Die Vuurvoël
v1.2, second revision. Adding more bits and what, in hindsight, is a fairly crucial epilogue.
Ideas:-
Letters from Howondaland
Suki, her family, and a prospective son in law.
Shauna's first job after leaving school
Bekki's Watch induction
Ruth and guitars
Famke and drums
Bekki's passing-out and introduction to the Air Police and Pegasus Service
Miss Glynnie's teaching speciality to Assassins on the Black. She isn't just a drummer.
Other cameos from Guild pupils (Hei Luci. Howzit? Ek het jou nie vergeet nie.)
Mysterious chocolate deliveries in Howondaland
Tidying up a few footnotes to the Witch Trials – Young Johanna and Emma speaking to Verence and Magrat, Xenia's reaction to the wider world of Witchcraft
Ankh-Morporkian law on property ownership – a callback to Thud! How far down does home ownership go? To tidy a loose end from the novel.
And just maybe, around December, Bekki emigrates to Howondaland and a new life is poised to begin… close and get round to Book Two. Eventually.
As always: during the working week, lots and lots and lots of inspiration particles about Things That Might Happen Next and how they could fit into the general plot, and no opportunity to write them down… putting the above laconics in so that when the opportunity comes, I can remember and expand and weave them in… one of which sparked off a train of thought that was interesting, absorbing, could end up as a story in its own right as Ponder Stibbons features a lot - and doesn't really belong here. Two or three sentences here could well be the condensed nucleus of four or thousand words somewhere else…
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….
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork, on a Saturday night in October
Johanna Smith-Rhodes paced the living room. Periodically she stopped and looked out of the window. Ponder Stibbons sighed, recognising her restlessness and the underlying anxiety. He got up, moved behind her and put his arms around her.
"I know what you're feeling." he said. "I feel a bit worried too. Who wouldn't be? But she'll be alright, you know. She really will be. Sir Samuel's given her a very good patrol partner. And this is something she has got to do on her own."
Johanna sighed, deeply.
"I know, Ponder." she said. "But I can't help worrying."
"You're her mother. Of course you're going to worry. But when you were a Special and you mustered a couple of times with the Watch every month. I remember you saying how much Visit drove you completely mad with the pamphlets and the religion and his attempts to convert you. I'm sure you irritated him too, when you pulled his arguments to pieces and argued for Science against Religion. But when it came to it, you never wanted a different patrol partner. You trusted each other, and you admitted he's a really good copper."(1)
Johanna nodded.
"And he probably thought the same about you. You knew he'd cover your back and wouldn't let you down. Well, then. Don't you think he'll do exactly the same for Rebecka? More so, because he remembers patrolling with you?"
Johanna relaxed. She also knew Ponder was right. Again she felt thankful he had this way of calming her when she got concerned about things. She conceded that you needed that in a husband.
Claude, a butler who knew exactly the right moment, chose to enter with a tray of hot drinks. He cleared his throat.
"If I may presume, my Lady, Miss Rebecka is probably extremely safe right now and will be exceedingly well guarded." he said, as he served. "As I understand from conversations with my mentor Mr Willikins, when we meet at the Guild of Butlers, pilots for the Pegasus Service are extremely important people and hard to replace. As the Service is nominally a part of the City Watch and overlaps with the Air Police, those rare and special people, people who are hard to replace and whose numbers grow only slowly, those who become Pegasus pilots, must also be trained and qualified Watchmen so as to take their full part in the muster, when required. Therefore, they must perform occasional street patrols. Which exposes them to a certain degree of hazard."
Claude smoothly poured hot chocolate for his employers.
"With double cream, as you prefer it, Professor? I understand Sir Samuel is under constraint, not least from the Patrician, to keep such valuable assets intact. Lord Vetinari has pointed out that each of those seventeen ladies who fly for the City are vital people and to lose any one needlessly on routine Watch service would be grievous. I am also given to understand that Captain Romanoff and Lieutenant Politek are quite capable of getting acerbic with the Commander, in the event of a member of their sisterhood coming to grief. Mr Willikins avers that his employer would prefer to avoid that possibility, if he can."
Claude stepped back.
"My understanding is that Miss Rebecka will have more people than she thinks, discreetly checking on her welfare tonight. As indeed will Miss Sophie. Simple warm milk for you, my Lady? I have taken the liberty of adding a measured quantity of brandy to your bedtime drink. Bitterfontein klipdrift, from the Lensen family distillery."
Johanna got the unspoken hint.
She's safe. You are better off in your bed, my Lady.
A little later she went to bed. She had another duty tonight, one that put her on call for a different sort of emergency work. Johanna selected and laid out a set of professionally appropriate clothing, knowing if a clacks message came in, the duty goblin would rush it straight to her. The smell of goblin in the bedroom could wake her from the deepest sleep. It would do that for anybody. Next to her, Ponder relaxed into sleep. She sighed again. Knowing tonight, a Saturday with all the pubs, bars, nightclubs and related establishments open and packed, would be Bekki's initiation into Watch street patrolling - that had been deeply worrying. Johanna had wanted to get into Assassin black and get some exercise in, edificeering and roof-running, purely coincidentally along the streets which would be her daughter's assigned beat. You know, just in case. Just, well, discreetly keeping an eye out.
Ponder had said "No, Johanna." She had recognised the harmonics. It was the voice her husband used when he had realised, long before she did, that she was having a really bad idea. Ponder could be surprisingly firm when he had to be. Johanna had realised, a long time ago, that when he got insistent like this, it was a good idea to take heed and listen. Because if he considered it important enough to get firm about, he was usually right. There was no getting around that. She thought it was down to years of working with the Faculty and dealing with some of the mad ideas the old men had, of developing an instinct that could spot a stupendously stupid and potentially disastrous notion from miles way. Part of the reason why her husband was now an older Wizard who had survived long enough to become, in a quiet sort of way and without anybody really registering it(2), the second most powerful Wizard at Unseen University. She realised it was a transferable skill Ponder Stibbons now used on her, whenever her own mind took a holiday from reason and emotion took over. And she was hugely thankful for it.
"And how do you think the rest of the Watch are going to view a new recruit, out on her first street patrol, whose mother turns up to hold her hand on a night shift?" Ponder had said, practically. And, damn it, he'd been right. It was a dumb idea. "She's got to do this on her own, Johanna."
Eventually, Johanna Smith-Rhodes slept. Hot chocolate laced with brandy had helped.
The City Watch, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork, the same Saturday night.
Commander Sir Samuel Vimes prowled around the Yard. He liked the bustle of Saturday nights. He'd seen the busiest shift in the Night Watch week at every level on the ladder and in just about every capacity the Watch could offer, ever since his long-ago days as a Watch recruit.(3) Vimes liked Saturday nights. They were, he considered, the essence of what everyday routine Watch work was all about, the bread-and-butter of policing. Although, he considered, he might pass on actually eating such a slice. A metaphor could only do so much work. He also considered a typical Saturday Night Watch shift in the city would be the ideal chuck-them-in-at-the-deep-end blooding for the batch of new recruits, where they discovered what being a Watchman really meant, short on sleep and high on boredom-interspersed-with-moments-of-terror, where they were up against it and could ask themselves afterwards if being a Watchman was really for them. The proving ground. He wasn't unreasonable: every new Watchman had been paired with a very experienced old hand. And tonight he'd see how they did. He thought of the Assassin thing of The Final Run. Vimes wondered if a Saturday night shift in the City was the Watch version, for its new people. Except that unless anyone's really unlucky or stupid or suicidal, nobody's going to be dead by morning…
He stood on a high balcony overlooking the public area of the Yard, and watched the bustle of people. Arrestees coming in to be processed, Watchmen of all genders and species going about their work, Fred Colon at the high desk of Duty Sergeant, and the usual throng of nicked people, of more-or-less innocent citizens in to report crimes, friends and family members of victims and the arrested being anxious, truculent or just getting in the way, a reporter or two from the Times and the Inquirer being bloody nuisances as they sought stories… a typical Saturday, in fact.
He breathed in deep, satisfied and in his way happy. This was pure and unadulterated police work, untainted by Politics or high intrigue. Pure policing. It was his world.
After a while, Captain Olga Romanoff joined him. He accepted his senior officers had this right; usually Vimes was scrupulously left alone in moments like this, while he appreciated the atmosphere of the Watch on a Saturday.
"Thought you were off duty tonight, Olga?" he asked. She shrugged.
"Saturday night." she said. "A busy time. At this moment I have fifteen brooms airborne. Sixteen, including myself."
Vimes nodded.
"Fifteen. That's a lot more than usual. Normally we only have seven or eight on a Saturday? Including reserves at the Air Station?"
Olga shrugged again.
"Practically everybody volunteered for tonight, Commander. I had to insist those rostered for work tomorrow morning stayed away. Including those who will be on Pegasus Service duty for Sunday flights."
Vimes gave her a long considered look. Olga remained inscrutable.
"For some reason practically your entire strength wished to be on duty tonight? I wonder why."
Olga shrugged again.
"The overtime pay is an attraction, certainly."
Vimes reflected on how a distinct Far Überwaldean accent was re-emerging in her voice. Olga had lost a lot of it, having spent so long away from Home. He reflected she'd recently started spending more time there, patching things up with her father.
"A lot of people patrolling around the Docks and the Shades tonight have reported seeing a lot of Air Police in the air there." he remarked. "A lot more than usual. I'm sure that has nothing to do with Probationary Air Policewomen Rawlinson and Smith-Rhodes being on foot patrol in those areas?"
Olga paused slightly before replying.
"The Docks and the Shades are hazardous places for Watchmen." she said. And, because Olga was honest, she added
"Our new fledglings will become Pegasus Service pilots, Commander. That is a consideration. And we in the Air Police keep an eye out for our own."
Vimes understood this.
"Just put the overtime dockets on Inspector Pessimal's desk in the morning, Olga? I'll initial them for processing as usual."
"Thank you, sir."
They went downstairs to the foyer, to assist in crowd control and to be seen. More detainees were being brought in, some resigned, some passive, some truculent, and some resisting. The arresting officers, or those unloading the catch-wagons, were steering them for processing and delivery to cells. Vimes and Olga added their presence to the process, with many of the brighter prisoners realising exactly who was eyeballing them into acceptance of their state.
Vimes was drawn to one man, a huge heavily muscled brute, a typical street-brawler, who at that moment was trembling slightly and manifesting a traumatised thousand-yard stare. Vimes wondered what had happened. Normally Vincent Grobley was six feet six of heavily muscled trouble who took a troll or a golem to subdue him, especially after a night of serious drinking that brought out his truculent side. But right now…
"What's troubling you, Vince?" Vimes asked, affably. He noted the stale smell of much drink taken. A connoisseur of these things, he reckoned it was about nine pints of Freakston's Old Growler.
Vincent Grobley gulped and controlled his breathing.
"I'm givin' you no bother, Mr Vimes. I'm comin' quietly. Honest."
He gulped again.
"It was 'orrible. Mr Vimes. 'Orrible. The way she looked at me out there. And what she said to me. I'll be good, Mr Vimes. Just don't let her near me. Please?"
Vincent Grobley shuddered again. Vimes noted he was handcuffed. He wondered who'd got the cuffs on him.
"She?" he asked, his brain catching up.
Grobley shuddered again and nodded, mutely.
Vimes looked at the escorting officer, who grinned.
"One of the new girls, sir. Probationary Air Constable Rawlinson. Her bust."
He glanced to his right. Yes. Olga Romanoff had a sudden look of deep satisfaction on her face.
"Horrible." Grobley repeated, far away. "She really went to town on me. Shouldn't be allowed."
Vimes stepped up and eyeballed him.
"I hope you are not accusing one of my officers of Watch brutality, Vincent?"
"No, Mr Vimes, sir. Wouldn't ever dream of it! Never ever crossed my mind, sir. Besides, I think she'd kill me."
Vimes grinned. Sophie Rawlinson would do. He'd have to ask her later how she'd managed it…
"Get him to the cells, would you? What the Hells is that?"
As the compliant Grobley was led away, Vimes and Olga turned to the new arrivals, all handcuffed, truculent, drunk and loud. Several Watchmen were hustling them in, including Captain Carrot.
"What's this lot, then, Carrot?"
Captain Carrot straightened his helmet, which had gone askew in the struggle. Vimes eyeballed the four men who were being half-dragged in. Looked like typical sailors of some nationality, just off a ship at the Docks and catching up on drinking time…
"Drunk, disorderly, violent affray, actual and grievous bodily harm." he said. "They're being difficult. We know they can speak good Morporkian but they're refusing to speak it, apart from demanding to see somebody from their Embassy."
"Ek het jou gesê. Ons wil ons konsul sien. Nou!" one of the four said. Vimes recognised the language, but could barely speak it. He turned to Carrot.
"According to Probationary Air Policewoman Smith-Rhodes, sir, they're crew members from the Rimwards Howondalandian warship Marius van der Lubbe. That arrived here this afternoon on a goodwill visit."
Vimes shook his head.
"So they decided to spread the goodwill and foster international co-operation and understanding by getting into a big fight." he said.
Carrot grinned, ruefully.
"The fact the Springboeks narrowly lost the game this afternoon didn't help. And according to Miss Smith-Rhodes, the crew get awfully sensitive about their ship being called The Landlubber. They don't like that at all."
Vimes blinked.
"Carrot. Are you saying these are Rebecka's bust? All of them? Blimey."
He looked across again. This time Olga was grinning broadly. Another of her new Air Witches had passed the test.
"Yes, sir. They were so surprised that a Watchwoman could speak their language back at them that it gave her the upper hand. Miss Smith-Rhodes was apparently very eloquent. And her mother taught her a few useful self-defence skills, which according to Visit came in very handy. And when the rest learnt the arresting officer was called Smith-Rhodes and clocked that she has red hair… well. Four arrests."
"Johanna's daughter." Vimes said, with deep satisfaction. "Is Bekki here? We need somebody who can speak their language at them."
"Ek het jou gesê. Ons wil ons konsul sien. Nou!"
Olga stepped forward. She scowled at them and then smiled slightly.
"I marry Vondalaander man." she said. "My Vondalaans not good. I speak not perfect. I learn. You want consul from Embassy? I get you Consul from Embassy. I happy get you Consul from Embassy."
All Vimes heard was Vondalaans, articulated by somebody whose first language was Far Überwaldean. The combination of the two accents sounded to his ears like a promise and a commitment to grind a broken bottle into their faces, very, very, slowly. It had that sort of overtone to it.
"But na-now you go cell." Olga said. "And justnow I get you Consul. This I promise."
She turned to Vimes, saluted him, and spoke in Morporkian.
"I need to go and send a clacks, sir." she said. "I believe I know who the duty Consul is for tonight at the Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy. Our guests can wait in a cell?"
"Cart them off, Carrot." Vimes directed. "When you're done, Olga, you might want to go out on patrol and catch up with your fledglings? Mention I'd like a word with them both later. Thanks."
The four sailors were led off to a cell. Vimes shook his head. Foreign navy in port after a long voyage. He wondered how many ratings were going to be collected the next morning by a hard-eyed Regulating Chief Petty Officer for naval discipline. Vimes had no objection to this, if he nicked military personnel. Giving them over to their own military police the next morning saved paperwork and ensured they'd get appropriate punishment. Besides, the Naval Attaché at the Embassy was likely to come down on them like the proverbial, too.
He grinned and went back to police duty.
Vaalvaaser, The Free State Of Oranges, Rimwards Howondaland
Several thousand miles away, and in the middle of the afternoon by local time, Mrs Salje duPris looked down, slightly disbelievingly, at what had arrived by parcel post from distant Ankh-Morpork. She picked up the pen and began writing to her son, a pupil at the Assassins' Guild School, frowning slightly as she composed her thoughts.
Dearest Andrijs.
Well, everybody is thriving here and the crop in the field looks likely to be bountiful, Gods permitting. All of us miss you and we are pleased that you are thriving at school. You mention a young girl called Rebecka in your letter but you have told us surprisingly little about her. I would hear more. What sort of a young woman is she and are we likely to meet her? I am interested that she is from good family in the Transvaal and visits there occasionally, and also that her mother is one of your schoolteachers. I understand she thinks well of you and that she has no objection to your spending time with her daughter. Also that she ensures you attend Kerk on Octeday, which is reassuring to hear.
Which leads me to the very surprising thing that happened.
We received, out of the blue, a package containing several boxes of Higgs and Meakins' Milk Chocolate Assorted Platter this afternoon with a courtesy slip from the Company. The managing director, Mr Higgs, said that after consultation with a Doctor Smith-Rhodes from the Guild of Assassins' School, they had been provided with our address. They were given to understand that I have two daughters and a daughter-in-law, and they were honoured to send four boxes of their finest chocolates, gratis, in acknowledgement of a service you indirectly provided for the Company. One for each of us. Enclosed, also, were clippings of several newspaper and magazine advertisements in which a young man in black – who looks a little like you - surmounts a challenging obstacle to deliver chocolates to a young lady. The repeating line in the advertisements is All because the lady loves Higgs' and Meakins' Finest Milk Platter Assorted Selection.
Apparently this is to do with you, Andrjis? Something you did as part of your education? Please explain. The Higgs and Meakins' company has said they will periodically send more chocolates to us. Apparently Doctor Smith-Rhodes, who is Rebecka's mother, suggested this to them as part of some sort of "amicable licencing agreement". Your father, too, is curious to know what exactly you have been up to. He hopes it is legal. I hope it is not likely to get you into trouble.
And you must tell us more about Rebecka. I am interested to know.
Your loving mother, who misses you.
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork, on an early Sunday morning in October
Johanna awoke as the goblin, standing deferentially at the bedside, passed her the clacks flimsy. She read it, and was unsurprised. She was also relieved it wasn't bad news about Bekki. It was the other thing. She thanked the goblin, reassured Ponder, who promptly went back to sleep, and started, unhurriedly, to prepare herself for the other duty.
The goblin gone, with an instruction to clacks for a cab, she freshened herself and dressed, unhurriedly, taking deliberate care over her selected apparel and appearance. It would be bad form and discourteous to the client to look dishevelled and anything less than impeccable.
She noted the light was still on in her daughter Ruth's room and sighed, resignedly. Ruth had obviously had some sort of nocturnal inspiration and would in all probability be sitting there with pen and paper working it out. At least it didn't appear to be a musical one. Ruth had needed to be instructed that piano playing at three in the morning, however thrilling and immediate the idea was, was not a good thing. If she could just put the theme to paper in musical notation and let it play inside her head, please? You can try it out during the day.
A little later, her cab arrived.
Pratoria, Rimwards Howondaland
Pieter van der Graaf poured two glasses of good klipdrift. It was good: a Lensen blend. Mariella always saw to it that her uncle got a bottle or two. It wasn't just a thoughtful niece being kind to a relative; it had indirectly got the Lensen distillery a lot of sales in the political quarter, and a lucrative government contract or two. Pieter always saw to it that discerning visitors were offered Lensen beverages. He made sure, if they expressed appreciation, to give details of which vineyard and distillery produced it. It was a returned favour to Mariella and Horst.
He considered his guest, who wasn't entirely here for political reasons. There was a more direct and personal reason for this consultation. Pieter pushed a glass over to the other man present, who was seated in a relaxed, and rarely for him, a deferential, manner.
"Dankie." said Hans Dreyer.
Pieter nodded. He smiled slightly. The legendary General "Crowbar" Dreyer was in uniform. He had hardly ever been seen in anything else. Pieter wondered if he owned any civilian clothing. The Army was his life and had been for well over two decades, getting on for three, now. But this quiet informal drink on the stoep was only incidentally about political and military business, despite one man being a very senior politician and the other being a very senior Army officer with a reputation for getting unorthodox things done. This was the sort of drink that dealt with other matters, more immediate and personal ones. Dreyer, unusually for him, looked nervous and a little bit submissive.
Pieter van der Graaf smiled again. He had some mixed feelings about this. But, he reflected, his wife Friejda didn't. Friejda had been insistent the two men had this Talk.
"I'm not going to get in the way or insist on anything." Pieter said. "It's between the two of you as to how it plays out. You're both old enough to know your own minds and to be frank, as her father, part of me is pretty much relieved. Her sister did the expected thing a long time ago, and Friejda's got the grandchildren to fuss over. What you do is up to you both."
"So I have your blessing to continue seeing your daughter?" the Crowbar said.
Pieter van der Graaf kept his face totally straight. A lifetime in diplomacy had taught him an essential skill and confronted him with lots of strange situations. One of his country's most lethal weapons was now sitting in front of him, a man in his forties who had hitherto never married, doing something as normal and everyday as being a nervous boyfriend getting the Talk from her father. Pieter caught himself. Thought of marriage was premature.
"Blessing and permission don't come into it." Pieter said, drily. "If I forbade this, Suki would just ignore me and go ahead and do it anyway. There's only so much you can do with a daughter who is unmarried, over thirty and very definitely unconventional. But if you want a frank opinion, I suspect the two of you are ideally suited for each other. She could do worse."
Dreyer relaxed. Suki had said her father would weigh up the pros and cons in his head, as with any diplomatic strategy, and come down in favour. But watch Mother.
"You do need to be aware, and I'd be surprised if you haven't already noticed, that Friejda is overjoyed. She's making a plan for your wedding already, to be frank. And yes, I do realise that's running a long way ahead of where you both are now. That's Friejda. She'll never change. Not only does she see this as a Heaven-sent chance to get her unmarried daughter turned into somebody who is socially respectable and conforming to expectations, she's quite taken with the notion of a General for a son-in-law. Social respectability, you understand. Plus a military wedding in full dress uniforms with a Guard of Honour and a military band and everything."
Pieter grinned again. Hans Dreyer considered this. That he was likely to end up being out-manoevred and outclassed on a different sort of battlefield and steered into a sort of surrender. He was surprised he didn't find the notion repugnant or scary. Sukes is alright. A man could have a lively time with a wife like her.
Stoep-sitting was a national characteristic of their people. Taking one's ease on the porch with a drink in hand and watching the sunset. Dreyer wondered how much political and diplomatic business Pieter van der Graaf successfully concluded this way. And damn it, it was quite pleasant.
"You're well over forty. You never married." Pieter said. It was a question that had implications and demanded an answer. It was, Dreyer thought, a reasonable thing, from the girl's father.
Dreyer shrugged.
"Never found the time." he said, honestly. "Way back, there was somebody. One of the first women officers in the Army. When you fight along somebody, you get to know them. We were just out of officer school, both of us. Her family have connections. Got her into the Slew."
"I may know that family." Pieter said. He already knew the story, or a version of it. He wanted Dreyer's account.
"What can you say? It never got very far. We were both well under twenty. Other things to do. I liked her. A lot. I like to think she quite liked me and would have taken it further if the chance permitted. But she was fire on legs and like a fire, you do not want to put your hand too close."
Pieter nodded, sympathetically.
"Then I encountered her father." Dreyer said. "A very emphatic man. And perceptive. He said, after the usual sort of threats you expect from big men who are protective of their daughters, that he read me as a man with a big choice to make. I could have an Army career. Or I could pursue his daughter. But in his opinion I'd never be able to do both. It had to be one or the other."
Dreyer sighed.
"He was right. I chose the Army. And that chance with Johanna faded. She did a thing that could have got her court-martialled – and I rode with her on that crazy raid into the Zulu country. It made me realise what is possible with well trained motivated people. They posted her from the Slew, and then exiled her a long way away. Never saw her again. I did hear she married a good man, in all probability a hundred times more suited for her than I would ever have been. They have daughters now. From what I hear, one of those girls, when she grows up, would be a perfect fit for the Slew. Not even twelve, and already chopping up Zulus in combat."
Pieter grinned.
"You're over her?"
"I wish her well. And her family." Dreyer replied. "Things turned out for the best, all round. I suspect had we married, one of us would have ended up killing the other. And I'm not entirely sure if I would have been the one walking away alive. After Johanna – well, nobody much. Until I met Suki. You introduced us. For which I am thankful."
"Good." Pieter van der Graaf said.
They sat on the stoep and contemplated the late afternoon and the sinking sun together as Howondaland's sky faded to a deeper blue. There was a long relaxed silence.
"There is another thing. Professional business." Pieter van der Graaf eventually said. Hans Dreyer sat up alert, a General again.
"I have received intelligence reports. From sources I trust. Which are impeccable." said the Foreign Minister of his country
"How may I assist?" asked General "Crowbar" Dreyer. He knew the Bureau of Foreign Affairs controlled a massive intelligence network, second to none, with people all around the Disc. Those reports all ended up on the Foreign Minister's desk.
Pieter van der Graaf looked grave. Dreyer had heard the name van der Graaf came originally from the same roots as gravedigger or sexton. Right now it was appropriate.
"I fear the long uneasy peace on our border with the Zulu Empire is about to end. Let me summate the information."
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork, on an early Sunday morning in October
In her bedroom, Ruth Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons contemplated a mechanism, turning it over in her hands. Several partially dismantled similar mechanisms sat on her worktop. Notes and sketches were to hand. Periodically she added a new note. She had an idea. She wanted to make it work. She heard somebody moving in the corridor outside and braced herself: it sounded like Mummy, who'd probably come in, tell her it was far too late, and try to coax her into going back to bed. But the footfall paused for a moment and then moved on, receding. Ruth relaxed.
It needs some sort of transmission, a linking device which transfers the movement of the smaller mechanism into precise movements of the bigger one. But they have to be in perfect step with each other. And it needs to change in a defined way over time. Not a constant movement. How can I do this?
She puzzled on. It would be a present for Bekki, if she got it right. Bekki needed something like this for her new job…
Lemmy the imp passed her a cogwheel, rolling it down the worktop.
"Thank you." Ruth said, politely. "Jack, could you get inside the case, and tighten up this little cog by two half turns? You're really good at this. Thank you."
And a girl genius and her tiny helpers carried on with a delicate job.
The City Watch, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork, the same Saturday night.
Olga Romanoff was allowed into the cell underneath the Yard. The four detainees sat up straight and eyeballed her. Olga scowled back.
"Consul from Embassy, you wanted." she said, in her fractured Vondalaans. "I pleased to find for you. I very pleased. Here is Consul."
The woman who walked in was dressed in impeccable Black. Guild of Assassins black. She wore, over this, the orange, white and blue diplomatic sash. The four sailors saw a woman in her forties, still attractive, with red hair. She took them in and nodded at them. She had the air of a woman dragged out of bed to perform an avoidable chore and who was correspondingly tetchy about it.
"Hoe op jou ore en luister." she said, in a Transvaal accent. "Hulle nom my Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Ek is konsul."
It began to dawn on the brightest and least drunk sailor who they'd got. And that she had a marked family resemblance to the Watchwoman who had somehow arrested them. This was not comforting. Not at all.
"Horosho." said the strange foreign woman, the Captain who spoke bad Vondalaans. "Kiff." Olga beckoned in a Watchman who would now record witness statements as Johanna extracted them. Then she leant on the wall to enjoy the show.
Pearl Dock, Ankh-Morpork.
"Ahoy, the ship!" Constable Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamhplets-Concerning-The-Truth-Of-Om called, standing at the bottom of the gangway. The naval guard at the top of the gangway looked attentively down at him. They carried crossbows, but were not pointing them.
"Your cue, miss." Visit said.
Probationary Air Policewoman Smith-Rhodes stood next to him. Bekki felt horribly exposed on the quiet dark wharf, lit only with occasional flickering sconces. Visit had said this would be the quietest part of their patrol beat, miss. Most of the ships only have a token crew on board, and the longshoremen are all in the pubs getting riotous and being Somebody Else's Problem. All you'll get down here are night watchmen, beggars finding somewhere to sleep and if we're unlucky, the odd robbery in progress. And most that is going to be official Thieves' Guild stuff, so we just need to check their Guild licences and move on. Quietest place in the City this time of night.
Bekki had sensed broomsticks in the night and thought she recognised several of the pilots. That had been reassuring. One had found them and landed, and Olga Romanoff herself had passed over some written instructions.
"You did well, devyushka." Olga had said, then taken flight again.
And right now, Bekki was calling up to the sailors, speaking Vondalaans, explaining who they were and asking to speak to the Duty Officer.
Which had led them to the wardroom and a welcome mug of coffee.
Bekki had explained to the duty Lieutenant that several members of the ship's company had been arrested for public order offences and drunken-ness, were in the cells at Pseudopolis Yard, and she was here to hand over a list of names and assure the ship that its crew members were being fairly treated. and had been given the opportunity to speak to a Consul.
"The Embassy sent somebody out." Bekki said. She vaguely recalled Mum helped out here now and again. A Consul didn't need to be a paid diplomat; a locally based citizen in good standing, who could mediate the expectations of host nation and a vistor who was in trouble, was usually sufficient. Mum was on a Consular rota, along with lots of other locally based Howondalandians, and turned out for expenses and maybe a small fee. Bekki thought it would be really ironic if it had turned out to be Mum, dragged out of bed at midnight. "It was perhaps thought sufficient to have a Consul and not disturb the Naval Attaché, Captain Blaankersman. I've met him, and I believe he would not have been sympathetic to sailors who get into avoidable trouble."
The young Lieutenant, probably not long out of the Naval Academy at Simonstown, winced slightly. He'd probably heard his country's local Naval presence in Ankh-Morpork had a reputation as a martinet who would not be sympathetic to errant ratings. Or to their immediate commanding officers aboard a visiting ship here on a diplomatic goodwill gesture.
"Thank you." he said. He looked at Bekki. "You look a bit young to be doing this job, Miss Smith-Rhodes." He had logged the visit and the incident and said he would make arrangements for a Petty Officer to go out and collect them in the morning, but he was happy for them to stew for tonight. Partly as a courtesy to visit The discusion was in morporkian; Bekki assessed him as a Poorkie, a Morporkian-speaking Howondalandian.
"Think of her as a police cadet." Visit had said. Then he had asked what arrangements were made aboard ship to any sailor of the Omnian faith. He, Visit, had some pamphlets here in Vondalaans, which he had intended to offer to Miss Smith-Rhodes at an appropriate time...
The officer kindly accepted them and said he'd add them to the ship's library. Any distraction when you're off-watch on a long voyage would be welcome, and improving literature of all sorts was gratefully accepted. (4) Then they left, Bekki having diplomatically fended off an invitation to a reception aboard ship.
The rest of the night passed without great incident, and Bekki realised she'd now passed out a Watchman. Commander Vimes had said as much at the debriefing.
On her way out, seeking a warm bed, Bekki was met by Irena Politek. Her Godsmother looked her over.
"Looks like you're a Watchwoman now, devyuschka." Irena said, pleasantly. "Well, this is where your training really begins. This is where you learn how to be a Pegasus Service pilot. Follow me, dev… zhar-ptitsa."
Bekki really wanted to say "Can it wait till after I've had some sleep?" Then realised in this context, Godsmother Irena was her superior officer, and it might not go down too well. She allowed herself to be escorted away, up towards the Air Station. Where she remembered she still had to feed, water, and groom Boetjie. However dog-tired she was.
The Assassins' Guild School, Ankh-Morpork, Monday morning.
Famke Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons had returned to School as a second-year pupil. New year, new dorm. And a new Housemistress. Famke had attended Miss Lansbury's wedding because, well, you had to, and a wedding was always a bit sweet, even if Toby Stitched was an utter drip. Well, she's ancient. She probably got past the point where she could afford to be choosy. The newlyweds had moved into a house at Turnmangle Lane, which was just round the corner from Spa Lane and therefore too close for comfort. Famke wasn't wholly content with the idea that so many of her teachers, all friends of Mum, now lived in the same few streets.
Mrs Stitched-Lansbury had returned to the School just as Art Mistress. Raven House was under new management. Famke smiled. Dumb people like Sandra Venturi had considered that if their housemistress was deaf, she'd also be stupid, and therefore that they could get away with anything if the supervisory teacher in charge couldn't actually hear it, like a normal person would.
A rash of detentions and disciplinaries had followed. Miss Glynnie had a knack for being anywhere, usually where you'd least expect her to be. The new Housemistress, people considered, could make four senses do the work of five. Famke knew that wasn't the case. Well, not completely. Miss Glynnie seemed to inhabit a sort of world that was full of vibration, movement in the ground, in water, and crucially in the air. This was as good as another sense to her. Famke was watching carefully and making observations to try to see how it was done and if there was anything there she could learn to do. Famke was good at noticing things. After all, the same vibrations are around me too, all the time. I just don't notice them, because I can hear.
She had said as much to her teacher at the end of a music lesson. Miss Glynnie had smiled and given Famke a long appreciative look.
"I knew you were an exceptional pupil, Famke." she had said, in her carefully reassembled voice that never sounded quite natural. "There are teachers here who believe you might benefit from more advanced training, of the sort not usually given to second year pupils. Miss Band, for one. I will speak to your mother, but I believe she would not object if you were to attend an evening lecture I deliver to students on the Black. This is, of course, conditional on your not neglecting your other studies, and will be extra work for you."
Miss Glynnie had also advised Famke not to forget that from exceptional people, much, much, more is demanded, not least in areas like good behaviour and good conduct. She, Miss Glynnie, would be monitoring this. Constantly.
"From the exceptional, exceptional things are demanded."
Famke had accepted this. This was a teacher she liked and respected. Even if a dumb cowbag like Sandra Venturi had taken to calling her The Witch, because, well, she wears her Black as if it was an old witch's tatty dress, and she looks like one, all she needs is a pointy hat and a broomstick.
"My sister's a witch." Famke had said, meaningfully, feeling a need to defend Bekki. Then Miss Glynnie had appeared from nowhere to arbitrate the ensuing dispute.
Famke wondered why she'd taken Sandra's disparaging comments about Witches in general to be a slur on her sister. She paused, remembering that tricky time in Lancre earlier in the summer. Quite a few Witches had looked at her and said "Oh yes. The younger sister" and similar things, in much the same tone of voice in which Watchmen might refer to Norris, the Eyeball-Eating Maniac of Quirm, as "Oh yes. Him. The serial killer." Famke had realised she was being monitored, and had taken care to behave.
Bekki had casually lobbed a fireball at her. Famke had been too surprised to react, but had realised, wreathed in what looked like orange flame, that this wasn't burny or anything, it was, in fact, interestingly cool and pleasant, just a light show. Bekki had said later
"Do you think I'd ever throw a real fireball at you? Ever? That was cold flame. Just light. Dad showed me the spell. He knew what it was straight away, did you notice?"
And the other witch, the one from Far Überwald who made somebody as exotically different as Olga Romanoff look by comparison as if she'd been brought up in Dimwell, the one who looked like a long slender black-haired reed in the long black coat who'd done that really cool dance with the swords, she'd hugged Bekki later and given her a Witch name in Far Überwaldean. Olga and Irena and the others who knew what it meant had applauded and said it really fitted her. Apparently it meant Fire-Bird, or something. Ruthie had wanted to do some art around the theme.
And now Famke was in a large lecture room with students on the Black. She felt excited. This was the sort of thing she'd come to this school for. The real deal. And she realised, looking around her, that training on the Black didn't necessarily segregate pupils by year-group. There were pupils of all ages from fifteen to nineteen: she stood out, being only twelve. There was even a scattering of incredibly old people, the oldest of whom seemed to be around fifty. Famke frowned: she remembered her mother and Miss Band and Auntie Emmie had arrived late. Mum had said she'd been only nineteen, the youngest person in her Mature Students' year, and the oldest had been well into her forties. Mum had begun as an Assassin at an age when most people had left school, a late starter. Famke studied them with curiosity, wondering who they'd killed to arrive here. Mum had been reluctant to talk about it, saying only "there was a war on." Then she asked the really important question. Anyone could kill or murder. How had they killed people, in whatever stylish and innovative or inventive ways, for the Guild to take notice of them and to persuade the City to put them on extended probation and not hang them for common murder? Auntie Emmie had said the Guild was highly selective concerning who it made The Offer to, as it had in her time, and indeed that of your mother, ma très chère mignonne.
And then, Miss Glynnie arrived to take the class. She walked up to the presenting podium, thanked people for attending, and introduced herself.
"I was born without the ability to hear, as most people can. My early education was haphazard, in the way of such training as is thought suitable for the handicapped. I was taught to read and write and the basic skills. I also learnt to speak, after a fashion, by observing the motion of people's mouths and tongues as they articulated words, and seeking to replicate their speech, in a very trial-and-error sort of way, living as I do in a completely silent world. When I learnt an additional skill, speech became easier. But this is part of my teaching, which I will share with you."
Apparently, Lord Vetinari had sent in inspectors to Report on the Assassins' Guild School and to make recommendations for improvement. One observation was that the School did not reach out sufficiently to the needs of physically handicapped children and should take a quota, to educate them alongside able-bodied people. The Guild had protested that the profession of Assassin rather called for a person completely sound in body. If a trained Assassin later lost a limb, or became blind, that was regrettable, but we would of course look after our own in those circumstances. However, to begin with people who are physically deficient, in a highly physical environment, is something for which we do not, alas, have adequate facilities or resources…
Lord Vetinari had listened to the arguments, and had said "From next term you will, of course, be taking several differently abled people as students. To guide you, here are some case studies. Read them at your leisure."
Ethylene Glynnie had arrived, a student in Lady T'Malia's Scorpion House. And had flourished, her teachers respecting commitment and determination to succeed. A blind colleague, Miss Glynnie said, used his perceived disability to advantage too. "He is, for instance, not troubled by movement in dark places at night, as to him, all places are dark. I have the same relationship with sound."
An eventful few years in a higher musical conservatory and a position as Principal Percussionist in a major orchestra had followed. As a travelling orchestra moves from city to city in a nomadic sort of way, she had also been able to fit in one or two Guild contracts under cover of her career, and had been invited back to teach.
Then she proceeded to the heart of her lecture. Famke found this exciting and absorbing. Miss Glynnie lectured and taught Non-Verbal Communication. It was her Black skill. She had noted even as a student that the various signalling and finger-code systems taught by the Guild for use in situations where making speech was not advisable were, from her point of view, crude and basic. She had begun refining and elaborating on them even as a student Assassin, and her teachers had taken note that this was indeed something a deaf Assassin could bring to the Guild. Over the years, Miss Glynnie had revolutionised NVC, and had, indeed, not only rewritten the manuals but extended the shelf the manuals stood on.
"And this is your introduction, ladies and gentlemen, to non-verbal communication." she said.
Famke listened and learnt, enthralled. (5)
The Street Of The Accountants And Book-Keepers, Ankh-Morpork
Shauna O'Hennigan had left school. She had a new job, a first job. in fact, to settle into. Bekki's mum had fixed it for her. She was working for Bekki's mum, in fact. It had all come out of a conversation they'd had when she was a guest at the Smith-Rhodes'. Doctor Johanna had asked if Shauna had given any thought to what she'd do after leaving school. Shauna, who had been dreading conversations like this, had said something about not being sure, but that she thought she might get a production line job somewhere, or something, at one of the factories.
Bekki's mum had looked kindly at her. And had then said
"Oh, you can do better than that. Why not come and work for me?"
Johanna had then explained. A lot of her colleagues had investments in businesses and enterprises that paid a steady dividend. As indeed did she, Johanna Smith-Rhodes. She understood that her colleagues lacked the time or leisure or inclination to manage their own financial and business affairs. She understood that: her own life was a busy one. So she'd had the idea of setting up a management office that administrated these things for quite a few people, including herself. Just to see that everything runs smoothly, our businesses are being monitored, people are paid their shares at the right times, and somebody keeps track of the banking, the bookwork, dealing with suppliers and sales, and so on. You're bright, you have some spark in you, you're honest, I happen to quite like you, and every so often I will need a personal assistant in my own work, at the School and the Zoo and elsewhere. So do you want to give it a go, let's say on a starting pay of sixteen dollars a month?
Shauna had accepted, and found she quite liked it. And four fecking dollars a week. She was sixteen: this beat two dollars in a factory, if she was lucky.
She now found herself in the offices of the Management Holdings company, an upstairs suite on the Street of Accountants, staffed in the main by former Assassin students who had left without Talking Black, and had gone on to study in things like Accountancy and Law, learning about what was needed to defend the business interests of those Assassins who had invested in businesses either owned by, created by, or who worked in partnership, with Johanna Smith-Rhodes. The businesses that had developed some of the ideas and insights Johanna had had over the years. Other Assassins with investment portfolios - and now some Wizards - paid consultancy fees for this office to manage their affairs. It was another thriving concern and did well.
Shauna looked at some of the things on the wall, either samples of the goods being traded, or framed pictures of more delicate and perishable items. These ranged from the baked dessert called a cheesecake, to the agricultural device used to enhance stock quality levels(6). There was a cut-out square of the wire fencing devised by Dwarfs, something Johanna had seen the potential of long before anybody else. Johanna had made sure to get sole rights for overseas sales. Occassional overseas travel, Shauna's employer had said. All expenses paid. Apparently there was a manufacturing plant in Howondaland, in Johanna's home town, and this stuff sold by the mile, in a country which had very big farms. And a new item on the wall was a strange-looking guitar with only four strings. It wasn't Johanna who had the rights on that: but this office looked after the intellectual property rights residing in her daughter Ruth, who'd come up with the Bass Guitar. They also looked after literary rights; two Assassin schoolgirls had once come up with an idea that had sparked off a popular series of books for children. This office also brokered their author contracts and saw to it that fair and accurate payments were received from the publishers.(7) Other authors were managed here, too.
It was fascinating. And Shauna was going to learn all about it, from the bottom up. And get paid twice as much as she thought she could earn, for learning about it. All in all, she considered herself lucky.
The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork
"Focus. Concentrate. This is essential." Irena Politek said.
Bekki sighed. At least with basic Watch training over, she could live at home again, in her own bed in her own room at night. Barracks had felt like an exile. But this was difficult.
"The Disc moves." Irena had said. "The Turtle moves. The Disc moves on the shoulders of the four world elephants. Three connected things, each moving in its own way at three different speeds. And our sun moves around all three."
She indicated the large world-map on the office wall. The principal routes of the Pegasus Service were outlined in tape of various colours.
"What does this mean for us? Well, at the moment it is nine-thirty in the morning in Ankh-Morpork."
She indicated the large clock on the wall.
"But Ankh-Morpork is here."
She indicated it on the map, with the long pointer.
"Here is Astrakhan, on the river Vulga. Several thousand miles away. Here is HungHung City in Agatea. This is New Scrote, in Howondaland. Three of many places we visit on our assigned runs. Do you think it is still nine-thirty in the morning in any of these places?"
Irena had stressed the importance of, for instance, if we undertake to deliver despatches to the Archmage of Krull by ten in the morning by local Krullian time, it is bloody important to be there at ten. The Krullians can get touchy about these things. Therefore you need to know what time – by local Ankh-Morporkian time – to leave here after collecting the despatches and attending a briefing at the Palace. And it is very advisable to be on time for Lord Vetinari, also.
"Take it from me, it plays Hell with your body clock." Irena had said. "This you will learn, and you will learn it well."
Bekki looked at Sophie. Sophie looked back. Then they gritted their teeth and started learning about things like Precession, the Great Year, the Common Year, axial rotation of the turtle, and speed of rotation of the Disc, and how to calculate the current time at any given point on the Disc on any given day. Apparently this was not fixed and varied with the time of the Great Year.
Bekki felt her head swimming. Working for the Pegasus Service was not, in some fundamental respects, going to be straightforward at all. Especially if she was going to be commuting in, two or three days a week, from Rimwards Howondaland.(8)
The City of the Igonyamazi, the Zulu Empire.
Ruth N'Kweze had returned from a few days of being alongside her father, learning the practical aspects of everyday management of an Empire. Being at the heart of things in the Royal Kraal had also exposed her to the political intrigue and machinations that went on all the time. Her head ached. She wondered how the hell people like Vetinari managed it. After spending time with Nipho - that was important, whatever the Hells else was happening - she had called together her closest advisors for an indaba. Some of the intelligence coming out of the Royal Kraal, the sea of rumour, disinformation, counter-information and occassionally reliable intelligence - was deeply disquieting. It concerned her brother Sinbothwe, the only one of her siblings who, at this late stage in the game, could make any sort of credible bid to wrest the power from her on the soon-expected death of their father.
Sissi N'Kima had looked seriously grave.
"We have intelligence assets in his impis, Ruth." she said. "We can rely on them for useful information, if he is set on doing this stupid thing."
Ruth nodded. Unfortuately her half-brother was too powerful, and too well guarded. If he dissappeared or met with a tragic accident, questions would be asked and fingers pointed at likely suspects. And he'd backed down soon enough after his one overt threat to her and had very carefully been seen making obesiance and pledging loyalty to the Heir and to the half-sister who would rule the Empire in his name. She had no reason to go against him, or at present, none that could be made to stick. He was very carefully providing none. taking him on could provoke the very civil war she'd been working to avoid, as their half-brothers and half-sisters lined up behind the sibling of their choice. But the whispers were loud and disturbing.
"My father's condition will get worse over the next few months." Ruth said. "It is likely he will spend more time away from the public arena as he weakens and eventually dies. Which could take months. More of my time will be taken up by ruling in his name and dealing with all the million and one things it needs to make this whole country work. We have a weakening King and an inexperienced Princess-Regent dealing with matters of state. Meanwhile, his strongest son, who is sore and whose pride has been affronted in that the Paramount Throne is passing to a mere sister, is waiting for high summer, when the border rivers are drier and flowing so shallow that impis can ford them. If my information is right, he wants his impis of the Usothogwe to raid into White Howondaland. He has been known to get a bit aerated that there have been no border raids on the old enemy for at least nine years. His hope is that after a few succesful raids, more men will flock to him in search of either plunder, or a chance to slap the whites where it hurts."
"Which weakens your position on the Throne." Chakki N'golante said. "And if the whites respond as they always have done - to send punitive forces into our country in retaliation - he can then counter them and claim to be the legitimate Paramount King, while a weak woman sits on the Throne and does nothing."
"Exactly." Ruth said. "So how do we stop him?"
Ruth wondered how to raise the tricky part, that she'd already got the information out to Pieter van der Graaf through intermediaries, assuring him that she would seek to stop any attack, and that this was not ordered by her, and that she would do everything in her power to prevent it. She read van der Graaf as one of the sanest people in the country next door who also had an interest in preventing all-out war. They'd known each other in Ankh-Morpork, anyway, for long enough. it wasn't as if she was dealing with a total stranger. She'd also written to Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who must have had the letter by now. Between us, we can stop this happening. Princess Ruth N'Kweze hoped so. Fervently.
Another thread to pick up in Book Two...
(1) Johanna and Visit patrol together as Watchmen in my tale Hear Them ChatterOn The Tide. A tale of oysters, a religious Cult and the all-importance of the colour blue.
(2) apart from Mustrum Ridcully, who, when he saw what was happening, had decided to get Ponder Stibbons batting on his team.
(3) The Air Police had come along late in Watch history; but Vimes had been on a few unofficial ride-alongs with the Air Witches, to get a taste of what they did. He was deeply appreciative of his air arm.
(4) He was too diplomatic to say any source of paper when you've been at sea for six weeks is usually gratefully seized upon. You know, soft-ish paper stored immediately to hand for when you need it. For those contemplative moments.
(5) written for the reviewer of an earlier tale - rga156, thank you - who asked how and what sorts of finger-code and signalling are used by the Guild and how it all works. This is at least a beginning of sketching out the logic and how it all came about – how Assassins can convey complex and abstract ideas without speaking or writing them down. it will draw on sources as diverse as American Sign Language, how this differs from signing systems used elsewhere, Benedictine monks and nunly orders who still need to communicate despite a vow of silence, Helen Keller, military hand-signals, and other sources.
(6) "Oh, that's the thing they call the Smith-Rhodes Cow-F..."
"We prefer to call it the Artificial Insemination Device, Shauna." Johanna had replied, hurriedly.
(7) It's a short in The Discworld Tarot. After co-authoring the first couple of books, Mariella had dropped out of the series: but her co-author and artist had continued the series even after graduation and was now a Name in illustrated books for children.
(8) Working out the logic of time-zones on a flat world - especially when taking turtle and elephants into account - and how this would work out in practice for the Pegasus Service. Brain explosion time.
Notes Dump:
The idea of "nose-art" on each Pegasus, inspired by American Air Force bombers of WW2. Not on the Pegasi themselves but on the outside of the forward cargo paniers carried by the flying horses – the outer face of large flat satchels. Each witch gets to design her own. It will have become a Pegasus Service tradition by this time, in fact.
An Acerian witch in the PS might have "Zemphis Al" – a cheesecake portrait of an idealised underdressed man. With wings. Which, when pressed, she will reluctantly admit is her idealisation of what her Pegasus stallion might look like if he were a human male. A dig at the "Ponyverse" here and fanfics speculating on humanised cute ponies and what Fluttershy and the rest might look like if human…
Bekki would commission her sister Ruth to paint her own signature art. She uses the nickname the Cossack witch Xenia Galina gave her after seeing her act at the Witch Trials and keeps the title in Rus, with perhaps a Vondalaans translation…
Afrikaans takes on the idea of "The Fire Bird"
Die Vuurvoël
Die Vuuradelaar – fire-eagle
Russian: жар-птица, zhar-ptitsa – the firebird. Stravinsky reference. Listen to the piece to get ideas. Жар-птица