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. Getting better, despite appalling hospital food. Finding it difficult to get back into this – sorry for late and sporadic continuation!
The Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy.
Julian Smith-Rhodes found himself occupied in the aftermath of the attack. Dozens of greater and lesser tasks were fighting for his attention, not the least of which was fulfilling the security duties expected of him, with almost half his original manpower not available. There were other things, too: several of the dedicated dog-handlers had been among the dead and wounded. There was the practical problem of what to do for their dogs. Ridgebacks were large intimidating creatures and the ones at the embassy had been paired to dedicated handlers from puppyhood. The orphaned dogs were not taking kindly to change and loss. Sergeant de Kock was trying to sort it out, but as both he and Julian knew, the Ridgebacks here were not the friendly domesticated pets his cousin Johanna kept. They were trained and dedicated attack dogs that needed careful handling. A Ridgeback without its dedicated keeper was like an unguided missile, unpredictable and deadly dangerous. But they still needed feeding and exercise.
He exhaled. He decided he was reporting back to Home that there needed to be changes in the training and operating philosophy regarding guard dogs, which took account of the loss of the primary keeper: definitely get them socialised to more than one handler as an insurance policy. Julian shook his head. He considered putting down the dogs whose handlers had been killed. It might be for the best all round, although his soul revolted at the idea.
He had sworn in seven black servants as Auxiliary soldiers. All had previous experience, and six were from the province of Smith-Rhodesia. Lady Friejda had been appalled at the idea of armed blacks patrolling the embassy. It had taken all Julian's powers of diplomacy and persuasion to get her to accept the notion, sure as she was that They Will Rise Up And Slaughter Us In Our Beds.
Julian had resorted to a history lesson to assuage her nerves. He had pointed out that when his ancestor, Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes, had led his expedition to push the borders of the country further Hubwards, some eighty per cent of the expeditionary army he had led was black or coloured. All those black soldiers had sworn loyalty not so much to Rimwards Howondaland, as to the Smith-Rhodes family. And generations of blacks from Smith-Rhodesia, the family province, had been loyal since. Especially when they were officered by members of the Smith-Rhodes family, who were known to be good baases, and baas-ladies too, if it came to that. Julian reminded her that those seven men had sworn loyalty to himself, Captain Julian Smith-Rhodes, and he therefore had every confidence in them. As he should.
And there was a steady stream of callers at the Embassy, ostensibly there to sign the condolence book and express shock and sympathy. Many were from other diplomatic missions in the City or else were City notables. This made more work for Julian and his over-stretched security detail. He accepted the Zulu Empire's ambassador was in several covert and deniable ways well-disposed to Mr van der Graaf, and was genuinely shocked at the assassination attempt. And that some surprising friendships existed among members of a diplomatic community which was in a strange city far from home. He, Julian, should know.
But you still didn't want representatives of your nation's oldest enemy walking around your embassy, unescorted and unaccounted for. Offering condolences was a nice excuse to get people in for a covert look round. Julian knew he wouldn't pass up a valid reason to explore inside their Embassy.
He counted the numbers again. Ambassador Canaan Banana N'Vectif, a Princess of the Paramount House, and an escort party of six, as tightly marshalled as hospitality allowed. The Ambassador's personal guard had been allowed shields and assegais.
"Formal dress, Captain Smith-Rhodes." the Zulu Ambassador had said at the gate. "It is unthinkable for a warrior not to carry his birthright weapons."
Julian and two guardsmen wore machetes and carried slung crossbows.
"You never know if an enemy might strike again, your Excellency". Julian had said, smoothly, registering that the Ambassador knew exactly who he was without needing to ask. "Our weapons are merely a precaution and for legitimate self-defence only."
Understanding each other's point of view, the Zulu delegation had been allowed access. It helped that the Paramount Crown Princess was present, supporting her uncle, the ambassador. She looked at Julian with cool regal detachment. Julian returned the formality. As they crossed the front gardens, Julian described the attack and ensuing battle to his guests. The Zulu ambassador considered this. The Princess kept her face deliberately unreadable.
He turned away and considered the detachment of Zulu soldiers escorting the Ambassador and the Princess. There was something about one man who was trying to look inconspicuous. He wore no signs of rank, but Julian was damned if that was a common footsoldier. He was older than the rest, and the others didn't seem to be relating to him as if he was one of their own. He stored this up for consideration later, as he listened, following the Ambassador's speech with concentrated focus, catching the gist of the isiZulu language. His understanding of the language had certainly improved from a knowledge-base of pretty near zero, as his language teacher had remarked, with some personal satisfaction. Julian restrained a warm smile. It really hadn't been too difficult. Ruth's teaching had been very relaxed and informal. Certainly idiosyncratic…
He watched his own men jump nervously as the Zulus turned to face them. The older warrior began a chant. His men followed with a response, adding emphatic foot-stomping and beating spears on shields. He noted one of his men reaching towards his crossbow.
"As you were, Private Aaslendt!" he said, quickly. He didn't want an Incident.
"They're praising you. Warriors to warriors. Acknowledging your bravery in combat. It's a compliment. The Ambassador is explaining to them about the fight."
He glanced over. The Chargé d'Affairs, as acting Ambassador, and Lady Friejda, were approaching. Her Ladyship didn't seem too much at ease at the sight of a small detachment of the blood-enemy of the White Howondalandians, armed and inside her Embassy, and waving spears in what looked like a threatening way.
The Ambassador walked forward, extending a hand.
"Ah. Richard! And may I take a moment to extend my deepest sympathies to you, Lady Friejda?"
He walked forward accompanied by the Paramount Crown Princess and made his introduction in the Central Continent way, with handshakes and a kiss over the hand. It helped, Julian thought, that the Zulu Ambassador was in a formal dress suit in the local style and his voice was educated Ankh-Morporkian. He vaguely recalled that the old Paramount King had sent three sons to places like Hugglestones' Academy to get a good education. One to graduate and two others as reserves, in case Hugglestones did for any of them. Zulu kings can usually afford to lose a few sons to combat attrition in difficult places. These days, they get to send them to the Assassins' School, too… He considered the Princess for a moment. He added, to himself, …and their carefully selected daughters, in these more relaxed days.
Julian called his men to attention, and made a point of presenting arms in salute to the undeclared Zulu officer, drawing and presenting his sword. The Zulu responded with a warrior salute with clenched fist over heart. Then both officers returned their weapons to rest, salutations over.
"Come inside, Excellency. The condolence book is open in the salon."
"I would be honoured, Richard. Afterwards, is there anywhere we may talk privately?"
The mixed party entered the Embassy. Julian's soldiers fell in behind the Zulu party.
Just another day in the diplomatic service…
"I see." Johanna Smith-Rhodes said, assimilating the new information with a look that was outwardly calm. Captain Carrot had intruded on breakfast at Spa Lane to break the news about the previous night's murder at Trawler's Alchemickal Supplies and what it was likely to mean. She poured two cups of rooibos tea with a steady hand and offered one to Carrot.
"It is best without milk." she said. "Although you may edd sugar or honey to taste. I find it relexing in moments like this."
Carrot accepted the cup with thanks and savoured the oddly different taste. Definitely tea, but with an edge of vanilla and other strangely different but not unpleasant sub-notes. Watchmen tended never to refuse offered tea, even from Assassins, but stuck with what they knew best: over-stewed builder's tea with five sugars, preferably from an urn that was a stranger to regular cleaning, the sort the military described as having an effect like a barrage with siege weapons.
Ponder Stibbons looked on, feeling a sense of gloom and despondency. She took his hand reflexively without looking at him.
"So this poor wizard was murdered. He hes enough of a resemblance to Ponder for people to remark on it. In the twilight he was mistaken for Ponder and shot down."
Ponder Stibbons nodded soberly. Mustrum Ridcully would not be pleased to hear about Anthony Theopracticus. He, Ponder, would have to deal with that later. It was not a cheerful thing to look forward to at breakfast. Johanna left the table. Claude the butler was waiting with her weapons belt, one of the new maternity wear versions devised by Joyce Tanner. He held it out to her as if it were a coat or a stole, as she buckled it on.
She unsheathed her machete. Enamelled black, the blade glittered silver in the light, where the black had unavoidably been cleaned off the edge, exposing the metal beneath. Johanna contemplated her blade for a second or two.
"Somebody committed a murder lest night, in the belief they hed killed my husband." she said. It looked for a second as if she was talking directly to the blade. "Thet makes it personal."
Captain Carrot took in the spectacle of a seven-months pregnant woman holding a very big blade in a manner that displayed to the world that she knew exactly what to do with it. And had been given every provocation to do something with it in defence of her husband and child. It was not, he reflected, a sight designed to give ease.
"I understand there is a Guild contract out." he said. "Which makes it legal." Quickly, he added what was important, to remind her. "But it pays out more if you bring the person in alive?"
"Ja." Johanna said, resheathing the blade. "But elive is not mendatory."
"Johanna, you can't go out on a Guild contract…" Ponder began. Then he looked her in the face and his voice tailed off. "Or maybe you can." he mumbled.
"I know, Ponder." she said, gently. She patted her bulge. "This is not ideal. I know. But how cen we cerry on living a normal life when these people are out to kill us? Better we settle this now. Get in first. I em not living with this eny more."
Carrot Ironfoundersson, his face betraying only slight alarm, finished his tea.
"Your escort to work should be arriving soon." he said. He would, he decided, alert Mr Vimes. Johanna was now annoyed enough to want to do something about it herself, despite her condition. Even though it would count as legal, this was a complication the Watch should know about. Sam Vimes did not like to be surprised.
"Ja." she said. "End I know whet I need to do. It is possible a lot of explosive devices will be plented eround the city this morning. I need to mobilise everyone I have who is cepeble of defusing bombs. Please inform Mr Vimes we are et his service. He will need us."
Enjoying the luxury of a morning off from Watch service, Sergeant Precious Jolson got up early to spend her day doing non-Watch things. She made her way down to the service yard behind her father's restaurant and assisted in off-loading delivery carts. It was pleasant exercise, and something she'd been doing ever since she was six, when she'd discovered she could lift a fifty-pound sack of potatoes with one hand. It also left her feeling she was contributing something of worth to the family business.
She exchanged cheerful banter with the early kitchen staff who were assisting, and noted only a few barrels of miscellaneous items remained. Load up the cart with returned empties, sign off the delivery note, and that was it.
The cart driver smiled a contended smile. It was usually a big delivery to Jolson's, but the upside of it was that you didn't hang around too long if young Precious was helping to unload.
"Just these barrels now, miss." He said, rolling them down the cart to her. She caught the first one-handed and tucked it under her arm. A second one followed. She caught it, stumbled for a second, and frowned.
"Caught me by surprise there." she said. "This one weighs lighter than the other. I was expecting it to be just as heavy."
"Shouldn't do, miss." The carter replied. "The manifest says thirty-pound barrels of anchovies."
Precious weighed up the barrels, curious. The one in her right hand felt a few pounds lighter. The weight distribution felt wrong, the centre of gravity was out.
"We normally only order four barrels of anchovies." she said. "Looks like there's five there?"
"They're all labelled for Jolson's, miss." The carter said. "Let me check the manifest…"
His brow furrowed in thought.
"Only reads as four, miss. Despatch must have coc…male chickened… things up again?"
Precious tested the weights on the barrels. Four felt right, for thirty pounds of fish. But the fifth? Watchwoman's suspicion flared up in her mind. She'd heard about the Trawlers raid, when Lance-Constable Fitch had dropped by for a late sandwich, and speculation about what the stolen goods were to be used for.
She picked up the lighter barrel again. It was certainly labelled for Jolsons. But… she compared this to the despatch labels on the others. This had different handwriting on it.
Precious noted how close they were to her beloved aviaries, which occupied a good third of the yard behind her father's restaurant. In there, the breakfast shift was in full swing and almost every table was occupied. She also knew she couldn't go spreading panic on a mere suspicion. But something had to be done…
"Reg, Jack. Grab hold of sacks. Flour, potatoes, anything. Just so long as they're full." she said, vaguely remembering about how the Assassins' Guild dealt with dangerous explosives. "Follow me out. Quickly. Don't ask questions." she said. "And send a runner to the Yard. Possible emergency. Get somebody here."
Emmanuelle, Comptesse de Lapoignard, accepted the offered chair with thanks. Her own advanced pregnancy now meant it was pretty much impossible to practically demonstrate most forms of sword and bladed weapons technique. She accepted this philosophically. With luck, an accelerated fitness programme, starting the very second she could hand the child over to a nanny, would restore her to her full vigour and agility. She hoped so. She was also relieved that, via intermediaries, plans to buy the Spa Lane property were well advanced and she was now waiting only for the current tenants to move on. Then contracts could be exchanged and she could get the house set up exactly to her needs. Antoinette was now doing more and more of the routine management of Black Widow House, and had effectively moved in to the Housemistress apartment: Emmanuelle had moved to one of the city's better hotels, for which her deceased mother-in-law was paying all the bills.
She smiled. She had heard of one of Leonard of Quirm's scientifick speculations, that a rotating body spinning within a metal casing could be harnessed to produce some sort of energy akin to directed magnetism. Leonard had speculated that this energy could be used for beneficial purposes, like powering streetlights. The very clever Ponder Stibbons had reflected on this and said he'd seen something similar on the Roundworld, in a place called California. So no reason why not, but it would need a lot of expensive and hard-to-set-up infrastructure. Emmanuelle idly wondered how much of Quirm could be lit up at night by her mother-in-law spinning in her grave. She smiled again.
Today, the lesson was knife-throwing. It wasn't one of Emmanuelle's specialities, but in normal circumstances she was proficient enough, and it came within her remit as a Bladed Weapon Skill. She was therefore happy enough to have crossed the City with her class to take advantage of the new Knife Throwing Ranges at the Thieves' Guild School, on Upper Broadway. Some skills were common to both Guilds, and where this was the case they traded staff and facilities for mutual benefit. Emmanuelle relaxed and watched, appreciatively, as Herr Brumbach, the Thieves' Guild's principal teacher in knife skills, led his mixed class in the tricky skill of throwing confidently and accurately. He was aided by several Teaching Assistants drawn from both Guilds.
"At tventy yards, a Number One Throwing Knife vill make one full revolution in the air betveen your hand and zer target." he directed. "Therefore, it vill impact zer target point-first. But if you read zer range inaccurately, and zen compound zer error by selecting a Number Three Throwing Knife, vhich is smaller und lighter, at tventy yards it will strike handle-first. This may stun zer target, vhich is good, but it is not the result you are looking for. It is also embarrassing to vatch your knife bounce off. This does not display professionalism. It also, my young Assassin friends, betrays over-confidence."
The wiry little Überwaldean beamed happily.
"Now who vishes to be first? Vun of zer mädchen?"
He beckoned a girl forward. Emmanuelle smiled slightly to herself, recognising Rivka bin-Devorah. She watched, attentively, with a contented satisfaction, as Rivka, intently focused on what she was doing, perforated a human-shaped target with four knives in the chest and one in the neck. Even Herr Brumbach nodded in praise.
"I can see we have a natural talent here." he said. "Perhaps more advanced training for you, junge. Another young lady to the oche, bitte?"
The next student was Mariella Smith-Rhodes, who listened intently to Herr Brumbach's words of advice, then went for the safe body shots: three in the stomach, one in the chest. A fifth fell low and shuddered to a halt in the target's groin area. The handle twanged to a stop, pointing slightly upwards. Several male pupils from both Schools went "Ooooh…" in low voices. (1) The girls giggled, even snickered.
Herr Brumbach turned to Emmanuelle.
"Countess, you are bringing me people who need little training at this level? This is another young lady for a more advanced class."
"They are two very able students at this discipline." Emmanuelle said, proud of Rivka and Mariella. "With some of the others, you will gain a more accurate view of the general level of talent, and the need for expert training."
Emmanuelle was experienced as a teacher. She would not have brought a representative cross-selection of Assassin students out to train under the eyes of a rival school, in their premises, without taking the precaution of including a few exceptional talents she could quietly boast about. The Thieves, hearing of the Assassins' School being caught out by a pregnancy epidemic, had asked if there was anything they could do to help cover the anticipated staffing gaps. After all, it happened to their teaching staff too, and one day they might need cover. Lord Downey had gratefully accepted, but had pointed out privately that it would be advantageous to show them some of our very best pupils. Alice Band, too, was peppering Edificeering classes sent to the Thieves' Guild with some of her best people. Although Alice was not even remotely pregnant, she had pointed out that covering a proportion of Emmanuelle's active Swords classes and supervising a share of Johanna's more physical teaching meant she was thinly stretched, and everybody knew the Thieves were good teachers of a common skill. If Steffi Gibbet could assist here, she'd be grateful.
Brought down to earth again by a succession of less able pupils, Emmanuelle sighed at her uncharacteristic lack of foresight, which she blamed on her pregnancy clouding her mind. If only she'd presented the clumsier ones before Rivka. That way she might innocently have suggested a little side-bet with Herr Brumbach, my pupils against his, just to make it interesting for all?
She sighed, philosophically, noting that some of the student Thieves were equally maladroit with throwing knives. Ambisinistral, even.
And then the building rocked from a distant explosion. Herr Brumbach raised an eyebrow.
"Wizards, or the verdammte Alchemists, do you think, Madame Comptesse?" he asked, politely.
"My money would be on the Alchemists." Emmanuelle replied. "Nine times out of ten, it is the Alchemists."
A distant handbell began ringing. Herr Brumbach called for order and explained that the fire alarm was ringing. There was now a need to evacuate the building, please assemble by class on Upper Broadway, do not rush!
Emmanuelle sighed again, and gathered her pupils. She whispered in one ear to put that throwing knife back where you found it, nom d'un branleur,(2) what do you think you are doing, thinking to steal from the Thieves? She shook her head. There were always opportunists.
The Watch were quick in responding to the call to Jolson's. They found Precious had moved the suspect barrel to a back alley a block or so away, nearer the River, and was supervising Jolsons' staff in building a barricade around it, improvised from sacks of flour, potatoes and other vegetables.
Watchmen always responded quickly to one of their own in trouble, and she was pleased to see Fred Colon was in charge.
"If it's what I think it is, Fred, we need to evacuate the area." she said.
Colon nodded sagely.
"One of them exothermic alchemy devices, you think, Precious?" he asked, carefully retreating from it. The barrel had been placed near a sturdy brick wall and a semi-circle of produce bags was building up around it.
"I've got a strong suspicion." she said. "I don't want it going off anywhere near my birds."
She hastily added
"Or blowing up Dad's business. That's why I brought it down here. Strong brick wall behind, and I saw the Assassins dealing with something like this. They build a barricade round it too. To absorb the blast. You know, direct it upwards."
Fred looked down doubtfully at the makeshift sangar.
"Yes, miss. But, errr, Miss Smith-Rhodes usually has her people use sandbags. I seen her do it once."
"Shouldn't make too much of a difference." Precious said, annoyed she'd missed the obvious. Down near the river, everybody had access to sandbags, which held back the ooze of a periodically over-crawling Ankh. (3)
"Better get sandbags up, miss. Save your men lugging those big sacks. Faster, too. I'll get people to knock on doors and evacuate. See if we can get a Guild squad here to check it out."
Fred decided to put as much distance between himself and a potential explosion as possible, and went to organise a squad to knock on doors, not you, Visit, we want people to open them.
Precious sighed, accepting Fred was doing the sort of police work he was best suited for, and smiled at Reg and Jack, who were hand-trucking more big sacks over from Jolson's.
"Change of plan, boys." she said.
Johanna put the word out for students and graduate Assassins who'd done her Exothermic Alchemy course to assemble as a matter of some priority. Then she told Lord Downey what she was doing and why.
Downey agreed, giving her the politely-worded order not to put her own life at undue risk. She recognised it was as near as Downey got to an absolute command, and spent the next hour explaining to her people, as they arrived, about the situation, commandeering a classroom to describe the most common "care packages" assembled by people from her country who had the required trade skills. She sketched diagrams of typical construction, triggers and safeguards as she worked, emphasising that it was most probable any bombs they encountered would look like this.
They did not need to wait very long for the first call.
Julian Smith-Rhodes appreciated the rather surrealistic sight of a group of Zulu warriors, their assegais and shields for now stacked against a wall in an Embassy receiving room, eating delicate snack food from paper plates. Several of the embassy's black servants moved amongst them with reluctance and veiled hostility. Julian reflected that the black population of White Howondaland largely composed itself of tribes like the Xhosa and the Bantu, who, after a millennium of tribal snarling and hostility, really hated the Zulus. Ruth had confessed to him that it hadn't really helped that her people "could get full of themselves" and expected to be seen as the dominant tribe in Howondaland. "Which we are, of course, but some of the smaller tribes don't like that very much."
He studied the Paramount Crown Princess. She'd sharply rebuked one Zulu footsoldier who had made some sort of disparaging remark to a black servant. He had reddened – well, darkened – and meekly accepted criticism from Her Royal Highness, may I be forgiven for disturbing the peace of the Paramount House.
She looked over to him, coolly. Even regally.
"Captain Smith-Rhodes." she said. "Perhaps you could be so kind as to direct me to a ladies' room? I understand no member of this party is to be left unattended in this Embassy. I would trust you to lead me to the correct place, and wait outside to escort me back to this reception."
Julian bowed.
"I would be honoured, Your Royal Highness." He said. "Please walk with me?"
The Zulu officer made as if to accompany. She shook her head and directed him back. He caught the gist of her words: "I trust the white Boor indunala. He is a man of character. I will be safe."
Julian deliberately took her a long way around. They walked in silence until they'd turned several corners. Then the Princess said, in a low voice,
"Julian Smith-Rhodes. You do know I'm hanging onto diplomatic protocol by a rapidly fraying thread here? That after the other day, I am so unspeakably utterly glad you are still alive, that I want to throw you up against a wall and stick my tongue down your throat?"
"Hold that thought, Your Royal Highness." Julian said. "I believe this would be suitable for you."
It was a ladies' toilet, with VIR GEBRUIK DEUR BLANKES prominently displayed on the door. Ruth exhaled loudly.
"Only for white people." she translated. "So am I going to be dragged out and shot halfway through?"
"I think it'll be alright." Julian said, poker-faced. "According to protocol, you currently class as honorary white."
"Remind me to thump you when we next meet." she grumbled, letting herself in.
He smiled, and waited, a respectable distance away, on the corridor side of the door, for her return.
Moist von Lipwig smoothly reassured Miss Iodine Maccalariat that everything was under control. Even though he'd been up since far-too-early, when the advisory clacks from the City Watch had arrived, he found mornings like this, which deviated from the boring norm and presented a challenge, to have a certain savour to them.
"Yes, I am aware the building has been burnt down once, Miss Maccalariat. And I wholeheartedly agree with you that once is enough for that sort of thing. Which is why I am overseeing every possible precaution in this matter. But the Post must get through. Which is why I am trying to balance a need for security and safety with the even more pressing need to get deliveries out. The holding area is bulging as it is."
He indicated the double wall of sandbags that his Golem and Troll staff had erected in the yard. He sighed again. The warning from the Watch had been well-intended, certainly. But it didn't take a dedicated student of human nature to realise that an instruction like please take all suspect packages out of the normal sorting process and isolate in a safe area for inspection later would result in just about everything larger than a letter ending up in limbo. They'd run out of firebuckets full of sand inside five minutes, for instance. Mr Groat had sent to all the local ironmongers for more, with golems tasked to paint them red and add the word "FIRE" on the outside in white as per Post Office Regulations, then there'd been another embarrassing hold-up as they'd run out of red and white paint and needed to send out for supplies, plus brushes, and then Groat had checked Regulations, and realised the wrong sort of sand was being used to fill them, so a search needed to be made of builders' merchants and contractors' yards….
Moist nodded to where the golem Tsuris was adding the word "Fire" to a red-painted bucket in a beautiful, craftsmanlike, but necessarily slow, decorative script with highlighting and shadow and lots of serifs. Tsuris had worked for a signwriter, prior to the Golem Trust buying his chem.
"I do concede that in the emergency, we just might have got some of our priorities confused, though."
Miss Maccalariat humphed an unconvinced dismissal, making it abundantly clear she was dismissing Moist, rather than vice-versa, and went back to her daily work.
Moist reflected that to a certain mind, everything passing through the Post Office could be described as "a suspect package". This was Ankh-Morpork, after all. Apart from the odd Watch investigation, nobody had ever really been bothered about the legality or the morality of what was inside the mail. You just moved it. And now, with the warning some letters and parcels might have highly explosive bombs in them, people were having to differentiate, really, really, quickly. Just about everything was ending up in the sandbagged holding area. Red buckets were overflowing with items. His eyes boggled at the sight of a very large parcel, balanced on one corner in the top of an absurdly small bucket. He shook his head and went to investigate the label. The parcel weighed light for its size.
"I think we can safely disconsider this one." Moist said to a passing postman. He lifted it by one finger from its string.
"Agatean Fireclay is a bit heavier than this, wouldn't you think? Besides, the contents label claims that there are three pounds of prime goose feathers in this box, and the destination is Nibley and Parker's Traditional Writing Implements, Bespoke Quills A Speciality, on Mormius Street. So, when all things are taken into consideration, possibly not a bomb, don't you think?"
Moist rested the parcel again. He'd carefully not shown it in his face, but even three pounds dangling from your little finger can hurt, after a while.
"Come on, let's check a few more out. Applied common sense, I think." he said, cheerfully, entering the Holding Area.
And then everything stopped as they heard the explosion. It sounded nearby, possibly a street or two away.
Heidi van Kruger settled in to her position as Deputy Zoo Director (Acting) and prepared to tackle the daily mail. She was aware she was only keeping the seat warm and deputising for Johanna, who was, albeit unwillingly, scaling down her commitments as The Day drew nearer. Besides, even Johanna had been forced to acknowledge that some of the more physical aspects of managing the Zoo were temporarily outside her ability. She couldn't, for instance, easily out-run any hypothetical charging lions right at this very moment.
Heidi, as one of the more skilled and talented young graduates trained by Johanna Smith-Rhodes, had stepped into the breach to cover. She smiled, happy for the continuing reason to remain in Ankh-Morpork. There was still the danger that if she returned home for any length of time, she'd be visited by some very serious people from the Bureau of State Security, who would take care to point out she hadn't completed her National Service obligation to her country. As one who had benefited from an Assassins' Guild education paid for by the Staadt, it was now time for her to sign the papers and accept enlistment into the Bureau, for a period of not less than two years. In deference to your education and skills, we will of course accelerate you to the rank of Captain.
Even though it had been strongly suggested by the Staadtspresident himself that her presence in the Battle of the Tobacco Fields should be taken as service to her nation that at least equalled a full term of National Service, and the Bureau of Defence had cautiously agreed this was so, she knew BOSS still wanted her. Not even the President had complete control over BOSS. So she remained in Ankh-Morpork, industriously dodging the draft as creatively as she could.
She tackled the mail, reflecting that she could get married and pregnant. Married women were excused national service. And having white children for the future of the Staadt was seen as National Service in its own right. Her country thought like that, she reflected. Rimwards Howondaland was a very socially conservative nation. And marriage meant a Boor husband. Horizons shrinking to kitchen, home and children. She shuddered. Johanna Smith-Rhodes had seen this trap too, shortly after her arrival in Ankh-Morpork. No wonder she'd stayed.
Heidi dealt with routine mail addressed to the Zoo Director. Requests from excited children for more information on the more interesting animals. The Campaign for Equal Heights imperiously asking about progress on acquiring Dwarf Elephants. An official letter from the High Commission of the Foggy Islands, concerning the recent acquisition of the rare Kakapo birds and asking for ongoing briefings into the Zoo's conservation and breeding programme. for A semi-literate thank-you note from a family who'd witnessed a keeper being savaged by a wolverine, enthusing on the quality of entertainment provided by the Zoo and how it had really enthralled the kids, really worth the entrance money…
She frowned. Johanna had insisted she covered the mail and read every item. She had a feeling this was part of her ongoing education from her former teacher.
There were two larger and fatter envelopes, small parcels, really, addressed to herself and to Johanna. She frowned.
Liutnant H. van Kruger? Kolonel J.F. Smith-Rhodes? Using their military ranks, and in Vondalaans? Nobody used them here. The Staadt had promoted Johanna to colonel of the Army Reserve for her leadership, yes. And Heidi had been given honorary Lieutenant's rank for her part, on the proviso that one day she should go back and, of her own free will, of course, complete a little officer training. (4) Heidi had seen the little problem with this open-ended arrangement straight away. She suspected the training might last up to two years.
She carefully manipulated a parcel. Felt full. Nothing rattling. Same handwriting on both. The little detail with the spelling suggested a Vondalaans-speaker had written the address labels. There was even a little sticker from the Post Office to say the postage, in local Ankh-Morporkian stamps, was deficient by eightpence on both. The Cash Office had probably paid the deficiency to the postman.
Heidi considered, and called for a golem. She'd never seen a BOSS "care package" before. But everyone in Rimwards Howondaland had a friend of a friend who had, and things in the mail were known to go "bang" every so often. And she was a trained Assassin. Some things made her senses twang. Since I do not want to join them, they are returning the compliment? But why should Johanna get one too?
-You Called For Me, Miss Van Kruger?
"Mr Bubkis. Please carefully take these two parcels. Do not open them. Place them in the top of a fire-bucket, part-filled with send. Move the bucket to a safe isolated place, end ensure nobody goes near. Cen you do this swiftly? Thenk you."
The golem did as he was ordered.
-You Suspect Danger, Miss Van Kruger?
"Ja. En explosive or incendiary device. Please move quickly. I suspect it will only explode when opened, but I do not know for sure. If there is a timing device in there, it could go at eny time."
The golem moved with more ponderous, deceptive, speed.
Heidi breathed out, and wrote short, emergency, messages to be clacksed to Watch and Guild. Then she decided to do something different, and went to look in on the kakapo birds. The concerned Embassy was asking, after all.
As the Thieves' Guild pupils and staff assembled in the courtyard and spilling out into Upper Broadway, Emmanuelle marshalled her class of guest Assassins and counted heads. She was pleased they were all here and none had absconded to wait it out in, for instance, Tarbuck's Coffee Shop. She noted panicked-looking people streaming away from the city centre and went to speak to anyone she could stop for long enough.
She heard confused stories about a bloody golem that had gone mad, ma'am, and tried to blow up the Palace, kill the Patrician. Not that them things ain't already mad, and not that people don't try to kill Vetinari every so often, but…
Variants on this tale were repeated by several others. Emmanuelle nodded, having gleaned that the common elements were a golem, which had been involved in an explosion, at the Patrician's Palace, which was close enough to the Thieves' Guild for the bang to be heard loudly and for the windows to rattle.
"Oh, he'll get out alive, of course." her contact said. "Only man who could hide behind a corkscrew, know what I mean? Can I go now, miss… ma'am?"
Emmanuelle nearly smiled at the sudden recognition of her pregnancy bulge, and the courtesy re-appraisal of miss to ma'am. Ankh-Morporkian etiquette took the distinction seriously in its pregnant women. And of course there was no need to clarify who the he was. Vetinari, she fancied, would persuade an exploding bomb not to send any blast or fragments his way, and then walk out alive and uninjured. Quite possibly from behind a large corkscrew or a spiral staircase.
She sighed, recognising a certain itch, a pregnancy craving, perhaps. She'd have to go and see Scrote Jones soon. But even her principal lover had developed an abominable diffidence, a certain squeamishness. Faced with her visible pregnancy, he had gulped and asked if, you know, Emmie, this is right? In your condition, err, you know? She sighed, Men had no problems with the mechanics of getting you pregnant. But show them the bulge, six months on, and they started making excuses and being gentlemanly about it. Which was most assuredly not what she wanted. Pas de toute. It was like Johanna feeling she had to give up alcohol for the duration. Emmanuelle did not approve of this hair-shirt mentality towards carrying a child. There had to be some compensations, and she required a lover like Scrote Jones to provide them. The last time, Scrote's diffidence and reluctance had led to a plate-throwing row and floods of unaccountable tears. She wondered where all that had come from. Emmanuelle was not normally one to weep and sob. She decided to ask Davinia Bellamy, the nearest thing she know to an expert on these matters.
She looked Hubwards towards the Palace. A thin plume of black smoke was still rising, but dying in the winter wind. No doubt they'd find out soon…
{{THUD}}
-Stone me, bro, you nearly carked it there!
-Bloody muntered it, if y'ask me!
{{THUD}}
-Derek! Give it heaps, eh?
{{THUD}}
-Looks like Bruce has had enough, he's goin' bush! Hard yakka, eh?
{{THUD}}
-Here comes Denise, takin' time off from sitting the old hen fruit!
{{THUD}}
Heidi grinned with appreciation.
The kakapo birds were from the Foggy Islands. Ornithological opinion was divided on them. Were they a bird species poised at the very moment in evolution where they were nudging each other, looking up, and gaining a dim appreciation of what these bloody wing things were for? "Hey, neat trick! Let's see if we can do that too!"
Or, were they a bird that had simply at some stage forgotten how to fly, now confined to the ground, but with a dim awareness something was missing from their avian lives, trying to remember?
Either way, the kakopo was like an avian lemming, which would climb into a high place and then fearlessly step out, sometimes even remembering to flap its wings. The result was usually a splat or a thud. But being a careful bird, it made sure the ground under its plummet was thickly cushioned with plants, leaves, mosses and soft debris. Some advanced members of the species even wove long rope-like tendrils of a particularly springy and somewhat elastic creeper together, tied them across their breasts, and after securing the other end to a convenient branch, leapt off, and bounced rather than thudded. Another kakapo at ground level would release them from where they now hung head-down, and the whole business would begin again… (5)
And being a member of the parrot family, they were superbly equipped to offer a running commentary and squawk encouragement to each other.
Experimentation of this sort was not a good survival trait, and predatory mammals could count on a good dinner of stunned kakapo, or else harvest one tied in a bungi creeper as it plummeted to a halt. This had led to rapid dwindling of the wild population in the Foggy Islands. The Ankh-Morpork City Zoo was therefore one of several institutions around the Discworld with a captive breeding population, hoping the species would thrive in an environment without predators.
Heidi could happily have watched them all morning. The species confirmed some of her suspicions about Foggy Islanders, for one thing. But her nostrils were telling her something was going wrong somewhere. She noticed a golem keeper leaving the Aviary with some haste. She followed. Outside the smell of smoke was more obvious. She followed the burning smell, and several rapidly converging Zoo golems, to the service road behind the Zoo which was closed to the public.
Kak! Johanna is going to go Librarian! And on my watch, too!
The first thing she saw was the burning cart and a drover who was bouncing up and down in agitation.
"That's my cart! That's my livelihood!"
"Ag, man!" she shouted. "You could et least try to unhitch the bleddy horses!"
Heidi ran to assist a group of student Assassins, she recalled ones having been tasked to assist in routine chores such as unloading deliveries, who were trying to calm and release the horses.
"Too late for that!" she shouted to a student who was trying to remove the tack by conventional means whilst avoiding flailing hooves. drawing her machete. "Chop the bleddy traces off!"
Ignoring the carter who was wailing that all that tack costs money, miss, and who's going to pay for this?, Heidi leapt aside as a fear-maddened horse gratefully ran for safety. She had a glimpse of a golem catching and restraining. Feeling the fire on her face and arms, Heidi tossed a knife to one of the students. Together they cut loose the other horse, then retreated from the blaze. Golems were now industriously stamping out the fire, pulverising the cart in the process.
She took stock, pushing the useless little man out of her way. A student Assassin came out of the feed and bedding store, pitchforking a smouldering bale of hay onto the road. Golems began stamping it out. She relaxed. Maybe she could get away with reporting to Johanna that this was only a minor incident.
She turned to Senior Keeper Pontoon, one of the Zoo's human staff.
"Get a hosepipe. Get water in there. Men a pump." she ordered. She'd seen similar fires on Veldt settlements at Home. Your first thought was always for the animals. Without horses, without oxen, a Veldt farm was isolated and doomed. Heidi scanned the faces of the human and Dwarf workers who were dealing with the fire. Anyone looking shifty? Who here smokes? She recalled a couple of the student Assassins had needed a stern talking-to about cigarettes. She remembered names and House affiliations. Speak to Mr Mericet about Robertson. He's in Viper House. Got caught with a sly ciggie in the privies. Ag, they will try.
"End both those horses hev burns end scorching. Thet poor creature's tail, for instance. They require care. Whet salves end remedies do we hev? If necessary, contect Mr Folsom. Thenk you."
-We Were Unloading A Delivery Of Food And Bedding, Miss Van Kruger. It was the golem Shtetl, a long-time zookeeper.
-We Realised Something Was Wrong When The Load On The Cart Suddenly Burst Into Flame.
"Wes enybody smoking?" Heidi asked, her glare taking in Robertson of Viper House.
-No, Miss Van Kruger. The Blaze Was Spontaneous. It Began On The Cart. Young Mr Robertson Here Realised They Had Already Begun Moving Hay Bales Inside The Store. He Led The Other Students In Removing The Bales Already Unloaded, And Bringing Them Out Onto The Road. His Prompt Action Saved The Store.
Heidi nodded. She remembered the suspect packages in the mail. Was there more to this than just a careless cigarette butt?
One of the other golems was scrabbling in the ashes of a burnt-out hay bale. He picked something up, then brought it to Heidi. It took a little while for her to realise what she was looking at, then she cautiously lowered her nose to sniff. There was a familiar chemical odour behind the fire-smell. She recalled Exothermic Alchemy classes and …(6)
"Get thet in a sendbucket. Fest." she said. She added "Incendiary pipe bomb. Break open the other hay bales you were able to save, end search for those. Only golems ere to touch them. End be careful. These things will explode without warning end et a temperature thet melts iron. They leave nothing behind except esh end dust. Untraceable."
She winced. When would that bomb-disposal squad from the Guild get here? Now there was this other complication…
The first urgent clacks messages reached Johanna Smith-Rhodes. She recognised one from the Zoo and winced. Were they attacking her there, at a place that was very special to her?
"Myers. Andrews. Burkerton-Foley. Get horses. Ride to the Zoo. Suspected parcel bombs, BOSS standerd, es I hev described. Go."
The three named Assassins ran for the door.
She read another clacks. She breathed in.
"City Wetch requires Guild essistence. Suspected device et All Jolson's restaurant. Speak to Sergeant Colon or Sergeant Jolson." She named three more Assassins and senior students.
Then she turned to the third.
"Priority one. Petricien's pelace…"
They heard the explosion even indoors. The Palace wasn't that far away, in fact, practically opposite the Assassins' Guild, at the top end of Filigree Street and across the Broadways.
Johanna let the sound die, and named three more people.
"I will ettend this one myself. I think it will be prudent. The rest of you, come with me. I will edvise the porters I am moving our base to the Pelace."
"Sti-BONNS!"
"Yes, sir?" Ponder Stibbons had head the distant explosion. It was nothing, next to Ridcully's bullish roar.
"All these dam' bangs going on. Can you reassure me it's nothing to do with us in any way at all?"
"I'll find out, sir. But I fear it's connected with the raid at Trawler's last night. Somebody's planting bombs. Johanna was right."
"Hmmmph. Same people who did for young Theopracticus?"
"Very probably, sir."
"So long as it's not us. And may those people be too near one of their own bombs when it blows. Poetic justice, lad."
"I'll go and find out, sir. The direction suggested something down towards the Isle of Dogs. City centre."
With nothing more to be done at the Thieves' School, Emmanuelle marshalled her party together for the walk back round to Filigree Street. Her curiosity had been piqued, and she wanted to see what had happened at the Palace for herself. She discovered large quantities of yellow-and-black tape was being deployed by the Watch, alongside crowd control barriers, and all traffic was being diverted down Widdershins Broadway.
Some discreet rubbernecking assured her the Palace was still there. But the gardens behind were now marked with a massive black burn-scar on the grass, like an irregular star, stretching for some forty yards in every direction. Absurdly, there was a tiny patch of grass in the centre that appeared to be wholly unaffected. She could see Sam Vimes in there, looking as if he was about to explode himself, and the unmistakeable figure of Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who was surveying the evidence and speaking to what looked like a coal-mining golem. The spare figure of Lord Vetinari was nearby, looking untroubled and impassive and very much alive, despite the evidence of some shrapnel-shattered trees, and a lot of broken windows on the Rim-facing side of the building. Watchmen, Assassins and Palace Guards were very much in evidence. Emmanuelle nodded to herself, having ascertained everything she wanted to know, and reflecting that Johanna really couldn't stay away from trouble. It may do her good. Something active to divert her energies.
The Palace golem, Mr Pump, had been stained black with residues from the bomb. They were distributed over his head, shoulders, back and chest, giving him the appearance of a coal-mining unit coming up from a deep shaft at the pit. She also noted his body had been scratched, gouged even, by shrapnel, but he was still in remarkably good shape, considering he had recognised a barrel-bomb and run out into the Palace gardens, holding it above his head, where it had exploded relatively harmlessly. Only the Palace gardeners would be grieved. An old lawn had been destroyed and the crater had obliterated several paths and walkways. She wondered if golems could be retrained to do bomb disposal. It was an interesting thought. That's if I can get the idea past Adora Belle Dearheart, she thought. I really do not want a fight with her.
"So, Mr Pump. You recognised it was a device. Mixed in with the morning deliveries. You took it to where it could do no herm?"
"That Is So, Doctor Smith-Rhodes."
The golem then answered the unasked question.
"The Feel And The Smell Were Wrong. It Is What We Call Poisoned Clay. We Are Made Of Clay. We Recognise When The Very Clay Is Tainted."
Johanna let the implication sink in.
"You can tell. Instently?"
"We Have Lived Long. We Know Many Things. Golems In Agatea Passed Their Knowledge To The Rest Of Us."
Johanna thought about this too. Then she said
"Egetean fireclay is still clay. In theory, could a golem be built of this materiel?"
She realised Vetinari had stopped in mid-conversation with Sam Vimes and both were looking at her.
"It Would Be A Very Confused And Unhappy Golem. He Would Be Shunned By The Rest Of Us. And Firing The Clay Presents Technical Problems. As We Are Rational Creatures, His Chem Would Need To Be A Suicidal One Predisposing Him To Self-Immolation. But Yes, Such A Thing Is Possible."
"Perhaps a different line of philosophical investigation, Doctor Smith-Rhodes?" said Vetinari, smoothly. And firmly.
"Of course, sir. I epologise." Johanna replied. Some weapons would be forbidden even to Assassins, she knew. And it would also mean Adora Belle Dearheart coming for her to demand a few moments of her time.
"I do have to say you were here most commendably swiftly." Vetinari remarked. "I thank you."
"We must ensure there are no more surprises." Johanna said. "Sir, everything that errived here in deliveries this morning must be checked. Everything. I hev a squad with me who know what to look for."
She smiled at Sam Vimes.
"If Mr Vimes approves, we cen also deliver precticel training to members of the Wetch. I will need extra people for this tesk."
Vimes' face went deliberately unreadable. She knew about his mixed feelings concerning Assassin help offered to the watch. Baiting him was as much fun as defusing a bomb. And as potentially dangerous if you got over-confident.
"Capital idea, Doctor." Vetinari said, affably. "I believe you have people at other troublespots around the City?"
"Yes, sir. The Zoo end All Jolson's hev both reported suspect morning deliveries. And both locations have people who are on the death-list of our edvereries."
"Yes." Vetinari said, coldly. "Our adversaries. I am getting rather tired of this gang. Mr Trooper has been ordered to prepare four ropes for the happy day when we detain them. Several overseas Embassies have been informed that they may send representatives to the trial and to the hanging. But these men are now ours."
To be continued – just getting too long for one chapter!
(1) "I did not intend that." Mariella said, later. "Best you do not admit that to the boys, cherie." Emmanuelle counselled her. "They now see you as one not to be made angry. Which is good for your reputation."
(2) Emmanuelle was picking up lots of interesting Quirmian expressions from her colleague Mademoiselle Antoinette de Badin-Boucher. Seeking to educate Wayne Drooley had also educated her in the more demotic expressions. Drooley spoke surprisingly good Quirmian, albeit in the manner of one who naturally gravitated to the equivalent of street-Morporkian. M. le Balouard often set him the assignment of translating football reports in the back pages of Quirm-Match, when the rest of the class got more standard works of Quirmian Literature.
(3) rivers with less solid content overflowed. The Ankh tended to crawl, or sprawl, over its banks.
(4) The general expectation in any country was that you did the training and acquired a few basic skills before fighting in any life-or-death pitched battles. Heidi had pointed out she had got a lot of the more crucial basic training proficiencies in seven years at the Assassins' School. The Staadt had said "Yes. We know. We paid for them. Welcome to the army. In your own time, Liutnant van Kruger."
(5) Apart from the bits about bungee-jumping and squawking encouragement to each other in New Zealand accents, this is completely correct. The kakapo is a flightless parrot from New Zealand that really does exhibit these quirks. And it's endangered.
(6) Rule Of Cautious Editing judgement again. Such things can be made. I read the recipe, oddly enough, in a library book back in the 1970's, when things were possibly a tadge more relaxed. Cautious experimentation with stuff nicked from the school chemistry lab demonstrated that it works a treat…