Rincewind among the Redskins 10
Sorry. More political stuff, I hope tinged with humour. Get through this and you then have a large dollop of Rincewind as a reward.
In faraway Pratoria, President Jan Blots received the Klatchian ambassador and his party with the usual diplomatic protestations of friendship and peace. Behind him, Charles Smith-Rhodes, his foreign minister, and first among the family that until the Civil War had effectively ruled the colony, stood waiting, to watch, listen and advise. Blots implicitly trusted him, as their friendship extended back over thirty years. It also acknowledged that the healing of the Staadt had to incorporate the Morporkian half of the country that had not only tolerated, but welcomed, being subject to their Motherland for so long. They had to be reassured of their honoured place in the new Republik, so offering high office to Smith-Rhodes had been a given thing. Besides, Charles had married a Boor girl, and Jan suspected that the family would, over the years and generations, become more Boor than Morporkian.
With independence from Ankh-Morpork assured, both men now knew they were dealing with another powerful enemy, and one that was nearest to hand. It was, in fact, standing across he desk, in the form of the turbaned and hawk-nosed Prince Abdul-el-Arrack, backed by a pair of Embassy factotums.
"I must say, Mijnheer Staaadtspresident, that this courtesy your country has so generously extended to us has made it possible for our Embassy to perform its assigned tasks here." the Prince said, without a trace or irony or sarcasm. "Had you not declared us to be, ah, honorary whites, then I'm sure your so-efficient City Watch would have treated us with all the courtesy due to your coloured citizens, caught in the wrong part of the city without the appropriate pass!" (1)
Blots and Smith-Rhodes both caught the implicit threat, and allowed their faces to go very, very, poker. The sort of racist thugs the Watch employed were only too ready to dispense a beating to a cheeky kaffir who dared to stray into a whites-only part of the city, such as the government zone, without an exemption pass proving them to be a servant, cleaner, or other menial. The thought of a proud foreign Ambassador being worked over by Kommondant van Heerden's hired muscle was unthinkable – hence the diplomatic fudging declaring the brown-skinned Klatchians to be thought of as heavily suntanned whites.
"Indeed, your Excellency" said Charles. "but to move swiftly along to business. I'm concerned that your Government's message to us constitutes a diplomatic ultimatum. Would you care to shed some light on the matter?"
The Prince laughed. His underlings dutifully joined in.
"An ultimatum? Hardly, gentlemen. For an ultimatum is the last diplomatic stage before actual war, and would not be seemly from a long-established and powerful nation such as Klatch, to a far smaller and newly-established near-neighbour such as yourselves. In some circles, it might even be thought of as bullying, and besides, a declaration of war is so final, don't you think? It does rather tend to close the door to any subsequent peaceful negotiation. Which according to historical precedent, tends only to happen after one party or the other is nearly completely beaten, with subsequent regrettable loss of life, ruined economy, the risk of spoiled crops and subsequent famine, etcetera."
The Prince paused again and smiled benevolently.
"But I'm sure, as rational men of goodwill, we can sort out the pressing issue here in this office, do you not think? Now as you know, your nation recently secured independence from Ankh-Morpork following a short, but painful, war. Ankh-Morpork has her troubles elsewhere in the world, currently in Hergen and Llamedos. Their army will not return here, neither for reconquest nor as an ally to you, as they were during your Zulu War. Their horizons have shrunk, as has their Empire.
"You recently sent an Army into Central Howondaland, hubwards and widdershins of your accepted national border. We understand its purpose was to sound out and explore the land with a view to annexation into your Union. You have also set down permanent roots in the area, in the form of Fort Smith- Rhodes on the coast, well north of your current internationally accepted border. A singular honour to your family, I believe, Mr Smith-Rhodes. As they are ever at the forefront of colonization, exploration, and knowledge-gathering about this huge continent, in which my country is a major Power.
"However, my Government views your expansion with great concern. Particularly with a view to the welfare and continuing independence of the indigenous tribal peoples of the area, whom I believe are harrying your armed expedition with great vigour, not to mention vim.
"It is therefore pertinent for me to tell you that my Government respects the rights to freedom of the red-skinned tribal peoples.
My Government also recognises the value of an, ah, quarantine zone, or perhaps a demilitarized area, serving to separate the Klatchian Empire from the Union of Rimwards Howondaland. I'm sure your government, once it has had time to reflect, will also see the immense value of our two sovereign states having no direct land border over which, inevitably and sadly, border incidents may flare up. Therefore we propose that you completely withdraw your expedition from Central Howondaland. And on the way out, you dismantle and abandon Fort Smith-Rhodes."
The ambassador nodded at Charles.
"No offence meant, Charles!" he said.
"None taken, Abdullah".
The Ambassador's party made to leave.
"I'm sure you can reflect on our reasonable proposition" he said, smiling. And you can give me a reply by, let us say, three o'clock tomorrow? And I forget. . As a courtesy to you, Mr President, these are the details of some rather large training manoeuvres our Army is carrying out in Rimwards Klatch at this very moment. Just so you are not alarmed unduly by reports of a large army amassing within a month's march of your Hubwise borders, you understand, on an axis of approach that will attract friends and allies from Zululand to join us."
The ambassador handed over a slim file.
"We will return to the Embassy, gentlemen. Good day to you!"
Without waiting for dismissal, the Klatchian party left.
Jan and Charles exchanged appalled looks.
"There's only one thing we can do," Charles said, flatly.
"I egree" said Jan. "I'll prepere a recall signel to Kriminel end his army. From the first despetches we've been receiving, it's clear he's in difficulties. But I went to keep Fort Smith-Rhodes. Perheps the Kletchiens might eccept a compromise – if we declare it a Free City open to ell, so es to trade peacefully with the Indiens in the hinterland."
Charles nodded agreement.
"Jan" he said, thoughtfully. "The Ambassador went to the Assassins' School in Ankh-Morpork, didn't he?"
Jan Blots nodded.
"We should be planning to send some of our people there. The diplomatic and political training they get is amazing!"
Jan Blots sighed. "Enkh-Morpork is, quite understendably, not speaking to us right now. A good idea, Charles, but I really don't think it'll be possible for quite a few years yet."
Charles Smith-Rhodes nodded. Maybe his great-grandson might become the first Assassin in the family…(2)
Then they bent to the wording of the recall signal to the Army.
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Rincewind shifted comfortably in his new bonds. Inside the back of a wagon and under guard, nobody was trying to harass, interrogate, hurt, damage or actively kill him. He thought this was a small price to pay for being tied up. At least they'd tied his hands in front, so that he could eat more-or-less unimpeded.
He thought back on the events of the past couple of days. After the God Coyote had dumped him in among the Seventh Cavalry, wearing, as he was, incriminating Indian warpaint and holding an Indian weapon, he had been alternately questioned and menaced by the rugged Howondalandian soldiery. He also felt disappointed that none of the Indians had attempted to rescue him, ungrateful bastards, he'd have come back for him if he's been them, and above all, he missed his Luggage, which contained the thaumic transmitter that was his only link to his correct place - Ankh-Morpork – and his current time, which he knew to be at least a hundred years after this particular today.
Given the typical efficiency of Wizards, they'd bring back the Luggage, miss him, and he'd have to rejoin them the long way round, always assuming he lived to be around 140.
Goodbye Drum, goodbye a quiet life as Assistant Librarian, goodbye the new and pleasant popular acclaim from the students, and goodbye free beer, for telling his traveller's tales in the relative safety of the Drum's back bar…
Lost in a gloomy thought, he jumped nervously when the flap of the wagon was flung aside, and Trooper Els' harsh voice was heard, inviting him to a pleasant chat with the Generals. He stumbled forward, and rough hands dragged him onto the turf.
The same rough hands dragged him forward to a larger tent than most, outside which sat a group of officers in richer and more ornate uniforms, still based on the clashing blue-and-yellow principle. He was flung on the ground in front of them.
"Here's the bloody traitor, sir!" a voice announced.
"Cut his bonds, then!" the voice of Authority ordered. Rincewind found his hands and feet freed, and was dragged upright to face his inquisitors. He regarded each, in turn. Lieutenant Gibson, the keen young officer who had effectively captured Rincewind, the Indians inexplicitly giving up their attack shortly after losing him. Captain Bentine and Major Reno, the two more senior officers in front of whom Gibson had paraded him.
Rincewind regarded a senior officer, wearing a bit of gold braiding on his uniform, with General's stars at his throat. He looked disconcertingly intelligent and had the air of a man who was good at his job. Rincewind nodded, then: tell only the truth. You don't lie to men like this. They tend to find out, and they have ways of making your subsequent life miserable.
And the fifth, wearing colonel's rank, but an awful lot more gold braid and glitter than the General. Long foppish blonde hair going to grey. A horsey face. An affected cavalry moustache, impeccably waxed. Highish cheekbones, and icy, milky, blue eyes. He reminded Rincewind of…
"Lord Rust?" he managed to get out, before a fist hit him in the kidneys and a harsh voice bid him "Silence when you speak to an officer!"
The glittering officer made a languid motion.
"Let the fellow rise!" he said, in a cultured, educated voice, Morporkian tinged with a little Howondaland.
"And do not beat him again until you are so ordered, Trooper Els. Thenk you."
Rincewind looked upon his unlikely saviour, who smiled at him, without warmth, and said "You are quite right, fellow. I am a relative of the Rusts of Ankh-Morpork. I find it gratifying that you spotted it so quickly!"
Rincewind noted that the other officers, even the General, made "tchh!" faces and rolled their eyes, as if they'd heard this a thousand times before. He bore it in mind for future reference. Then the real general spoke. His accent was much harsher Howondaland, typical of those for whom Morporkian wasn't their first language.
"I'll be honest with you." he grated. "I've got enough on my plete, whet with commending this expedition. Keeping my lines of supply open. The dey-by-dey ettrition of men lost in combet. Knowing I heven't got helf the men I need to make this demn thing work. End now, you. A white man caught running with the Indiens. If I were you, I'd try herd to convince this impatient end engry Boor generel thet he should not hev you henged, es a traitor end a potential extra headache!"
Rincewind nodded, and went into the same story he'd told Gibson, Bentine and Reno. As everything he said was complete truth, it wasn't too difficult for him to maintain a honest and woebegone expression.
"So a magical accident at the University threw you across the Discworld. You reappeared in the middle of an encampment of hostile Indians with no reason to trust or like the white man. Indeed, you were tied to a stake for nearly two days while they debated whether or not to sacrifice you by the usual means of slow agonizing torture. Eventually, they let you go, so long as you swore loyalty to them. This was tested by making you ride out in a war band against, as it turned out, Lieutenant Gibson's patrol. You utilised this as an excuse to change sides and throw yourself on our mercy, as a good white man should."
Rincewind nodded, emphatically. The foppish colonel said "That sounds reasonable enough, General Kriminel. The poor man was held prisoner, You can still see the rope burns on his wrists, look! Any white man held in such durance vile would seek to escape and rejoin his own!"
Kriminel nodded. "Thet mey be es so, Colonel Rjuister. But. "You sey you ere a wizard. Prove it!"
To Rincewind's horror, a couple of the troopers gleefully lined up a series of empty cans and bottles on the side-rail of a cart.
"Now show me some wizardcraft!"
Rincewind looked round, horrified. He saw… a group of the half-starved prairie dogs, sniffing with canine optimism around the cookhouse lines. One, with intelligent yellow eyes, turned its head towards him.
"Go ahead, Rinso. Wave your arm around a bit! Give it some Latatian! Do magic!" said Coyote, in a voice only he heard.
"you bastard!" muttered Rincewind, but levelled his arm, finger pointing, at the first of the bottles. It exploded, The second one zinged off vertically into space, leaving a fireball trail behind it.
The troopers watched, nudged each other and began to applaud.
Rincewind had the sense to keep pointing, and reciting little tags of street Latatian, as the bottles and cans variously exploded, launched into space, or turned into birds that took advantage of the chance to break for freedom. He recognised Coyote working through him, and this in itself made him angrier.
The General raised a white-gloved hand.
"Ok, thet convinces me. You are a wizard. But why did you not use your ebilities to break out of captivity sooner?"
Rincewind had an answer ready.
"As a prisoner, sir, I was introduced to a very powerful Indian witch….doctor. Whose powers are, if anything, a lot stronger than mine. " This was safe enough: he'd recognised real magical ability in Anana Ogg. "This person used their powers to nullify mine and take my ability away." And I bet she's still got the Luggage!
"So they hev a powerful megic-user amongst them?" Kriminel said, sharply.
"Only the one, so far as I could tell." This was also truth: Rincewind, a man used to winging it and bluffing, had recognised a kindred spirit in Dancing Weasel, the only other witch-doctor he'd been introduced to on the Indian side.
Major Reno asked a perceptive question.
"You were a prisoner of the Indians. Were you able at any time to estimate the size of the encampment and the number of hostiles there?"
Rincewind paused. He had a shrewd feeling he now had to be careful with his words, as what he said now could influence the course of the coming battle. And based on what he'd seen, his personal preference was on the Indians.
"It was big" he said, with truth. "Went on for miles down the side of the river." He remembered Chief Bull's personal estimate of how many warriors he could throw into battle. He also remembered that for every fighting warrior, there were likely to be up to four non-combatants.
"In fact, I'd say up to seventy or eighty thousand Indians." Rincewind reflected. "Which doesn't mean they're all fighters, of course. Say about a quarter of them are male and of fighting age. That's twenty thousand, tops?"
Rincewind was then questioned in finer detail as to weapons, horse availability, leadership, and so forth.
Finally, he was asked:-
"There's another white man we're keen to talk to. A Claus Dibbler. By all accounts he runs weapons and firewater to the redskins. Ratty little fellow, so tall, wears buckskins and a battered beaver cap. Seen him?"
Rincewind, who quite liked and sympathised with the Dibblers wherever he met them, then told his one and only outright lie.
"Good enough" said the Major. And a single interrogative. "Sir?"
"Keep him under open errest. For now. No bonds or fetters. Put him on better retions. That will be all, Mr Rincewind. I will esk to speak to you egain, however."
Rincewind was led, but not manhandled, back to his wheeled cell. He leant back and inhaled. He heard a snuffling and a scratching, and looked down to see a rat. With intelligent yellow eyes.
"You bastard!" he said, accusingly.
The rat became Coyote.
"It's all working out a treat, Rinso!" the God said, happily. "Let me tell you what those stuffed shirts are debating now. They think you're such a complete yellow-streaked coward that you've seen ten Indians where there's only really one…."
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"The man's a complete yellow-bellied coward!" objected Rjuister. "Sees ten Indians where there's only one!"
"I'm forced to egree with you, Reynaud. (3)" Kriminel said. "The fellow does not seem to be a reliable witness et ell. A frightened man exeggeretes the number of enemies he sees."
"At most, there can be no more than two or three thousand Indians capable of fighting. And they will be hindered by their wives and children and old people."
Rjuister's head jerked up.
"Sir, please grant me the honour of engaging the enemy in battle!"
"Reynaud, you cen perform a reconnaissance down the river Big Horn. Send petrols in to see whet they cen. But, end do not misunderstand me, the moment they encounter significant enemy force, they return to the main body of the Army, to tell me whet they see!"
"A reconnaissance in force, sir?"
"A recconnaisence in breadth, Reynaud. I went intelligence reports returning to me from a wide front."
Rjuister grinned, having got what he wanted.
______________________________-----
"That glory-hunting maniac Rjuister's going to attack all on his own, Rinso. He'll leave the infantry way behind so that only his cavalry can get the glory. But you know what goes with glory. Famously, in fact!"
"Yes. Met him a hundred times."
Rincewind cocked an ear to the regimental band as it struck up a jaunty, jolly, Hergenian tune, full of flounces and trills. He didn't need to recognise "Barely Owin' " or to have magical ability to recognise one fairly fundamental fact about the tune. As a fully paid-up coward and Death-dodger, Rincewind had a little-known eighth sense that told him when other people were riding into doom and catastrophe. He could hear it now, in the music that was being played. If any military march was a harbinger of death, ill-luck and catastrophe, it was this one, hidden in Hergenian optimism and defiance against all the odds.
"This is it, then" he said to Coyote. "Somebody's really going to die this time. They 're even playing the soundtrack."(4)
"You said it, Rinso"
"Glad it won't be me!" Rincewind said, rolling over and trying to go to sleep.
Coyote grinned a very private grin, and disappeared.
_______________________________----
Rincewind was awoken at five the next morning by Lieutenant Gibson and an escort of troopers. He recognised the sadistic Els among them.
"Good night's sleep?" Gibson inquired, affably. "The Colonel wants you. We're riding off soon."
"We?" said Rincewind, his skin prickling, his legs re-setting to "run!" Gibson made a gesture.
Two more troopers loomed up to either side and caught his arms. He gave in.
Gibson smiled, humourlessly.
"The Colonel and the General both believe you're an untrustworthy witness and you've exaggerated the number of Indians out there" he said, companiably. "For myself, even though I'm a humble lieutenant, I choose to believe that you're a very skilled coward whose cowardice makes him very good at counting numbers and estimating the odds. Which explains why he's lived so long."
Rincewind groaned. He was up against something many men feared: an intelligent and able Army officer. This had rarity value. He just wished the rarity had happened to somebody else, who might actually appreciate it.
"Now tell me again how many Indians are out there."
"Between fifteen and twenty thousand effectives capable of combat." Rincewind said, promptly.
Gibson nodded. "Thought so" he said. "And Rjuister's about to lead us into the middle of them, because he believes there's no more than two thousand."
Gibson lapsed into gloomy silence, and led his small troop to the presence of Rjuister, who was marshalling the Cavalry into battle order.
"Have you located those damn Indian scouts yet?" he demanded, petulantly.
"No, sir. The damn Scalbie all appear to have disappeared. Can't think why!" Gibson said, in an unsurprised voice.
"Well, we've found the enemy. We don't need them now!" Rjuister proclaimed. He turned his attention to Rincewind.
"We are going to do this thing quickly and resolutely"!" he shouted. "We will ride down that valley, destroy those wretched savages, and ride out again. We will gain the glory, gentlemen!"
The cavalrymen cheered. Hats flew into the air. Rjuister nodded, and turned to Rincewind.
"You gave us the information we needed. Our grateful country will thank you. But as proof of your good faith, you will be riding with us, as part of my command group. If nothing else, your presence will neutralise this native magic-user of whom you spoke. Set a Wizard to catch a Wizard, I say! And now – we ride!"
Rincewind groaned. Back into the Valley of Death, then. Again.
(1) Really true. In the days of the old apartheid South Africa, diplomatic staff from nations not blessed with God's gift of white skin were routinely reclassified as "honorary whites", to enable them to do their jobs properly and to save them from the tender attentions of the South African Police Force, a group capable of provoking serious international incidents in its tireless defence of a White South Africa. You couldn't make this sort of stuff up....
(2) He would have been pleasantly surprised to discover it was, in fact, his great-grand-daughter who became the family's first licenced Assassin. See my stories "The Graduation Class" and "Nature Studies".
(3) Reynaud - the English variant of this name is of course "Ronald".
(4) As mentioned before, the Roundworld military march Garryowen was not a lucky one to march to war behind. For the British Light Brigade at Balaclava, this was the last piece of music many of them ever heard. It was taken up by the United States Army's Seventh Cavalry. General Custer had his pipes and drums play it on the morning of Greasy Grass. Rincewind's ability is to pick up these subtle resonances on the Multiversal frequency, and correctly concluding that any Army, anywhere in the infinite Multiverse, to play this piece on the eve of combat is scoring a mighty own goal.