or later, somebody notices. You are therefore towing the targets, Parrot.
(2) This is not an original joke. Alas. There was a New Zealander pilot in the RAF in WW2, whose insubordinate and unmilitary attitude got him the dogsbody and potentially dangerous job of towing target drones for recruit pilots and new air gunners to try and hit. A moment's thought will suffice as to where stray rounds might hit. Too good not to use here.
(3) To everybody's surprise, Hanna had been able to communicate perfectly clearly to Ankh-Morpork Control, despite being the best part of two hundred miles to the widdershins.
(4) Still playing with the idea of Discworld "Czechs", in this case, perhaps, a technically-minded Dwarf from a clan hailing from, perhaps, the Tatra, or even the Tetris, mountains.(4.1) Also, two models of machine-gun used extensively by the British and Commonwealth forces in WW2 and for a long time afterwards were the Bren and the Besa – which were Czech designs. (also used in a limited way by the Germans, who frankly had better). The Bren was a light MG for infantry squad use, the Besa a heavier model mounted in tanks. A final-model Bren was still in use by British forces as late as the 1980's. The armoury at Brno in Czechoslovakia was responsible for both designs.
(4.1) Dwarfs in the Tetris mountains were skilled in the manipulation and assembly of irregularly-shaped blocks of naturally hewn stone. A Tetris-stone wall is a glorious many-hued sight to see.
(5) German is related to Dutch and by extension to Afrikaans. With Hanna and Gertrude, trying to get a little of the historical reserve between "Austrians" and "Prussians". Borogravia is pretty much a Discworld take on the Austro-Hungarian Empire as was, in its fading days and its accelerating staggering running-out-of-everything collapse in WW1, with lots of fractious Slavonic minorities in near-revolt against German-speaking overlords. Nineteen years later, of course, Austrians joked, bitterly, that "you Germans didn't so much take us over. Go away for a moment, please, and look up which country Adolf Hitler was born in? We'll wait while you look it up. Germany has in fact been brought under Austrian leadership, we think." In our world, the idea of "Deutsche Dualismus", the mutual antipathy and reserve verging on outright hostility between Prussia and Austria. Lots of dialect differences in spoken German, but so far nothing I can chuck in that succinctly explains it.
(6) I started out looking for specialised vocabulary about how Austrians and Bavarians viewed their more martial Northern neighbour, during the 19th century showdowns about exactly who got to rule a united German Empire. There are a lot of words out there. And, as Hanna remarks, this sort of spread to every European neighbour who had a disagreement with a Prussian-dominated Germany. And in the years that followed, the general suspicion that Prussians are a bunch of uncultured martially-minded militaristic oafs in jackboots spread to all Germans. Every neighbour of the German Empire devised its own specialised vocabulary to describe their neighbour, and very little of it is complimentary. For some reason. Research throws up surprises: the British didn't invent the pejorative "Hun" to describe Germans. The word was first used in a speech by Kaiser Wilhelm II, in the early 1900's, when he invoked the spirt of Attila the Hun as a worthy example that the German fighting soldier should seek to emulate. This was of course remembered in 1914…
(7) Mariella Smith-Rhodes-Lensen would respect the very letter of the law of her country, and accept she could not sell her product to a Zulu as this would break a very strict trade embargo between the two countries and could be held to be a treasonous act. Instead, she would ask her niece Rebecka to carry a bottle with her when she flew back to Ankh-Morpork next, and call round next door at Emmanuelle's whenever she had a spare minute. Here, she would gift a bottle to a Quirmian citoyenne, an action not prohibited under Rimwards Howondalandian law. Emmanuelle would then re-gift it to a friend who just happened to be a subject of the Zulu Empire. Mariella prided herself on being a completely law-abiding person.
(8) She was pushing for Shashka to become her Air Watch call sign. This had been provisionally pencilled in, but Olga and Nadezhda had both told her that if you want to call yourself Sabre, devyuschka, and for the other girls to accept that – which is also important – then you had better bloody well merit that. Or everyone else will assign you a callsign, which you will have to live with. Regard Parrot. She wanted to be called Kakapo, the word for a parrot in her country. But who calls her Kakapo when Parrot is a word everyone knows? However, the name Sabre is perfectly acceptable for your Pegasus, and we will add that to the Registry. (8.1) I have an idea here, which will be explored in a coming chapter.
(8.1) Olga had been relieved it had not been Strawberry Shortcake, or something of that ilk. But the inviolable rule is that a Witch names her Pegasus. Always.
(9) Asking questions like how fast a broomstick might reasonably go – or for that matter, a flying carpet. Also, it's reasonable to assume if light moves slowly in the presence of magic, then the speed of sound is slower and therefore a Mach 1 broom would not need to go to 700mph. On our world, the ME110 was a twin-engined heavy fighter capable of 560km/h or 348mph. its derivatives, the 210 had about the same speed while the ME 410 could go 624kmh (388mph). The ME262 jet fighter could go 870kph (540mph), so it's reasonable to assume the dedicated fighter brooms of the Air Watch might have the same relative speeds. To explain, the 110 moves fast but - if fully loaded - not quite as fast as a single-seater 109; a 262 moves at speeds getting on for, but not reaching, twice as fast (it can break the local speed of sound if diving or in turbo, a state the Teks grumble about because it puts great stress on the thaumaturgy); and a MIg-21 or 25 will easily go well over Discworld Mach 1, fastest of all. The research I do…
Domovoys, Ovinniks, Krimbas and Banniks are spirits and non-human sentient creatures in Russian folklore. I'll try to get this into a coming chapter, but (like Bekki with Grindguts and being able to speak to deceased Ancestors), the fact Alexandra Mumurovka discovered early on that she had no need for childhood imaginary friends. As she made friends with the resident Domovoi and learnt to move in his world of guardian and tutelory spirits, this was noted, especially by Lady Olga Romanoff, who proposed further vocational training for a Talent. A Bannik, among other things, has the ability to warn a human he/she loves that they are shortly going to ber in trouble and danger.
The stuff that gets dumped when camp is made at the end of the daily Trek: the Notes Laager
I have just discovered that in 2014, the Hartebeeste/Uniondale haunting which is fictionalised in this story appears to have been made into a movie in South Africa. Die Spook van Uniondale – the title suggests it is Afrikaans-language – stars an actress called Tanya van Graan (who appears in music videos with Bok van Blerk) in the role of Marie, one of the girls the haunting/poltergeist appears to have centred round. I am now going to see if I can find this movie, and to find out, if a non-subtitled version comes up, if my Afrikaans is up to it.
Useful vocabulary items: July 2021: Rioting in SA is in the news after the jailing of former ANC president Jacob Zuma on corruption charges.
Words from the reporting that stand out:
"Spaza"; informal, or unlicenced, trading outlet or temporary shop in a Township, apparently run by Somalians or immigrant East Africans. In the fantasy counterpart SA in which these stories are set, (recent history on our world) would be by "coloureds".
Alexandra: township near Johannasburg
Maponya, Jabulani: shopping malls in today's Soweto
SCHPAGA, SHLYOMKA – the Red Air Force TU-22 jet bomber of 1961, which used distilled grain alcohol as coolant and usually carried 400 litres of the said coolant at any one time. Yes. The Russians had a bomber plane that carried a significantly large amount of what really amounted to pure vodka. No prizes for guessing how this played out. A plane fuelled by vodka…
"Schpaga" – epée, the sword; also the name for the dipstick used to assess fuel/coolant levels in aircraft tanks.
Shlyomka; "little flying helmet", ie something indispensable for flight.
Anyway. Online mild controversy.
This came out of an online meme that seems to be doing the rounds; the reference to a song called "Sweet Caroline" being so infectious everybody sings along and it can raise the dead. It had a repeating line going something like "bah bah bah bah!" which sounded vaguely distantly familiar but was puzzling, as my first referent to a song with a recurring title line "Sweet Caroline" definitely did not have a "bah bah bah BAH" bit in it.
Belatedly, it dawned on me that this actually referred to the Neil Diamond song, and all became clear. (Is this just the way my head works?)
Anyway. I thought "Ah, something American. Got to be."
And discovered this has been sung at England's cricket and football games. Ah well.
Neil Diamond's song is pretty good in its genre, but if pushed I'd go for this one. And people have got pedantic and told me it's just called "Caroline". Officially yes. But. I found a top of the Pops performance online from 1974. "Sweet Caroline" By rockers Status Quo. Listen to the chorus. And the great Kenny Everett introducing on TOTP. If he calls it "Sweet Caroline", that's good enough for me.
From an FB discussion on a walking stick with a stylised duck's head for its hand grip….
"I was doing my research into Cossack swords, the shashka, and got as far as discovering the pommel can often (but not always) be worked into a stylised animal's head: the hawk, the bear, the horse. Looking at this and thinking... there has to be a host of Discworld Cossacks who haven't quite got the totem animal thing right yet and, well...
"The word is утка, "utka". (already used as Marina Raskova's rather self-deprecating callsign: although she doesn't really come back into this tale for a few months yet. See Price of Flight) Thinking ahead... the Discworld has a massive inland sea, or large lake, called Lake Mouldavia/ The Great Mouldavian Sea, out towards Rehigreed and Genua in the extreme end of the Central Continent. My suspicion and inference from the books is that in the days of the Dark Empire, this was part of the Discworld Russia, an entity which appears to have receded back to the Vortex Plains, Far Überwald, and Zlobenia, and Nearer Mouldavia. (with a possible post-Rodinian outpost in one of the Discworld Stans). The Up To Eleven Discworld "Russia", which in my writings is Rodinia, needs its Cossacks, who appear as several scattered nomadic Hosts who are, basically, Cossacks as we know them - taken up to eleven. The furthest-flung and hardest to get to would be from "Lake Baikal" - ie, Lake Mouldavia. On our world, the Siberian place called Lake Baikal is distinguished by... its totemic ducks. Discovering this fills me with delight. The Baikal Teal and the Ruddy Shelduck (кра́сная у́тка, о́гарь). Local Siberian people are proud of their ducks. So... we now have Discworld Cossacks with duck's head shashkas. I cannot now omit this."