Nothing to it, really!
Having just been in hospital for a while and having come out feeling weak as a kitten and tired as a sloth. Six out of ten on the life-threatening scale, but dealt with to everybody's satisfaction. I may write about it sometime as the hospital I was sent to (Stepping Hill, Stockport) was and possibly remains centre of an investigation into the mysterious deaths of patients. Apparently one or more rogue nurses was bumping people off. Allegedly. My gut feeling is that it was down to sloppy record-keeping, bad statistics, people covering their arses after nicking controlled drugs, and general bad management. But I'm here and alive and my rogue pneumo and pleurises have settled down.
It's simple. You just need to fill in forms SMP (i) and SMP(ii) and then complete MATB1(b) in triplicate. Getting clothing that fits and doesn't look like Fools' Guild surplus found in a shonky shop. The difficulties of being a young expectant mother in Ankh-Morpork. Especially if somebody's arrived in town who intends to kill you.
long one this time - double-length. Hoping it holds together!
STIBBONS, Emeritus Professor Ponder. (Ponder, or "Harry"). Assumed Vice-Chancellorship of Unseen University in AMCY 2004, the Year of the Pensive Hare in the Century of the Reciprocating Marmoset. b. 16 Ick 1972, Ankh-Morpork. Parents undisclosed, but raised by Miss Perennia Stibbons and Miss Impetua Stibbons (deceased), his paternal aunts. m. Doctor Johanna Famke Smith-Rhodes (AG School and Witwatersrand, R.H.) DiPE (AGS) BSc.(W'w'rand), BScI. (AGS), MA(AGS), DMaP(AGS), PhD(UU). Ed. Unseen University Preparatory School and Middle School, then at UU. Graduated B.F and in 1985 then in 1987. Director of Misapplied Science in the High Energy Magic Building. Consultant Director of the Thaumatalogical Park. Elevated to University Faculty 1991. HEM, , Reader in Non-Volatile Intelligence, Cantoride Speaker in Slood Refurgance, Praelector, Administrator of the Roundworld Project, Coadvocate in HEX Studies, Visiting Lecturer in Quantum Physics (California Institute of Technology{CalTech}, Pasadena, CA), Professor of GBT Engineering, Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic, Reader In Invisible Writings, Custodian of the Cabinet of Curiosities, Master of the Traditions, and Project Co-ordinator. Also de facto University Bursar. Publications: include Rotation of Topological Objects In n-Dimensional Space (UU Press) Address: 18 Spa Lane, Nap Hill, Ankh-Morpork. Nat: Ankh-Morporkian, also Rimwards Howondalandian by marriage.
Sam Vimes sighed, shook his head and put down the thick, wrist-aching volume of Who's Whom. He closed the book with a decisive snap.
"I don't know, Carrot." he said. "You tell people to be careful about putting information out in public. You never know who's going to read it. And then the people at Who's Whom send you a fill-in-the-blanks form for your free inclusion. You feel flattered, don't you? You've made it in your career. This is proof. So you send the lot back, including your home address. Vanity publishing. No wonder we keep an office copy. To some people this reads Who was Burgled by Who. Or whom." (1)
Carrot nodded, soberly. "Not that it matters, sir, if you can give your name and address as Havelock Vetinari, Patrician, The Palace, Upper Broadway." he said. "Or even Sir Samuel Vimes, Watch Commander, Ramkin Manor, Scoone Avenue."
Vimes grunted.
Sybil had insisted he fill the Who's Whom form in fully and accurately, with no silly jokes. He was in there too, under "V".
"I'd love to know where he got the nickname "Harry", though."(2) he said, changing the subject.
"It ties into the strange reference to Caltech, Pasadena, sir." Carrot informed his boss. "Roundworld affairs. Remember that commendation letter you got for Johanna?"
Vimes grunted again.
"Where are we up to with the Great Train Robbers, Carrot? The Times is still griping that we're nowhere near solving that one. And more to the point, the reason for their being here."
"I've got people out checking the new leads, sir, from yesterday. Searching for the missing Thief, Mr Gibbet, in the Shades. Victor's checking out All Jolson's food store. Then I'm thinking we can send him to talk to Mrs Vinhuis at the Embassy. Ambassador van der Graaf has promised us every assistance, and seeing Victor might be less traumatising than her having to see Lieutenant Verkramp in his official capacity."
Vimes grimaced. "If she's fit. I've heard things about BOSS."
"She's white, sir. Had she been a black Embassy employee I doubt she'd be fit for a second interrogation. BOSS tend not to get physical with white people. At least, not on a first interrogation. And Mr van der Graaf doesn't like Verkramp getting physical with anybody. "
Vimes nodded.
"Get people out on foot in the Shades, too. See if they can scare anything up."
Julian Smith-Rhodes had returned early to the Embassy, fending off the knowing grins of the gate guard. He was thankful they didn't know everything about the previous night, and intended to keep it that way. He allowed them the privilege of a joke at his expense, tacitly admitted a lady had been involved, yes, and cordially reminded them that later this morning they'd be parading for the colonel's inspection, so there had better not be any flaws in uniform, weapons-management or personal presentation. He smiled faintly as their grins faded, then took their salute and walked on.
As junior defence attaché, one of Julian's jobs was everyday supervision of the thirty or so enlisted men who made up the Embassy's security detachment. With the Ambassador's explicit approval, Colonel Breytenbach held a weekly spit-and-polish parade to remind them they were not in a completely soft posting a long way away from any potential fighting. It was Julian's job to parade them in an acceptable state, but one he was perfectly happy to delegate to a senior sergeant (Army) and most lately to Chief Petty Officer Saarsen (Navy). With Ankh-Morpork resurgent and building a new fighting Navy with the most modern ships, it had been thought cost-effective to enlarge the military contingent with a Naval Attaché and a small detachment of men. When not observing as guests of the local Navy, the sailors based at the Embassy also did a turn at gate-guard and routine security patrols.
Commander "Sailor" Malan, the Naval Attaché, was also happy to delegate routine military administration to the dogsbody Junior Military Attaché. Knowing he was bottom of the commissioned officer rank structure, Julian got on with it, largely by delegating to CPO Saarsen, a terrifying naval NCO with thirty years' service who viewed the Army contingent as a bunch of maggot Marines. His Army NCO, Sergeant de Kock, was another veteran, an easygoing military policeman with a passion for dog-handling, who'd managed to wangle getting his wife and kids over to Ankh-Morpork and who had been allowed married quarters outside the Embassy, in the form of a rented house in Dimwell. Saarsen, a bachelor who lived in, consequently ran the enlisted mens' barrack-rooms, and Julian found he had to do not much more than was expected of the Captain. It was an arrangement that suited all sides. He told them when he'd be inspecting; they made sure the barracks-bunker was acceptably presentable. He dealt with requests and defaulters. He escorted them to the Butts in small parties for sanctioned weapons-drills. (3) In the manner of junior officers, he learnt names, nicknames, the jokes and routines that were the small currency of military life.
Getting through the Thursday morning parade meant an easier run of it for a few days. Everybody was motivated, if only by the threat of punishment fatigues or loss of privileges. A half-day of intensive bullshit bought the quiet life of a soft posting in a big city.
Julian, reassured, then took a second breakfast at the Ambassador's table with senior staff. This was nothing more than a courtesy slice of toast and a cup of redbush tea; he'd had his main breakfast, a more substantial one, at Johanna's.
"All points covered, Julian?" Mr van der Graaf greeted him affably.
"Yes, sir."
The Ambassador was, he knew, referring to his nocturnal conversation with Ruth N'Kweze. Mr van der Graaf had briefed him on useful things to say and useful areas in which to probe for a response. As well as to take careful note of what Ruth had thought important to tell him. Pieter van der Graaf was a cosmopolitan man. He knew all about the honey trap, where a diplomat far from home could be ensnared by a woman. As the ensnarement in this case appeared mutual, and he'd met Ruth N'Kweze and found her to be a perfectly charming decent young woman, albeit one of them, he saw no reason why both parties shouldn't come out of it smeared with honey. It was a useful, if unorthodox, arrangement.
"I'll take your report later, privately." He said. "Now tell me about last night. We heard du Plessis surfaced on Spa Lane."
Julian related the story of his evening at Johanna's and his interactions with the City Watch. He carefully refrained from asking, publicly, who was responsible for the security breach. Although he noted, with a growing suspicion, that Katerina Vinhuis was looking uncomfortably red. Educated to be a gentleman, he did not press for further details. He knew he'd find out before the day was over.
"I hope Johanna is safe." said Lady Friejda. "She should be under an armed guard. These people will stop at nothing!"
"I imagine both the Watch and the Guild are attending to that detail." Pieter said, smoothly. "And even in her current state, she is not defenceless on her own account. More formidable, I would think, as she also has her child to fight for."
Colonel Breytenbach, the senior Military Attaché, turned restlessly in his seat.
"And Spa Lane is relatively close to here." he said. Breytenbach was a big man, running a little to fat, but strong muscles still rippled under his uniform shirt. He regarded Julian for a moment, his bull neck turning.
"Sir, you too are a target. As is Captain Smith-Rhodes here. You were both in that final battle."
A look of something like envy crossed Breytenbach's face.
"Which is why the guards have been shown the iconographs and urged to maximum vigilance in observing the street and other avenues of approach." Van der Graaf said, smoothly. "They are to report sightings instantly. And outside these gates, the Watch appear to have doubled patrols. I suspect the Guild of Assassins to have operatives nearby. They want these people too."
Julian cleared his throat.
"From what Captain von Überwald said earlier, sir, there is a possibility du Plessis may have murdered a licenced Thief last night. The Guild of Thieves will now also be chasing the killers. And they are many thousands strong."
"So it is possible that with so many agencies chasing them and so many eyes now open and watching, that this situation will be resolved satisfactorily." The Ambassador said, genially. "They cannot hide forever."
"But even so, sir." Breytenbach objected. "Four desperate and ruthless men. Already under a near-certain death sentence with nothing to lose. It is very possible they will seek to cause as much suffering and destruction as possible before dying, as they see it, as free unbeaten men. And their leader was humiliated by a woman. A mere girl, as he would have seen it. Forced to back down and lose face. Sir, you do not need to be told that to men – some men – in our society, that is a disgrace? To some of our men, who are brought up to believe a woman defers, is quiet, knows her place, does not argue with men, does not seek to act like a man?"
Pieter van der Graaf considered the gender politics of a lot of Rimwards Howondalandian society and reflected that in some respects, Johanna would not fit in at all.
As Julian Smith-Rhodes quietly reflected that his mother – and his cousin - must have missed school that day, the Ambassador said
"I agree some unreformed minds would take that as a mortal insult, ja. And there are many so among our men. I accept your point, Wim, and I accept that though irrational, it is a very strong argument. Even so, normal life must continue. I will be seen taking the inspection later this morning. No, Wim. That is an order. Thank you. Julian, attend on me in my office."
The daily cab turned up at Spa Lane. The Guild had ordered it as a security precaution. From the outside it looked like a larger city taxi-cab, drawn by a team of four horses; but closer inspection might have revealed that the horses were bigger and more thoroughbred than the usual semi-jades, with more go in them. The driver and mate were dressed in respectable black, but it was a far more stylish black than the usual cabbie gear. Both they and the third crewman on the rear roof – himself not a usual part of cabbie crews – had an air of purpose about them.
Ponder assisted Johanna over the step. He stood back, reflected, and offered Davinia Bellamy his arm. She got in too. Then the three junior students, Martin, Tim and Peggy. Finally Ponder squeezed into a spare seat. Six people were a tight fit, but Ponder would be first out at the university. Normally only Ponder and Johanna would have travelled in the courtesy cab, but after the three students had become targets by default, they'd been offered a free ride to school. And in all conscience, Johanna wasn't going to leave her friend and neighbour stranded having to make her own way in. It might have been seven people; but Ruth N'Kweze had opted to discreetly leave for the Guild on her own some time before, knowing it was best if she wasn't publicly linked to Julian. He had meticulously waited for a non-incriminating period of time to pass before leaving himself, to travel in the opposite direction towards the Embassy.
The cab's crew were all Assassins, Johanna knew, and the coach itself had built-in surprises to catch any attacker unawares. She smiled, and rested her feet on the large bag full of student exercise books, marked and ready for their owners, that was travelling with her. This beat walking to work…
"Okay." Sam Vimes said, looking down over the wall onto the discarded body of Titch Gibbett. Fred Colon tried not to look too happy. The poor sod was dead, after all, even if he, Fred, could claim the credit for finding what was looking to be an important corpse. But one minute he, Fred, had been mumphing for some really fresh ox liver that Mrs Colon could cook with onions tonight. And then one of Gerhardt Sock's apprentices had run up sayin' there was a body in among all the carcasses and offal.
Gerhardt had pulled a face and said "Yes, lad. Carcasses is bodies. We trades in 'em. And your point is?"
"Yes, Mr Sock. But this one's human!"
Fred had been called to look. Then called the Watch.
"So its's Titch Gibbet." Vimes said. "Poor little sod."
Cheery Littlebottom looked up from her necessary work.
"Dead about ten hours, sir." she reported. "ID checks out as Richard "Titch" Gibbet of the Guild of Thieves."
"Ok. Can we, er, pack him up for the mortuary? Thieves' Guild Mortuary, in the circumstances." he added, hurriedly, regarding the silent watchers, one of whom was shaking with tears. He sighed. He'd never been good in these circumstances. He knew enough to know that among the Thieves, some names were assigned only to orphans and foundlings, otherwise unwanted children brought up by the Guild from the cradle. "Gibbet" was one. The Gibbets and the Ludds and others formed close families around their given trade names.
Stephanie Gibbet, who Vimes normally knew as a cheerful street-hardened young woman with an inconvenient conscience, was taking it badly. She was something of a big sister to younger Gibbets, and finding one of her family dead and dumped with the butcher's waste was hurting her badly. Sometimes he wished Sybil were here. She'd know what to do with a young woman in floods of tears over a body.
He beckoned forward the other Thieves. Most were Gibbets. They had a stretcher and a blanket.
"Find her, you know, something to do, could you?" he said, indicating Steffi. The lead Gibbet nodded.
Vimes turned to Colon.
"Right, Fred." he said, in a low voice. "Now we just need to work out where he was stabbed."
"Oh, that's easy, Mr Vimes!" Fred replied, cheerfully. "Right up through the heart from underneath, Cheery said…"
Vimes adjusted his mental radar to Talking-To-Fred.
"No, Fred. Cheery says there's not much human blood here. Which means the body's been moved from where the killing took place. Angua reported a large blood-smell just Hubwards of the Shambles. Which means the killer, after he realised he was being followed home, took time and effort to move the body here and hide it in the stockyard bins. So this is not likely to be on his walk directly home. We need to go to the location Angua reported. Pewter Street. To see where other trails might go from there. Not much, but it eliminates the Shambles from our enquiries."
Fred nodded. He looked down the street.
"Isn't that Miss Band, sir, from the Assassins? Heading this way?"
Vimes winced.
"Oh, hell! Friend of Miss Gibbet's. That's all we need! Thieves aren't allowed to kill, Fred. Assassins are. This one well might, if it's upset her best friend's day."
"Oh." Fred said, realising. "That sort of best friends?"
In the foreground, two women hugged. The taller one had "concerned lover and best friend" radiating from her. As well as "What can I do to put it right?"
"Of long standing. Let's get out of here?"
"Take Edouard Lutjens with you when you go to the Royal Bank." the Ambassador recommended. "He's my Trade Secretary, after all, and he knows about gold and diamonds. I'm sure he'll get the point when Professor Turvy makes his presentation. It gives me an answer for Vetinari, when in the middle of an entirely different conversation, he abruptly asks about the diamond market."
Julian nodded assent. The Ambassador smiled, knowing things in his world were a little bit better.
"A muster of the Impis on the Ulunghi. Hmm. That's an army of forty thousand spears all in the same place. And we have the urgent word of the Paramount Crown Princess, based on briefings from her father, that they are only there for full-scale military manoeuvres, to be conducted strictly on their side of the River."
"Which still sounds like a provocation." Julian chanced. "So near the Border. A show of force, perhaps, sir? The Paramount King would not lie outright to his own daughter, and he isn't reckless. Besides, he needs reliable and honest channels of communication as much as we do. My assumption is that this is to clearly demonstrate how many spears he could send at us if he was so inclined. We do that too. In the other direction."
Van der Graaf nodded.
"I concur. I will inform Vetinari, not that he doesn't already know, damn him. And respectfully ask as to which officers and diplomats will be Observing on behalf of Ankh-Morpork. If there aren't too many idiots among them and he despatches capable men, I'll breathe easier. And you know, this is a good chance to practically test the reliability of the Princess, as to how much she is told and how reliable the people briefing her are. If the events and the numbers tally, then her sources can be rated as reliable."
The Ambassador breathed out.
"She's a refreshingly straightforward young woman in her way, Julian." he remarked. "But slippery. You do know she infiltrated this Embassy on a Guild assignment when she was barely fifteen? She got in by posing as a black servant. Played the part to perfection. Poisoned a remarkably repulsive and arrogant young idiot and three of his cronies, although not fatally."
Julian raised an eyebrow.
"As Klatchian cascara was the agent of choice, it was more of an embarrassing and undignified method of poisoning." Van der Graaf continued. "Officially, we put it down to a bout of jungle sickness a newcomer brought with him off the boat. Unofficially, I am forced to say I remain grateful to her, for demonstrating a hole in our security so wide you could have driven a coach through it. Johanna was supervising her, needless to say. I understand she had her own disagreement with the oaf who was poisoned. I permitted this to pass, as officially they were investigating a different matter." (4)
"Nobody seriously thinks the blacks could organise themselves to do something like this…" mused Julian. "Everybody knows how slow and thick and superstitious they are. Incapable of sophisticated thinking."
The Ambassador nodded, gravely.
"Exactly, Julian. When we think of ourselves as superior beings, we tend to fatally underestimate those we consider inferior. Which could lead to disaster. Not that apartheid is wrong, naturally."
"As a social system, it works, sir." Julian agreed. "Up to a point."
"Up to a point." the Ambassador agreed, keeping his expression unmeasurable. "Well, you have an hour or so to get into uniform."
Julian recognised this as a dismissal. He stood up.
"Carry on working with your informal channel of communication. I believe you find this to be a pleasure as well as a duty. Inform me when you intend to see her next, and I might well have some more bon mots to slip into the conversation."
Detective-Sergeant Victor Tugelbend walked into All Jolson's Howondalandian Food Emporium, his nose assailed by a thousand strong smells, a lot of which were actually quite pleasant, albeit strange. A thaumatalogically chilled glass-fronted cabinet offered lots of strange-looking meats alongside familiar cuts. He noted prominent signs saying things like "Strictly! No bushmeat sold here! Librarian-certified! in Morporkian and several other languages. Another prominent sign said, with no Morporkian version,
Apartheid is hier nie welkom! Dit is vrei Howondalaand. Ons behandel almal ewe goed, swart of wit. Almal verdien goeie kos, bedien met vergunning! (5)
It was translated into several native languages underneath.
Victor recognised the word "apartheid" and speculated on how White Howondalandians of a certain sort might behave to people in a Black Howondalandian-staffed food store. It had certainly merited a warning sign about… behandel. He remembered time spent in Sto Kerrig. Behaviour? He stood back as other people, mainly black, were served. He recognised Dorothea, Johanna's cook, and exchanged a pleasantry with her, complimenting her on the previous night's dinner. Dorothea, a big middle-aged woman with wide hips, dressed colourfully in native style, grinned and showed excellent white teeth, a rarity in this city.
"Ah, that was white man's food, Mr Victor! I got here proper chow, for myself and the others! Although the baas-lady likes to eat properly. She getting sosetjes for tonight!"
Victor gathered she was making sure the servant table was well-stocked on the Smith-Rhodes food account. One of those happy arrangements the baas-lady would graciously overlook when doing the domestic accounts.
"I tell her, Mr Victor, I can tell her if the baby be boy or girl. She don't want to know! She says she wants surprise on the day!"
Victor commiserated with Dorothea on the eccentricities of white employers. He was used to women who wanted to hold him in conversation. Ever since Moving Pictures days. Some women remembered Victor Maraschino. He found it to be a useful policing tool. He noted one other white face in the queue to be served and weighed it up against the four faces imprinted on his mind. It didn't match.
"Hi, Victor!" a voice called. "Be with you in a moment!"
He recognised his Watch colleague Sergeant Precious Jolson. In a white overall, wrapping some meat for a customer.
He excused himself and Dorothea wished him a good morning, leaving the store.
"That's four dollars and twenty-three pence, Mr van Nicklensberg." she said amiably. The customer, equally friendly, thanked her and left with full bags. Victor wondered if this was another way in which apartheid barriers were being chipped away. Everybody needed to eat, after all.
Then he got to the counter.
"I can see you're busy." he apologised. "But Watch business?"
"You never leave it." Precious said. "Even on a day off. Dad asked if I could keep shop for a couple of hours as he's short-handed, what with here and the restaurant. What's up?"
"Who was running the store yesterday?" Victor inquired. He said a wanted man had been in and quickly explained the situation.
"Ah, Dad was here. He'd have served. But Essie was working in back. He might have seen. Essie?"
A huge well-muscled black man in a white kitchen overall emerged. Victor knew he had An Arrangement with Precious; he'd been present at the Tobacco Farm business, a Matabele soldier who'd been taken prisoner early on and who had asked for asylum in Ankh-Morpork. Taken on by the Jolsons, his new career as cook, grocer and food salesman was taking off, as well as a leisured relationship with Precious that was looking like a marriage was about to happen sometime. She'd apparently punched him in the eye and knocked him cold. Victor reflected that Matabele men value that sort of thing in a woman.
He grinned a big genial happy grin. Victor asked about events of the previous day. Essie confirmed, in basic but good Morporkian, that {{Miss Head-Flies-High-As-The-Howondalandian-Swallow}}, you know, the dozy one from the White Howondalandian Embassy, take her two tries to distinguish her bottom from her elbow, had been in ordering for the Embassy. This other white man had spoken to her in that primitive tribal white-man language of theirs, neither of them had stopped to reflect that big-dumb-nigger here might know some of it, you know the way these people think?
Victor produced iconograph copies. Essie scrutinised them carefully. Then he said, pointing to Ouistrehaam, "All you people look alike to me. But if you force me to guess, it was this man here. Bought a bunny-chow from the fast food counter, and some boerewois to go. Popular line, boerewois. Fancy some?"
Julian Smith-Rhodes quickly changed into his parade uniform and checked himself thoroughly in the long mirror. Satisfied, he left the main Embassy building and made his way round to the partially-underground military barrack, known as The Bunker, which had been built in the grounds. Skirting around the dog kennels, always a place of noise and activity, he came to the Armoury, a reinforced building barely larger than a shed that housed bows, crossbows and ammunition. He was one of a strictly limited number of people to hold keys to the troll-proof reinforced steel door.
He stood here for a moment or two and pondered the day.
It was no secret that Ambassador van der Graaf liked to take inspection of the men at the Thursday parade. It happened on the front drive of the Embassy, in full view of the main road, at eleven. Regularly. And the only two men with loaded crossbows would be the delegated gate guard. He frowned. Then heard somebody approaching and turned to meet them.
"Mrs Vinhuis." he said, pleasantly. Katerina turned to him. She did not look happy. This was rare for her. She usually managed to maintain a smiling face and a cheerful disposition.
"Captain Smith-Rhodes." she replied. Her voice sounded abstracted and distant.
"Is there anything wrong?" he asked. "May I assist?"
She picked up and smiled slightly.
"I came for a walk on my own. You know, in the grounds. After enduring the society of the pleasant Liutnant Verkramp."
"Anyone would wish for clean air after making a statement to BOSS." Julian sympathised. "Current events are troubling you, madam?"
Katerina sniffled back a tear.
"I feel I have let everyone down." she said. "I said too much. I embarrassed my husband in front of the Ambassador. I placed a friend in danger. I placed her husband and unborn child in danger. I don't know how I can ever face Johanna again."
Julian took her hand.
"If I know my cousin, she'll be furious for about a minute." he assured her. "But I understand your friendship goes back for twenty years? To last so long it must be strong. If you can withstand that minute of what my cousin would call slight irritation, madam, you will be friends again and she will forgive. I assure you."
"Do you really think so?" Katerina asked. She perked up hopefully.
"Assuredly. And in any case her home address is no secret, and has been publicised by other agencies. They would have found it eventually. Trust me on this."
She looked happier and more hopeful.
"I just wish there was something I could do. To make me feel like less of a spectator." she said.
"Just be yourself." Julian assured her. Like practically every other man in the building, he quite liked the delightfully cheerful blonde airhead and appreciated having her around. She was, to him, a younger edition of the pleasant and stately Lady Friejda. Katerina was good for morale. If the Ankh-Morpork Times needed to have a press release delivered and an Embassy staff member iconographed delivering it, as often as not Katerina was the human face of Rimwards Howondaland. People liked to see attractive women in their morning paper, and Mr van der Graaf was wily enough to exploit this. Katerina had been painstakingly taught to say only the words in the press release, and to add "no comment", or "Speak to Ambassador van der Graaf for clarification", if pushed for more detail.
"And I know Martin would be concerned to see you in distress." Julian added. "Trust your husband, Katerina. He's a good man."
Katerina hugged him quickly, then stood back. An Embassy was a closed community where everybody watched everyone else, often without wanting to. Neither wanted gossip.
"Thank you, Julian. Your lady friend must really value you. It's a shame you need to be discreet, but I think I understand why you cannot go public."
Julian kept his face diplomatically straight. How much did she know?
"I understand that from talking to Martin and to Lady Friejda. I understand perhaps that she is married to another, who she does not love, or else there is some noble reason why you must be discreet."
Katerina, Julian reflected, constructed a lot of her world-view from romantic novels of the pink-tinged Iriadne Comb-Buttworthy sort. She claimed she read them to improve her grasp of the Morporkian language and its written idiom. People nodded soberly and accepted this. She shared the books with Lady Friejda, Embassy rumour had it, an older woman whose mind moved along similar lines.
He heard her giggle, the everyday Katerina restoring itself.
"Why, in a romantic fantasy, I speculate that your lady is a Princess of her people and has to conceal that she is in love with a commoner!"
Julian grinned.
"She is a Princess to me, my lady, certainly!"
Katerina laughed and walked on in her silent round of the Embassy gardens. Julian reflected how easy it was to completely mislead somebody and leave them no wiser, just by telling the truth. He added this to a growing list of lessons learnt concerning functioning as a diplomat, and remembered he only had twenty minutes before calling out the Guard and marching them to the front drive. He reviewed his thoughts about the weekly inspection. Something obvious was there. Involving the Ambassador. But whatever it was, he hadn't worked it out yet. It was possible with Mr van der Graaf that you'd never work it out. That when you'd deduced his surface intentions, you then looked down at a lot of deeper layers of intent and meaning. All within the same action.
More feet on the gravel. Julian looked round.
Martin Vinhuis. Hell, I really hope he wasn't here to watch his wife hugging me.
"Glad I found you here, Julian. Got time for a talk?"
His voice sounded professional-friendly. Martin was in his late thirties and every inch a high-flying career diplomat.
"We've got perhaps a quarter-hour, Martin. Just been talking to Mrs Vinhuis, incidentally. She was a bit shaken up after Verkramp."
Martin scowled slightly for a fraction of a second. He was no friend of Verkramp's either.
"She went over towards the rose garden." Julian added, helpfully.
"I'll catch up with her." Martin decided. "Julian. Have you given any thought to the Ambassador being so adamant that he's going to take the inspection today, come what may?"
"Still puzzling it over. Being brave is one thing, and nobody can deny Mr van der Graaf hasn't got that in spadeloads. But sticking your neck out foolhardy is different."
Julian suddenly noted Martin nodding encouragingly at him.
"Anyone passing by the front of the building, on Scoone Avenue, could aim through the railings and get a shot in if they see the Ambassador walking on the drive or the lawn…." Julian pulled up short. Martin pressed on.
"And correct me if I'm wrong. Your inspection today involves parading practically everyone who wears a uniform to work. And drilling with crossbows. Then as the officer taking the inspection moves down the rank, you do the For Inspection, Port Arms manoeuvre. And this is not done with loaded weapons, ever?"
"Well, of course." Julian said. "Imagine Private Aaslendt performing that drill evolution with a loaded crossbow? You cock the bow, you work the action, you pull the trigger. To demonstrate the weapon is in working order, without putting a bolt through somebody's face…"
He paused.
"And for nearly an hour, nearly thirty men are unarmed. The only weapons capable of being used for fight are the dress swords on the belts of three officers. And Verkramp's bloody whip. And we have no more than two loaded crossbows at the gate. Which are there for show, as Sam Vimes has made it very clear what happens if our men fire them on his street in Ankh-Morpork without reasonable cause."
Julian found himself going pale. Martin Vinhuis pushed the point.
"You've got a key to the Armoury? I don't. I suggest a couple of boxes of ready-use crossbow bolts near to where the parade is. Emergency use."
The two men quickly wrestled with the armoury door and pulled out crates of ammo. They were heavy.
"We need some sort of wagon." Julian said. "Ah!"
A gardener's wheelbarrow was nearby. They loaded it.
"We can leave the barrow just down the drive from the parade." Martin said. "Inconspicuous. You expect to see wheelbarrows in a garden. Throw a cover over it."
"Do you really think…" Julian asked. Martin shrugged.
"It's a possibility. I'll bet today's parade passes by without a hitch. But we're offering them a target, Julian. Hellfire, why do you think the Ambassador's staking himself out as bait? He's on their hitlist. I'm willing to bet he's putting his neck out to save his niece. Hoping we can catch them here."
Julian paused and deliberated before turning out the Embassy guard for their parade. He weighed the key in his hand. Then he pushed the Armoury door shut and looped the clasp of the padlock through its locating bracket, without closing it. It would just look closed to the casual eye. This broke every standing order he could think of. Unsecured weapons, negligient storage, tempting the blacks to arm themselves and Rise up And Slaughter Us With Our Own Weapons… but if there might be a fight, he was damn sure he'd prefer the Armoury door to be unlocked so as to get to the weapons more quickly. And by inference, Martin Vinhuis, a superior officer, had sanctioned this. Two boxes each of two hundred crossbow bolts were currently negligently stored in a wheelbarrow out in the open. At Martin's instructions.
And then CPO Saarsen was turning out the Guard…
"Anything new, A.E.?" Sam Vimes asked, returning to the Yard.
The Watch adjutant looked up from the desk.
"Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild would like to speak to you…"
"I meant police work, A.E. Boggis can bloody well wait. Incident reports?"
"Two possible murders, one of which might be classable as a suicide. Just in within the last ten minutes: A report of a coach hijacking out near to the Deosil Gate. Driver and mate clubbed, and the passengers beaten, robbed, and thrown out to the roadside. The coach was seen driving off in the direction of Phedre Road. Witness reports say four armed men, heavily cloaked."
Vimes grunted. Coachjacking was becoming a problem in the City. Sometimes joyriders. The Watch had to clear burnt-out wrecks and recapture loose horses left to run wild. Sometimes criminals needing a stolen coach for a job….
Vimes felt a policeman's sense go "ping!" inside his head. He turned his head slowly and said, deliberately
"Four men?"
Scoone Avenue was just off Kingsway.
He considered options. It wasn't wildly likely the Howondalandians were after Sybil or young Sam. Their hitlist was more specialised than that. But the Howondalandian Embassy was on Scoone Avenue… and the street offered a fast route to Nap Hill. Spa Lane. He leapt up. Boggis could bloody well wait.
He reminded himself that the detail about "four men" might just be coincidence. But he couldn't afford to think like that.
"A.E. Top priority. Clacks the Howondalandian Embassy. Alert. Attack may be imminent. For van der Graaf himself. Got that?"
The Smith-Rhodes boy was there too. He was also a target. No, not a boy. He's fought a battle. Won a medal. Got promoted. Not your typical military Rupert. Capable. Intelligent. Then again he's related to Johanna.
"And to the Assassins. In case they're taking a swipe at Spa Lane."
Vimes ran down the stairs yelling for officers and transport.
"Afdeling! Afdeling - AANDAG!"
The group of officers, and the Ambassador, came to attention alongside the enlisted men, as Chief Petty Officer Saarsen barked the command.
Julian watched as, with military ceremony, the orange, white and blue national flag began its ascent of the pole, with a cornet playing the Reveille. All around the Embassy, work came to a halt as the ceremony progressed. Black staff stood respectfully, possibly welcoming the break from everyday labour. Embassy staff had gathered on the front steps to watch. Even people in the Brindisian Embassy grounds next door were watching.
The salute was taken as the flag filled out in the breeze. For a few moments, Liutnant Verkramp of BOSS, in his uniform, was an accepted part of the team alongside Julian, Commander Malan and Colonel Breytenbach. Julian stole a glance at the weaselly little secret policeman. There's a lump in his throat. Is that a tear in his eye? Well, you can't fault his patriotism. Except in his case you can fault the way he interprets it and what he believes it means.
And then the breeze blew Julian's cap off. He winced. CPO Saarsen would have something suitably acerbic to say about a junior officer who couldn't keep his hat on during a parade. He wondered why none of the men had sniggered.
And then people were looking around them and running. The parade began to dissolve in confusion. There was a shout to take cover. Some of the enlisted men just stood there looking confused. Julian saw men fall. Breytenbach was leaping in front of the ambassador, as if putting his body between him and danger… something whipped through the air past Julian-Smith-Rhodes. He saw Breytenbach convulse in pain but not fall.
Then he realised.
"Parade! Fall out!" he ordered to the men who were still standing there, immobilised by drill protocol and unsure what to do. Did they run from the attack, or risk the wrath of Saarsen for breaking ranks? What was scarier, crossbow bolts in the air, or a Drill CPO? Julian gave them the implicit order. Gratefully they broke and scattered.
"Under attack! Go for cover!"
To his horror, he saw the Ambassador twitch and fall. Breytenbach took another crossbow bolt possibly meant for his boss. Then he too fell, or dropped, shielding van der Graaf with his body.
Verkramp had run for it. Malan was down and unmoving. Which only leaves me… standing up.
He noted scattered men going to ground, crawling for cover, everywhere, realising he was the only visible officer left standing. He took in no more than two abandoned crossbows. Most men were still carrying theirs despite having no ammo. At least the military design incorporated a bayonet. Julian hit the turf rolling, looking for a wheelbarrow he really, really, needed to get to. Which against all probability wasn't there. He controlled his shock. The ready-use ammo had vanished. The Armoury was a long way away at the back of the building complex. His men were under fire and unarmed. Hugging the grass, he thought furiously for a moment. Hadn't he heard Saarsen in the distance yelling at a black gardener for making his parade area look untidy? He had the bloody barrow moved, Julian realised. It offended his sense of neatness. Julian Smith-Rhodes hugged the grass, nearly out of options. Looking cautiously up, he saw a large coach parked outside the railings in Scoone Avenue. Men were on top of it, able to fire over the railings and down into the scattered men on the grass.
He weighed up the distance to the gates. He wondered if the two men posted there were still alive. Evidently not; the men outside were untroubled by return fire. A hundred yards. Under fire. Maybe a rush could do it. They can't get us all.
He shouted "Fix bayonets! Be ready for my order…" with no great hope of surviving this one. But it had to be done…
And then the men on top of the coach were firing over their heads at some threat behind the helpless men pinned down on the lawn. Abstractly he noted, with a sense of warm pride, men who'd run nearest the fence and gates were trying to wriggle forward under fire. Sergeant de Kock appeared to be leading them. But why had the fire lifted… he looked back, cautiously, and saw an amazing sight.
Katerina Vinhuis. Assisted by a black gardener. Pushing a wheelbarrow forward as fast as they could manage. A crossbow bolt spanged off the metal of the barrow. Katerina appeared to have found the sense to crouch lower as she pushed. Her face radiated intent. Another bolt narrowly missed her right shoulder. The black gardener stooped and picked up an abandoned crossbow. But then they were nearly there...
Julian leapt forward and covered her with his body. He helped drag out an ammo case and threw it onto the grass, where it burst open. A soldier, getting the idea, began lobbing tied bundles of bolts to other men. Another crossbow bolt zipped past and hit the ground a few yards behind and to the left of Katerina. He breathed out and pulled her down behind the shelter of the barrow.
"That was most unwise, madam." he said. "But I thank you."
Katerina stared into his eyes. There was an un-Katerinic steely determination there.
"I told you." she said. "I wanted to help. To be more than a spectator."
The black gardener studied the crossbow with interest. Julian was about to say, kindly, "Put it down. You don't know how to use it, and anyway that could get you into trouble…"
Then he loaded and shot. His bolt hit the upper side of the coach being used as a firing platform, making it rock. It seemed to cause consternation among the men on its roof, who had been shooting fish in a barrel up until then.
"Or maybe not." Julian murmured. "Carry on. You seem to know what you're doing."
And then more men were shooting back. As some fired, others advanced under cover to closer firing positions. Julian nodded. The defence was organising itself, then. He heard de Kock calling orders in his steady, unflappable, voice.
And then as Julian and a handful of men rushed the gate and into the street, the coach was moving off, at speed. Next to him, a soldier… in a torn and dirty green dress? stamped her foot in frustration, lifted and aimed a crossbow, and put a very neat shot through the back window of the coach. As it receded, followed by aimed fire, Julian turned to Katerina.
"Fine shooting, mrs Vinhuis. But really, this is no place for a woman."
He remembered to call for cease fire. They were out in the street now. The target was getting out of effective range. Scoone Avenue was largely residential. And an overshot arrow could end up anywhere, as Sam Vimes would be keen to point out. Although he, Julian, felt sure he could point to reasonable cause and necessary self-defence.
"No place for a woman?" Katerina said, indignantly. "Captain Smith-Rhodes. I might have been brought up in a city. I might not be veldt-tough. But I'm still a Boor. The Veldt and the Boortrek were probably no place for women. And whatever else is expected of us, Boor women fight! In defence of our homes and the things and the people we love!"
She nodded emphatically. The wreckage of her dress collar, one of Boggi's finest, flopped away. Her skirt was torn to the thigh (6) and dirt smeared down her face. Her no longer immaculate hair was askew and the net torn beyond repair. But she was flushed with excitement.
"I stand corrected, madam." Julian said, meekly. She softened.
"You know, Julian, I understand Johanna a lot better now." she said. "Just this once, I believe I'm looking at her world through her eyes."
Julian nodded. He had an uneasy feeling the chrysalis had just burst and a new Lady Friejda had emerged, flexing her wings in the sun. Martin Vinhuis had got a good wife indeed.
"And it's good!" Katerina exulted. She cradled the crossbow.
He would have said more, but by the sound of it, Sam Vimes and the Watch had arrived.
The aftermath took longer to sort out.
Vimes and the Watch arrived at a scene of disarray. He registered a line of blanket-covered bodies on the lawn. Ambulances had been called from the Lady Sybil; his own Watch Igor, driven by some clan sense of foreboding, had tagged onto the Watch contingent and was treating injuries where he found them. He had ascertained that Breytenbach was hurt, but because of the sheer thickness of his muscle, nothing vital had been penetrated too deeply and three crossbow bolts, meant for either Julian or the ambassador, could be removed pretty much safely. Igor had stemmed bleeding, tidied up some lung damage, and packed the colonel off to the hospital.
The worst damage to the ambassador was the crossbow bolt that had scraped his thigh in passing, glancing off the hip-bone. As much bruising and a couple of broken ribs had been caused when Colonel Breytenbach had fallen on him, quite deliberately, to absorb any further shots.
"Ah, Wim meant well, I suppose." Van der Graaf said, resignedly. He squeezed the hand of a tearful Lady Friejda, then passed over temporary ambassadorship to the Chargé d'Affaires, effectively his deputy. Igor had prescribed a few days at the Lady Sybil for him. "Where's Captain Smith-Rhodes?"
"I believe he's with Martin Vinhuis." The Chargé D'Affaires replied. Securing your office, before BOSS do."
The ambassador nodded, serenely. It would be just like Verkramp to poke around in his private papers if the Ambassador was ill, and the line of succession not completely clarified. BOSS could claim they were taking over temporarily, to ensure orderly management of the Embassy until a new Ambassador could be posted. There were things he definitely did not want BOSS to add to his file. Good of Martin to pre-empt this. He'd make a promotion recommendation as soon as he was able.
"Julian was lucky." The Chargé D reflected. "Then again, Smith-Rhodeses tend to be. Two inches lower, and he'd have been dead!"
He held up the retrieved officer's cap that had been blown off Julian's head. It had a crossbow bolt through it.
"So Julian was their preferred target." Van der Graaf mused. "Lucky for him they aimed just too high."
"Funny things, snipers." The Chargé D reflected. "He had Julian's whole body to aim at, and he went for the head-shot. Probably thought that would be more emphatic."
He looked at the ruined officer's cap again.
"I'd be bloody furious. Those things aren't cheap. Probably thirty dollars at Boult and Locke's. A big bite of a Captain's salary."
"Authorise a replacement on expenses." The Ambassador said, firmly. He winced at a stab of pain. "Julian deserves it. If it wasn't for him getting that ammunition within easy reach and leaving the Armoury unlocked, there'd have been more casualties."
He switched to Morporkian. "Sir Samuel, whet's the current toll?"
Vimes had arrived to pay his respects and report. He saluted the Ambassador. It wasn't just a professional formality: they were neighbours and had a mutual respect.
"Commander Malan and six men dead." He read the names out, stumbling over the unfamiliar Vondalaans pronunciations. "Eight wounded to varying degrees, including yourself and Colonel Breytenbach."
Van der Graaf thanked Vimes, gravely. Then he asked
"Em I getting too old for this, Richard?" to his Chargé D'Affaires. "We could heve evoided this if I'd been less stubborn."
"No, sir." His deputy replied. "They'd have come at us whatever we did. Crazy men with nothing to live for and a grudge." And as he was a career diplomat, he added: "Popular sentiment and goodwill will be on our side, sir. That woman from the Times and the vampire iconographer are outside. With your permission, I would allow them access to everything and everybody. We are clearly the innocent party in this, and it should be widely seen we have been the victims of an outrage."
"I agree. But you're in charge for a few days now, Richard. Your call. Ellow Commander Vimes and his investigators complete freedom. Prepare some eppropriate despatch for Lord Vetinari. He'll want to know."
Van der Graaf flinched in pain again. Lady Friejda stifled a sob.
"I anticipated your orders, sir. There is an ambulance waiting for you outside?"
The attack had come with complete surprise and had lasted for a devastating four or five minutes. Julian realised the injury toll had been limited by their attackers only numbering four and with single-shot crossbows that took time to reload. The moment they realised somebody was organising an effective defence and getting ammo where it was needed, they'd withdrawn and not let themselves be tied down by superior firepower. A classic guerrilla ambush. Julian recalled the briefing that said all four had done national service, been soldiers in Rimwards Howondaland's wars, and knew just when a small static garrison in a soft posting, not expecting any sort of fight, would be weakest. Military ceremonial offered them a gift.
And now he was being reminded that though a fight might last five minutes, the clearing up afterwards took much, much, longer.
Locking up the ambassador's office and giving the key to Martin to keep safe, Julian returned to the garden. He watched the scene unfold. Medical personnel, ambulances, covered stretchers, wounded men being assisted to medical help. Then his jaw hardened and he ran to intervene in one noisy confrontation.
The black servant who had lifted a crossbow and fought alongside his men – bloody effectively, too – had been forcibly disarmed and was being manhandled by two BOSS thugs, with Verkramp screaming spittle into his face.
"What the FUCK do you people think you're playing at!" he shouted. Furiously, he demanded the BOSS soldiers let that man go RIGHT NOW and THIS IS AN ORDER, VERKRAMP.
The Boss men retained a light hold on their prisoner. Liutnant Verkramp and Captain smith-Rhodes stared each other out. Julian was aware of at least two of his soldiers moving to back him up.
"I am within my rights here, Captain." Verkramp said, in a low voice. "This bleck picked up a weapon. Illegally. He then used it against white people. This was witnessed. My prisoner."
"Liutnant Verkramp." Julian said, with icily enraged calm. "I don't know if you noticed or if it even occurred to you. But he was fighting on our side. Against people hellbent on killing as many of us as they could get. I may have an unsophisticated soldier's mind. But to me that counts as mitigating circumstances. This man deserves a medal. And a fat bonus to send home."
"You cannot have the blacks fighting." Verkramp insisted. "That undermines the whole purpose of apartheid! I want him tried. Found guilty. Sent home and imprisoned."
As Julian was vocalising the initial V of "voetsaak, Verkramp", the prisoner opened his mouth.
"Private Joshua N'Gezimi. Forty-fourth Auxiliary Battalion of the Army. Based in Bulowayo. Smith-Rhodesia."
He looked at Julian, without servility. Julian looked back with surprise at the anonymous black face, one of many he saw in the background doing the menial work.
"You were in the Army, Mr… Private… N'Gezimi?"
"Yes, sir. The Embassy has a copy of my service record. I was graded "loyal" and passed the security checks to be sent here."
"But… now you're a gardener?"
Joshua shrugged, as best he could.
"Man has to work, Captain. Man has to feed his family."
Julian grinned. It was a long, happy, grin. Of a man who now had BOSS by the balls and could squeeze hard.
"Do you want to be a soldier again, Private?"
"Yes, Captain!"
"Do you swear obedience to the state of Rimwards Howondaland and to accepted military authority?"
"I so do, sir!"
Julian grinned.
"Liutnant Verkramp. I will only ask you once. Get your hands off MY private soldier. He's under my command now. His recall to active service is hereby backdated to ten-thirty this morning. Which makes it perfectly legal for this auxiliary soldier to take up arms in loyal service of our nation. So you don't have a bloody leg to stand on, Verkramp."
The BOSS officer protested. Julian raised a hand.
"You know, when the fight was going on, I saw several abandoned crossbows on the ground. Suggesting men had run away without even a pretence of a fight. You and your men paraded with us. It would be interesting to check back the serial numbers of those weapons and find out who they were issued to."
He nodded at the BOSS men.
"Can't help noticing your men aren't carrying their issue crossbows, Liutnant. No inference. Just saying."
Verkramp and his men slouched off, defeated. Julian nodded to his new soldier. A ring of grinning men, survivors of the fight, rushed to welcome their new colleague. Julian knew these were fair-minded men: an old axiom of service said there was no apartheid in the front line, and a lot of these guys were veterans. (7)
"I'll issue you some sort of uniform as soon as I can." he said. "For now, I'm down a lot of men. Can you ask for me among the black staff if anyone else is ex-Auxiliary? If they're willing, I'll sign them on again. I need the men." I'm fourteen men down. Breytenbach's in hospital indefinitely. Sailor Malan's been killed. Great Offler, that makes me senior military attaché. I now have the authority to do things like this. And it'll really piss off Verkramp, Julian thought, happily.
He went to confer with Sergeant de Kock. He was going to have to write those sorts of letter. He knew there'd also need to be hard decisions about burying men who'd died a long way from Home. He could see that bloody woman Sacharissa Cripslock running towards him, waving her notebook and trying to grab his attention. He really, really, wanted to see Ruth again. But there'd be time later for that…
And a burnt-out coach, with the charred remnants of quite a lot of crossbow bolts in the wreckage, was found some way out on the other side of the Least Gate. The men who had been driving in it were nowhere to be found. The horses were recovered in the back gardens of several citizens, placidly eating grass, verge plants and prize vegetables.
Johanna Smith-Rhodes caught the news in the afternoon edition of the Times. She read the story, felt concern for her uncle and aunt, and was whole-heartedly glad Julian was alive and unhurt. Her attention was caught by an iconograph of Private N'Gezimi in a motley uiniform the other men had found for him. It had been very neatly pressed and shaped. She smiled, knowing black auxiliaries in her day had been fanatically proud of their appearance. Nothing had changed there, then. She also felt pride in Julian, who appeared to have learnt from her about subtly challenging authority. And black auxiliary soldiers were perfectly legal, even in Rimwards Howondaland. She smiled at the newspaper incredulously repeating the Chargé D'Affaire's statement that he understood his Military Attaché's need to make up the numbers somehow, and that it demonstrated his nation was not as inflexible as people unfairly thought it was, on issues of race.
She let a stray thought cross her mind about her butler Claude. How many black Embassy employees had been Auxiliaries, and fought in her country's wars? She'd ask him. If it came to a fight – and she was uneasily certain it would – another set of hands capable of using weapons would be useful. No sense in his pretending he never served, she thought.
(1) This was a problem in Britain in the 1970's. Cabinet ministers and members of parliament were only too pleased to give Who's Who the fullest detail about themselves, including their home addresses and telephone numbers. Then organisations like the Provisional IRA came along and realised all they need do to track down home addresses of targets was to go into a public library, pull down the reference copy of WW, and take notes. It took several assassinations of senior politicians on their own doorsteps for British police and security services to realise where the terrorists just might be getting unerringly accurate information from. Today, Who's Who candidates are offered a discretion option of giving no address at all, or else a working address of the sort that (as with Lord Vetinari or Sam Vimes) takes no genius to work out, and is useless to terrorists as it will inevitably be very well guarded. More mundane burglars were also keen readers of Who's Who, knowing they could call on the named person at home since they'd be out during office hours.
(2) After visiting Roundworld and being mistaken for an actor who'd played a wizard in a moving picture series, Johanna had insisted Ponder add this to his WW insertion as a private joke. She also wondered how many people would read all his academic titles and wonder where the Hell Caltech, Pasadena was. It was still a legitimate title, though: Ponder could still draw a wage there. Every so often they revisited to keep up with friends they'd made. See The Many Worlds Interpretation.
(3) And learnt a diplomatic protocol: all weapons needed to be covered and delivered separately, as the Rimwards Howondalandian army did not have "the freedom of Ankh-Morpork", ie, it could not march through the City with bayonets fixed and its points gleaming. It couldn't even march. Reasoning that thirty soldiers and sailors merely walking across town in a relaxed out-of-step amble wouldn't look right, Julian had obtained permission to hire an omnibus and truck them over, their crossbows, bows and ammo following in a separate vehicle. Forewarned, the City Watch guarded the weapons-carrier. And thus diplomacy happened.
(4) Shameless self-promotion: to my story Murder Most 'Orrible. Look, there's a lot of backstory to my characters.
(5) Johanna would have agreed with the sentiment but would have corrected some of the glaring spelling and grammatical errors.
(6) Narrative Causality makes this imperative for normally immaculately dressed and beautiful women forced to rough-house it in a fight. Any designer dress will inevitably split right up to the waist. Upper bodies may also be partially exposed as abused seams surrender.
(7) Really true. One of many pressures on apartheid came from men who had done front-line service in the South African Defence Forces and realised it's hard to hate or despise the black soldier who's fighting as you do and taking the same risks you take. "no apartheid in the front line" was something of a truism. The modern South African Army is multi-racial and integrated; in the old days South African black soldiers were, officially at least, segregated as "auxiliaries". But this distinction soon broke down in combat.