Strandpiel 54
Kom ons maak 'n plan - let's make a plan
Still advancing the story to the point where a natural break will occur, Book One can close, and Book Two will deal with Bekki's life in Howondaland. So closing all the closeable loose ends – for now. V1.03 with minor corrections.
To cover: events in Howondaland
(Ruth N; the van der Graafs; Mariella and Horst)
Summer music practice
Bekki in the Watch and training for the Pegasus Service
First long-haul solo flight
End of Book One! Hopefully within this chapter. And Gods know, I've said that before…
Thank you to Brithund who made a blindingly obvious – to anybody else but me – plot suggestion. It has been incorporated here, with thanks.
Hoping to wrap up Book One of Strandpiel with at most one more chapter, having set up lots of threads to pick up in Book Two….
The Assassins' Guild, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork
"Sir, I em here. You wished to see me?"
Lord Downey looked up from the Master's desk. He smiled benevolently to the student who had entered, in the company of his Housemaster and Miss Band. The boy looked slightly nervous. Grune Nivor, a veteran teacher who had looked retirement in the face and decided some years before that age was just a number, was beaming with pride. Miss Band had a quiet look of satisfaction on her face as if something had happened that she could take great personal pleasure in.
Downey smiled. There was warmth in the smile.
"Of course. Mr duPris, I believe? One of Mr Nivor's young men from Viper House. Do you take dry or sweet sherry? Any preference as to vintage? Or region? This is a Loositanian from the principal sherry-making region of Toleda."
Ampie duPris thought quickly. Wines of the Disc was a course module taught by various teachers, each of whom had their preferences. It was held to be an indispensable social skill. He tried to match the colour in the decanter to what he'd been taught.
" Err… from the Xerez de la Frontera region, sir? The pale colour suggests en Emontillado, a dry wine. I believe the best current vintage is the Year of the Watchful Meerkat."
Downey nodded, appreciatively. He poured four glasses and offered them out.
"Close." he said. "Amontillado palo, certainly. But from the Year of the Unconcerned Hedgehog. Please be seated, Mr duPris. Almond slice? Ah, very wise. Sherry should not be consumed with sweet cake. It dulls the flavour."
Ampie took the offered chair. Lord Downey again smiled benevolently.
"I received an informal report." he began. "From Sergeant von Strafenburg of the Air Police. Who, by the way, is a Grafin in Überwald, when she cares to acknowledge the title. The Watch does rather tend to attract titled people, oddly enough. You encounter them at social events, in this case a reception at the Überwaldean Embassy. She told me a rather interesting tale, strictly off the record."
He paused and looked quizzically at Ampie. Ampie glanced to one side. Miss Band was smiling slightly and Mr Nivor was beaming.
"Do you know." Downey said, conversationally. "Captain Romanoff swore very eloquently, and without repeating a profanity once, in her own language. I am reliably iassured that when informed, Sir Samuel Vimes went completely spare, as the saying goes."
Ampie thought about this. Olga Romanoff was Bekki's immediate boss now. He hoped he hadn't landed her in any trouble. He also reflected that it would be best to keep well out of the way of Stoneface Vimes, at least until he had calmed down a bit. And certainly not to end up in Watch custody for any reason, where recent events might be held against him. Ampie had also met Olga, a red-haired Witch with an interesting way with a Cossack sabre. He vowed to be a good citizen.
And Alice Band was grinning, now. Definitely amused.
"Bekki's not in any trouble, if that's worrying you." Miss Band said. "I spoke to Olga Romanoff. She agreed that what happened wasn't her doing, and she wasn't to be blamed for it."
"Indeed." Downey said. "You went to a lot of trouble for her. You managed to break into Pseudopolis Yard. You gained access to one of the most high-security parts of the building. Without being detected. And this is a building where Commander Vimes has personally promised seven different and highly inventive kinds of Hell on Disc to any Assassin found outside the publicly accessible parts of the premises without due cause. Knowing this, you got in. Undetected. Sergeant von Strafenburg tells me she only discovered you by pure chance, when she went to check on the two recruit pilots who had been assigned stable duties. So there is every chance you might have got out again. Undetected."
Downey offered Ampie his right hand. Ampie took it.
"The Grafin von Strafenburg says that what saved you from arrest was that you were not there as an Assassin. She considered leniency was called for, and she escorted you off the premises. So. You braved arrest and an unpleasant interview with Sir Samuel. Just to give a young lady chocolate?"
"That's a good enough reason, to me." Alice Band said. "She's lucky to have you. Her mother thinks so, too. Doctor Smith-Rhodes was impressed and pleased. And Johanna does not impress easily, let me tell you."
"Brownie points with the Smith-Rhodes family." Mr Nivor said. "And a damn fine application of Assassin skills. A man in black, stealthily entering a well-guarded place, possibly the best guarded place in this City outside the Patrician's Palace. And all because the lady loves…"
"Chocolate." Alice Band completed the sentence. "And you bribed Hanna von Strafenburg to let you out, I hear. With chocolate. That's a touch of genius, Mr duPris."
"Indeed." Downey agreed. Something about his manner said that while Ampie's actions had been illegal and could have embarrassed the Guild had things gone wrong, the person most embarrassed was Sam Vimes. And Downey had no objections at all to that. "I did have occasion to speak to Lady Sybil Ramkin, by the way. She confirmed her husband needed some calming down at, and I quote, "bloody Assassins just walking in as if they owned the bloody place". But fortunately, Lady Sybil considers it was all rather sweet and romantic, and she wishes in her day she'd met a young man who would do a thing like that just to bring her chocolate. She said she'd talk to Sam and get him to see it's quite sweet and harmless. She's quite taken with you, I think."
More sherry was poured. Ampie blinked. Usually you only got one glass.
"Now. Would you care to describe how you did it? And I'd quite like you to prepare a written report, if you'd be so kind. To be attached to the relevant files."
Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork
Sam Vimes considered the two new Watch recruits standing on the opposite side of the desk. Their supervisory Captain and Sergeant stood to either side of them. He shook his head slightly. Usually these interviews were brief and necessary: he liked to get an idea as to the potential and the character of new people, or at least an opportunity to get to remember their names and relate them to the right faces. Every recruit got five minutes of face-time with the Commander. He studied them intently. One he already knew. Her mother had been a Special before she'd stood aside from the job to start a family. Vimes was quite keen to get her back, when she was ready.
For now, I get the reason why she stood down. Let's see how good the girl is.
"Sixteen is young to start Watchmen off." he said, opening the conversation. "Normally the minimum entry age is eighteen. But it's not a hard and fast rule. And the Pegasus Service is a special case. I started Nottie Garlick off at fifteen, and she turned out right."
He nodded at Olga Romanoff.
"Witches tend to be prematurely mature. But you select for that. As well as useful things like depth of character and a commanding personality. Useful Watch skills. And you'll only occasionally be performing conventional policing jobs. But you will still, however, need to put in time on the beat. Just so you know what the job means, and so we can be sure you're up to it."
He looked at Sophie Rawlinson.
"Same school as Sybil. At least till you were fourteen. Then you caught witchcraft. Advanced training in Lancre. A natural with horses. Your father, Sir Henry Rawlinson, is village squire out in the Shires, place called Rawlinson's End. Where he leads a busy life managing an estate and acting as a combination of local magistrate and Chief Beadle. Not only does your father command what passes as a local Watch, he passes judgement in court, too."
Vimes studied Sophie.
"Normally, one huge clash of interests. Lord of the Manor, arresting officer, and judge. Lots of potential for abuse of power. Dealt with something like that in the Shires once(1). But from the background checks, I hear your father juggles the three hats quite well and he's well thought of. Well. Two hats and a wig, anyway. Which from my point of view, young lady, means you've already got a good idea of the job from being around your dad."
He nodded to Sophie, seeing a girl taller and wider than most. He also saw somebody who suggested a sixteen-year-old version of Sybil, and reflected in that case, she'd probably do alright on the streets. She'd taken charge of the women recruits' barrack-room, Vimes had heard, and women twice her age were looking to Sophie for a lead. A natural commanding presence combined with having lived in a dorm at the Quirm Academy, so she knows what's needed. Then he turned to the other recruit.
"And we have Probationary Air Policewoman Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons." he remarked.
"Just Smith-Rhodes, Mr Vimes." Olga said. "A witch always takes her mother's name. Professor Stibbons understands this, and is accepting."
Vimes, very carefully, didn't ask why in that case Olga had remained a Romanoff and Hanna was still a von Strafenburg. Willikins had patiently tried to explain it to him.(2) He nodded acknowledgement.
"I first met you when you were around eleven or twelve, young lady. You ordered me to stub my cigar out, as I recall."
Bekki looked at the lit cigar in the ashtray, and remembered. Sophie stifled a giggle.
"Yes, sir, I did." she admitted. "But this is your space, sir. Wouldn't dream of doing it in here."
"Glad to hear it." Vimes said. "But you'd still tell me to put it out if I came down to the witches' surgery, even though you're a recruit and I'm the Watch Commander?"
Bekki recognised a test.
"Yes, sir. I would." she said, firmly. "I'd still do your feet afterwards, though."
Vimes laughed.
"You'll do well on the street with an attitude like that." he remarked. "Probably." Then he was serious again.
"Olga… Captain Romanoff – tells me you've both been in the air on your Pegasuses. Pegasii. Wingèd horses, anyway. Any issues, Olga?"
Olga looked proud. First flight had been a moment they'd all been eagerly waiting for.
"No, sir. I believe I have two first-class pilots. The next stage, when their navigators pass out of their own flight school and Senior Sergeant Wee Mad Arthur assesses them as fit, is for them to shadow an experienced pilot on one of the runs. I propose that Sophie accompanies me on the Howondaland route, and Bekki goes with Sergeant von Strafenburg to Überwald and the Hub."
"Why not take Probationary Air Policewoman Smith-Rhodes to Howondaland?" Vimes asked. "It's her country. Well, one bit of it is."
Olga shook her head.
"Politics, sir. Certain realities. Lord Vetinari believes any Pegasus pilot should go anywhere on City business. You emphasise that any Watch officer should go anywhere. But Howondaland includes the Zulu Empire. His lordship has asked me to be mindful of the fact the Smith-Rhodes family is not very welcome in certain Howondalandian nations, and has asked me to avoid being un-necessarily provocative. So for now, Rebecka will fly other routes."
Bekki sighed. She accepted that she wasn't likely to be seeing Ruth N'Kweze and her little boy any time soon. Shame. Even though Ruth had guardedly said that she accepted Vetinari had a right to send whoever he chose as a Pegasus pilot, and she'd treat anyone with the accepted courtesy - even if in other circumstances it might cause a little diplomatic incident. It had sounded like a carefully-worded invitation. But Ruth has her father to answer to, Bekki reflected. And Mum and Aunt Mariella aren't exactly welcome there.
"Okay. I'll accept that." Vimes said. "But in the meantime. You two need to know how to be Watchmen. You've done the theory. Now I propose to pair you up with experienced people, and you'll go out on street patrols. Just to get a little taster. Starting tonight."
He grinned at Bekki.
"And if anybody thinks enough of you to bring you a bar of chocolate." he said. "He can do it in his own damn time, yours too, and not on Watch premises. Or he's nicked, and you're on a charge. Even if he offers one to your sergeant. Which means she's on a charge too. Understood? Good."
Bekki and Sophie were dismissed. Olga told them to go up to the Air Station and wait there. The door closed behind them. Vimes waited for a while. Then he picked up his cigar and took a drag.
"At least she didn't order me to stub it out." he remarked.
Olga shrugged.
"What? In here? She isn't reckless. Or overconfident."
Vimes caught the emphasis. He winced slightly.
"No. Her mother will have knocked that out of her. Along with all the informal training she was knocking in."
There was a pause.
"Are we still deducting her pay for the training dummy?" Hanna von Strafenburg asked.
Vimes winced. Olga grinned. Fred Colon had been delivering swords instruction in his usual haphazard way, dimly remembered from his own long-ago time as an Army recruit. Various recruits had been taking ineffectual pokes at the hanging dummy stuffed with straw. Bekki had learnt about swords from her mother and Auntie Emmie. One of the things she had learnt had been Care of Weapons. When she'd been issued a nearly-blunt blade from whatever the Watch armoury had to hand out, she had assured Colon she would look after it as if it was her own child. Later on, Bekki had spent two hours with an oiled whetstone, as Mum had taught her.
Then, with a sword re-sharpened to Assassin standards, she had demonstrated other skills she had been taught. Aunt Mariella had done something similar to make a point to her own Swords instructor in the Army, she remembered.
Bekki had not been surprised to be told, after a long silence, to go and find a shovel and a broom and clear up the mess, Probationary Air Policewoman Smith-Rhodes. Bekki reflected this had also happened to Aunt Mariella.
Sergeant von Strafenburg had witnessed this, and had warmed to the girl.
"The male soldiers in the barracks give them no trouble. Now." Hanna added. Bad news travels fast. Incautious male soldiers had also met Sophie in a bad mood. Neither girl was harassed any more.(3)
Vimes smiled slightly.
"I'll discount it against the work she put in in sharpening that sword." he said. "And I believe she shared a lot of chocolate with the other women?"
Hanna von Strafenburg went completely poker-faced.
"I saw no reason to forbid this." she said. Hoping Vimes wouldn't make any pointed remarks about bars of Higgs and Meakins' Fruit and Nut.
Vimes grinned. Hanna was alright, under the external aura of Überwaldean efficiency and devotion to duty. She had a reputation among the Air Police pilots. Of being the methodically crazy one who would test-pilot anything, any crazy idea the flight technomancers had knocked together in the research shed. The vertical take-off interceptor broom, for instance. After it had exploded ten thousand feet up, watchers on the ground had been sure there'd need to be an application to Widows and Orphans for funeral expenses, that is, if they could find any scattered bits to bury. Then they'd seen the parachute. Hanna had come down to land, saluted Olga, and said "Test pilot von Strafenburg begs to report the design requires more work, as it is unsatisfactory in its current state of development." And she had strolled away. (4) She had been promoted to Sergeant not long afterwards.
Vimes shook his head. The boy had got in, yes. And without anyone seeing. And he was a bloody Assassin. And Hanna had let him go, sympathising. And, he suspected, feeling a bit jealous of the girl for having an admirer who would do such a crazy thing. Sybil had said that if she were young Rebecka, she, Sybil, would be feeling very happy indeed. So romantic, Sam. I hope you can overlook this? Sympathy and envy appeared to be the unanimous reaction of every woman who had heard about it. Even, he suspected, Olga. And all because the lady loves a man who'd bring her chocolates(5). Damn. He really couldn't do much about it, without running the risk of looking like a humourless vindictive old git and getting more knocking copy in the Times. He would still put Ampie duPris on his list of Assassins To Watch, with his own file at the Cable Street Particulars. To be cross-referenced to the Smith-Rhodes family.
He moved to more pressing matters.
"Let's talk about the sort of experienced street patrol partner who can be relied on to look after those two girls, teach them a few skills, and keep them safe out there. I've got a few ideas…"
And now, Bekki and Sophie were in the air. Nottie Garlick was flying with them, keeping an eye out, observing for now as the two new girls steered their mounts. Bekki wanted to whoop with the exultation of it. It had been so easy… Boetjie had responded easily, knowing what both of them wanted to do, and she had felt the steady thumping of the unfolded wings on the air, the short gallop forward and the cessation of hoofbeats as the horse leapt off the edge of the roof… and they were here. Airborne, with the city underneath them. Nottie had said not to go too high or too far. Get a feel for it. Navigate by landmarks. You know the City from above, you've been over it on brooms often enough. And these horses need exercising even if you're not on a duty run. This has to be a daily routine now.
She spotted the marquee of the Fools' Guild, the faded and stained multicolour of the permanent circus, and next to it, the dark roofscape of the Assassins' Guild. And beyond that, the Patrician's Palace. There was a no-flying zone there. Pegasus and other pilots only landed there, or over-flew, by arrangement. There was another landing circle, a discreet one, marked out in the gardens.
Bekki felt the wind of the wings in her hair, and whooped.
The Thaumatalogical Park, Ankh-Morpork.
Professor Ponder Stibbons moved in the sterile parts of the research building. He had exchanged outer street clothes for a white lab coat and was wearing a white pointy hat. White cloth overshoes had been carefully fastened over his feet.
He looked down into the Hatchery. It was being carefully tended by student Wizards wearing the same white, and sterile gloves. Every so often, one reached down into the runs and picked up a young imp. The newly-hatched imps tended to squeak with alarm and evade, but were easily caught. The selected imps were transferred to travelling boxes and, when full, these were moved on to other parts of the building. It was long and low-roofed and had something in common with a chicken farm.
"Project 42, sir." The wizard said, above the chittering of young imps. Ponder nodded and assessed the selected imps. They looked back at him with a variety of curious or incurious eyes. But it wasn't vision that these imps were being bred for.
Ponder felt an insistent tugging at his sleeve. He looked down. A shorter wizard stood there, in a lab coat that was a little too long for her, and a sterile white pointy hat that she had to keep from falling over her eyes.
Let me see, Daddy." she said, insistently.
Older wizards had made disapproving noises and muttered things like "Eskarina Smith. All over again." Ponder had ignored this. It was, officially, Take Your Daughters To Work Day. And he thought something like this would be interesting to Ruth, especially given some of the ideas she was having.
Ruth scrutinised the imps with interest. She listened to them chittering.
"They've all got different voices, Daddy." she said. "Can they be taught to sing?"
Ponder smiled. She was getting the idea.
"It's called polyphonics, sweetheart." he said. "You've seen the older imps, the ones used in Disorganisers, who could only say "bingley-bingley beep" in one musical note? Well, we're working to breed imps who can sing, actually sing, a wider range of notes."
"Dee dee dee dum, dee dee dee dum, deedle-ee dee dee…" an imp sang, obligingly. Ruth listened, and frowned.
"Is that all they can do?" she asked.
"It's a big all." a student wizard said, defensively.
"Mr Nockyear here devised that one." Ponder said. "He's deservedly proud of it. Ruth, why don't I show you where we teach the selected imps what they need to know?"
Ruth was looking into a different pen.
"What are these imps for, Daddy?" she asked, interested. Ponder peered over the top of her head. Two forlorn-looking imps were sitting in there. They looked odder, somehow. Large chested, with big wide frog-like mouths.
"Oh, those." said Mr Nockyear, somewhat dismissively. "That's where we put the whittles, before we…ouch! You kicked me on the ankle, sir?"
"Those imps go to a different place." Ponder said, quickly. He wasn't sure how to break it to Ruth that sometimes you, er, got imps that failed Quality Control and some of the students here were weeding them out for humane destruction and a return to the breeding vats. It was an aspect of imp-breeding that he, Ponder Stibbons, was feeling less and less comfortable with, knowing some of them, only a few, admittedly, but some, were getting something close to full sentience.
Ruth was singing to them. Just la-la'ing a theme, a simple theme, but the imps had picked up an interest and had scuttled to her. Then they started, as best they could, singing it back. In low bassy rumbles.
"That's why they're whittles, sir." Nockyear said. "All they can do are the low bass notes. No good for Disorganisers. That needs more treble voices."
Ruth turned to her father.
"Daddy, I like these imps. Can I keep them?"
Ponder squirmed slightly. He'd been here before. With a five-year old Bekki and two kittens. And he'd been powerless to say "no" then.
"Sweetheart, they're not pets…" he said.
Ruth looked up at him in a disconcertingly adult way.
"Neither is Grindguts." she said, practically. "I've got an idea for these two."
Some time before, Ruth had visited Blert Wheeldown's guitar shop to explain her idea for an acoustic bass guitar, based on the standard six or twelve-string model but with only four strings. Two of which needed to be designed from scratch, or else cut down from strings for a cello or a double bass.
Mum and Bekki had accompanied her. Mr Wheeldown had listened with interest and studied some remarkably good sketches the little girl had made.
"Reckon we can do this." he said, his interest piqued. "And it might work. But it's going to be bespoke, ma'am, a one-off, and bespoke don't come cheap."
"How much?" Mum had asked. Bekki had noticed her mother had her thoughtful face on, the one she went into when considering a business proposition, of the sort that might turn into a profit tomorrow for cash invested today. Ruth had wandered off, and was watching one of the apprentices at work, critically analysing what he was doing. The boy, a young lad of about fourteen, was visibly getting nervous.
"You need to make the sound-hole a little bit larger." Ruth said. "And the saddle's in the wrong place. It's going to make the strings too short for that length of fingerboard. Then you've got to think about how to angle the headstock. Unless you reshape the end of the fingerboard you're going to have problems."
"Excuse me, ma'am." Mr Wheeldown said. He went over to join the two. He studied the guitar the apprentice was working on, looked sharply at Ruth, then even more sharply at his apprentice.
"Well, blow me down. The young lady's right, Fender. Luckily, you can put all those things right, before you ruin it."
He returned to Johanna, with a last disbelieving look at Ruth. She had picked up a tool from the workbench and was demonstrating to Fender how it should be used.
"She hes a room full of musical instruments thet she plays with." Johanna said. "She's dismentled and rebuilt most of them. She cen retune a harpsichord, too."
"Well, she designs a good guitar, by the look of these drawings." he said. "If she wants a Saturday job when she's older, ma'am. I'd be happy to take her."
"I'll bear thet in mind, Mr Wheeldown. Now If I edvence you two hundred dollars for your work on a new end unique musical instrument. Designed by my daughter, so thet it is her intellectual property, end we heve a clear interest, should you build to this design for sales to other people. But we cen discuss thet later, How soon, without rushing it, can it be completed?"
Ruth's attention was now on something else. She had discovered, in the jumble of part-finished guitars at the back of the workshop, something that was different. She extracted it with difficulty, surprised at its weight, and assessed it critically.
"Mr Wheeldown? How does this guitar work?"
The guitar-maker smiled benevolently at her.
"Oh. They don't work, miss. That's the short answer. I'd almost forgot we had that. There was a craze for them sort of guitars, quite a few years back, before you was born. We made 'em, we warned people they din't work, but they still bought 'em. Look pretty, but as much use as a chocolate teapot."
Ruth pulled it into a playing position and tried to strum a few notes. They sounded dead. Tinny. Lifeless and flat.
"It's a solid block of wood." She said. "Shaped and polished and pretty. Really pretty. But it doesn't work. These aren't even strings. It needs to be hollow for the sound to have room to move."
"There was a lad who had one. It worked for him. Nobody could figure out how. And everyone wanted one. In the end we just carved and sanded and painted them to look good. Like the original. And then that sort of music sort of died."
Ruth studied the alleged guitar. She looked more thoughtful than usual. Deep-down witch senses were clamouring for Bekki's attention.
"Maybe there is a way to make it work." she said, putting it down. "I need to think about this."
The first bass guitar arrived a few weeks later. Bekki played it. It was slightly larger, deeper and fatter than a standard guitar. And it was designed to be played pizzicato.
"Something's still missing." Ruth had said.
"Maybe." Bekki replied, She had a sudden need to rush to the privy. (6) She could think about this later.
And now, in the present, the two new imps arrived in the household. Ruth showed them the bass guitar. She asked them to climb inside, through the sound-hole. Once they were settled, she started strumming a few notes, picking them out. After a while the two bass imps realised what was expected of them and they started sounding the notes back. The low insistent rumble of the amplified bass filled the music studio.
Imps that amplify the sound, Ruth thought. Amplifying imps… She wondered what to call the imps. They needed names. She looked down at the carpet. Leominster. And the other looked like a…
She spoke to the imps.
"Leominster. Jack."
"Jack" said one imp, getting it back. The other had more problems.
Leom..in… lem'ster… Lemmy."
"Lemmy will do." she said. Lemmy and Jack looked up at her from inside the sound-hole. Ruth was excited. She couldn't wait to show Bekki.
After a while new ideas filled her head. She went to find a sketch-pad.
Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork
"I'm pairing Sophie with Reg Shoe." Vimes said, decisively. "She's what you might call bourgeoisie. He isn't. Good for both of them. Rebecka can patrol with Visit. He's a good copper. He was her mother's patrol partner of preference."
"Let me see if we've got this right." Olga Romanoff said. "Reg and his politics. Alongside the daughter of a village squire. Then an Omnian who has in the past expressed old-time attitudes towards witches. Alongside a Witch. He's going to offer her a pamphlet, isn't he?"
"Good lesson for the new girls. You can't choose your patrol partner but you depend on them. You have to get along regardless of any differences of opinion. It should be interesting to see how they rub along."
Olga sighed. She made a decision to mount a broomstick patrol of her own. Just to make sure. To keep an eye.
"Now. Have you shouted at any bloody Dwarfs yet? The sort who were loading and unloading the lift, bunked off for a sly smoke, and let a bloody Assassin hide in the hay bales?"
"No, sir. I have, however, frowned at them. I believe they are somewhat worried as to what I will say concerning events which occured here while I was on leave several thousand miles away. This is unsettling them, and they are currently working very hard and diligently. Especially in mattters of security."
Vimes stood up.
"Let's go up to the Air Station, Captain. You can do the shouting. I'll stand behind you and glower at them. Deal?"
To be continued. Again.
(1) Refer to Snuff, by Terry Pratchett.
(2) Willikins, with his innate sense of finely graduated social rank, had suggested it was down to "women of higher social rank being constrained in these matters, sir. Even a witch cannot easily shrug off the fact she is daughter of a Grand Duke standing one level below the currently dormant rank of Tsar, and I understand Captain Romanoff's mother was originally called Ekaterina Alexeyevnya-Petrovnichniya-Volovovnya of Novo Chechovinitnia, prior to her marriage to Grand Duke Nicholas Romanoff. And Sergeant von Strafenburg is the daughter of Konstanze von Mecklenburg und Lipswigschnitzel und Knickelbein von Bad Sauerstoff. Perhaps the rule that a witch invariably takes her mother's name is not as absolute as witches claim."
(3) Sophie had turned to the grinning soldier who hadn't even had a chance to say anything along the lines of "I likes a girl with spirit". She had eyeballed him and said "You know, those coarse trousers they issue you must get uncomfortable. I'm just betting that the next time you're on the parade square and your drill-sergeant gives you the order to stand to attention, so that you cannot move a muscle, you're going to get very, very itchy. Where it itches most. Prickly itch. The sort you really have to scratch. Itch, itch, itch. And all the time you're going to be standing there, getting more and more uncomfortable. With the itch. And it's going to be a choice between scratching the itch. And having your sergeant come up to you and scream in your face from six inches away for having moved. Itch, itch, itch. Or just standing there and putting up with the uncontrollable prickly itch. Either way, you're in trouble. Itch." Sophie had not been bothered again.
(4) Dwarf designers the Messers Schmidt had called it the ME-163 design prototype, the Komet. Lord Vetinari had asked for a design capable of getting very high, very quickly, to disrupt a formation of Klatchian flying carpets and if possible to knock them out of the sky. The Schmidts had proposed a turbocharged broomstick powering a shaped magical field that was powerful enough to rip through a formation of carpets like a hot knife through butter. They'd also proposed to equip it with an underslung heavy-bore automatic repeating crossbow so that on the downwards parabola it could take advantage of the scattered carpets and shoot a few down in the more conventional manner. As Hanna pointed out in her test report, they'd overpowered it and this had caused terminal strain on the handle and bristles. Leading to complete critical systems collapse with a high discharge of exothaumic energy. Assassins' Guild observer Johanna Smith-Rhodes had asked why bother to have a pilot at all? Any Klatchian invasion fleet would cover quite a lot of sky. Piloted brooms would be vulnerable to counter-fire from air-gunners and flight-wizards aboard the carpets. So why not have a battery of them that can be remotely fired, they do not have to be that accurate, think of them as a sort of ground-to-air missile? Take advantage of thefact it's going to explode? "In fect, I could edd a few exothermic elchemy cherges on a timed fuse… is there a way for it to explode when in proximity to a megical field, such es thet surrounding a magic carpet?"
(5) When Higgs and Meakins heard about this, they used it in their advertising. The dark handsome man in black who braves any perils to deliver chocolates to his lady love. And all because the lady loves Higgs and Meakins' Milk Platter Assortment. (5.1)They also got Johanna Smith-Rhodes calling round and suggesting that the Guild of Assassins clearly had an interest here, so let's talk about royalties, gentlemen.
(5.1) The typical male Ankh-Morporkian take on this would inevitably be something like "What? Nip down the corner shop just because you fancy a bar of chocolate? At this bleedin' time of night? It's pissing down out there, girl!"
(6) Think about it. Something that resonates in low bass frequencies. Held just there while you're playing it. Bass guitarist's incontinence.
Notes Dump:
Current reading: The Owl Killers by Karen Maitland. On the face of it, another of those books sparked off by Ellis Peters' Brother Cadfael, a publishing sensation that got other publishers demanding to know why we don't have mediaeval murder mysteries on our list, why aren't we getting some of that money? On the face of it, another 500 page potboiler. Nothing wrong with that, these are entertaining reading – bought it on holiday in South Wales.
But… a bit more than that. A repeated thing you hear from people of a New Age disposition is how much Christianity corrupted Britain and how much better it would have worked out if we'd somehow avoided this and kept the old, pure, native, pagan religion rather than something foreign forced on us from outside. Well… KM imagines a remote corner of England that remained pagan. A microcosm of what Britain might have been without Christianity. And guess what... it turns out to be every bit as rotten and corrupt and based on superstition enforced at the point of a sword. A useful antidote to New Age wishful thinking – and a damn good read.
Also got this fantasy which I can't see working in this tale – it opens up a sort of That's What I Call Soul Music Two, the follow-up to the hit album. Can't see Vetinari – or the Wizards – allowing this. Ponder would have to squash it. And it involves all three of his daughters. But the vision is… a "garage band". Especially with Ruth's ideas about guitars and what available Discworld technomancy can do to improve them. (I will deal with this in this story… but apart from Ponder's disquiet, leave it open-ended.) I see Ruth on keyboards. Bekki experimenting with the acoustic bass guitar "enhanced" by her sister. And of course the obligatory loony drummer… maybe with Alison the minstrel sitting in.
They are in the deliberately and diligently soundproofed studio their mother has commissioned at great and necessary expense, with bonuses paid to the Dwarfs for fast completion. Ruth is picking out a piano theme that begins as a sort of classical piece. Then it explodes into something sounding as fast and disquieting and urgent as a Watch siren. Bekki realises something is happening, and being a witch, it's happening to her. Strange and seemingly nonsensical words start emerging which are somehow right for the moment. Famke gets the idea and starts adding explosive drumming.
Slabheads down on Broadway are going crazy,
They're laughing just like hungry wolves in the street!
Watchmen are hiding behind the skirts of little girls
Their eyes have turned the colour of frozen meat!
No! no no no, no no, no, no no no no, no –
Theda Withel has risen from the grave!
There's a little conscious Bekki in there wondering what the Hell is going on – as far as she knows, Theda Withel is still alive and working as an actress – but the words have a momentum of their own.
Sekkian schoolgirls have thrown away their mascara
They chain themselves to the axles of Rail Way trucks!
The sky is filled with hurt and shivering angels –
The fat lady laughs! Gentlemen! Start your trucks!
("But I never wore mascara at school. The nuns would have made me clean it off. Mum would have shouted at me. And why should Agnes Nitt order girls from Seks to be dragged to their death underneath trains…")
That's one idea, anyway: the girls get inspiration particles that lead them to perform a version of the Blue Öyster Cult's rather stream-of-consciousness bad dream "Joan Crawford", rewritten for Ankh-Morpork… there's even some mad string playing in there, might be a viola, the sort of thing that Welsh bloke in the Velvet Underground (John Cale(7)) might have chucked into an experimental piece behind Lou Reed or Nico…
Anyway, the girls look at each other, are baffled, and ask where the hells THAT came from… then decide never to speak of this ever again, or something. An alternative version has Motörhead's title song "Motörhead" emerging out of nowhere, with Bekki, fired by the bass, suddenly channeling Lemmy… or else she might suddenly come over as Suzi Quatro, roaring out "Devilgate Drive" or "Can the Can", and thinking about the skin-tight black leathers she knows her mother keeps in the wardrobe, which fitted her when she was twenty-something, but which she can't quite fit into any more.(8) Bekki thinks she'd fit into them, and the idea suddenly becomes attractive…
Sunrise! Wrong side of another day!
Agatea is six thousand miles away!
Don't know how long I've been awake!
Wound up in an amazing state!
Can't get enough! Youu know its righteous stuff!
Goes up like prices at hogswatch!
Motörhead!
Remember me now Motörhead!
Alright!
(7) Orchestral viola in a rock song? go to Velvet Underground's Venus in Furs" and listen... Herr von Ubersetzer might have been moved to extreme technical criticism, but it works... Also, the original Hawkwind version of "Motorhead" - with Lemmy on vocals - also has some determinedly manic violin playing, with Hawkwind's resident violinist turning it into a rock instrument. i see bekki, overcome by temptation and curiosity, struggling into her mother's old working leathers in tasteful Assassin black, strolling down to the music room, picking up the bass with attendent imps - Lemmy says "suits you, miss" - and then the inspiration particle hits home and Music with Very Heavy Rocks In takes over... Famke goes with the flow and joins in, as does a visiting Alison.
(8) Johanna wore them as accepted Assassin wear for certain specialised tasks; she is seen giving them an airing in my tale "The Graduation Class" , in which she has to navigate Ankh-Morpork's underground sewers. She'd have been middle-to-late twenties then: inevitable body changes after three daughters and nearly two decades later, she discovered they're too tight in certain areas and she keeps meaning to commission a new set suitable for a forty-something body,,but hasn't quite got round to it yet. But they're still in her wardrobe, a temptation to a daughter who could fit into them…