Small medium, large headache c2
Elm Street was unnaturally quiet. The citizenry, awaiting in patient expectation of street theatre, were not being entirely disappointed: muffled, but hysterical, female screaming was coming out of number 667. Carrot used his complement of Watchmen to keep the crowds well behind the barriers, while they craned their necks expectantly and cheerfully speculated on the reasons for the screaming. Carrot, Angua and Cheery Littlebottom had adopted a command position as prudently near to the door of no 667 as they could get, where Mrs Cake had joined them with the unseen but clearly heard presence of One-Man-Bucket.
"It's startin'.'" she said, emphatically. "And it's going to get worse."
"You're telling me, mrs Cake. They've got hostages in there. I've got a pretty good idea why them women are screaming!"
Carrot frowned. Again he considered a frontal attack. But this was magic. Where were they? Ah. A loud harrumphing noise was getting closer, accompanied by a collection of modulated whinges and mutterings. And an…
"Ook ook ook!"
The Librarian, wearing his Special Constabulary badge around his neck, saluted in a flaccid elongated sort of way, and insistently offered Carrot a book.
"What have you brought me? Oh, I say. Myths, Legends And Folklore Of The Howondalandian Indians, by Birdwhistle. And bookmarked…"
Carrot let the book fall open on Apache Legends, and nodded. He knew the Librarian: there'd be a good reason for that. But first he had to brief Ridcully and the faculty, who were crowding round, staffs clenced in right hands in an unmistakeable we-are-going-to-kick-some- righteous-tentacle manner.
"Code Twenty-Three, you say, Carrot?" Arch-chancellor Ridcully asked, nodding in the direction of the incoherent screaming.
"Something's broken in from Outside, sir. There are up to six hostages in that house, as far as we can tell. Whatever's in there doesn't seem at home to negociation."
"Whatever it is, sir, it's going off the scale!" Ponder Stibbons exclaimed, looking up from his instruments. "The thaumometers are going crazy! I've never seen force so strong before!"
Ridcully glanced down at the madly swinging needle that was well into the DANGER! Area.
"Happily for you, lad, I have!" he said, contentedly. He looked down in the direction of the meaningful cough from somewhere around his navel.
"You people goin' to ignore me like you did last time? Wouldn't surprise me." said Mrs Cake.
Ridcully grinned, weakly.
"And look what happened when we did! Incidentally, afternoon, Mr Shoe! Getting' like old times round here all of a sudden! DEAN, STOP WAVIN' YOUR BLOODY STAFF AROUND LIKE THAT, SOMEBODY COULD GET HURT!"
"Well, I vote we go in with all staffs blazing! There are women in danger in there!" the Dean said, eyes gleaming at the prospect of some serious magical smiting.
"Yes, Dean. There are. And I don't want them to be in any more danger, you follow? I want to know what we're up against before I deploy. Just cover the damn' place, men. Safety catches ON, for now!"
Mrs Cake coughed again. Ridcully considered.
"Perhaps you and that Red Indian chappie of yours could fill me in while we're waitin'? I'd be obliged. You're the woman on the spot, after all."
Mollified, Mrs Cake, with the assistance of One-Man-Bucket, summed up what was known for the wizards. Ridcully nodded.
"So some damn Indian witch-doctor and a couple of his pals have come back from the dead, for whatever reason, they've worked up a huge magical potential to back up whatever they plan to do, and we've got to stop 'em?"
He rubbed his hands together and grinned.
"Gentlemen! There's evidently something strange in the neighbourhood and we have been called to deal with it!"
"It's very weird, sir. And from the readings, it doesn't look good at all" Stibbons said, cautiously.
"I'm not afraid of any damn ghosts!" the Dean pouted.
"Let's just wait and see what comes through that door, you men!" Ridcully said, briskly. He paused, and looked uncharacteristically puzzled for a moment. "You know, you men, just for a moment there..." Then he shook his head and got back to business.
"Right, you fellows! We know these are ghosts. Therefore they are undead. Therefore we use magic sparingly and with caution. Captain Carrot, if that book can tell you what kills Red Indian undead, I'll be delighted to hear it! For now, we break out the usual nonsense that works on our undead, silver, garlic, pointed stakes, lemons, poppyseeds, as chances are something's bound to work. If it comes to a magical duel with a bloody witch-doctor, I'll take first go, and nobody else fire, d'you hear? I do not want rogue spells interactin' with each other and flyin' all over the shop, as his lordship can get quite sarcastic about that sort of thing blastin' big lumps out of his City!"
"It's only a native witch-doctor, Mustrum" the Dean sulked. "No match at all for civilized magic!"
"Only, Dean? Only? Native magic might not be sophisticated, but it's bloody strong! In the Zulu War, we sent a contingent of wizards out with the expeditionary force. They made the mistake of underestimatin' Zulu witch-finders on their own turf! And they're still damn' strong today!" (1)
Ridcully nodded, and fanned the wizards out into an open semi-circle, staffs at the ready, facing the front of number 667. Face pale but resolute, Ponder Stibbons pocketed the thaumometer, lifted the staff he'd hardly ever carried since graduation, feeling the unfamiliar weight in his hands and the sensation of a potent weapon fully charged with magic, and went to join them. Ridcully blocked him.
"What d'you think you're doin', lad?"
"Well, sir, taking my place…"
Ridcully shook his head.
"Not you, lad. This is potentially very dangerous. This is a sort of wizardin' you're not trained for, d'you hear? Look, I know what you do down the H.E.M. is pretty bloody dangerous in its way, and I wouldn't have a bloody clue where to start. You're in the same position here. This is the sort of old-school wizardin' we all trained in, we all know the risks, and we're all old...well, mature fellows. Here, you're just raw meat. And you have a future. Look, go and join Captain Carrot. Be, I don't know, liaison with the Watch, or somethin'. And if by this time tomorrow the Dean or the Wrangler are Archchancellor, rein 'em in, you understand?"
Ponder's eyes opened wide. He looked around. Was that a suspicion of black shroud and scythe over there…
"Oh, He's here for someone, lad. Just don't know who, yet. And this sort of magic is dangerous. There's no guarantee it's the bad lad He'll be wrappin' up when the dust settles. But we knew the risk when we picked up our first copy of Woddeley's!"
Ridcully steeled himself. "Me will's lodged with Slant. I've mentioned you, lad. But what are you waitin' for, get over there and work with young Carrot!"
Ponder saluted, and walked off. There was nothing to say, really.
"We've done all we can." Carrot said, decisively. "Now we should leave it to the skilled professionals, and move out of the firing line."
The Watch officers, Mrs Cake and Ponder walked down the street to the barricades. Carrot lifted the book to his eyes again. He was able to read for a few minutes, his eyes revealing an understanding of exactly why the Librarian had chosen this book.
And then the world exploded.
(1) The Kwa'Zulu Embassy used native magic to exchange diplomatic messages with the homeland. Vetinari had made it clear that the wizards had a patriotic duty to the City to use counter-magic to intercept and decipher such diplomatic communications. For some time an undeclared cold war had been going on between Unseen University and those foreign embassies whose magicians, witch-doctors, shamen, babiushkas and jujumen were part of the Embassy contingent. Wizards such as Pincher Chapman and Peter Wainwright (2) were enthusiastic magical spies for the City and relished this sort of surveillance work.
(2) OK then: on Roundworld, Chapman Pincher is a former spy, a writer and commentator on British Intelligence and the Cold War as fought between contending sets of spies of all nationalities. It is suspected that MI5 and MI6 deliberately use him as a PR agent and feed him advantageous material to (deniably) put in the public domain. Peter Wright is or was a completely loopy ex-spy of a paranoid bent, who, angry at being forcibly retired on a far smaller pension than he expected, wrote a candid account of life in the paranoid world of diplomatic espionage, revealing far more about British Intelligence than British Intelligence was comfortable with. His accounts of bugging and breaking into foreign embassies in London , whilst preventing Russia and America from doing the same to us, was published everywhere in the world but in Britain, and presents a picture of MI6 as a deeply paranoid right-wing reactionary organisation, to whom anyone to the political Left of Margaret Thatcher was a potential, if not an actual, traitor and comsymp. I'm sure on the Disc they would make a fine pair of loopy right-wing counter-intelligence wizards...
