Strandpiel 44 Die Medelander – the almost-a-native
Here we go again. As always, version 1.0 of the chapter...
FAO Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes
By secure internal Guild mail.
Hi Johanna!
"Sorry it's been a while but things here have been quite busy. Nipho is well and healthy – latest iconographs enclosed! – and hopefully we can now be allowed a little quiet and peace after his very first Royal Engagement. I am hoping there will not be any more of those for a while. Please send copies of the newspapers and magazines? I believe the Press Corps was suitably won over and coverage will be favourable. It had better be, we worked hard enough to give them a spectacular show!
"How are you getting on with your parents in town? I liked them when we met and your father was certainly well-inclined towards me, after that initial misunderstanding. (He is not what you want to meet when you are in the regalia and carrying an assegai. Things might have become difficult, had Julian not been present to explain.) (1)
"I can see that you can find them a trial at times. Family are like that. Especially at the sort of occassions when they must atttend, say at the Naming of your child. At least they are staying with Heidi and Danie on this visit. I hope Heidi remains cheerful and good-natured. How was the Naming for Mattewis, by the way? Compared to the Naming for Nipho, it would have been far more straightforward to arrange, even if Heidi may not think so. I sympathise that she had to deal with that idiot of a priest, for instance. How is it that van Niedermayer is still alive?
As you no doubt know from the papers, my own family turned up to celebrate Nipho at his Presentation. Let me tell you about this..."
Ruth N'Kweze sat up straight.
"He is WHAT?" she shrieked. Great. On top of every bloody thing else...
Chakki N'Golante looked worried.
"His messenger is here, Highness. Waiting outside. Shall I bring him in?"
"You'd better, I think." Ruth said. "Wait. Lionskin cloak. Head-dress. Bling of office. Better look the part."
Chakki found the official regalia. This included the ceremonial assegai with the silvered blade. Ruth had warmed significantly to something she had previously considered an absurd toy and not a real weapon. Her troops had hailed it as Serpent-Slayer. It now carried the name with pride.
The Paramount Crown Princess composed herself into something approaching regal hauteur. Then Chakki led the Imperial Messenger in, an older Zulu man in robes that sought to be plain and humble. Ruth reflected that some priests, like Deacon Vorbis of the Omnians, had also worn that sort of plain unadorned robe. To advertise how humble they were, and that they were merely servants.
He made obiesiance that was more than perfunctory but not quite fully respectful. Ruth frowned.
"Greetings to the Paramount Crown Princess, Most Favoured Daughter of the Great King, Victor over Muntab, slayer of the muti-serpent..." he began.
Ruth looked at the man. Tall, widening about the waist with a physically easy life at the Royal Kraal, looking – and walking - like a large fussy flightless bird. With those heavy-lidded eyes and that big beaked nose.
She cut him short with an imperious hand gesture.
"I know how it goes, Zazu." she said, impatiently. She watched him wince at the contraction.
Zazumina was her father's Speaker, his personal assistant, secretary, and, Ruth considered, an oily creep with too much power.
"Please explain the purpose of your visit?" she invited him. She didn't let on that she already knew.
Zazu smiled.
"I bring greetings from Mpandwe kaCeteshwayo, High Paramount King of the Empire of the 'Nguni, Lord of the Peoples of the Mthethwa, rightful ruler of all Howondaland..."
Ruth let him almost finish.
"And my father is in good health, I hope? What does he require of his faithful daughter this time?"
"The Great King sends his greetings to you and his congratulations on the birth of his grandson, the Prince Nipho. He is desirous to see his new grandson for the first time, to congratulate both you and General Denizulu, and sends you advice that he will be gracing the Presentation of the new Prince to his people. Even now he is on his way here in royal procession..."
Ruth sat, impassive, her mind calculating distances and travel times. Her father and his entourage would be here in about six hours. She cut Zazu short again and called for Chakki.
Damn, damn, damn. But you couldn't exclude Family from a Naming. She remembered her father had a taste for Jimkin Bearhugger's Old Macabre. She tried to remember if there was a bottle of the stuff anywhere. Then reflected the visiting journalists were really going to get a scoop here. How can I manage this to advantage?
FAO Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes
By secure internal Guild mail.
"Anyway. Chakki got everyone moving. I like the way she went straight to the Regimental Izindunas, both mine and Denis's, and explained what was needed. That shows a great practical sense, as when you tell the Regimental Sergeant-Majors that their Commander-in-Chief is turning up at very short notice, you can then take the rest of the day off. Things start to move very quickly after that.
"Sissi was still confined to bed in the hospital and we had to stop her getting out of it. I thought it was best to move my office to the hospital so as to get her input into things and stop her from trying to get onto her feet. I am so pleased I have those two people working alongside me. They know what's needed. Graduates of the School, of course.
"You know how it is when your parents turn up at short notice and kind of take over? Well. Mine do the same. With knobs on. Mother not so much – she was expected to fade into the background and be inobtrusive – but my father.
"At least I could find him a bottle of Bearhuggers Old Macabre as a gift. And the right people to ask were present."
Sacharissa Cripslock, sensing a Story, had flown over with a party of writers-of-news. She had taken the time and done the research, and was wearing a variation of her usual business suit, only in lightweight summer white, with the sort of hat known as a solar topee, which sported a fetching white silk scarf wound about it with a long tail that draped attactively down her back.
The Kerrigian-accredited journalist known here as Marilyn van der Medelander sat next to her, and reflected on how clothing enforced roles and expectations on people as if everyone was conforming to an unwritten script. Sacharrisa was speaking to the natives in a loud firm voice, in Morporkian, with every expectation that she would be understood and obeyed. And practically every Zulu she met was giving her respect, getting the idea, and obeying.
Talk about Lady Alice Venturi... thought Marilyn, with appreciation and not a little envy. Marilyn thought if she tried it, with her accent and background, it was a short inevitable step to being run through on an asssegai. The Zulu minder assigned to her by the Princess had had to step in on a couple of occassions to remind suspicious people that despite the language she spoke, despite her suspicious accent in Morporkian, despite her name having a potentially damning "van der" in it, she was in fact Sto Kerrigian and not a Vondalaander, and yes, there is a difference. The Sto Kerrigians might be superficially similar, but they are the ones who stayed behind in their faraway land of origin. They do not practice apartheid and are friendly and welcoming to all peoples regardless of skin colour. They did not emigrate en masse to this continent, to steal a large part of Howondaland, enslave the natives, and make themselves bad neighbours to our people. Whatever her people in Howondaland are guilty of, she is not one of them, and is blameless.
Marilyn prayed that the secret wouldn't get out. So far only Ruth and her two most trusted advisors knew. She had interviewed both Chakki and Sissi about their part in the fight with the Naga. From her hospital bed, Sissi N'Kima had called her a complete bloody idiot and asked what the Hells she was thinking of.
Marilyn sweated slightly. She wondered herself what demon had got into her to compel her to come out here. A patron demon of seekers-after-news and those addicted to nosiness and potential danger, possibly. But she was getting the story. And what a story!
"Not been found out yet?" Sacharissa asked her, in a low voice.
Marilyn sighed.
"Yes. The Princess knows."
Shame-facedly, she added
"She spotted it straight away."
Sacharissa smiled slightly.
"Be thankful this is Ruth N'Kweze. You might describe her as not so much a Zulu as an Ankh-Morporkian of Zulu parentage. Somebody else would have had you dragged out and killed. Slowly and painfully, I might add."
"She didn't, though."
Sacharissa took a deep breath.
"Ruth knows about newspapers. How they work. How to play the game. She gets publicity, we get a story. Be thankful she knew having you killed would end up in every paper in the Disc. As your very last scoop with, may I add, a long and regretful obituary from Mr Bendy. When I left he was writing one for you, to save time."
The two looked at each other. Then both grinned.
"And she talks to my father." Marilyn added. Sacharissa looked suddenly interested.
"Zulu Crown Princess in deniable informal talks with..."
Marilyn hurriedly cut her short in mid-headline. Sacharissa got the point. Some things you only discussed in private. Definitely not where other journalists could hear it.
"The Times gets my copy first, obviously. You know. The one that I don't submit to a certain sub-editor for revision."
"From our... overseas local correspondent."
Then they moved onto things they could discuss openly, noting Chakki N'Golante and a couple of Zulu soldiers heading their way. Marilyn and Sacharissa had been aware of life in the City of the Ingonyami suddenly picking up speed, with junior officers, looking panicked, rushing in all directions to find sergeants, who were patiently steadying their officers and shouting orders to lower-ranking soldiers. The two journalists wondered if it was to do with the party of mounted soldiers who had arrived an hour or so previously, escorting the sort of discreetly important looking civilian who had Grand Vizier radiating from him. Another member of the journalistic party had frowned and said he couldn't be sure, but that looks like the Paramount King's personal secretary. His Speaker of The Royal Word. Heads the civilian administration. You know, like Drumknott to Vetinari.
Marilyn frowned. She knew the Zulus didn't go in for cavalry much, in the normal way of things. They used horses for convenient speedy travel, yes, to send messengers out and suchlike, but most of the time preferred to go by foot. Horses were usually for older or disabled people as a courtesy to enable them to keep up with the march. At least, till a Zulu Princess who knew about cavalry and what they can do had come along...
"It looks like they're tidying up. Getting things looking neat and clean. Reminds me of an Army base finding out the General's on his way." Marilyn said. "Same sort of panic. Something's happening."
Then Chakki found them.
"Su... Marilyn." she said. "Listen. You journalists pack a lot of useful essential things for an overseas reporting trip, don't you? Do you know anyone who might have a bottle of Jimkin Bearhugger's Old Macabre we can buy off you?"
"That's a lazy stereotypical assumption, if I may say so." Sacharrisa said, severely. "Based on the prejudice that all journalists are borderline alcoholics who drink too much and never go anywhere without a bottle of rotgut."
Chakki grinned.
"Point taken. Listen. Can I trade you an exclusive for a bottle of Bearhuggers? Guess who's coming to tea? And what he prefers to drink?"
Sacharissa listened intently. She reflected that at least five writers-of-news in the party had brought strong drink with them. Jenkins of the Pseudopolis Herald, for one.
"I'll get you the Old Macabre." she said. "There's a Pegasus flight due in the next hour. To collect everybody's updates. Su... Marilyn – could you write this up for us both? Put both our names to it? Thanks."
Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork.
"Anything out of the ordinary, Carrot?" Sam Vimes asked, meeting his deputy on the starway leading down to the Yard's reception area.
"Nice quiet summer day, sir." Carrot reported. "Quite relaxed, people getting out into the sunshine, everybody inclined to be nice – well, nicer – to each other. Just the usual sort of incidents you get on a day like this. Men who drink too much in the beer garden outside the pub, minor public order offences, and the usual incidents of, err... well, young ladies tend to wear lighter clothing and some men get, err, overcome..."
Vimes sighed.
"Gropers and grabbers. How many have we booked today?"
"Thirty-three, sir. One of them tried to grope Officer Yuri. She got rather Ephebian on him."
Vimes sighed. He looked at Carrot.
"She did keep her helmet and sunglasses on, sir. And she was very restrained when she made the arrest."
Vimes shook his head.
"Yuri does look normally female. From behind." he remarked, visualising his Gorgon constable's likely reaction to a sex pest. But Ephebian women could get fiery when provoked... plate-smashing would be the least of it.
Then they heard voices from an interview room. Vimes stopped, and listened.
"Married couple, tourists from abroad visiting the City, sir." the Watchman said. "There was a robbery attempt. They're giving witness statements."
Vimes and Carrot exchanged glances. They had recognised first the accent. And then Vimes' mental filing system produced an identity for the speaker.
"Better go in." he said to Carrot.
The Maul, Ankh-Morpork, a little earlier.
"Well, now." The old woman said, in a funny foreign accent. "You want me to hend over my beg end my money end my jewellry."
"That's it exactly, lady." said Brandwyn Diptree, freelance Thief. "And that Thieves Guild immunity badge you're wearing means nuthin' 'cos I ain't Guild, see? In fact, I'll have that too, it's worth a dollar..."
He'd been watching the old lady for a few minutes now. Pushing seventy, white hair suggesting she might have started out as a redhead. Back straight, moved like a woman twenty years younger, but still no match for him if she struggled... he'd have her bag in no seconds nothing...
The old lady glared at him with disconcertingly unfrightened eyes.
"So you think I should hend these things over to you justnow? Just because you say I should?" she demanded. She shook her head slightly. "Jislaik."
"And who's gonna stop me, lady? You?"
The old lady smiled slightly.
"Oh, I won't." She said. Then she nodded.
"No need. My husband, however, will."
Brandwyn Diptree had a sudden sinking feeling something was not going to work out exactly as planned. It was the last coherent thought to go through his mind for some time.
"Andreas? Moenie hom doodmaak nie. Dankie." the old lady said, in a strange foreign language.
"And thet is whet heppened, Sir Samuel." Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes said. "Ag. Turn my beck on my good lady wife for a few minutes end somebody threatens her end tries to rob her. I was not heving thet. Not et ell."
Sam Vimes studied him intently. The thief would recover. In a week or two, maybe. But trying to mug Agnetha Smith-Rhodes. Vimes decided that you had to be stupid or desperate. He glanced over to where Mrs Smith-Rhodes was placidly sitting, sipping a cup of tea a Watchwoman had brought her. He also suspected that even if Barbarossa had not been nearby to intervene, Agnetha herself might not have proven an easy mark. Not at all. Hell. Look at her children. Her daughters, especially. And these days, her grand-daughters...
Vimes tried to put the thought out of his head that Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Maaijande, pink hair and all, was back in town for an indefinite period, this time with diplomatic immunity. He focused on the immediately apparent.
"You, shall we say, restrained the attacker, made a citizen's arrest, handed the offender over to the Watch and then elected to come here of your own free will to make a witness statement. Thank you."
Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes nodded at Vimes, amiably. Vimes supressed an idle thought as to how many trolls it would have taken to subdue him, had Barbarossa needed to be brought to the Yard against his will.
"So I em not under errest, then."
"Hells, no! You had right on your side. I'm more inclined to offer you a handshake and a slap on the back, frankly."
"Thet's good, thet's good. We hev dinner tonight et my oldest daughter's. Good to see Johanna, end to be a good grendfether to my three fine girls there. The hecksie, the hooligan, end the incredibly clever one."
Vimes tried not to wince at the mention of the hooligan. Who had got a lot further on her Vimes Run than most student Assassins managed – and found an original approach. He suspected Famke was going to be one to watch as she grew older; he'd already pencilled her onto his list of Assassins Who Might Be Trouble. Barely twelve years old. But intelligent anticipation today saved time tomorrow.
"I believe you've got a new nephew?"
Barbarossa beamed with pride.
"Big healthy boykie. Like his father. We are steying with their parents, my son Danie end his lovely lady wife."
Agnetha Smith-Rhodes nodded over with contented satisfaction, which Vimes noted was that of a mother-in-law who is shaping things up to her complete satisfaction. Barbarossa added "I hope to see him grow up, if I'm spared. Promises to be a fine young man!"
Sam Vimes shook hands with Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes and assured him the Watch would pick the hapless unlicenced Thief up from the Lady Sybil when he was fit to be transferred to a cell – more sort of protective custody, really, as the Thieves Guild don't like people like that – and he escorted Barbarossa and Agnetha to the street.
Back in the Yard, he exhaled resignedly. Johanna. Her three daughters. Two nieces who were Guild graduates, one adoptive, admittedly, but Emma Roydes had the Smith-Rhodes stuff. Johanna's sister who occasionally visited. Like their parents. Her brother. Married to an Assassin. And now they had a son... up to eleven Smith-Rhodeses. In my city. Vimes sighed and resigned himself to the bang. Or bangs.
The City of the Ingonyami, the Zulu Empire
The Press contingent had been escorted to a section of the new stone wall that overlooked the plain outside. Iconographic machines had been set up and imps primed. They had been told to take all the pictures they liked.
And there was a lot to iconograph.
Marilyn van der Medelnder silently went "Wow!", although ancestral memories and deep-down genes were screaming at her to fight or run like Hell, never mind marking your man or holding your line, there's one of you, and the best part of ten thousand of them out there...
They were in serried ranks by impi. Zulu warriors in full regalia with head-dresses. Ten thousand assegais, mainly held by male warriors. Marilyn noted a good couple of thousand were women, however. That was new. And the tallest, hardest-looking, warriors had pride of place in the middle of the line. Marilyn had been told this was the personal Guard regiment of the Paramount King, who by convention paraded in pride of place. The women soldiers had been displaced to either side – Marilyn knew thay were Ruth's household troops – and lots and lots more male warriors, those commanded by Denizulu, paraded to the flanks of them, the Horns of the Bull.
And out on either flank, fighting cavalry, both light and heavy, Ruth N'Kweze's personal innovation to Zulu warfare.
Marilyn van der Medelander took on the specatcle. Inside her, Suki van der Graaf, a Vondalaander here with fake ID, gibbered with fear, but forced herself to take lots of iconographs, especially of the women cavalry. They might buy her freedom when she got back Home and had to admit she'd been in the Zulu Empire. BOSS wouldn't like that. Pictures of the soldiers who were giving prominently placed people a few sleepless nights would be an insurance policy. (2)
Next to her, Sacharissa Cripslock was impressed. Ten or eleven thousand soldiers ranked in line occupy quite a lot of space. Another five or six thousand civilians - at least – were gathered on either flank of the armies, keeping a respectful distance. And all eyes were fixed on the tower...
Sacharissa nodded to the doorway connecting the walkway to the tower. A very large Royal Guardsman was posted there standing guard, and politely dissuading the journalists from coming too close. Given who was actually at the top of the tower, this was only to be expected.
Sacharissa and Marilyn were trembling with journalistic excitement. The most powerful people in the Zulu Empire were maybe twenty feet away. At the top of the tower. The Paramount King himself. And his daughter. The Chief Assassin of the Empire was there too, and she was also a daughter. His Speaker Of Royal Truth. General Denizulu. If only they could get a personal interview with the Paramount King himself...
"You know, if an Assassin could lob a bomb into the top of that tower, it would take out the whole Empire. For us, the scoop of a lifetime." somebody murmured.
"Do not even joke about that." somebody else said, urgently. Marilyn looked up. Birds that looked like vultures were lazily circling overhead, riding on the thermals with outstretched wings. There were a lot of them. She shivered again, People she'd spoken to had said those were more than vultures. She'd heard about the previous intrusion into Ruth's airspace. She was, after all, a very good information-gatherer. If Crowbar Dreyer were to attempt another aerial approach...
And then Zazu the Speaker of the King's Truth stepped forward. And the world went silent.
"Ahhhh... zabenya!"
A journalist nearby to Marilyn frowned and looked puzzled.
"He's the manager of Quirm St Germain, isn't he? You know. Arsène Weneger."
Sacharissa did the thing with her forehead and the palm of her hand.
"Never send a sports journalist on a trip like this." she muttered. "Their brains can't cope if it's not foot-the-ball."
Marilyn listened, spellbound.
Nants ingonyama bagithi baba!
Sithi m'ingonyama!
Ingonyama!
Siyo Nqoba!
Ingonyama!
Ingonyama nengw' enamabala!
The Speaker led the chant. It was taken up by thousands of voices and echoed and re-echoed.
"Jislaik..." Marilyn said, faintly, forgetting that here she was a Kerrigian. Kerrigians, as a rule, did not exclaim in Vondalaans.
"I want to know what that song means." Sacharissa Cripslock said. "And have you noticed the men and the women are singing different parts?"
A Zulu minder stepped up to her. He was a young graduate Assassin who had spent seven years in Ankh-Morpork.
"It is a traditional song of our people, madam. With a few new twists Her Highness wanted. It celebrates the birth of one who will be a lion unto his people and a defender and a comfort to his lionesses. The Speaker announces "Here is a lion!" to which the people respond "Yes indeed, he is truly a lion!" and then all sing "One born to conquer!" The next part of the song welcomes the newborn to life, and hopes his passage through the circle of his life will be happy, wealthy and marked by wisdom. That he achieves great things as he passes round the great circle. Errr."
The singing went on. This time accompanied by beating of spears on shields and foot-stamping. From thousands of warriors. Marilyn fought down the ancestral fear of thousands of Zulus with spears singing a war chant, and relaxed into the singing and the rhythms. It was oddly stirring and even beautiful, once she, as a Vondalaander, got past the obvious pineapple in the fruit basket.
The Zulu minder nudged her, and said "You may in a moment care to point the iconograph upwards, miss."
It wasn't an ideal place to take a picture from. But Marilyn noted Otto Chriek had realised first, and had retreated a long way down the wall so as to get the best angle. She ran to join him, hoping her own iconograph would be good enough.
Angling their machines over the heads of the other journalists, they got good shots of the people on the top of the tower, and captured Ruth N'Kweze, Paramount Crown Princess, as she stepped forward and lifted her newborn son high so that the People could see.
The crowd didn't roar. Beating of spears on shields ceased. The sound was more one of a collective sigh from several thousand throats.
"Wunderbar!" Otto exulted. "Are you getting a good view, miss van der Graaf?"
Marilyn winced. But the noise had been loud... and most of the other journalists seemd to have found out. But they'd closed ranks and were keeping a colleague's secret, respecting that she'd stuck her neck out a long way to be here and to report on this.
Otto realised. He grinned, sheepishly, even as he re-angled the iconograph machine to take shots of the incredible sight of thousands of people falling to their knees to suitably honour the new Prince. Some were even prostrating themselves.
"Ah. Perhaps I mistook you for another, fraulein van der Medelander." Otto apologised, hastily. He was still taking iconographs, manipulating several machines simultaneously with vampire speed.
Ruth was speaking now, her voice carrying. They heard their minder quietly translating...
To you, my beloved people. I present a son. One who is called Wisdom. One born to lead. I will guide him. I will steer him. I will teach him what it means to be royal and of the Paramount House of the Clan of Ceteswayo...
"Boffo." Sacharissa said. Her pencil was busily scratching shorthand on the pad. "Royal boffo, mind you. She's delivering it well, though. And nobody here is ever going to forget."
And then the real scoop happened. The kind of thing that would have made the renowned seeker-of-news Suki van der Graaf, were she to be present, squeal "What a story!" It even made Marilyn van der Medelander squeal "wat een verhaal!"(3) in very careful Kerrigian.
The crowd hushed. The Paramount King, the absolute ruler of the Empire, had stepped forward to stand next to his daughter and his grandson. He had been quietly standing in the background. Till now.
And even at nearly seventy, Mpandwe still commanded respect. Marilyn felt the strength and charisma of the man from thirty-odd yards away. Tall. Fat, but carried it well. The still presence of a man who commanded obedience.
They watched him rest a hand on his daughter's shoulder. It signalled acceptance, respect, even a father's love.
And the Paramount King scanned his audience, judging his moment to speak. Marilyn felt his eyes pass over the journalists. They might have rested on her for a moment. Marilyn felt uneasy. This was a man who, if he found out her secret, could over-rule Ruth and have her executed. It wasn't a comforting thought. For a fraction of a second she wondered if he did know. He could so easily have found out...
Zazu the Speaker opened his mouth to Speak. Mpandwe looked at him and shook his head, very slightly. The Speaker did not speak.
But the King did.
The Zulu minder translated his words in a low respectful voice. Saharissa scribbled, excitedly.
In front of my people, in front of the warriors of the Lioness Impi, in front of the Army of my beloved son in law Denizulu, in front of my own loyal Guard, and in the eyes and ears of the World, hear the words of the King!
Tales of my demise are false and empty words. I am not senile. I am not planning to meet Ganab the Black Archer at any time soon. I intend to rule my people for many years yet.
But all men die. Even kings. I have listened to wise counsel from those who have urged me to nominate my sucessor and heir, so that there is no possible room for doubt. No uncertainty and no war in the Empire. No space for argument. I accept the rebuke that I have been remiss in not appointing my Heir, the one who takes the Paramount Throne after my death. And yes, even a King may be rebuked. When he fails to act decisively and surely and allows false ambition to rise among those who seek to suceed him.
Empire of the Zulus, hear my words! Those of you who will shortly leave here and take my words to the wider world, hear me!
I name my Heir on this joyous day. So that all will know and all will obey. My daughter, the Paramount Crown Princess, has well repaid my trust in her. Is she not a victor in battle? Did she not once chastise the insolent Matabele on a battlefield where she was the only Zulu, but fought as if she were ten, and slew twelve of the Matabel? Did she not being victory over proud Muntab and lead an army to triumph? Did she not fight and slay a terrible serpent creature of black muti, though she was heavy with child?
Well has the Princess Ruth repaid my trust. And her husband, the sun to her moon, my beloved Denizulu, who today receives a son who will grow to be as mighty as his parents.
We have seen the Prince Nipho being presented to his people.
And today I rule. Not one of my sons will be King after me. Nor will it be a daughter who ascends as Queen. My heir is the Prince Nipho who will be Paramount after me. Acknowledge and show fealty to the Heir!
Marilyn saw Ruth start with something like surprise and wide-eyed horror, although she quickly resumed an impassive stone face. Chanting, stamping and shield-beating resumed. It appeared the crowd was all in favour of the Heir.
Mpandwe called for silence.
I rule that should I die before the Heir reaches the age of manhood, his mother, the Paramount Crown Princess, becomes Queen Regent and rules the Empire in his name, till he become a man and she then stands down. My daughter has well repaid my trust in her and I charge her with this duty, should it become necessary.
Now I decree the ceremony at an end. Let us now move to feasting and expressing our joy at this day!
The King stood back and said something inaudible to Ruth. She listened, then nodded. He clapped her on both shoulders, then leaned forward to kiss her, taking care not to trap the Heir in between them. Then he turned to Denizulu, and the two men clasped hands.
"There's our story!" Sacharissa said.
"Wat een verhaal!" Marilyn said.
Then the message reached them that the King commanded Otto Chriek to attend upon him, and to bring the wondrous picture-making machine.
"He wants a few pictures for the family album." Chakki N'Golante said. "Oh, and he gives permission for them to be published in the papers. Can you send him copies?"
The Opera House, Ankh-Morpork.
Rebecka Smith-Rhodes, Witch, chose her time to walk confidently up to the stage door, moving through the crowd of fans and admirers clustered there, letting the black pointy hat advertise that she had a right to do this. People in Ankh-Morpork had come late to the idea of what a black pointy hat meant, but tended to respect it. And most importantly, to respect the woman who wore it. People like Mrs Proust and like Olga and Irena had ensured the message was received and understood.
There were some gumbles, but the young Witch got as far as the stage door and did battle with the Guardian of the Threshold. This was the tricky bit.
"Here, miss, you can't..."
"I'm here to see Perdita. You know. Agnes Nitt." Bekki said. She tapped the brim of the hat meaningfully.
"Miss Nitt's a star. She don't just see anybody who walks in off the street, any old random fan..."
Bekki tapped the brim again. She glared at the stage door porter.
"Did I say I'm here as a fan? This is Witch business. She will see me."
Bekki had seen older witches get emphatic. She'd also seen her mother getting emphatic. She channelled Johanna Smith-Rhodes as hard as she could. Mum had a knack for getting into places by force of personality.
Bekki remembered something Irena had said and cross-referenced it to one of Nanny Ogg's tales of visiting the City.
"Mr Flitch, isn't it? Mrs Ogg from Lancre asked to be remembered to you. She mentioned you had a little problem she was treating. Has it cleared up yet?"
The porter slumped. He knew when he was not being threatened, and a witch was making a point of asking after his health. He was not a stupid or an incautious man.
"Straight down the corridor, miss, and turn right. Big dressing room with her name on the door."
Bekki made a point of smiling graciously.
"Thank you, Mr Flitch." she said, and walked on down the corridor.
Agnes Nitt was not alone in the dressing room. Bekki knocked, walked in, and glared at the fussy little man in the suit until he concluded his business and went away. He probably knew about witches too.
Agnes, a big wide woman, looked amused. She'd recognised pointy hat too. The two witches politely bowed to each other. Agnes indicated the teapot. Bekki understood, and as the younger witch, poured the tea for them both.
"You do know that was Mr Bucket, who owns the Opera House?" Agnes asked, politely. Bekki shrugged.
"I didn't. No. But at least he knows we're both witches."
"True." Agnes agreed. They sipped their tea. Agnes asked about Lancre and mutual friends there. Bekki brought her up to date. Eventually they got to the point, but in a leisuredly all-the-time-in-the-world way, as good manners between Witches dictated.
"So what brings you here?" Agnes asked. She seemed quietly amused, and intrigued. "I know if Nanny Ogg wanted me back in Lancre, to drop everything and do anything time-consuming and inconvenient, she wouldn't send somebody else with a message. She'd turn up herself."
Bekki smiled slightly.
"I really, really, need your advice." She said. "How do you not be a witch?"
Agnes gave her a long look. Then she said
"You can't not be a witch. Once you're in, you're in. Unfortunately."
"Let me explain." Bekki said. "You're a Witch. But you aren't active as a Witch. You've found something else to do. I'd really love to know how you do it. You know, to be a professional singer and not let the witch-stuff take over. Not to actively practice. I'm happy doing what I do. I'm enjoying it. I'm really asking about my little sister. Can I tell you about her?"
Bekki explained about her sister Ruth and the way magic was starting to surface in her. About her fight in the Dungeon Dimensions. That usually heralded magic, didn't it, when They take an interest? How do I help Ruth through it, when she's got magic but I think she's, you know, not inclined to become a witch as such, she's got other things occupying her time? How do you do it?
Agnes listened, attentively and sympathetically.
"And she can see and talk with your dead relatives too." she said.
Agnes turned her head slightly and spoke to what a non-magic user would have dismissed as empty air.
"Hello, we've not been introduced." she said. "I take it you're related to Bekki?"
"Good efternoon, Miss Nitt. A pleasure to meet you. I'm Johanna Francesca Smith-Rhodes, by the way. I should call by to this place, end watch you perform, I think!"
"The evening performance is at seven-thirty." Agnes said, graciously. "Tell me about Ruth?"
"Maar. We cen make her aware we are there. We have spoken, ja. But she is only a child, end a shy retiring girl. Most of the time she lives in her own world, with her art end her music end her ideas. We do not force ourselves on her, you understend."
Agnes nodded, thoughtfully. She listened and asked more questions. Perceptive ones.
"Ruth needs some training in magic." Agnes said. "Even if she doesn't intend to actually use it. Something you've got, and don't know how to use, can be dangerous. So at some level she needs witch training. Guidance, anyway. And you're right in saying that magic can drive you absolutely spare if it builds up and can't be discharged. She really needs a lightning conductor to discharge it safely. For me, that's singing. And music. That helps me burn it off. So we've got something in common there."
Agnes smiled.
"look, I've got to start getting ready for the next show." she said. "But I'd like to help. Witch to witch. Would your parents mind if I call round? Introduce myself, get to know your sister a little?"
"Thank you." Bekki said, sincerely.
Agnes Nitt patted her shoulder.
Glad to help." she said. "Truly."
FAO Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes
By secure internal Guild mail.
"Well, that's it, Johanna. They made you a Dame and a Lady. I have a horrible feeling that I'm going to end up as a Queen. Father is not going to last forever and on past family form, he'll drop suddenly one day, and the kingeon particles will fly to Nipho.
"Being Queen Regent and running a country might look good on a CV but I'm not sure if I want it. At least, not just yet. Good points; it makes my mother the Great Wife by default. Grandmother of the Heir. Which means the other wives will start getting jealous and Scheming. I've sent a good person, Guild-trained, to be a lady-in-waiting to Mother, to keep her bodyguarded and safe.
"And I also want Nipho safe. He's going to be a target to some people. I have put the word out that if anybody even thinks of hurting my son, they are dead. With extreme prejudice. I will need to have him guarded twenty-four and eight. When he is eleven, he goes to the Guild school. I'm sure they'll find him a place. But until then he is going to be guarded.
"Oh, and all my half-brothers and half-sisters are being summoned to the Royal Kraal to swear allegience to the Heir. That will be fun. At least six of my brothers will need watching as they'll all be furious. And I'll need to stamp my authority on them if I end up as Queen Regent and they're inclined to challenge me. They will, of course.
"But. Oh well. This is the sort of thing the Guild trains us for.
"Lots of love to Heidi, Danie and little Mattewis. Maybe he and Nipho will end up at the Guild School together in the same year? That should be interesting!
"All my love, missing you and the family and Ankh-Morpork.
"Ruth. Just plain and simple Ruth, no Princess, and definitely not a Queen. Right now I feel like a pawn that made it to the other edge of the board..."
To be continued...
(1) go to my story Hyperemesis Gravidarum
(2) Ruth had shrugged and said "Take as many pictures as you like. We are parading in public, after all, so we can't complain about that. And people like Crowbar Dreyer read the papers. we'll work around that. Besides, you haven't just commited a crime in this country by coming here. A few holiday snaps to take home might save your arse."
(3) Suki would have squealed "wat 'n storie!" and given her nationality away. It was just as well Marilyn was there.
The Notes Dump:
The place where background notes, proof I've done the research and Showing My Working, and odd little things not strictly relevant to this tale, go to sit until they're needed. A waiting room for ideas, the Heirs who may inherit future stories.
Playing with the barely-there idea hanging on from Hyperemesis Gravidarum, in which Emmanuelle de Lapoignard, looking for a family home for herself and incipient infant, first buys Number Four Spa Lane, seeing advantages to living on the same street as two colleagues and friends.
Following a certain regrettable incident, the family at Number Sixteen, already nervous at having Davinia Bellamy and Johanna Smith-Rhodes as neighbours on either side, moves out. In a hurry. With Sixteen suddenly vacant, and Emmanuelle now having lots of money at her disposal inherited from her deceased mother-in-law (her absentee husband, who has title, has given her a blank cheque to purchase a family home in Ankh-Morpork and leaves it entirely to her), she decides Number Sixteen is perfect, as it puts her in touch with good neighbours. She buys a nice suburban property in a nice area, albeit one now in need of some minor repair, and moves in.
Which leaves the problem of what to do with now-redundant Number Four.
I have her resolving this problem by sub-letting to young graduate Assassins who are working in Ankh-Morpork, with priority given to those employed at Guild headquarters on Filigree Street, who cannot secure live-in accommodation there. And of course, to fellow Quirmians in the big city.
There is room for storylines here: young people in a house-sharing situation with a largely benevolent landlady who understands life's little foibles.
But how to develop this…
Over on TV tropes, I have just written a works page for a maddeningly watchable French sitcom called Les Filles d'à côté .
It shouldn't be so watchable. Not at all. It's a cheap show with mediocre production values, a shoddy knock-off of Friends, churned out on a production line with correspondingly low production values. Yet it was and remains, in re-runs, a massive hit in France. My review reads:
Where do I start? I'm British. This is a French sitcom. Where did I meet it? How do I even know about it? Scroll back a year or two. Seven floors up in a clifftop hotel in Folkestone, England, while a really Grand Guignol thunderstorm played out over the English Channel. Finding it impossible to sleep at midnight, I resorted to the TV set and discovered that when you're on the south coast of England (France is actually visible on a good clear day), then French TV - and to an extent Belgian - can be received loud and clear. This was an exotic revelation. If nothing else, I discovered French TV is, in the main, every bit as mediocre as British. And I tuned into the sort of TV station that must be the French version of Channel Dave, as it showed nothing but repeats of old sitcoms and cartoons on a sort of moebious loop.
And this show came on.
Now I can speak and comprehend French up to a certain level. Which is useful. And I arrived halfway through a show that instantly screamed "SITCOM!" at me: i honestly thought at first it was a French remake of Friends as the same sort of vibe was happening - expensive looking apartment, big and spacious, inhabited by - I counted them - three men and three women of a thirtysomething aspect. Other characters came and went, but there were these six core people who were there all the time. I started tuning in. Nothing wildly original at all. Just Up to Eleven sitcom stock characters running through the standard sort of plots. It wasn't hard to see why it hasn't been subbed/dubbed into English or sold for overseas remakes. A knock-off of "Friends" with a side-salad of "Three's A Crowd/Three's Company". But there was still something indefinably charming/pleasant about it.
I al wondered if this was a case of TV Tropes having ruined my life - oui, je parle francais, oui, je le comprends bien. But the sitcom formula was so strong here that I felt I could get the idea what was going on by just watching and ticking off tropes, even if I spoke no French at all. Wikipédia francais says this show only ran for fifteen months - but they still made 170 episodes. That's three a week. Three. A week. So this explains the lack of originality or decent scripts or on occassion good acting. But damn. It grows on you. Even after returning Oop North outside the reach of French TV I started looking it up on youTube. It has its charm. And Cécile Auclert, who now joins the ranks of memorable French actresses, even though she is not in the same league as Huppert, Deneuve, Beart or Girardot (Now a young Annie Girardot in this sitcom - she'd have cracked it.) . Good for learning or improving French from!
Maybe it's this thing I've got for French actresses.
Anyway. A central premis. Those six single-ish people working out the dynamics of being neighbours. And "Quirmian".
This could well be parodied in Four Spa Lane with six recent Assassin graduates, three female, three male, one a Gérard…
Les Assassines d'à côté …
A footnote useful for when I return to long-stalled tale Clowning is…, about the war in Clowndom. Useful for background on Far Überwald and the insane degrees of dress code for the "Russian" nobility: Tsar Paul, heir to Catherine the Great, routinely despatched nobles to Siberian exile for the slightest little things, like wearing the wrong sort of buttons for their social rank…