Strandpiel 33: Strategieë – Strategies
We're back! Taking an unexpectedly darker turn with warclouds looming – but all to set the scene for Bekki arriving in Howondaland, which will be soon. Written as I come out of being coshed with flu and mainly about Howondaland, but it has a Tykebomb action sequence in it. First revision for typos and clonky bits.
The Kraal of the Ingonyamakazi, The Zulu Empire.
Only a couple of people registered the strange octarine-tinged flashes over the kraal during the night. The Witch-Finder, who had been trained in magical use by the College and who could see the colour of the Gods, was in bed, sleeping off the big and somewhat fiery dinner he'd been offered by the Princess. As the lights had been in the sky, local wise-women in the area shrugged and put it down to supernatural. Probably an impondulo or something. Nothing to get aerated by. Flying by on its own business and not stopping. After a while, there were no more strange flashing lights in the sky. The night guards on the kraal, puzzled, shrugged and made a report entry to go to the inundula in the morning, who would then report to the iNduna. They decided it wasn't worth interrupting the sleep of either for, even though the Crown Princess had insisted all strange events in the night be logged, reported, and where possible investigated. Nobody was going to wake Her Highness over a few odd flashing lights in the night. Odd things happened in the night. Where Supernatural walked. You got things of muti walking by night. This was Howondaland, after all. Stood to reason. You didn't go walking out there by night. If it wasn't Supernatural, it was lions or hyenas or honey-badgers, and you didn't mess with them. Howondaland resumed its uninterrupted night sleep.
Hobley's Stud, Lancre:
Bekki and Sophie leant on the fence, watching in supressed excitement.
"They will come back, won't they?" Sophie asked, anxiously.
Bekki craned her neck to watch.
"They know where their stalls are." she said, practically. "And they're still only foals. They'll stay close to their mother. And she won't go far on her own without Stacey. According to Irena, they won't go far and they won't go high. They're just learning what their wings are for. They'll get tired easily."
The Pegasus foals were taking their first faltering, fledgling, flights. Bekki was delighted and awed. It had been worth taking the long flight back to Lancre to be able to watch this. Sophie had sent an urgent clacks to the effect that the first flight feathers were coming in, and the Day would not be long now. Bekki had tidied up such work as was to be done in the Chalk and flown back. Later on, the harder and more sustained work would begin. One of the senior Service pilots would be here to advise on the next steps to be taken by each Witch and her Pegasus foal. Practical bonding of Witch to Pegasus was soon to begin. But for now, it was down to Mother to lead her two foals into the air, to encourage, to demonstrate, to guard, to shepherd. This was horse stuff, but in a different direction. Upwards. A mare and her foals playfully gambolling in the paddock. A very big paddock with a theoretically unlimited area.
They watched, as the stately mare flew in an unhurried turning circuit, flanked by a foal on each side who were beating their wings twice as hard to try and keep up. Every so often, the mare turned to check where they were. Bekki had an odd feeling that every so often Boetjie was aware of her and was looking at her as if to say See what I can do? Look at me, I'm flying! She smiled up at her Pegasus. She was proud too. It was as near to a perfect day as it ever was. Even if there was a pineapple in the fruit basket – her sixteenth birthday was coming up. This meant reporting to the Lemonade Factory as Probationary Lance-Constable (Air) Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons, R. For the basic Watch training that would be mandatory, prior to assignation to the Air Police and Pegasus Service. Even if the deal afterwards was that she worked, at least part-time, for the Pegasus Service, it still had to be done. She still had to be a Watchwoman at some level, even if only as a Special. Bekki shrugged. She'd deal with that when it happened.
The Assassins' Guild, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork:
"Howondaland." said Lord Downey. The full Dark Council plus invited guests became more alert. This was going to be the tricky one. They were discussing world events and the Guild's knowledge of them and what the Guild of Assassins should do, in the event of its collective input becoming necessary.
Downey smiled a thin smile. He was still Guild Master, the man who made the final decisions. Aware he was getting no younger, he was wondering more and more these days about making the final decision, standing down, entering a honourable retirement to his country lodge where he could go fishing, invite old friends, reminisce. He was thankful that he had the luxury of contemplating a bloodless transition to new leadership and that he could retire at all. His three predecessors in post had not been so fortunate and had all died in office. His immediate predecessor had gone distressingly insane and, had Vimes and Carrot not forced the decision on the Guild, would have needed to be persuaded to depart. In one way or another. Downey smiled slightly. I'll be going with my sanity intact. Something to be thankful for. He looked over to his most likely sucessor. Joan. Sharp as a knife and nobody argues with her. If anything the Guild will be stronger with a Mistress at its head. He speculated on the interesting fact that, almost without exception, Guild Masters were drawn from the ranks of the poisoners and not the fighters. He wondered if alchemy and poisoning created a more cerebral Assassin, the sort of mind that could effortlessly calculate and scheme and finesse, like playing a dozen chess games simultaneously whilst beset by the noise and heat of a steel foundry.
"The balance is shifting again." Joan Sanderson-Reeves agreed. "Just when you think the three big players are bouncing off each other like those dratted Agatean wrestlers in a ring, and no one can bash any of the others down. One side suddenly gets an even bigger fatter fellow out there who can build up a bit more speed, and..."
She brought two open fists together with an audible splat sound.
"And the students are playing that rather tactless game again." Joan said. "You know the one. Things like, who would win in a fight between, say, Alice and Emmanuelle. Fantasy Combat, they call it."
Dark Council members knew this one well. School students would periodically debate the merits, or otherwise, of renowned senior Assassins with Reputations, and speculate on who would win in a fight between Assassin A and Assassin B. Teachers either pretended it didn't happen, or else squashed it on the grounds of good taste. More thoughtful teachers considered The Game to be a barometer of many things, including a measure of how they were perceived by their pupils, or else reflecting on who the pupils thought important and significant enough to consider. And how they ranked them.
"At least it hones their analytical skills." Alice Band said, thoughtfully. "As opposed to wishful thinking and muddled logic."
"Like looking for a gold nugget in a midden." Joan snorted. "But you get themes emerging. And you pay attention to those. Can't help noticing that a lot of speculating is going on about people like Mariella Smith-Rhodes. The other Johanna. Emma Roydes. Our younger big-reputation people. Up against people like Sissi N'Kime. Kela Mepthule. Ruth N'Kweze. And those fantasy fights are going to the wire."
Downey digested this.
"Who's winning?" he asked. He'd played this game too as a student.
There was a short pause.
"Opinion is divided." Joan said.
"I see." Downey said, thoughtfully. "Has the Gamblers' Guild decided odds yet?"
"It's only a matter of time." said Alice.
"The known facts, Master." said Henri le Balouard, prompting the debate closer to its intended track. Le Balouard was one of those charged with assessing and evaluating incoming intelligence from around the Disc. His opinion in these matters was respected.
"We've recently seen change of government in Rimwards Howondaland. Practically every senior government position and senior ministry changed hands. The only significant branches of Government that have kept their old guard at the top are Defence and BOSS. They were able to consolidate. All the new people effectively had to learn from the ground up. This only masks a growing rift between hawks and doves in the administration. The hawks – Defence and BOSS – want to keep up a hard line with the neighbours and are keen for any excuse to harden the line still further. The doves – and do not forget these are doves only by comparison, you can think of them as less agressive hawks – are arguing for some sort of mutual understanding with the Zulu Empire in particular and an easing of tensions. The spokesman here appears to be van der Graaf, the Foreign Minister. So you have internal tensions on this side.
"And on the other side, the Paramount King will soon be celebrating his official seventieth birthday. State jubilation has been decreed, and the nation will no doubt rejoice. Mpandwe kaCeteshwayo is healthy and could well still be there in another twenty years, but the fact remains that he is seventy and has been Paramount King for forty years now. Nobody goes on for ever, and every day over seventy is, in a sense, borrowed time. Even now his more capable sons – and daughters – are very quietly beginning to scramble for position. At least twenty people are capable of making power-plays of various kinds, to put themselves in better positions for when the change comes. Even if they don't want the succession, they want to be sure of the son who does get the throne. And their status with regard to the new Paramount King. This is only going to accelerate with time. So from a point of view of the Zulu Empire – goodbye, stability."
"We enter dangerous times in Howondaland." the Compte de Yoyo said, with gloom. "So there is no clear line of succession in possibly the most powerful country in Black Howondaland. The incumbent ruler, while hale, is not young. His most powerful sons each command armies. The old king has nominated no successor. Therefore at least eight of his sons, each backed by a small army, all consider they are in with a chance."
The Guild council members present looked in one direction. Or at least, their attention was drawn there. In their defence, they couldn't really help it.
Canon Clement N'Effibl, Guild Chaplain and a son of the Paramount King, looked back at everyone with an expression of calm serenity. It was possible that he might even have been expressing amusement. He waited a long time before he spoke.
"It is true that I am one of the older sons of King Mpandwe of the Clan of Ceteshwayo." he said, in his deep sonorous voice. "It is also true that I have as much, and as little, of a claim to the Paramount Throne as any son of Mpandwe. However, I have no impis. I have also been living here for several decades. My great father has seen no need to recall me home. I am a priest of a foreign religion. Quite simply, I am unsuited for kingship, have practically no power base there, and most crucially, I don't want it. Which I grant may make me unique among my brothers. I do, however, have an interest in preventing my nation sliding into civil war and weakness."
Doctor Perdore, the Guild's elderly spymaster, nodded at him.
"Your little, er, pastoral talks with Zulu students and those graduating from the Final Run?" he inquired.
Clement smiled slightly.
"I act as guide and counsellor to students of my nationality." he said. "It is a recognised duty among residential staff. Monsieur le Balouard and Madame de Badin-Boucher perform this duty for Quirmians. Doctor Smith-Rhodes and Mrs Smith-Rhodes do this for White Howondalandians. The Herr Baron guides Überwaldeans. It is hardly unique, and in many respects necessary."
"We guide students while they are in Enkh-Morpork, end towards the end of their stay here, we prepare them for their return Home." Johanna Smith-Rhodes said, seeing where Clement was going. "It is en eccepted duty."
Clement nodded to Johanna.
"And your pastoral advice might involve informal conversations concerning the way things are in your country. You seek to get them mentally prepared for National Service, and to steer graduates away from enlisting in the Bureau of State Security. It has been rumoured that you might also sound them out concerning agitating for enhanced womens' rights under law, and the case for a principled and moral objection to apartheid and how to express this safely. It is perhaps been the case, most recently, that you have also been discussing the archaic and absurd laws prohibiting witchcraft in your nation and the need for their repeal, so as to bring your country in line with the Central Continent as it is now, not as it was five centuries ago."
Johanna smiled slightly.
"Such things are rumoured, ja." she said.
The Canon nodded at her.
"In my case. I also speak to my people as to how things are. A general discussion over a civilised drink. I may make the case for a new graduate, on returning Home and after formal reception by my father has been made, to seek out one or both of two named sisters. All new Assassins are required by Guild Law to make themselves known to my half-sister Princess Precious Jewel N'Khazi, the Chief Assassin in the Empire. She will also welcome them back to the Empire and explain certain realities to ones who have grown up away from Home. At some point, the new Assassin will then be directed to seek audience with the Paramount Crown Princess. My half-sister Ruth N'Kweze can also be very charismatic and persuasive and many of those graduates, of their own free will, naturally, may either choose to give her allegience or else seek her patronage."
"By my reckoning, Ruth's bagged the best part of two-thirds of all licenced Assassins in the Empire." Joan Sanderson-Reeves remarked. "And Pecious Jewel has got all the rest. If it comes to civil war, why am I betting it won't last very long before people at the top start dissappearing. The civil war runs out of people wanting to fight it."
Clement nodded at her.
"Indeed, Dame Joan. One of the valid and possibly most ethically justifiable uses of the Assassin. To prevent wars."
"Yes. It is notable that something like eight Princes and Princesses of the Paramount Royal Family have dissappeared over the past months." Downey remarked. "Others have, sadly, died in an assortment of what an outside observer might choose to describe as regrettable accidents."
"Has your father noticed?" Alice Band asked Clement. "Even in a big family like yours, he's bound to notice. Sooner or later."
Clement smiled, with a hint of sadness.
"My father has always believed in there being an element of sibling rivalry, Alice." he said. "Apparently it keeps the family strong, and the best rise to the top. The weakest – well, they sink. Natural selection, I beleive you call it in zoology classes? His point of view is that while it's regrettable, he isn't going to run out of children any time soon. I rather suspect he's watching several sons – and daughters – quite closely, as he discerns signs of promise in them."
"We have reserves." Alice said.
"Inheritance by competition." said Henri le Balouard. People nodded. These were family values the Guild of Assassins understood and could get full-square behind.
"Eish." said Johanna Smith-Rhodes, shaking her head. "End I thought my femily could get..."
"Your Uncle Charles is more subtle than that, from what I hear." Alice Band said, reaching out and taking her hand. "That cousin of yours who got posted to Aceria as a diplomat? Recognition? Promotion?"
"Ja, until the grizzly bears got him on a hunting trip."(1)
Dame Joan Sanderson-Reeves nodded her appreciation. "Sheer art." she said. "Although your uncle could have asked me. No need, in the event. Are we sure he wasn't educated by us?"
Lord Downey sighed. It wasn't just wizards of the Faculty. Any meeting of senior Assassins could also ramble off-topic and stay there, until it was guided back onto the rails again.
"Which leads us inexorably back to the main issue." he said. "We accept that Princess Ruth is off-contract for now. Have we sent congratulations from the Guild on her pregnancy? Together with the courtesy reminder we would be most interested in educating her son or daughter? Also, her arguments advising against Guild involvement in any direct disagreement between the Empire and White Howondaland. As Dame Joan pointed out earlier, it is not clear at all what way that would go, except that we'd inevitably lose some of our very best people, rather needlessly, for no discernable gain. And many of them would be fighting pro-bono under accepted exclusion clauses, so there would not even be Guild tax involved. That must be a consideration."
"Two powerful nations, both with fault-lines in their key administrations, indicating worrying degrees of internal instability." said Lady T'Malia. She had remained silent till now. "Political history tells us that a country beset by internal division may take the simplest and most brutal way of ensuring a degree of unity. Which is to point to an external threat, an ethnic or tribal enemy, and demand the threat be forcibly removed. By war. A people led or hoodwinked into this position is likely to respond directly. An insecure administration can secure its position by engaging in war. A new and shaky Paramount King, perhaps. Or else the hawks in government who see their position threatened by accelerating peace and normalisation of relations. An over-large Army, backed by a secret police force, whose people begin to ask – if we're working towards peace with the Zulus, do we really need such a large expensive military? One that demands all our sons and daughters when they become eighteen and takes them away for two years?"
"Lots of redundant Generals." Johanna Smith-Rhodes said. "End if the enemy goes, people will esk. Do we need the Bureau of State Security to guarantee our freedom, egainst a threat thet no longer threatens?"
There was contemplative silence. Johanna contemplated an oldest daughter who in a little over two years time would be living in Rimwards Howondaland and eligible for call-up to National Service. This worried her. Bekki would not be a good fit for the military. She listened to Downey.
"And while Ruth N'Kweze has achieved some sterling and quite spectacular results with her Lioness Impi – we all read her informative reports on the Muntab War? – she has miscalculated in one very important respect. We understand she has no desire for war with White Howondaland and she sees the advantages of maintaining the status quo on that border. Indeed, she has deliberately moved the centre of her own power-base to a location a long way away from the border with Rimwards Howondaland. We also know she is engaged in informal and deniable contact with highly placed people in the White Howondalandian administration, with a view to lowering tensions and striving for normal neighbourly relationships. We are happy to facilitate that. Mr van der Graaf fully realises this. But this is something he can't yet say openly, outside a small and trusted circle of influential people. Meanwhile the true hawks are alarmed and want her to be removed. She is aware of this and is taking precautions. But her existence, and that of the Lioness Impi – more of a small army now – upsets the status quo just by being there. Its existence cannot be unwished. Despite herself, she could start a major war."
Silence again. Then somebody said
"Vetinari is going to be truly pissed off."
"Indeed." Lord Downey said, gloomily. Again, inside, he craved retirement. Making it into somebody else's problem.
The Chalk, late April:
Bekki walked around the stones, carefully, assessing, reading what the landscape and the layout of the stones told her. They weren't anything like as organised as the Dancers. But there was definitely a Gateway here. That, what was it, a trilithon, a flat stone balanced squarely on the pillars of two uprights, was the key. It was a Doorway. Bekki looked at the hummocks of vaguely raised ground around it and remembered conversations with Alice Band. Many thousands of years ago it had probably been at the heart of a barrow, the skeleton around which a mound of earth had been raised over a chamber, the need then to cover and to protect something that would have rested inside. Thousands of years of collapse and erosion had done the rest, leaving only the bare bones. But two uprights and a horizontal remained, the original gateway to a place of death. And now it remained as a Doorway, its original function long served.
Bekki thought she could see through it into a slightly different world, one that didn't quite match the world around its borders. She didn't want to look too far: the memory of blindingly cold ice and snow stretching to infinity, that she'd briefly experienced at the Dancers, had been enough.
She looked down. Something unyielding squeaked under her foot, than gave. Yes: the earth here had also been seeded with iron, another warning to the elves, another this-is-mine field.
"We watch this place too." said a soft voice from just behind her. Bekki knew enough not to jump. She recognised Tiffany Aching's voice. Tiffany had probably been here for a while, watching and biding her time.
"It's best witches never come to these places alone." Tiffany added. "We have to watch each other too. With the best of intentions, of course."
"Of course." Bekki agreed.
They walked on together. Tiffany periodically indicated places of special interest. Not all of them had to do with fighting Elves.
"So." Tiffany said. "After the Witch Trials in July. You'll be leaving for Howondaland?"
It was a statement rather than a question.
"I don't think there's too much for me here." Bekki said, with perfect honesty. "All the nearby steadings in the Sto Plains and Lancre are filled. Girls trained here are going as far out these days as Aceria, Fourecks and the Foggy Islands. Just to establish steadings, and take Witchcraft where it's needed. So I thought. I'm Howondalandian enough for it to matter. Why shouldn't I go there? I grew up speaking Vondalaans. Because of the maids at home, I can get by in Xhosa. So I would't just be a witch for white people. I think that's important too."
"The apartheid thing." Tiffany said, understanding. "You have got to be a witch for everybody. I agree that's important. No favourites, no preferences. You do the job that's in front of you and go where you're needed. You don't get to choose who, and you certainly don't let other people choose your priorities for you."
Tiffany looked reflective for a moment. Then she said
"I get the feeling you're in for a fight or two. People who think differently to you aren't going to see it that way."
Bekki nodded. Tiffany grinned.
"Give them hell." Tiffany said. "Make trouble. you're going to a place that hasn't got all that many witches. Well – not white ones, anyway. It's all new. You need to establish the ground rules, and point out people are going to have to adjust to you, not the other way around. Even if the local law says you're illegal, and a white woman witching for black people is twice as illegal. Challenge that. You'll have every witch on the Disc cheering for you. And keep me informed? Or Nanny Ogg?"
Bekki grinned quietly.
"I'm Ankh-Morporkian too." she said. "I've thought about this. People in my position who've been awkward – well, they don't go to prison. Vetinari asks questions. Or they don't go to prison for very long. They get deported. So I've got nothing to lose."
Tiffany considered this. Then she gave Bekki her hand.
"Lots of sheep in Howondaland, I hear." she said. "Consider this a crash-course in sheep. You'll need it."
They returned to dealing with things ovine.
Scoone Avenue, Ankh-Morpork.
The young Assassin, clad all in black, moved over the twilight roofs of Ramkin Manor. A little voice in her head was stressing caution, telling her this is too easy! Something is wrong!
She listened to the voice. It was part of the sensory input of the high rooftop. She paused in the lee of a chimney-stack, and took stock. She'd got into Ramkin Manor. She'd spent time in the Land Registry at the Palace, having attended in her best school uniform and looking as neat and girlish as possible, explaining that this was all for a School Project about history, architecture and the history of Ankh-Morpork, and School wanted her to do a project on how a street in Ankh had changed and developed over time, so she'd love to have access to old plans and street maps.
Incredibly enough, this had worked, and she'd even been shown how to access the stacks and racks and archives and, having demonstrated she was neat and tidy and could put things back in the right places, the archivist had smiled benevolently and let the quiet, intelligent, well-behaved and polite young girl get on with it. He hadn't, seemingly, stopped to reflect on which school she was a pupil at.(2)
Having researched her information from old street and building plans, the assassin had then located the long disused and forgotten culvert which had allowed her access into the grounds of Ramkin Manor. A covert approach had taken her to a section of wall where two wings of the building curved back on each other to create what was almost a natural chimney, overlooked by few windows. It was a blind spot that led her up onto the roof, undetected, as far as she knew.
The next stage was to locate the right entry point. Internal plans for the house lodged at the Land Registry had included a schematic for the chimney flues. As they had been a hundred years ago when the internal systems of the house had last been surveyed, admittedly, but the Assassin shrugged and reasoned that nobody ever seriously alters the layout of their flues. Once installed, they're in for keeps.
And all Miss Band wanted was for her to get close enough to Sir Samuel Vimes to then be able to say, on her Assassins's honour, that shee had been in a position to launch a final approach to the client. That would be held to be sufficient.
"Off you go, then." Miss Band had said after hearing her operational plan. "And I'd be very surprised if you managed it."
The Assassin smiled slightly. In her opinion, Miss Band was going to be very surprised...
The assasin wrapped and secured padded cloths around her knees and elbows. She'd read that boys of her age and younger had been used as chimney-sweeps and that chimney flues had been designed for them to scramble through with a little room to spare. She'd read about how they'd coped with that. It had been interesting reading.
And now she was doing this for real. She swung herself up and lowered herself, feet first, into the chimney. At this time of day sir Samuel was likely to be taking Afternoon Tea with Lady Sybil down in the slightly teal Drawing Room... the plans of the house, cross-referenced to material she'd gleaned from sources like Wotcher! and Tepidity!(3), was down the main flue here, count off three side-flues leading to upstairs rooms. Then a sixty-degree turn along this side-flue here, by my reading of the archictect's plans I should be able to swing down into the grate, orientate myself, and announce why I'm here...
It went according to plan until as she swung down the side flue leading to the Slightly Teal Drawing Room, she felt her foot dislodge something. Or activate something... and then she had to move her hands quickly as the grille slammed into place above her head, effectively sealing her escape route. The new, shiny, unrusted, metal grille, that smelt of oil and smooth mechanism.
She scrambled and leapt down the flue and felt the space around her widen into a fireplace. She was poised to leap out into the room when another grille dropped like a portcullis, down accross the fireplace, effectively sealing her in. Undaunted, she assessed her surroundings. She could see through the portcullis into a well-kept sitting room behind. She could smell cucumber sandwiches and tea. She sensed people. Two, possibly three. As she methodically attempted to assess where the hinges and the weak points were on the portcullis blocking her entry into the room, probing with a long knife, she heard the voice and smelt cigar smoke.
"I think our guest has arrived, dear."
And then Sam Vimes was grinning in through the grate.
The Assassin dropped her knife and lifted empty, albeit soot-grimed, hands in surrender. Not holding a knife when you met Sam Vimes was held to be prudent and good manners. Besides, Willikins the butler was also watching her. He was holding a cake-slice that, viewed in a different light, could be viewed as having a certain weapon component to it.
"You got a long way." he said. "I'm impressed. Got the idea from your auntie, did you? Well, her exploit gave me the idea to have the traps installed in the chimney-flues. Just in case.(4) By the way, your Auntie Mariella didn't get any further than the dunnikin on her visit. Did she tell you that? Her friend Rivka made it to the rotting boards over a midden, by the way. Got further than most, I have to say."
Vimes fiddled with a mechanism. The portcullis lifted.
"Now pick that knife up – slowly and carefully, I'm watching you and standing close enough to make life inconvenient for you – then sheath it again. Thank you. And because your mother used to be one of my Specials and I have a soft spot for your auntie – not just the dunnykin – I'm prepared to let you have a bath before I send you back to the Guild with a report for Alice. Famke Cornelia Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons, isn't it? You must be the youngest Alice has ever sent me. What spectacular thing did you do to annoy her this much?"
Famke emerged, trying not to scatter too much old soot. She sighed. Things could have been worse...
to be continued...
(1) Charles Smith-Rhodes contemplates a suitable out-of-the-way exile for an embarrassing and dangerously incompetent family member (by marriage) in my tale Gap Year Adventures. He also steered the widow, after a suitable period of grieving, to a far more useful second husband. One who, incidentally, was a good husband to her.
(2) Lord Vetinari had, in fact, been informed. He had steepled his fingers, smiled benevolently, and said that the young lady in question had an aunt who referred to him as Kindly Uncle Havelock. In his opinion he was inclined to be equally avuncular to the next generation of this family, and, besides, he had an intellectual curiosity with this young lady as to how she'd turn out. He had then asked which street she was scouting out. Vetinari had smiled gnomically. "Instructive for all concerned, then. Capital."
(3) illustrated magazines taking advantage of full-colour iconography to give readers a glimpse into the homes and the lives of the rich and influential and those whose lives epitomised graceful living. The Guild of Assassins took many copies. Interest was taken not only in who attended, but in the locations and what the iconography revealed about room layout and interesting access points.
(4) Mariella Smith-Rhodes learnt the utility of chimney-flues in the tale Hyperemesis Gravidarum. Sam Vimes noted this and did some creative thinking of his own.
Notes Dump:
Somewhere in a sea roughly halfway between two continents, the one of the tale being currently written and the semi-glimpsed one of future tales yet to be committed to paper, where isolated ideas are given lifebelts and a signal rocket against being spotted and rescued.
Was Tolkein aware of this?
The hobbit is a unit of volume or weight formerly used in Wales for trade in grain and other staples. It was equal to four pecks or two and a half bushels, but was also often used as a unit of weight, which varied depending on the material being measured. The hobbit remained in customary use in markets in northern Wales after Parliament standardized the Winchester bushel as the unit of measure for grain, after which courts gave inconsistent rulings as to its legal status.
Jacob Zuma's gone as president, I see. I guess he pissed off too many of the ANC hierarchy by not cutting them in for big enough bribes or cuts of the take…. How far is SA following the time-honoured post-colonial trail of black African presidents and senior politicians siphoning off the loot? (Which is not to say ours are paragons of virtue either, regard Peter Mandelson, Jeffrey Archer, practically every Tory ever since 1979, at least half of Blair's, and one or two Liberals who were in coalition…) Are there numbered Swiss bank accounts in the name of Jacob Zuma and senior ANC hacks, little pension pots to cushion their retirement from politics…
Found a delightful short book, called The Scoundrel's Dictionary, a compendium of some lovely words which have largely gone from English or else mutated into new meanings for new times.
Off-colour-example: a nigmenog denotes a silly, stupid or mentally challenged person, perhaps mentally disordered. Thinking of a racially pejorative word that surfaced in the latter part of the 20th century, not a million miles away from the American n-word, and… hmmm. A word used for an undesirably stupid person that three hundred years ago had no racial context, repurposed. Still, at least there are lots of Discworld names in there! Random sampling -
Munger: shameless beggar
Fussock: a lazy fat slovenly woman
Buckfitch: a dirty perverted old man
Stivercramper (from Dutch): a man or woman persistently in need of charity – a sponge (een stiuverkraamper?)