Strandpiel 36: Musiek en liedjie - Music and Song
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. Continuing the logic of the story from the last episode which is now apparently becoming a mighty saga of interlocked family and friends on two continents, not just about Bekki. Again first imprint, will revise for typos. Lots of ideas, too little time. I have MANY ideas sketched out and roughly plotted. It is just a matter of finding time... second version with slight revisions to eliminate typos and inconsistencies and littel extra bits added.
The Assassins' Guild School, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork
Doctor von Ubersetzer had been the Guild School's principal teacher in Music for a long time. He had come to the notice of the Guild as a young orchestral conductor, when his short way with a viola player who had not only failed to tune his instrument, but who persisted in playing out of time with the rest of the string section, had led to a degree of necessary correction. The Assassins' Guild had offered him a position shortly afterwards. He had mellowed in the thirty years since, but a long succession of students with minimal musical talent, who still had to get passing grades to satisfy the Concordat requirement that an Assassin should be a person of refinement who could play a musical instrument – well, this was something that had left him with a marked tendency to twitch. People in the staffroom very kindly tried not to notice this, and were understanding. The Concordat stipulation, the one that insisted the Assassin should be capable of playing a musical instrument proficiently to advertise that they were a person of means and leisured refinement, did not sit well with the unfortunate reality. That most people were only ever destined to be at most competent, and then only after much effort and practice which the Guild School simply could not fit into the allocated two hours per week per pupil.
And many of the pupils, far too many, contributed to Doctor von Ubersetzer's growing collection of nervous tics. Thirty years of trying to remain cheerful and encouraging in the face of cack-handed ineptitude– the Dark Council had politely asked that there should only ever be one viola player on his professional résumé – had left a mark. His colleague Gillian Lansbury got it too, he reflected, when she saw the umpteenth less-than-indifferent painting submitted by a hopeful pupil. The same Concordat clause also insisted the Assassin be literate in Art as they were in Music. That was Gillian's turtle-to-be-tied-to. (1)
But there were compensations, von Ubersetzer reflected. Every so often. Just often enough to make it all worthwhile. There was at least one in every class, in every year. He relaxed and listened to the joyous sound of a pupil who was not only good, but outstanding, in his chosen instrument. The sounds of Fondel's Trumpet Involuntary filled the practice room, played, he considered, pretty near faultlessly. And the trumpet wasn't even this pupil's best or even preferred instrument. He had motioned the other boys in the room to stop and listen, to a trumpet played in the way they should all aspire to. Listen, he had said, and learn, if you can. This sort of thing made it all worthwhile, to a teacher. And it helped that the boy was in himself pleasant, good-natured and likeable. You could go a little further with an exceptional pupil you felt warm and well-disposed to. Not entirely professional, he knew, but all teachers had their favourites. To Assassins, they often became fortunate and well-regarded protégés. Every Guild teacher ended up with a clutch of them.
The sound died away and there was spontaneous applause. Even the boy's peers knew they were in the presence of talent. Besides, good old Ampie had earned them a breather.
"Outstanding." the Doctor said. "A little hint of wavering on ze long notes, you should practice your circular breathing a little more, junge, but nearly faultless."
"Dankie... Danke, Herr Doktor." the boy said, politely. Von Ubersetzer smiled slightly and wished more of his pupils were like this. There were boys in the room who could still make a noble wind instrument sound like a cat farting in a drainpipe. And in a Lower Sixth class eighteen months away from the Final Run, he felt there was little hope for some. But he still had to get them to at least a passing grade...
"Have you given any thought to what you will do after you graduate, junge?" he asked the boy. "I understand you have no great desire to practice as an active Assassin."
His pupil thought about this. Then he replied, in the same Überwaldean, but with that accent, "There is a commitment at home that I cannot escape, which will last for two years. But I am wondering if there is a career for me in music."
The Doctor smiled in an avuncular way.
"Higher academies in music would certainly take you, junge. And your ability is good enough for many professional orchestras to take an interest. I can write you a very good reference, and many directors of music are known to me."
"I thank you, Herr Doktor. Any introduction you could make would be welcome and a generous gift."
Von Ubersetzer again politely ignored the unfortunate intonation in the boy's Überwaldean. He suspected it was a necessary quirk of the boy's native language, that carried over into Überwaldean. It could make a simple polite request to pass the salt down the table, please into something that sounded, to an Überwaldean native, like I intend to smash your face in, with extreme prejudice. At least two of his staffroom colleagues spoke Überwaldean with that accent. It took some getting accustomed to. (2)
They continued a polite conversation whilst the class of aspirant horn-players performed the necessary post-performance housekeeping of cleaning valves, draining spit valves, and generally tidying up. Then their lesson was over. Doctor von Ubersetzer turned to his teaching assistant, Nigel Heggerty. Nigel was, unfortunately, a viola player. In deference to his Head of Department, he tended to teach other stringed and bowed instruments. Knowing your senior was an Assassin who could have unpredictable moments at the sight of a viola was a good incentive.
"Remind me of my next class, please, Nigel?"
Nigel Heggerty supressed a shudder of pain.
"A first year mixed ability class, Herr Doktor. The young ladies of One Raven."
Both teachers shuddered together. The Doctor visibly twitched. Both looked over to the teaching pianos with a certain dread.
"The most Honourable Miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons." Heggerty said. This time Doctor von Ubersetzer really twitched.
"We had better get on with it, then. Get it over with."
And the grim reality of life for music teachers began again.
The Royal Art Museum. Ankh-Morpork:
Ruth Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons inspected the painting with a critical eye. Beside her, Miss Gillian Lansbury stood proud, interested to hear what Ruth had to say about this one, pleased to be in charge of her, happy to have an early evening off to do something pleasurable in the company of somebody who was not only getting more knowledgeable by the day, but who really appreciated these things. And, Gillian reflected, who was still barely only eight years old.
Gillian sighed slightly. She wasin her middle thirties now, unmarried, and up until now, had regretted neither condition. Her life as a teacher and Resident Housemistress was a busy and full one. It was true, admittedly, that she was in a sort of walking-out arrangement with a nice enough guy; but it had been strolling along at a sort of leisuredly pace for a few years, the two of them viewing each other as a congenial escort to gallery openings, exhibitions, afternoon salons and the usual sort of social occassions the Art world provided for its denizens. Looking at Ruth and seing the sort of girl she would be overjoyed to have as a daughter, Gillian wondered if now was the time to start dropping great big hints to Toby. Let's make it formal. Settle down. Create a masterpiece of our own. The sort that is nine months in the making. She wondered how he'd react to that. Toby was the son of Sir Reynard Stitched, the etiolated and culturally rariefied Curator of the Royal Arts. Despite all the rumours about Sir Reynard, he was actually married, and he and Lady Stitched had produced one son. People who had not hitherto known this were amazed.
Tobias Stitched had grown up relatively normally. He had none – well, few – of his father's idosyncracies. He had been well educated – he had been sent to the Assassins' School for the general education and had left before Taking Black. Mr Linbury-Court, who had been Art Master prior to Gillian, had reccomended him to the Royal Art College, the Art School next to the Museum, which Gillian had also attended. She'd vaguely known him as a student; their years there had overlapped. Toby had gone there young, at fifteen, but he had been a star pupil.
Gillian looked down at Ruth's intense expression as she studied the painting. She wondered why Ruth made her so maternal. It was probably down to being unmarried and in her thirties, suddenly being made aware the biological clock only had so much go in its spring and couldn't be rewound. It was uncomfortable.
"The Deposition of Brutha on the Turtle." Gillian said, reading off the title-card displayed near to the painting. "Presented in the form of a tryptych."
"By Kristina van der Weymout." Ruth read. "That's interesting. Most of the famous artists on the walls here were men. I didn't know there were any famous lady painters."
"There's Danni." Gillian reminded her. Ruth made a little shrug. She didn't want to be rude, not about a grown-up and not about a grown-up who was Gillian's friend, but Daniellerina Pouter...
"Yes. There's Danni." Ruth said. It felt safest. "Kristina van der Weymout did very realistic faces. The way she does heads. So real they're almost talking!"
"You only get to be this good once in a lifetime." agreed Gillian. "She never did anything this good again." (3)
Gillian did not add that the unfortunate Kristina, exiled from Phlegmders to Quirm, had become obsessed in later life with depicting the psyche. Art at the time had overlapped the nascent study of anatomy; Kristina had reasoned the human soul must be in there somewhere, and had done some freelance dissecting in her search for it. Woodcut broadsheets had depicted her as the Psyche Killer.
Gillian Lansbury felt a huge relief that her career had only ever allowed her to become a competently good artist. Being a genius did not bear thinking about. Competently good spared you the worst of it.
It stoppped making sense for her in Quirm, Gillian reflected. One minute you're doing pictures of buildings and food, and then... She pondered on the tendency of really great artists to step across the intangible line between more-or-less everyday sanity and... the other thing... and looked down at Ruth, who was still intently studying the picture. At least she's being brought up right, Gillian thought. Loving parents. Supportive sisters. Happy home. Good understanding school. There's a good chance she'll stay sane...
She heard the familiar voice behind her saying "Gillian!" and turned to say hello.
It was Sir Reynard Stitched. A tall thin man, the walking embodiment of cultural refinement, a man whose accent might have begun as the crude oil of everyday Morporkian, but which had been through the oil refinery of cultural sensitivity and emerged at the other end as something like the vocal equivalent of kerosene, was genuinely pleased to see her. He took her hand and smiled in genuine delight.
"So nice to see you, my dear!" he said. It had emerged sounding like "Syooooh naiiice to say you, my dheahur!" spoken in a leisuredly slow drawl, but those who dealt with Sir Reynard had learnt to make allowances and do the necessary sort of mental translation. Gillian had heard from wizards that there was a fabled creature out there in the infinite twists and turns of the Multiverse called a Babel Fish, that once inserted in your ear did the translating for you. She suspected that anyone born and brought up in Ankh-Morpork, who had to make sense of every possible accent and dialect on the Disc as a consequence of everyday interactions in this city, didn't actually need a Babel Fish. It came built-in.
"I mentioned to Toby that we don't nearly see enough of you." Sir Reynard said. "Lady Stitched said the same thing, somewhat rather more emphatically. I expect your work at the School keeps you very busy?"
Gillian agreed.
"Just between you and me, Lady Stitched was quite vocal on the idea that she'd like to see a lot more of you, and that she wasn't frightfully keen of the idea of an unmarried son over thirty who doesn't seem to be doing anything about it that she can see. Up to you both, of course, but I consider Toby could do worse."
Sir Reynard smiled benignly at her. Gillian, understanding, smiled back. I've been running Raven House for a long time, she thought. I took over from Johanna when she left to get married. And she'd been training me to take over for some time. Who are my possible successors? A nice guy like Toby. Marriage. I move out. I still get to see Ruth. And Famke, except in my Art classes, becomes somebody else's problem.
Sir Reynard looked down.
"This is your ward, Gillian?" he asked, benignly. "The gifted child I have heard so much about?"
Ruth, intent on studying the artwork, spared him a brief look. He wasn't nearly as interesting as a van der Weymout.
"She is." Gillian said, with unconcealed pride. "Actually, I'm Ruth's Godsmother now. Her parents asked if in the circumstances I'd like to be. I said yes. Who wouldn't?"
Then Ruth stepped over the security line.
The Royal Art Gallery had instituted better security for a long time now. It had all begun when the Pouter painting of Man with Dog had gone. Closely followed by the theft of Methodia Rascal's masterwork, The Battle Of Koom Valley. Even Reynard Stitched had acknowledged that if a painting ten feet high by sixty or seventy feet long could be stolen without anyone noticing, security at the Royal Gallery needed to be radically overhauled.
The security line on the floor was a part of it. The painted yellow line approximately four feet in front of the artworks on the wall meant they could still be appreciated, but not from so closely that the pictures could actually be touched. Descriptive notes about each work were mounted on stands along this line. The distance was necessary: paintings could not only be stolen. It wasn't unknown for them to be vandalised. Art could stir odd emotions in people. And now and again, you got people coming along with paintboxes who sincerely thought the not-so-good bits, or the rather faded hazy areas in need of restoration, could be improved. Hence the security line and the polite notice asking patrons not to step across it.
At each end of the line, there was a cherub on the wall, in eye-line of each other. Cherubs, a sort of more decorative indoor gargoyle, were employed as security guards. The moment Ruth stepped through their mutual gaze to look more closely at whatever was fascinating her, the moment she broke their eye-line, a high-pitched siren scream began. It was the cherubs expressing alarm, as they were trained to.
"Oh, hell..." said Gillian Lansbury. Sir Reynard laid a reassuring hand on her arm. He motioned to the cherubs to be silent, it was all in hand, and waved back a couple of human security guards who were running into the gallery. He stepped across to join Ruth, who was scrutinising the painting from a lot closer to.
"Could I ask what you find so interesting, young lady?" he asked, in a pleasantly interested voice. He was finding her fascinating too.
Ruth nodded up to him, then indicated the painting.
"I'm right! I knew I was. I just couldn't properly see it from so far away." she said.
"And that is?" Sir Reynard asked, intrigued.
Ruth indicated an area of the painting. She knew not to actually touch: it was bad manners and fingerprints could degrade other peoples' art.
"See where Kristina van der Weymout does the painting of the robes and clothes?" she said. "Here, on the horrid-looking priest in the decorated robes, the one who's ordering the other man in the plain brown robe to be tied to the metal tortoise thing..."
"Deacon Vorbis ordering the martyrdom of the Prophet Brutha." Gillian said. She'd stepped forward to join them, too. "Remember when I taught you what a tryptych is? A painting in three parts meant to be a feature of an altar in a temple?"
"Oh, yes. We were given this by the Omnians when their Convocation decided it was far too gaudy and showy for their Church. " Sir Reynard reflected. "We were lucky. They wanted to burn it. We practically had to snatch it off the bonfire. But do continue. About the robes?"
"I was looking here." Ruth said. "Can you see where she used far thicker paint to do the clothes with? You know the way there's a regular pattern in clothes where the threads and things cross over each other? How cloth is made? Well, she's used her brush to copy that. You know, how you get that pattern in cloth and things. It's really really obvious. If you look really closely, the paint makes sort of ridges as it dried. And all those little ridges capture light and shadow. It's not on the ground or the sky or the clouds or anything. Just on the clothes. It all makes it look more real."
Ruth stood back, shyly. It had, for her, been a long speech. Sir Reynard and Gillian inclined forwards to study the detail of the painting.
"Do you know, I believe the child is right?" Sir Reynard Stitched said, at length. Then the City's foremost expert in Art looked at Ruth, and then at Gillian.
"Remarkable." he said, after a long pause. "Utterly remarkable."
He stepped back with Gillian, leaving Ruth to continue her art appreciation. Ruth was wondering if the artist had also exploited the texture of the underlying canvas to emphasise details of the clothing by using thinned-down washes of paint here and there, on the background characters who didn't need to be painted in so much detail. It was an interesting thought to pursue. She was only half-aware of the background conversation.
-She paints and draws as if she was three times older. And she's self-taught, too! Neither of her parents has any sort of artistic skill. The older sister has a bit of musical talent, admittedly. And the middle sister... there was the sort of silence that suggested a shudder. Well, let's say I'm her Housemistress. And I've got to teach that one Art, Gods help me.
-So you got the wrong sister as your official pupil. Can't be helped. This is the young lady? The one where you showed me samples of her work? An amazing budding talent!
-She is, isn't she?
-What school does she attend? I wonder if we could get her into the Art College?
-She's at Seven-Handed Sek's, at least till she's eleven. Her mother isn't decided yet, but she could come to the Assassins' School, at least for the general education.
-Which means at fourteen, we could make a case for her to come to us. You've sent us some talented people, Gillian. Normally the lower entrance age is seventeen, but if a suitable prospect has completed their general education elsewhere...
-She's also musically gifted. The Royal College of Music could make a strong case. And it depends on Ruth herself and which way she wants to go.
-It would be a shame to lose a talent like this to mere music. Well, not "mere", obviously, as serious music is an art-form in itself, but it isn't Art, all the same... You must keep an eye on her, Gillian.
-Oh, I will!
The Assassins' Guild School, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork
Doctor von Ubersetzer heaved a deep resigned sigh. He realised a muscle in the side of his face was twitching. He looked down at the girl seated at the piano. The girl, a pleasant-seeming boyish redhead with freckles, looked up at him and seized the opportunity to stop playing.
"Herr Doktor?" she said, politely.
"Miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons." he said, slowly. "What has that poor abused piano done to you? You approach playing a sensitive and finely tuned musical instrument as though it were a client, subject to inhumation. And you have, by the sound of it, accepted a contract to inhume that piano, with Extreme Prejudice."
Doktor von Ubersetzer had been trying to improve Famke's musical skills for two terms now, with no success. And it wasn't getting any better.
He'd been a music teacher for long enough now to know that with some pupils, it would never get any better. But he still had to get at least a passing grade from the ones who – even at eleven – everybody knew were going to stay on to Take Black. Musical proficiency was mandatory for the well-rounded Assassin. And the daughter of Doctor Smith-Rhodes was, everyone knew, going to follow in her mother's footsteps. Some things were destined. Famke was graded as above-average in most disciplines and subjects. Everything necessary for the Assassin. She'd even taken the Vimes Run at an absurdly early age and had got a lot further than students five or even six years older who were on the Black. Even Sam Vimes had said he'd mark her down as one to watch in future. Alice Band, the notoriously hard-to-impress Alice, had said she was an incredible prospect. Famke's future, provided she didn't self-destruct, was assured. The only real blot on her record, apart from a questionable attitude towards discipline and School rules, was this one still-seen-as-a-core proficiency – music.
The Honourable Miss Famke Cornelia Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons was not good at music. The Doctor sighed. The girl's mother was a staffroom colleague. Johanna was a fine woman. She was always sympathetic and took care to apologise after Famke's music lessons.
"Manfred, I'm so sorry." Johanna had said. "We tried our best. With the piano lessons. To prepare her."
"Do not distress yourself, gnadige Frau Doktor." he had replied. "Alas, some children are simply not musically gifted. I hear your younger daughter has a musical talent?"
Johanna had patted his arm. "Ja. If we make the decision thet Ruth should come here, et least for the general education, she may be a consolation to you. You are elways welcome to visit. Perheps to hear Ruth play piano."
"I should like that. Dankie, Frau Doktor."
Von Ubersetzer had reflected that at least for Johanna, her slower pupils only ran the risk of assaulting their teacher's ears with screams as they were, for instance, mauled by a leopard or savaged by a bear. Compared to some of the things he faced every day, that noise would be positively musical.
And now he was facing a girl who was to the piano what B.S. Johnson was to good design. He took a deep breath.
"You know, miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons. I was pleased, when your mother was a mature student at this Guild, to hear her most competent guitar playing, and that she accompanied herself in a clear and striking singing voice which was pleasant to hear. I was pleased to aware her a satisfactory grade. Admittedly, when the words of the song were translated for me at a later date, I had to accept they could be interpreted as being bellicose and inflammatory.(4) But I only needed to concern myself with her musical competence."
Famke thought.
"Oh. I've heard some of the songs people sing. From the Other Country. Was it the one about..."
Von Ubersetzer cut her short.
"And some years later, your aunt came to me. She had no proficiency in instruments. However, as she was a most capable long-distance runner, with excellent lungs and breathing, I reasoned that your Aunt Mariella could sustain a sung note and had enough musical sensibility to carry a tune with her voice. I sent her to operatic singing lessons. In which she excelled. Alas, Madame Bjorksdottir tells me never to send you to her ever again for a vocal assessment."
He shook his head. Bjork Bjorksdottir had sent her back to him with a note saying "your problem, Manfred."
"Then I was pleased to deal with your two cousins. Emma was a most capable cellist. Not a great one, merely capable. Johanna had a talent for woodwind instruments. Although I suspect her motivation for playing piccolo was to carry an instrument that could double as a blowpipe small enough to slip into a pocket. And today I get you."
Famke bowed her head demurely. Around her the class had stopped as One Raven were watching to see what happened next. Sonia Merriwether had joked that Famke didn't so much play scales as deposit limescale. You know, the hard scabby stuff that clogs kettles when the water boils off. Famke felt irked that Sandra Venturi, who could play piano rather well, was smirking, enjoying her discomfort. Famke briefly considered the sort of accident where a heavy piano lid slammed closed on Sandra's fingers...
"We are going to be spending seven years together, Miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons." the Doctor went on. "Seven long years. In which I am responsible for getting you to some sort of acceptible musical proficiency."
Doctor von Ubersetzer went ominously silent for a few moments as both considered the horrible reality.
"Because there are so many kinds of music, and because music is integral to the ethos of this Guild, I am privileged enough to receive many teaching assistants who each have their own proficiency in a particular field." he said. "Therefore, in order for the next seven years to be bearable to all, I am delighted to say you are not going to touch a piano ever again. Unless it is to physically move it from one place to another."
Famke beamed with sincere thanks.
"You will leave this tuition room, and you will report to Miss Glynnie in Practice Room Seven-A. It is several floors down from here, and located for a very necessary reason in the sub-cellar. Be so kind as to pick up your things and depart. Dankie!"
Famke left, feeling huge waves of relief and freedom, at last, from the loathed piano. She wondered what sort of music Miss Glynnie taught and what sort of a teacher she'd be. But it couldn't be worse than piano... and she also wondered why Sandra Venturi had such an evil gloating smirk on her face, and what Sandra knew that she didn't. Never mind, she'd soon find out.
Spa Lane, Nap Hill, Ankh-Morpork:
Johanna Smith-Rhodes sighed a deep resigned sigh.
"You know, Ponder. I sometimes wonder if it was such a good idea to give Ruth the middle name she got. Whether it was tempting fate in any way."
Ponder Stibbons became very grave and attentive. He'd been wondering the same thing too. But he thought quickly and said
"What, Leonora? It's a nice name. Ruth Leonora Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons. Ruth because of... well, because Ruth is a nice sounding name and, as you pointed out, lots of white people in Howondaland are called Ruth. The fact it's also the first name of a certain Zulu princess is completely coincidental and wasn't on either of our minds at all when we were deciding on a name for her. Leonora because it's your grandmother's name, on the van der Graaf side. I agree that any woman who produced both your mother and a son like Pieter van der Graaf has to be something special. And you completely adored her. Hence it goes to one of our daughters. I appreciate that."
Johanna smiled.
"Thank you, Ponder." she said, sincerely. "It's just that it sounds too like Leonard. You know. As in Leonard of Quirm. Look at the way she's turning out. Tempting fate."
Ponder frowned.
"That's like... well, we didn't intend that. If we'd consciously had Leonard in mind when we named her, it might explain a few things. But it's not as if we gave her a third name. You know. Ruth Leonora Daquirmia Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons. Whatever decides these things might have really chosen to oblige us then."
"Don't even joke about that, Ponder." Johanna said. "The poor girl's getting too many inspirations as it is."
The Embassy Of The Republic Of Rimwards Howondaland, Scoone Avenue, Ankh-Morpork:
Bekki had flown back to Ankh-Morpork for family reasons. It was May. Her sixteenth birthday was coming up soon and it had been a useful chance to get Boetjie, her growing Pegasus foal, used to long flights in her company as well as habituating him to the second half of the equation that made the Pegasus Service so formidable. This meant the crawstep, the secret of the NacMacFeegle that meant a Pegasus plus crew could appear anywhere on the Disc in a matter of minutes after setting out from Ankh-Morpork. Even if another state got Pegasii, the thinking went, the Feegle controlled the Crawstep. And the Feegle were notoriously unbiddable. Ankh-Morpork and Lancre controlled the flying horses. A newborn Pegasus bonded to a witch of its choosing practically at birth. And the only people in the Gods' creation (other than Keldas) who could command Feegle were witches. And practically all known Witches trained in Lancre. Where the Pegasii were now bred. A witch bonded to her Pegasus. She would build a close relationship not only to her mount, but to the Feegle who would be her flight navigator. Those three essential components therefore made the Service what it was – answerable nominally to King Verence of Lancre, who was its Colonel-in Chief, but a man who delegated this role to Patrician Vetinari of Ankh-Morpork, provided Vetinari used it only for ethically responsible and pacifistic purposes.
It suited all parties involved equally well.
Bekki reflected that she'd been saddled with Wee Archie Aff The Midden as her Flight Navigator, whether she wanted him or not. She had decided to make the most of it, and her resolutely cheerful young Feegle had got her to Ankh-Morpork, this time, with only one unscheduled diversion which had led them to pop into Disc-space somewhere over Quirm. Which was, by Wee Archie's standards, pinpoint navigation.
She had stabled Boetjie at the Air Police station at Pseudopolis Yard, a necessary thing for any Pegasus pilot visiting the city, picked up her bags, accepted Commander Vimes' handshake and a reminder she was signing up in the next draft of Watch recruit trainees in June, then went to her family on Spa Lane. It was good to catch up with her sisters and parents again, reassure herself that Mum was completely recovered after her heart operation, and above all to relax before the annual Witch Trials, where, with not much formal ceremony but a great deal of intent and approval from her peers, she would be acclaimed as a fully-fledged Witch in her own right and worthy to go out and take up her own Steading somewhere, should she wish it and should the right opening come up for her. Another Rite of Passage, with a capital R.
And of course there was Rimwards Howondaland's National Day, the Day of Independence, celebrating victory over Ankh-Morpork and the birth of a nation.
This was celebrated at the Embassy. It became a focal point of the expatriot community, with a never-ending braai in the garden, a band playing, much singing, drinking and festivity. There was a necessary religious service and singing of the Anthem and raising of flags, but it was a relaxed family-and-friends occassion for the community. Bekki found herself joining in with the knot of students from the Assassins' Guild who had all been granted the day off to attend, who were chaperoned in a loose and nominal way by Mum and Auntie Heidi.
Auntie Heidi, very heavily and visibly pregnant, was somebody Bekki wanted to see, and she reassured herself that her aunt, and her baby son-to-be, were healthy and that her new cousin was not likely to end up joining the party as an extra guest justnow. You never knew with these things.
She enjoyed herself, noting with some amusement that her sister Famke had latched on to the band playing at the party and had even been permitted to join in, on a musical instrument of her choosing, and definitely not in any sense at all a piano. And was playing it quite ably, too. Bekki shook her head, reflecting that some things were entirely logical in hindsight even if you could still be taken by surprise by how life managed to unfold.
A little later, she watched the inevitable scratch game of fifteen-a-side that had spontaneously broken out on the Embassy lawn. Uncle Danie was involved. This didn't surprise her at all. Even Mr Vinhuis, the Ambassador, had been prevailed upon to take his jacket off and was acting as referee. Lady Katerina, his wife, was pretending not to hve noticed and she was happily talking to Mum and Auntie Heidi and some of the other women of the community.
Feeling contentedly anonymous and happy not to have any demands made on her, Bekki watched the game. And yes, Famke had insinuated herself in there too. There seemed to be no way of preventing this. She was playing scrum-half for one of the teams, the small, light, nimble player who feeds the ball into the scrum. Nobody seemed put out by this and she was being cheered.
"Force of nature, isn't she?" somebody said, in Vondalaans. Bekki looked round. A guy she recognised as one of Mum's students was standing next to her.
"Your sister. Tykebomb." he added.
"Oh, hi, Ampie. Howzit?" Bekki said, politely.
"Going well, Miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons." he replied. "Even better, as I'm not out there. I avoided that."
"You're white, male and a Vondalaander. How do you avoid compulsory fifteen-a-side?" she asked.
Ampie grinned. Bekki noted the grin. He was otherwise unremarkable and just another guy. But that grin...
"I'm a musician. I explained to your Uncle Danie that I like my fingers unbroken. He was okay about it. Besides, I play crockett."
Bekki was intrigued. She knew that in the Other Country, crockett was seen as a Morporkian sport, unlike fifteen-a-side. Vondalaanders tended not to play it. The Morporkian-speaking half of the nation was quietly passionate about it.
"Crockett? That's the one where you spend five days aiming a ball at some sticks and trying to bat it away, isn't it?"
Ampie du Pris grinned again at her.
"Miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons..."
"Bekki. Call me Bekki." she found herself saying.
"Bekki. It is entirely possible you've just summed up the essence of crockett into one short sentence. Which spares you from having to listen to me explaining the rules to you for three whole weeks, while you try to look interested."
"Does that involve breaks for going to the privy?" she asked.
"And I'd allow you to eat occcassionally. I'm not unreasonable." he said.
"So. How does a guy from..."
"Vaaservaal. It's a one-horse town in the Free State. Or was until the horse died of boredom."
"Vaaservaa,l in the Vreistaadt . How does he end up playing crockett?"
Ampie grinned again.
"Compulsory Wednesday afternoon sport. It's a Guild School thing. I was wondering how to stay out of wet muddy fields in this country in winter. Then I realised over here crockett is a summer sport. But the Guild has teams. They train indoors in winter. I signed up, had a try-out, got to train indoors in the dry and sometimes in the warm. Then I realised I quite liked it. No-brainer."
He grinned the grin again.
"You're Doctor Smith-Rhodes' daughter, aren't you? I see you around."
"Ja, but Mum can be quite alright. Not intimidating at all."
There was a silence that went on a little too long for Bekki's liking. Then her sister Ruth walked over.
"Meisie Ruth. How is the music?" Ampie asked, politely.
Ruth looked first at Bekki, then at Ampie.
Like her sisters, Ruth had been brought up bilingually. "Mister Ampie. I know where there's a piano. Would you play with me?" Ruth asked, with seeming eight-year-old naivity.
"Well, I left my trumpet and my saxaphone in my dorm, but I'm sure I can borrow something." Ampie said. He grinned at Bekki again. "I play horns, by the way. But if there's a guitar anywhere, I can pick out a tune or two."
"Let's go, then." Ruth took Ampie by the hand and pulled. He looked thoughtful for a moment.
"Meisie Ruth, your mother might feel better if she knew you were escorted." He said. He looked at Bekki. "Would you consent to escorting your sister, Bekki? So she has a responsible guardian?"
They found themselves in the Embassy's main reception room, which was currently empty. Ruth quickly uncovered the grand piano and seated herself. Ampie had found a guitar. Looking around, Bekki spotted a big upright double bass. She thought she could pick out a few chords on it, the way Alison had shown her with the mandolin...
And then Ampie was standing next to her, showing her where to place her fingers to form chords, where to move her hands on the frets. His hands were on hers, guiding and demonstrating. It was not, she thought, unpleasant. And Ruth was sitting at the piano with a quiet little smile on her face.
Bekki suddenly wondered who was chaperoning who.
And then they were playing music together. That wasn't unpleasant either. And it drew people in. They included Lady Katerina, the Ambassador's wife, who was usually dissaproving of anyone doing things like touching the piano without her permission. But Lady Katerina was an old friend of Mum's. They'd been to school together. She was smiling with approval. Ruth was a gifted pianist. That made it OK. And Mum was watching closely, with one of those unreadable half-smiles on her face. The three played on together as the reception room began filling with people, who listened, applauded, even sang along to some of the old songs and anthems...
At the end, Ampie quietly said
"Bekki, if you don't find the thought unpleasant or distasteful, or my personality to be tedious, it would be pleasant to spend a little time with you. You know. As, perhaps, people who might appreciate spending time together. As, I hope, friends. If that's agreeable to you?"
He looked expectant and slightly worried.
Bekki remembered she was off back to the Chalk in a few days. But, mybe, it might be agreeable. A nice guy, a year or so older than she was, perfectly agreeable, passably good looking, and a great grin... Fighting down the part of her that wanted to squeak "Yes, please!" in a high-pitched voice, and aware of a certain pink tinge creeping in at the edges, she said, as cooly as she could manage, that it might be pleasant, yes. How can we get in touch?
Her sister Ruth smiled, cherubic innocence all over her face...
To be continued.
Why has Famke taken an interest in music all of a sudden? Why has her musical talent exponentially increased to the point where an actual band allows her to play? And on which instrument? All will be revealed.
And yes, Assassins are meant to live dangerously and evaluate risks. But is taking an interest in Doctor Smith-Rhodes' oldest daughter a wise thing to do for a senior boy? How does Bekki accomodate this new complication in her life? How do her parents take it? Read on.
And Ruth gets a trial to surmount...
(1) As opposed to her cross to bear.
(2) South African comedian Trevor Noah, a man multi-lingual in many languages, did a routine about how German sounds, to Germans, when spoken by somebody whose first language is Afrikaans. An Afrikaans accent in German makes the speaker sound as if they aren't just Austrian. The Afrikaans accent in German evokes a very specific sort of Austrian. According to Trevor, it makes a South African speaking German sound like Adolf Hitler whipping up the crowd at a Nuremburg rally. Yes. Saffies in Germany are doing a permanent Hitler impression. And we think South Africans speaking English can sound a bit discordant…
(3) OK. Bad puns again. There's a Flemish artist called Rogier van der Weyden who did religious-themed art like The Deposition of Christ. Apparently all artists are capable of going psycho and some even become killers.
(4) go to my tale The Graduation Class, in which Johanna is nineteen and newly arrived in Ankh-Morpork.
The Notes Dump:
The place where ideas and concepts go to stay fresh in the fridge whilst awaiting the audition call.
Extract from pm to reader Brithund:
Ooh, good points! I'm attempting to go deeper here and work out the necessary demarcation lines between Assassin guild secrets and prerogatives, and those military skills normally undertaken by Special Forces such as, for instance, the SBS/SAS, Navy Seals, et c. There has to be an overlap. Especially when graduate Assassins are, in the necessary order of things, called up to do National Service in their nations' armed forces. Or might elect to become career soldiers afterwards (As commissioned officers, naturally. You can't have Ladies and Gentlemen in the ranks, save as a necessary progression through the recruit training induction). How does the Guild view the necessary and inevitable leakage of its trade skills into general military knowledge? That's a valid point. I have informal agreements and negotiation going on in the background with the Guild insisting on advance knowledge of how Crowbar Dreyer proposes to employ local members, together with the Guild having right of veto and control over what assignments might be offered to, say, Mariella Smith-Rhodes and Horst Lensen. But Johanna S-M, and Emma Roydes, who have elected to remain full-time career Army officers, would not be under such a veto - it would be accepted that, for now, their line manager is Crowbar Dreyer and they take his orders. Temporarily, they are not under Guild management or subject to its veto. The same will apply to Assassins on the other side: Sissi N'kima is an indunala in Ruth's regiment. But other Zulu Assassins, not part of any impi, are in the same position as Mariella and Horst: subject to recall, but as nominal civilians, the Guild gets veto on their employment. And a complete freelancer like Rivka ben-Divorah can, unless the Guild (or the Institute) says "no", go ahead and please herself. If the money's right, that is.
Air Forces are a new and largely undeveloped thing on the Disc. But even in "Jingo", we saw the beginnings of one - when Klatch impounded every magic carpet it could find and impressed them into military service. Indicating that even in Klatch, these are not common everyday objects. And Nanny Ogg, with Casanunder as her air-gunner, gets into aerial dog-fighting territory, when dealing with airborne elves on yarrow-stalks. Leonard of Quirm speculates on how great and peaceful a world it would be if men could fly, view great cities from above, and therefore make borders obsolete. I like to think in developing commercial carpet-flights on the one hand, and also speculating on the offensive uses of flight, I'm dealing with both sides of this coin. It's worth mentioning that thus far, Vetinari is insisting the Pegasus Service be used for non-military purposes only. But using it to drop hints as to what else a combination of flying horses, and Feegle navigators capable of craw-stepping, might be employed for.
And I do love the "carpet bombing" thing - even though the Crowbar is really going to have to hunt around for sufficient carpets to make it viable. And, crucially, qualified pilots willing to work for him. I am, however, still developing the idea of Ruth's ground-to-air defensive systems. The next time he violates her airspace, he may well find a nasty surprise waiting for him. Watch this space!
Damn, just had a flurry of ideas for a continuation of my Prospectus for the Assassins' Guild School, this time a chapter dealing with the freedom of religious expression traditionally granted to Guild students and reassurance to parents that the spiritual welfare of their sons and daughters will not be neglected. A listing of full and part-time Chaplains and spiritual counsellors to students and their areas of authority, together with provision made for the variant religious needs of pupils… I want to write this. It has legs. At least ten religions. And one non-religion with a surprising but logical non-Priestess. Her identity has only just occurred to me…
And… not sure if I can work it into this tale. But an idea concerning young Ruth. She and Famke, walking about town, find a strange music shop they could swear had not been there the previous day. Seeing musical instruments, Ruth goes in. Famke follows. They discover what, to a musician's eyes, is a treasure-trove of musical instruments guarded by an old lady doing some knitting. Famke is dissuaded from trying some out but excitedly speculates on their use as weapons. Ruth notices all the instruments have numbered tickets attached and notes there doesn't seem to be a Number One anywhere. The old lady shrugs in an off-hand way and explains "it got sold, love. Bit short on guitars at the moment. If you're interested, Number Two has been here for ages…"
The instrument with the ticket number Two is a strange keyboard, standing on spindly metal legs that Ruth observes can be folded down so it can be carried. She remarks there are no strings or hammers. How does it work? The old lady shrugs and says that sort of keyboard don't need no strings or claviers, love.
Ruth sees the word "HAMMOND" on a plate attached to the impossibly thin, shallow, box. She touches a key. And a voice in her head whispers
JON LORD. RAY MANZAREK. ALAN PRICE. RICK WAKEMAN. ALLEN LANIER. Then it pauses, and adds RUTH LEONORA SMITH-RHODES STIBBONS, PLAY ME.
Ruth gets a series of images in her mind. The faces that go with the names, yes. But most importantly, snatches of the tunes they wrote and performed. (If there were a soundtrack, at this point it would do a musical medley of "Wring That Neck", "L.A. Woman", "House of the Rising Sun", "Fanfare To The Common Man", and the intro to "Joan Crawford"…)
Ruth is at this point moved to do the theme that popped into her head on the harpsichord at home, the "You Must Be In Time, Child" theme. The sound the keyboard makes feels… right. Exactly the sound she has in her head, but which no Discworld keyboard has ever been able to reproduce. Until now.
The old lady grimaces.
"Whoa, not THAT one!" she objects. "That's as bad as the "Pathway to Paradise" thing on the guitar, that is!" (5)
Ruth is allowed to buy the Hammond for four dollars "because you're a nice sweet kiddie and I can see as you have a talent. 'Sides. I've been looking to move that one on for years!"
She borrows the cash off Famke. Together they get the new keyboard home. Neither notices the shop disappearing into thin air behind them. Eventually her father and older sister Bekki realise what it is…. Mainly by listening with a magic-user's ear…
Don't think I'll use this in this tale. But got to capture these ideas before they evaporate…
(5) To music shop proprietors, Deep Purple's "Child In Time" is to keyboards what "Smoke on the Water" is to guitars…