61. HEDDWIG

"Alright Stibbons, you've been at me for days to show me this new toy of yours. Let's have it."

"Archchancellor, I haven't been at you for days. And it's not a toy, it's a highly refined example of applied high-energy magic. And I need your approval to actually use it outside University grounds, or I wouldn't have 'bothered' you about it."

"Stibbons, that almost sounded accusatory."

"Sorry Archchancellor."

"Think nothing of it. Chalk it up to being overworked. Have you ever considered a bit of a holiday? Clear the lungs and the mind? New places, new faces?"

Stibbons stared in horror. "Archchancellor, have you any idea how many critical duties I fulfill on a daily basis at this university?"

"They can't be that critical, or one of the senior staff would be responsible for them, eh?"

Ponder's eyes bulged, and he silently counted to 10 in base 6 before answering. "I don't want a holiday, Archchancellor. What I need is for you to approve the HEDDWIG[1]."

"The what who?"

"High Energy Discharge Detector With Integrated Gauge, Archchancellor."

Ridcully regarded the device before him. "Named that yourself, did you?"

"Yes sir."

The Thing, as Ridcully immediately dubbed it, looked like a cigar box with two colored stones stuck in the lid[2]. In the middle was some sort of metal pin stuck into a wedge, covered with a piece of glass.

"And what exactly does this thing do?"

"It contains a rare isotrope of narrativium, Archchancellor, which reacts with the fundamental magical field of the disc. You see, we have determined that the thaum consists in fact of three more fundamental…" Stibbons droned on for another 20 minutes or so, clearly happy with himself, during which Ridcully reminisced fondly of the rather large meal he had consumed earlier that day. "…and thereby telling us when an event occurs, and by use of the directional nature of the pi-thaumic signature, we can also determine the direction of the event as well!"

Ridcully's eyes unfocused to find the box setting right in front of him on his desk, facing him. "Sorry, Stibbons, you lost me about a half hour back. What was that again?"

Stibbons' soul died a little more, and internally he wept for it. "It tells us when someone like Lady LeJean does one of her 'tricks' as you called them."

"Right. Right. And what does it mean when the needle is halfway to the right and the little red stone is glowing?"

Stibbons hadn't even bothered to explain to Ridcully as he snatched the box from the desk, stared at it goggle-eyed, and ran from the room.

"Hmm... I suppose I did say a bit of exercise would do him good…"

Wizards aren't known for hailing cabs on the street. Typically, they have one of the bledlows obtain transport for them, if they aren't walking. Stibbons didn't even break stride, jumping up on the running board of the first cab he saw. "Bearing 5 degrees widdershins of the hub, and don't spare the horses!" he cried.

"Beggin yer pardon, guv?"

"Hurry! Wizarding emergency!"

"But-"

Somehow, the wizard managed to hook one arm through the rail, switched the box to it, and produced a small staff from his robes. "I have been accused of serving no useful function. I have a staff charged with fireball spells and no patience to speak of. The future of the entire disc is at stake." He narrowed his eyes. "Now the question you need to ask yourself now is… do you feel lucky, driver?"

Stibbons arm was nearly torn off as the coachman set the horses from a dead stop to full gallop.

Eyes on the box, Stibbons saw something very strange, which made him curse[3]. The needle, at first halfway to the far right-hand side of the window, had been slowly moving back toward its center position. That he more or less expected. He could still verify his bearings by moving the HEDDWIG back and forth to ensure he was getting the strongest signal possible.

What surprised him was when, without warning, the needle reversed itself fully for a moment, red stone fading rapidly and blue stone flashing for second, and then both extinguished and the needle snapped completely to center.

"Stop!"

"Wha? Here?"

"Yes!" Stibbons fiddled furiously with the HEDDWIG. Surely it's not broken. It's solid state, except for the needle. And it's clearly still functional.

"Only, we're in the middle of the bridge!"

There was a thumping sound from inside the coach, and a very disheveled couple fell out of the door on the opposite side of it.

"This isn't Cunning Artificers!" The man protested.

Stibbons, goggle-eyed, stared from the couple to the driver. "Oh… you didn't tell me…"

"Dint feel lucky, guv." He'd swear that was a smirk underneath the driver's completely blank face.

Stibbons closed his eyes and shook his head before addressing the passengers. "Sorry folks. Look, stop by the university tomorrow and I'll have your fare reimbursed."

"But we want to go to Cunning Artificers!"

"I'm sorry. Really. University business."

Shaking their heads, the couple wandered across the bridge unsteadily, attempting to hail another coach.

"So what now, guv?"

Ponder sighed, silently willing the needle to move again.

"I have no idea," he muttered, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the coach.

Less than an hour later, a miracle occurred.

His first inkling that something was definitely up was when a red glow, visible even through closed eyelids, made him open them.

"Oy! That box of yours is glowin' again. Is that good?"

"Yes! I mean no! I mean yes!" Stibbons tried to look at the needle, but the red glow was nearly blinding him. "Do you have a rag or something? I have to cover this blasted stone so I can see the needle!"

One very smelly rag was procured and tied around the box over the red stone, and Stibbons could see that the needle was almost completely to the right. Incredible! A few experimental wavings of said box actually pegged it completely over, this time from the general direction of the Shades.

"So what now, guv?"

"Now… we ride!"[4]

Just when Stibbons thought things couldn't become more exciting, the needle, which had been drifting ever so slowly downward, surged to the right yet again, with such force that he feared it would break off.

When they reached Short Street, he actually had to stop the coach for ten minutes and wait for the signal to fade slightly before proceeding, simply because the directional losses were too small.

"We must be getting close," he muttered.

It was only minutes later that he was forced to continue on foot, down a narrow alley, and found what he had sought.

Constable Rabback heard someone screaming loudly, and his blood ran cold. This wasn't the 'someone's just taken my things' type of scream. Nor was it the 'I've just caught my husband with the scullery maid' type of scream. It was the scream of someone who has either been mortally damaged, or has discovered that someone else has.

There was a time, many years ago, when such a scream would have driven a constable the other direction. That time was long past.

Constable Rabback about-faced, checking alley by alley. After the second, he came across a coachman supporting a second man wearing wizard's robes and what looked to be the remains of his own lunch.

"Alley back, officer. Like a slaughterhouse, it is."

Officer Rabback didn't want to have his evening ruined this way, but that was the job.

It was as bad as he feared.

For one thing, the entire alley was icy cold. Cold radiated from the walls and the ground, creating a miniature fog that wove its way out of the alley and dissipated.

One man, clearly dead, had bled from the nose and mouth. His eyes were open, unseeing. His head was cradled in the lap of a woman who might have been beautiful under other circumstances.

Her upper body was flopped back, and she was covered in blood, soaking her dress. There was an obvious knife-cut to the front of it, where her ribcage ended, and blood had crusted over there and spread widely from the wound. More blood had run from the corner of her mouth and down her neck.

Commander Vimes had taught his men well. They knew not to tread on a crime scene, and moreso even the rawest recruit learned how to read blood patterns to determine likely attack directions and position when attacked. From the basics that he had learned, he would wager all of those wounds had happened when she was vertical. There was also a dribble of blood from both nostrils, ears, and the corners of her eyes, but this appeared fresher and likely happened after she was already down.

His eyes bulged when he saw her chest rise slightly, and then fall.

"Bloody hell if she isn't alive!"

"Coachman!" He yelled back down the alley. "Get word out that we need Doctor Lawn here! Five minutes ago! And any watchmen you see!"

"Right you are, officer!" He called back. "Leaving the wizard here!"

"Right… Right."

Constable Rabback didn't see, considering the amount of blood that she had trailed, how the woman could still be alive. She'd left a scraped trail of it from where a third person lay, and there was a huge puddle there that clearly wasn't his. He didn't appear to have any cuts, though there were the telltale bloodstains on his sleeve that hinted he might have been the one doing the cutting.

He wouldn't be repeating that trick any time soon, though, because his hands had swollen to the size and shape of two bundles of sausages.

Cursing under his breath, the constable bent to see if there was anything he could do for the woman before Doctor Lawn arrived.

[1] And a minor tribute to the brave avian who gave his life so that a certain youth could defeat evil yet again.

[2] Which is exactly what the outside was. Stibbons had been forced to empty out his collection of rare Ankhian Mudslider shells in order to house the HEDDWIG in it. He fully intended to expense its replacement too.

[3] Not much of a curse really. Stibbons didn't have the type of mind to come up with really colorful curses that a watchman would applaud in admiration.

[4] Props to any who get that reference.