Another minor rewrite, tidy, and brush-up.
Joan was becoming quietly and discreetly rich. The private account at the Royal Bank was showing a healthy turnover, and in her legitimate job, she could now afford to employ teaching assistants at both the cookery college and the elocution and deportment school.
But she was not immune to nervous attacks when, for instance, Commander Vimes of the Watch passed in the street and gave her a respectful salutation accompanied by a hard appraising eye.
He knows, she thought. What has he found out about me? And Perhaps I should give up the other things. I don't need to do them any more.
The Assassins' Guild had also invited her in-house: rather than disrupt the school day by sending boys off-site to her classes, Dr Cruces had suggested it might be beneficial if she worked from inside the school for two days a week. She had agreed, but with a nugget of inner doubt, a thought of this is also a good way for the Guild to keep me under observation. What do they know about my other life?
She made the best of it, carefully assimilating what the previous teacher using the classroom had written on the board concerning use and application of poison, or suitable weapons to deploy according to circumstance, and discreetly collecting any disregarded hand-outs that teacher might have issued on the theme of inhumation. Knowledge was knowledge, after all.
With her elocution pupils, getting them to speak at length , so she could assess the degree of change needed in their accents, became a matter of encouraging them to talk about their schoolday, about particularly cool poisons used by Mr Mericet, or fiendish traps devised by Mr Di Nivor. Joan, who had a retentive memory, stored up this second-hand theoretical education for possible practical use later. It was also to contribute to her downfall.
She took evening classes at her cookery school. Sometimes, a woman pupil stayed behind for a discreet chat. Joan had learned to be cautious and discriminating: if a woman wanted an otherwise good and blameless husband removed because he was an impediment to a new life with her lover, or she was merely bored with him, or if she only wished to inherit, she was politely but firmly shown to the door.
When "Mrs. Ping" joined the class, and afterwards artlessly asked how her husband could die early so she could benefit from a widow's pension, Joan had discovered the "husband" was Lance-Constable Ping of the Watch. Besides, a seemingly artless question to Fred Colon had revealed to her that Ping was single. So the "wife" had to be a Watchwoman, a set-up to gather crucial evidence. Mrs. Ping was politely shown the door too. But this worried Joan: the mere fact Vimes and Carrot knew enough to plant an agent provocateur in her class.
I must stop, thought Joan. But killing worthless husbands, drunks, wife-batterers, child abusers, had got into her blood. She was addicted to killing, sanitizing, cleaning-up, to making the world a tidier and safer place for women. I wish I could stop!
Her downfall occurred with speed and without overt drama.
She had been guiding O'Hennigan Minor through his speech exercises, designed to enable him to suppress his grating Hergenian accent, and to speak in a manner befitting an Ankh-Morporkian gentleman.
"Again, James!"
"The deep sea bloatfish has the most poisonous swim bladder known to man. Its spines drip poison capable of causing every cell in the body to swell to a hundred times their normal size. An assassin skilled in extracting the venom may, with care and attention, harvest enough to tip a thousand thin darts…."
"No James, not "a t'ousand t'in tarts"! Do concentrate, say it with me, a thousand thin darts! The soft "th", James. Remember?"
"Ah, Miss Sanderson-Reeves. An interesting choice of subject matter." The dry, sardonic, voice came from just behind her.
"Mr Mericet" she said, without turning. "If they have to repeat by rote, the subject matter may as well be of benefit to their broader education!"
"Indeed." He said. And "If you permit. Mr O'Hennnigan, in your best Morporkian accent, speak to me of spume!"
"Spume, sir, is a fungally derived poison obtained by harvesting the spores of the Herhebian black mushroom. It may be delivered in powder form, or dissolved into a carrier medium such as alcohol. It is said that the best delivery mechanism is via the ear"
"And I what circumstances is delivery via the ear contra-indicated?"
O'Hennigan was at a loss. Joan couldn't help herself. She heard herself say:
"If the potential inhumee has neglected their aural health and the ear is impacted with wax, the poison may just sit there forever, with no way of penetrating the inner ear to the sensitive brain tissue that lies behind". There was an embarrassed guilty silence. "Or so I've heard" Joan added, hurriedly.
Mericet fixed her with a cold icy glare. "Now where did you find that out, I wonder?" he mused.
Joan stared him out. "You hear the boys. You see things written on the blackboard. You absorb the atmosphere."
Perhaps" the old Assassin shrugged. "But I read, in a recent copy of the Tanty Bugle that I of course acquired by confiscation from one of the boys, of an unauthorized inhumation1 in the City, where the unknown killer saw to it by ingenious means that the inhumee's ears were thoroughly scoured of wax before she inserted the spume. Carried in the warm olive-oil she was using to clean his ears out with."
"Then I'm sure the Watch will find the killer and we can all sleep easier in our beds!" Joan declared, steadily.
"The Bugle is already talking about a serial killer called the "Marriage Guidance Counsellor". A vulgar title, but presumed to be a woman who only targets errant husbands. As you say, I'm sure she will be found soon. By somebody, if not by the Watch."
Mericet nodded goodbye, and stalked out. Joan took a series of calming breaths.
They know! He's only playing with me!
Her most recent sterilization had been a completely disgusting little man who had abused trust to be able to abuse his nieces, under the guise of "babysitting". It had been the children's mother who had hired Joan to deal with her husband's brother. Discovering the target to be a hypochondriac, Joan had posed as a nurse, sent out to syringe excess wax out of his ears. The bluff, brisk, no-nonsense manner that Joan projected in the course of her everyday life was also that which screamed professional nurse at the world, and she had had no problem in being completely accepted in the role. Disguising her disgust – she'd done things like this for her dogs a hundred times – she cleaned the build-up of filth out of his ear passages using warmed olive oil to dissolve it.
The final application of olive oil contained a cargo of deadly spume spores, obtained from the Guild labs. She poured just enough into each ear.
Long after she had gone, he went into agonized convulsions and died. Nobody connected it to the nurse's visit at first, but Watch forensic psychologist Sergeant Littlebottom, forewarned by a series of loosely related mystery deaths across the city, had insisted on checking the body. After hearing a nurse had called to syringe the deceased's ears, Littlebottom focused her attention here. She found spume in a carrying medium of olive oil. She reported back to Commander Vimes.
The hunt was on to find the "nurse". But by now, it wasn't just the Watch who were looking. Summoned to the Palace, Vimes and the CSP detectives on the case were ordered to share their knowledge with other investigators. Time was running out for Joan.
It came to an end for her the day after her indiscretion with Mericet. She had finished classes for the day, and had just picked up her hat and coat to go home. As she left the classroom, a black-clad Assassin fell in on each side of her.
"You have an appointment with the Master" one said to her.
She went quietly.
Joan noticed that Dr Cruces was present, but two others were there. The dark, brooding, presence of Commander Vimes of the Watch stood off to one side, regarding her speculatively. Cruces was stansing on the other side of the man sitting behind the desk, who steepled his fingers and raised a quizzical eyebrow at her.
"Ah, the Marriage Guidance Counsellor, I believe." he said, holding her eyes with a gaze that was neither friendly nor unfriendly – it was just intellectually interested, as if she were a worthwhile puzzle to be solved.
"Dr Cruces, the charges?"
"Miss Sanderson- Reeves. We have good reason to believe that over the last three years, you have committed between eighteen and twenty-four acts of unlicenced inhumation(1)"
"Well, I'm flattered you should think it's twenty-four, but my own count is actually eighteen." she said. I may be a killer, but I do not lie. Nor brag.
Vetinari nodded.
"At my polite request, the investigators from the Assassins' Guild and the detectives from the Cable Street Particulars met at the Palace and, in a spirit of open and gratifying co-operation between the Watch and the Guild, freely shared their respective information."
The scowl that spread across Vimes' face would have cracked the granite pillars. Dr Cruces smiled, weakly.
"This opened up new lines of investigation, all of which pointed directly to you. I'm pleased you aren't wasting our time by denying it." He paused. "Now all that is left is to decide in whose jurisdiction this case should be tried. On the one hand, there is a case for trying you in open city court, which would result almost inevitably in a short stay in the Tanty followed by an opportunity to pronounce any famous last words you may have prepared. And I'm sure, given your trade, that you'll enunciate them beautifully. But as a Guild employee, it could well be argued that you are dealt with in whatever manner the Assassins' Guild deems most appropriate. In which case the outcome might well be the same, only performed in more privacy.
"Commander Vimes and Dr Cruces have agreed that, as you have already effectively pled guilty, and the outcome of a hearing is going to be broadly similar, that you yourself should choose who judges. The City or the Guild? Think carefully."
Joan had no hesitation.
"The Guild." she said, wanting the dignity of a death in private.
Vetinari nodded. "I'm relieved." he said. "I don't know if you follow gossip and small-talk – you have been an extraordinarily busy woman - but the talk in the city is of the killer dubbed the Marriage Guidance Counsellor. It has been noticed that she picked only the most repulsive and the least defensible of specimens, the beaters, he abusers, the child-molesters, for what she termed "sterilization".
"A good word." Cruces said. "It's already gaining popularity in the Guild as a euphemism for "annulment" or "inhumation"."
"Therefore half our city's population – the female half - is all in her favour. Had you elected to be executed in public, I'm quite sure the mob would have rushed the scaffold to rescue you."
Vetinari leant back.
"And now…are you familiar with the concept of angels?"
Joan was taken aback.
"I believe Dr Cruces is about to offer you one."
Joan was taken aback as Cruces outlined the same offer he had made to Alice Band and would make to Johanna and Emmanuelle.
Cruces concluded:- "Will you join us? And I fully expect that in the next year, you will, as a mature entrant, train and learn hard so as to pass the Black Syllabus, which then entitles you to full Assassin status."
He paused, and added: "The alternative is, of course, that the death sentence that was effectively passed in this room today upon you, by properly constituted civil and Guild authority, is carried out at the earliest possible opportunity. As it is, the sentence is not revoked. Merely set aside, on condition that you qualify as an Assassin. You will also, of course, have to carefully and scrupulously refrain from further inhumations until you are fully qualified. That too is a condition of your suspended sentence. While you have freedom to nominate others to look after your business interests in the City, from this moment on you are under house arrest within this Guild and we undertake to look after you. Sir Samuel insisted on this. This condition may be relaxed in the future depending on your good conduct.
"Rooms appropriate to your status have been prepared. You have freedom to go where you will within the public areas of the Guildhouse and will carry on your teaching duties, for which we will continue to pay you. Now sign these papers, if you please, as a written proof of your acceptance?"
"You only ever get one Angel." Vetinari prompted her, as she hesitated slightly. She signed.
"Congratulations, and welcome to the Guild family. Your provisional membership card will find you in due course."
Vimes and Vetinari conferred.
"Does that serve the interests of justice, Sir Samuel?"
"My Watchwomen are all secretly on her side. They'll give her a hearty cheer. But sir. She's not a young woman. There's a reason the Assassins train them in their teens! It's bloody physically strenuous, for one thing! She's way over forty, nearer my age! What's the betting she'll die during training? Wouldn't it have been kinder to hang her at the Tanty two mornings from now?"
"Excuse ME!" Joan said, affronted. "I'm perfectly fit, thank you very much!" A little part of her mind grasped onto Vimes' What's the betting she'll die during training? and leapt from there to "Of course, that's what they want! Vetinari doesn't want the publicity and the Guild doesn't want the embarrassment. This way it looks like they're being merciful, but they're just waiting for the problem I present to quietly sort itself out without any fuss.
Joan said, without rancour, and with immense dignity: "Cast your mind back several years, Dr Cruces, to a different discussion in this room. Where even though I was able to pay a standard Guild rate for an inhumation, you regretfully told me The Guild does not do domestic disputes and Lady T'Malia showed me to the door."
"I remember." Cruces said, with a note of real regret in his voice. "That is why I hold myself at least in part responsible for the situation that developed."
Joan nodded, primly. "And so you should! And Sir Samuel, has it not been long-standing Watch policy and practice that Watchmen do not get involved in domestic disputes? "
Vimes had the good grace to look embarrassed. "That's a hangover from the old Day Watch days when Quirke was in command. It's changing now. I've got Watchwomen who aren't above coming up behind a wife-beater in a dark alley and growl- shouting down his ear, shall we say."
"I'm pleased to hear it. But the Guild stands clear. The Watch is reluctant to get involved. There are still battered wives and abused children. Somebody had to take their part!"
"And may do so again in the future, quite legally, should she qualify as an Assassin." Vetinari remarked. "As I never had this Guild marked down as squeamish or selective on the type of contracts it accepts. Look on it as a whole new area of business for you, Doctor. With a skilled professional near at hand to advise and direct."
Vetinari lifted a hand. He told a story.
Once upon a time, there was a very wise Klatchian mystic named Nasrudin. Nasrudin had an unfortunate habit of speaking his mind with unwise candour and honesty, and during some incident involving this he ran afoul of Abrim, Grand Vizier to the Seriph Creosote, who had him tried and sentenced to death.
"O Seriph! O Grand Vizier!" Nasrudin cried, throwing himself to his knees. "Please, you must spare my life, for I am The Greatest Teacher The World Has Ever Known."
"What is that to me?" replied the haughty Grand Vizier.
"If you spare my life, I can teach your favorite horse to fly."
"That would be wonderful," laughed Abrim. "You have one year."
The next day, a follower managed to visit Nasrudin in the stables where he had been shackled. "Why did you make such an absurd bargain?" the student asked. "Surely, O Wise One, even you cannot teach a horse to fly."
"Well, perhaps not," Nasrudin admitted. "But a year is a long time. I might find a way to escape. Or perhaps the Seriph and the Grand Vizier will die, or be deposed. In a year, he may even learn forgiveness."
Then Nasrudin shrugged and smiled. "And who knows? Maybe the damned horse will learn to fly."
Joan smiled with gratitude, seeing the point. Vetinari nodded back.
A cold, hard, steely core emerged inside her. She had a year. A lot could happen in a year. Nasrudin had been saved when some sort of business had happened with a powerful Wizard, hadn't he? The stories were confused(2), but Abrim had been killed, Creosote had disappeared, and the new Prince had issued amnesty. Well, she would pass their damn test when they weren't expecting her to. In her case, the damned horse WAS going to learn to fly. However old and jaded a mare it was.
Head raised, defiant, calm, she went to start her new life.
(1) Assassin-speak for "murder"
(2) See Sourcery by Tery Pratchett. Memories of the time of the sourcerer are scanty and confused and have the status of fairy-tale and folklore. Between Coin and the History Monks this was the best patching-up of history that was available. The only place hat knew the full story was the University and nobody's in a hurry to tell. Also see my story If The Hat Fits, which revisits these events.