12 The Hanged Man

A man hangs upside-down from a gallows, but secured by one ankle. He is in no apparent pain or discomfort and appears resigned to his fate. In some decks he is playing a flute as if in defiance of his degraded state and the sentence upon him. One or both pockets may be inverted and their contents, usually depicted as cash or jewels, are falling out, to be lost.

If you count the Fool, this is the thirteenth card of the Major Arcana. (If you discount the un-numbered Fool and count from the Magician, card thirteen is Death, so thirteen gets you both ways.)

Esoterically, think of Christ on the Cross, or Odin tied to the World Tree, where after nine days and nights, in exchange for an eye he was granted wisdom.

His card is a period of necessary restriction of any or all kinds. A short illness, maybe; a prison sentence; more money going out than is coming in; loss of job or liberty; a period of slowdown or complete halt, where bad things are happening and you have to put up with them because there is no alternative. But a period of seeming stagnation might result in an insight, a gleam of new wisdom, that lights up the way…

Moist von Lipwig mooched aimlessly around among the tents and stalls of the Sheepsbridge Sheep Fair. Once upon a time he would have relished the atmosphere on a day like this. He would have taken his time, watching and sorting out the various stalls and challenges into the two categories of "straight" and "bent", the amateurs setting up for the day to raise honest money for, say, the Shepherds' Benevolent Fund, set against the professional bunco-artists who flocked to a midway like this just to make themselves rich. Moist would then have arranged a series of educative experiences for the bunco-artists, partly to show them a few tricks and mainly to keep his own hand in, in a way he would not feel guilty about afterwards. They were fellow professionals, after all: there to con the yokels, they couldn't complain if a master conman shook them down in their turn.

But he sighed. That young witch in the green dress and absurdly overlarge boots had clocked him straight away, and was discreetly following him with a "don't you dare think of scamming my people!" expression in her eyes. She seemed respected by her people, despite her age, and the old saying "never offend a witch!" burst urgently back to mind.

And always keep Adora on side, too….

He was there, officially, to advise the local post office on handling ingoing and outgoing mail – the people out there in the sticks had hitherto had a bit of a casual attitude towards the mail, as they saw so little of it. There was also the vexing question of the clacks – the locals had a real opposition to digging up their beloved Chalk to make any permanent structures of any sort of all, as their gently rolling hills, the foothills of the Ramtops, were held to be inviolable in perpetuity to anyone bringing in spades and building materials. Yet somehow, the Clacks needed to be routed over these hills out to the Turnwise coast. Moist sighed. He just knew the young witch would be there in any negotiations with local worthies, such as the Baron, who by all accounts was all for a clacks connection. And what had they said about her in the pub last night: She's Granny Aching's grandchild, alright. And the Baron knows it. Should have seen the way Granny dealt with the old baron! Ah, the old stories find a new way of tellin' themselves…

He sighed. Vetinari wants the clacks coming out here. That young witch evidently doesn't. And her grandmother was by all accounts a Force round here. That respect's settling on the new girl. Whichever way it goes, I'm in trouble.

Hung if you do, hung if you don't…

He paused to admire some sheep in a pen, and got into talk with the shepherd.

Life was so much simpler when you were Alfred Spangler…

..and then you got hung. And suddenly, life was not yours any more. In fact, a life had ended with the execution of Albert. His freedom had evaporated. He was now tied to the Post Office, the Royal Bank, and the city by subtle chains forged by Vetinari. The proceeds of his previous life had melted away, drained out of his pockets, by the need to physically rebuild the Post Office and the imposed tithe to those churches. So there was no nest-egg there to rely on if he were to break away, although a new one was growing, painfully slowly, from the….aaaargh! salary he was on. And even that would go, on the deposit on a house, if he and Adora… a mortgage. Another chain. And then children? Adora had hinted that there was a history of twins in her family.(1) Two more little ropes to tie him to the new gallows, yes.

He sighed. And Adora was here, acting on reports of a trapped golem underneath an old burial mound. Apparently that had foundered because the other inhabitants of the mound had protested. He wasn't sure of the details, but apparently the Feegle – little blue men? - had found it impossible to damage or unsettle her working golems in any way, whereas she and the golems – well, the golems, anyway - had agreed it would be morally unjust to destroy their home. So negotiations were carrying on about how to remove the big stony eejit frae underneath oor mound wi'out collapsin' it, ye ken, mistress? If he's kin tae they big clay yins o'yours, you are welcome to him and no mistake there!"

No, Adora had run into a brick wall of her own there. At least he hadn't been asked – yet – to arbitrate…

And then he saw it. Inspiration blossomed. He went for a chat to the site holder.

"Oh, they're wheeled shepherds' huts, m'lord!" he said, with the slightly greasy intensity of used vehicle salesmen everywhere.

They're lightweight – well, fairly lightweight, anyway – so the travelling shepherd can pull it with him by means of the yoke, there, so as to follow the sheep. Well, you can't have permanent buildings up there on the wold, sir. It's said the moment you break the turf with a spade, the prosperity of the wold starts to leak out and the grass fails to feed the sheep… Granny Aching was dead agin' it, and so is young Tiffany…"

Moist's fertile brain started to turn over the possibilities.

It needs a larger platform… perhaps larger wheels with wider rims, so as not to break the turf, that's taboo around here… maybe keep the shepherd's shelter as goodwill thing, but up on the hills, you might get away with the smallest clacks tower above… maybe mule drawn? The clacksmen will have to sleep in a tent, but it's peaceful round here…

Moist grinned. He placed a companionable hand on the tradesman's shoulder.

"You make these? Exquisite workmanship! I might have a custom order for you…"

Always use local craftsmen where possible. Give people a stake in what they come to see as their Clacks…

The next job would be to get Feegle and Golems working together on liberating a stranded golem. But Moist's brain was now ticking over possibilities here too…

(1) A hidden joke. Readers of Harry Harrison's space-romps about The Stainless Steel Rat will have spotted a certain curious resemblance. Harrison's lead character, "Slippery Jim" diGriz, who in a future which has largely eliminated crime, has a ball as an intergalactic conman, grifting and bunco-ing his way between planets. DiGriz is eventually brought to book by the Machiavellian policeman Inskipp, head of the Galactic Special Corps, who at first proposes to wipe Jim's brain free of all criminal impulses. However, Inskipp offers diGriz an Angel, in the form of his becoming a Corps agent… his first assignment is to track down, arrest, and bring in the lethal criminal Angelina, a woman with serious anger-management issues. He does this so well they end up married to each other. Spotted the resemblance to two Pratchett characters yet? "Slippery Jim" and the somewhat spiky Angelina go on to have twin sons, who become equally proficient at theft, larceny,grifting, con-manning and bunco.