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! EDIT: slightly. to take out a few typos and glitches, like Cheery Littlebottom beciming a "he" at one point. Cheery would approve.
All Jolson's Food Emporium, Isle of Dogs, Ankh-Morpork.
Martin ffetch-Felix (1) hummed a jolly tune as he set to work. He was thirty-two years old, had been an Army officer in several Regiments, and had survived being officered by Lord Rust and Lord Selachii. Prior to that he had survived an education at Hugglestones' Academy and officer training at the Sto Helit Military Academy. Technically he was still an officer on the rolls of the new Horse Artillery Regiment established by Lord Vetinari, with financial backing from the Duke of Ankh, which Vetinari felt filled a gap in the structure of the military establishment, and which had honed the clumsy Agatean Dog technology into something streamlined, efficient, and lethally workable. He had survived several potentially disastrous incidents, while the Artillery was on its learning curve, involving black powder, nitrocellulose, gun-cotton, and negligent storage and casual carrying of shells and fuses. In fact, he'd spent a lot of his service writing the rule-book concerning safe handling of explosives. The paradox of being an artilleryman, he explained, was that 99% of the time your attention would be taken up with ensuring the stuff was safe as a lamb and harmless as a kitten. But would do everything you wanted it to do on those 1% of occasions where you really wanted it to go off pop, in the right place, at the right time, and pointing at the right target.
Brigadier Mountjoy-Standfast, who commanded Vetinari's City regiments, had seen the advantage of ffetch-Felix taking a period of study leave. The Guild of Assassins had also noted that he had a tendency to survive the sort of tricky spots that usually resulted in a large body count.
Therefore he became one of the very small number of candidates to take a Mature Students' Course who had simply walked up to the Guild gates, asked for a word with somebody in charge, and said they wanted to take the course. You know, just for the challenge. And to find out what you know about Exothermic Alchemy. Happen to know a bit about it myself as it happens, here's my CV. Maybe we can do each other a favour here?
The Guild had commissioned the usual background checks. No murders, stylishly inventive or otherwise. Good references. Completely sane. But My Gods, he's survived some things…
With the City paying his fees, he had been accepted, and had sailed through the course, passing out as an Assassin fifteen months later. He had never inhumed anyone, and had no great plans to. But he was good with explosives….
And now he was approaching the haphazard sangar in the back alley behind All Jolson's. He whistled a cheery tune as he approached, the student Assassin who was his assistant following on with the tools.
Johanna Smith-Rhodes, a safe distance away, heard the grating whistling coming at her through the omniscope link.(2) She winced.
"Ye gods, this is a dog's breakfast!" he boomed. His loud cheerful voice echoed around the control post and could be heard by the members of the public behind the safety barriers, who had gathered to watch the street theatre.
"Never seen a sangar made of flour sacks before. Nice dry flour in fifty pound sacks. This beauty goes off pop, the first thing it will do is to tear up these sacks and disperse the flour into the air. Next thing it'll do is to ignite a lot of dry carbon-based powder that's been whipped up into an aerosol with lots of free oxygen. Big boom. And all these onions and things shooting off as vegetable shrapnel. You'd be burying me, and young Vernon here, in the same very small envelope!"
There was a pause, and in a lower voice
"Not dismayed yet, lad?"
"No, sir." The younger male voice sounded amused and alert.
"Good-oh. Stick close and watch closer? Thanks." There was another pause. "Now whoever built this sangar obviously saw one once in their life, as it conforms to the desired shape, but they never got as far as Lesson One. Totally useless. A real chocolate teapot, if you ask me."
Sergeant Precious Jolson blushed a deeper brown. Johanna smiled at her.
"It wes a good try." she said. "Remind me to show you how to do it properly, some day."
The voice boomed on.
"False protection. Backed onto a brick wall too, so if she blows, it's likely the whole side wall of this house comes down too. We need to pull it down, so we can get to the jolly little device tucked away inside. Right, young Vernon, let's begin here…"
Johanna smiled to herself. Alaistar Vernon, Mykkims House, was a calm and level-headed young man of eighteen, coming up to his Final Run. He'd volunteered for this work, and had signed the standard disclaimer to be brought out in the event of misadventure. He'd do what was asked of him whilst learning from the master.
Whilst the team dismantled the alleged sangar, Johanna allowed herself a few moments reflection on other pressing matters.
If a she, my daughter cannot be a Johanna. That honour goes to the oldest girl in each generation, and my sister Agnetha was industrious enough to produce a girl, almost ten years ago. Damn her. She is mother of this generation's Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Well, Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Majaandie.
Johanna reflected that her oldest niece was coming to the age where secondary school education needed to be decided. She recalled that Charles Smith-Rhodes, the accepted and respected head of The Wider Family, had spent time talking to Young Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Majaandie, at her wedding to Ponder. He had then mentioned, à propos of nothing, that he could make adequate funds available for educating members of The Family in Ankh-Morpork. Say if Young Johanna wanted to give the Assassins' School a go. Bound to get in. But expensive fees. Her mother, Agnetha Majaandie, Johanna remembered, had gone a little bit pale at the implications. She grinned.
Agnetha has also given our parents an Andreas and an Agnetha, Johanna reflected. So I have no obligation to name the child for my mother or my father. That is good. I like the sound of Monika. Or Famke.
"Looking at a large barrel." The omniscope reported. "Could be a twenty-pounder, if it's Fireclay. That means this street is up for urban redevelopment if we get it wrong. Well, we can shift these bloody flour sacks, laddie. One hazard out of the way."
Johanna watched the omniscope, as working hands pulled and dragged the flour and produce sacks out of harm's way. She sighed and allowed the mental reverie to run a parallel track in her mind.
Definitely not "Mustrum" for a boy. Or "Hughnon". Ponder, after his father, possibly. Baalthazar, after my clever, but rogue, uncle? She shuddered. Klarenz, my dear uncle. But he has cross eyes. Is that tempting fate? She speculated on Charles. Carl, or Karel. Kareltje. Depending on which of our names he chooses to take. Kareltje Smith-Rhodes. Carl Stibbons. She felt the baby kick. She wondered if that meant he liked or disliked the idea of being a Charles, in whatever language. Or maybe there was a Carlotta in there making her feelings known. Maybe after a dear friend. Alice? Emmanuelle? She considered the associations of both names. Was it really fair on an unborn daughter? Was it tempting fate? She ran the timeline of a daughter called Emmanuelle Smith-Rhodes forward by thirty years. Then she really winced. Mariella, for her aunt? Friejda, even, for my aunt?
"Right." said the businesslike voice. "One seemingly inert barrel. Labelled as containing anchovies. While it smells of fish, I don't believe that for one second. No proximity or pressure fuse. We can deduce that from the fact it's been rolling around on a wagon and frequently manhandled. If anything in there was motion-sensitive, we'd know about it by now. Proposing to go in through the top. Stand by."
Johanna switched her mental track to watching as the steady hands began to work the top of the barrel loose, with slow, infinite, caution. A probe was called for and was inserted underneath the lid. The hands moved it deep, with infinite care, checking the underside.
"Fuse is not attached to the lid to blow it up when opened." the voice said. "I'm pretty sure of that. Well, ninety per cent, anyway. Removing lid…"
Johanna watched, aching to be in there herself. But it was just too dangerous… then she felt a sensation of anti-climax.
The omniscope revealed a layer of packed salted fish.
"Well, we've struck anchovies." the dry voice said. "Dangerous bloody things. All that salt and oily fat isn't good for you. But probing…."
The probe was inserted into the barrel. It didn't go in too far.
"Ah-Hah!" said the voice. Hands were seen carefully lifting the fish out. The layer of fish was no more than two inches deep. Various splatting noises were heard as the filling was cast to one side. The omniscope was angled to reveal a succession of crimped metal tubes attached to a false floor.
"Clever." said the voice. "The client would open the barrel and see anchovies. But underneath those we get…"
{{miouw!}}
"Do me a favour, Vernon. Get that bloody cat out of here, would you? Thanks."
There was another pause. Johanna recognised chemical timer fuses on a long setting. Several stages had burned down. The bomb looked as if it was on its last stage.
"Possibly set for one-hour intervals." the distant voice said. "Consistent with it having been constructed last night, and placed on the produce cart in the early hours of the morning. Estimate we have thirty minutes left. Bags of time."
Johanna watched the rest. Routine now. ffetch-Felix explaining to his assistant what they were looking at and what to do with it, fending off an insistent cat looking hopefully for more anchovies, and opening the body of the bomb to remove not one but several fuses, embedded deep in the fireclay.
When he was finished, the bomb-disposal Assassin leaned back and said "All clear. The people from the cafeteria might want to come out and grab their stuff, before other people do? Right, let's get cleared up here, and grab a cup of tea. Smashing."
The Rimwards Howondaland Embassy, Scoone Avenue.
On the way back from her technical breach of apartheid law, the Princess had noted they were in an empty corridor. She had tried a door and discovered it led into an empty office. Julian found himself dragged in, with some force. A necessarily brief but mutually pleasant breach of the Racial Separation Acts then ensued.
"Better stop there, I think." Ruth said. Formal clothing was not intended to be removed quickly, and she knew they were approaching a point of no return. Seriously disordered clothing would be noticed when they returned. She smiled at Julian.
"Just making a point." she said, patting her dress down.
The Princess and her escort then moved on to the reception room where Julian noticed a clerk rushing to the Acting Ambassador with clacks flimsies. Richard whistled, then showed them to the Zulu Ambassador, who looked grave and attentive. Julian wondered what had happened. Then the Chargé d'Affaires beckoned him over.
The news was of bombs around the city and an attempted assassination on Vetinari.
"Maximum security, sir?" Julian asked. The Acting Ambassador nodded.
"Excellency, we need to confer privately." he said. The Zulu nodded sombrely. The two Ambassadors passed into a separate anteroom.
"Problems?" Ruth asked. Julian briefed her. She nodded.
"Well, I'd be surprised if they actually got Lord Vetinari". she remarked. "That man could tame honey-badgers and get them eating out of his hand."
"As opposed to their eating his hand." Julian agreed. He excused himself and addressed the undeclared Zulu officer, in isiZulu.
"Induna, the privacy of our ambassadors needs to be secured." Julian said. "This is not a task for footsoldiers. I propose we, as officers, stand either side of this door and guard their privacy to speak."
There was a moment's pause.
"I thank you for the courtesy. But I am indunala, not induna." The Zulu said, citing a lower rank.
"Major N'Seminwe. One of our military atttachés." Ruth clarified. Julian was not surprised.
The two officers took up position at the door. As Julian had suspected they could hear the distant glug of drinks being poured and the clink of glasses as top-level diplomacy happened. Soon they'd hear faint but audible voices.
The Zulu officer asked, in a low voice: "You fought the insolent Matabeles at the Tobacco Field. Alongside the Princess, honour to her blade. Twelve of them were humbled by your sword?"
Julian smiled, modestly. He wondered if Ruth had been priming her soldiers.
"Only three fell to my blade, indunula. The other nine in the arrow storm beforehand, perhaps. So many arrows were in the air, and the target so massed, that few missed."
The Zulu grinned.
"Bloody good, Smith-Rhodes!" he said, in Morporkian.
Ruth smiled inscrutably.
Near the Troll's Head. The Shades.
Even thought it was still only mid-morning, the three men moved quickly through the alleys and the narrow roads. Something had un-nerved them. A feeling they were being followed by something they hadn't been able to see or identify. And that was on top of all those bloody bombs that were going off everywhere. Nobody wanted to be around near one of those when it happened. One had blown a bloody great hole in the Palace, hadn't it? No, best get home and not shift till the emergency was over. 'Least the bloody Watch was tied up in knots over it, one less thing to worry about…
The three, denizens of the Troll's Head, possibly the roughest and most lawless boozer in the city, quickened their pace. The leader looked up, suspecting he'd seen a flash of black. He winced. Black had bad memories.
"Think they got Vetinari?" he asked, to lighten the mood. The two others considered this.
"Nah." one said, with a head-shake. "he'd have tied a gallon of paint to the bomb, talked it into redecorating a room when it went off. Not Vetinari."
He looked up. Glimpses of black, flickering from above gave him the vapours. It reminded him of that terrible night when…
They rushed on. He relaxed. Nearly home now…
Then there was a lot of black.
"Gentlemen!" a cheerful voice said. A woman's voice. A terribly familiar woman's voice.
"There is a Number Two throwing knife in my left hand. I know I can only hit one of you in the neck with it – before I have to draw my sword with my right hand. But the question is – whose neck? So I'd advise you to turn round, slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them. Thank you so much."
The voice was the relaxed voice of a woman who has everything perfectly under control and everyone where she wants them. A voice like that can afford to be friendly and relaxed.
The three men turned, hands carefully exposed and open, and witnessed the terrible sight of a very relaxed woman in black who smiled pleasantly at them.
"My name is Alice Band." she said. "You may remember me from the night some years ago where I dropped into the Troll's Head for a social drink and to ask for information. I recall you were all very forthcoming. Eventually." (3)
The three looked at each other. Then the spokesman swallowed nervously and said "What do you want to know, Miss?"
Alice smiled warmly.
"Well, to begin with, four men from Rimwards Howondaland. Hiding from the Law. Believe me, anything you can tell me is not grassing. They're responsible for the loud bangs this morning, for one thing."
Alice had to raise a hand and ask them to slow down.
"I see. Last known address is Snort Yard, just off Addle Street. Upper floor rooms rented by Mr Malalchy Purselips, a property owner known to let, for an extra consideration, to people on the run from the Watch. There is a whisper they may have moved on. But that's kosher information, that is, Miss Band, honest, and you ain't heard it from us."
Alice stepped back. She smiled again.
"Thank you for your co-operation, gentlemen. It is appreciated, and I'm sure we can agree it's better all round if offered freely. As a token of thanks I propose to leave a five-dollar note just here, where one of you can pick it up later. You can have a drink on me, which I'm sure beats broken bones, or having an arm or a leg cut off in a place where there may not be an Igor for miles around. Good morning to you!"
Alice backed off and around a corner, and was gone. The three thugs relaxed. Assassins weren't bad, if you weren't on the list and hadn't given them a reason to get annoyed. They could be generous, even.
The Zoo, mid-morning.
Johanna Smith-Rhodes glared down at the defused bombs on the desk in front of her. After concluding business at All Jolson's, she had left ffetch-Felix in charge in the city and ridden to the Zoo to answer the situation there. The Zoo was hers, after all. Her achievement, and something she took pride and ownership in. And oh, to be riding a horse, one of a diminishing few forms of exercise she had not been forbidden from. Even if she needed boosting into the saddle. The fire in the bedding store had been contained with little actual damage. The carter's injured horses had been taken to a vacant paddock where Jimmy Folsom had been called to tend to the burns. The carter himself had been sent back to the city with a Watch incident number and iconographs of the ruin of his cart, and told to start an insurance and loss of earnings claim with the Guild of Carters and Drovers. The Zoo had paid his cab fare home and would look after the horses for free as a courtesy till they were healed, here's a receipt. Heidi had paused and added, with meaning, "Now go on home, Mr Shoreditch?"
Johanna's bomb-disposal squad had made the devices safe, and their component parts were now spread over the Zoo director's desk. Sergeant Littlebottom of the Watch had attended, and was listening to the technical explanation.
"Incendiary pipe bombs." she repeated. Cheery examined the pipe, having been assured it was now safe to handle. "A length of steel pipe. Thick wall. Plugged halfway down with a copper disc. One side is filled with {{a commonly available chemical in powder form}} and the end plugged with wax. The other side is filled with {{a common liquid acid}}(4) and that end is also sealed with wax. The acid eats through the copper separator faster than it does through the steel of the tube. You can roughly time these things by the thickness of the copper seal. The moment the copper is gone and the acid drips into the powder, there is a massive release of heat energy. This sets fire to everything around it and the device is vapourised. No trace."
She grimaced and set the pipe down.
"And the parcel bombs." Cheery said. Mr von Lipwig explained to us these were missed by the Post Office search this morning, as they had been taken out of the sorting system for being insufficiently stamped. Miss Maccalariat absolutely prides herself on identifying under-stamped items, and is proud of her record for ensuring nobody gets a free ride. They were logged and re-stamped, for collection of the underpayment plus a penalty charge from the recipient. To ensure the underpayment and penalty charge were levied, a special delivery brought them out here with such other items for the Zoo as had been cleared. At no stage did they go anywhere near the checking area for suspect packages. Collecting the penalty fine took priority, according to Post Office Regulations."
"Somebody on their side hes a first-class brain." Johanna remarked. "Unfortunately for us."
She picked up a de-activated parcel bomb.
"Lucky you spotted these, Heidi". she remarked. "They'd heve spoilt the morning for somebody, otherwise."
Johanna tested the mechanism and folded back a carefully cut flap of the brown parcel paper.
"Spring-loaded." she said. "Everything kept under tension by the tightly secured wrepping paper. But the moment you open it or employ a letter-knife – beng. Just es you ere holding it in front of you."
Johanna indicated the payload, a bundle of nails wrapped round a now-inert lump of Agatean fireclay. It wasn't a large lump. But it didn't need to be. An instant-action detonator fuse had been withdrawn from the explosive block.
Cheery took more notes. She had already extensively iconographed the evidence.
"How many pipe-bombs were intercepted and made safe?" she asked.
"Only these two. One exploded on the cert. One in the bedding stores. Luckily, a young student redeemed himself by removing the burning bales. I believe there were no more than four, carefully inserted into the hey." Heidi said.
Johanna frowned. She had once spent a wholly deniable night at the Embassy, stealthily breaking into the BOSS section's offices to try to track down where the dangerous idiot Verkramp was said to be hiding his own stash of high explosives. Having evaded the night patrols with ease, she failed to locate the explosives, but had spent a profitable time using a night iconograph, with infra-octarine flash, to copy as many interesting BOSS documents as she could. These had included an agent's manual with comprehensive bomb-making instructions.
After some internal debate on the issues involved, Johanna had decided this was a case of "My country, very wrong indeed" and decided that any sense of patriotism, be hanged. She had lodged the stolen BOSS material in the Foreign Intelligence Services section of the Black Library (access restricted). This had earned her a commendation from the Dark Council.
She recalled that she had been acting on a request from her uncle, and from the Senior Defence Attaché, Kolonel Breytenbach, to practically test Embassy security. Breytenbach said he had left a sealed envelope on a desk in a given room. Her task was to evade guards primed to detect an intruder's presence, read the message in the envelope, and get out again without being detected. So no breach of trust had been involved. Well, not much. Johanna had quickly succeeded in her primary task, then she had decided to spend the rest of the night probing the defences of BOSS. This was mainly to try and locate hidden explosives, but also to break her own lifelong conditioning: a typical Rimwards Howondalandian, she recalled intense fear that having once been invited into a BOSS office, she would never be allowed to leave again, and she might disappear. Secret policemen corroded peoples' courage like that. (5)
Alice Band considered the information she'd been given. She had no personal grievance against the Howondalandians in the way Johanna did. Except for the grief they'd caused Steffi Gibbett when they'd murdered a member of her extended Thieves' Guild family. Alice was not especially close to her brothers or sister. But she'd still hurt if one were to be killed. She understood the hurt and she was doing this for her lover.
And the clients were a desperate gang, of hard men with exceptional fighting and survival skills, who'd proven ruthlessly efficient at staying alive. Not your usual street vermin, then. Same nationality as Johanna and Heidi. So they'd be hard fighters, tough, difficult to kill, and very dangerous. Alice reflected it would be possibly over-confident to go in alone. And the Guild had been ordered to share its information with other interested agencies.
She shrugged, and made her way to Pseudopolis Yard. Better get back-up. Spread a little goodwill.
At the Embassy, the Zulu delegation had left for their own base on Brookless Lane. Julian breathed a huge sigh of relief and set about reorganising his security detachment. Fortunately, some White Howondalandians, resident in Ankh-Morpork but with military experience, had volunteered to help out with security duties. With the aid of a BOSS sergeant who seemed to have his head screwed on a bit better than Verkramp, he had given them cursory security checks, revolving around checkable questions like "Former Kommando?" "Where and when did you serve?" "Who was the commanding officer?" and "Seen action?"
He had sworn in six older men…. Dear Gods. Mr van Puhler was approaching seventy. He ran a wine importers in the city. But he was sober, most of the time, and had been pathetically eager to do his bit. And only one of the six was under fifty.
Sergeant de Kock had been sympathetic.
"Bit of a Dad's Army, sir." he had said. "But never mind. We can have the old fellows sitting on the door checking security passes. Or on the gate where they just need to stand. And Mr Lutyens digging out his old uniform gives you another officer, to help organise things."
Julian nodded, and set about completing his report to go to Pratoria on the next flying carpet, or still better Pegasus.
And then Angua von Überwald turned up. He greeted her with guarded friendliness. She smiled, reassuringly. They discussed the day's events and the bombs for a while.
"The only real bother was at Jolson's". Angua said. "People allowed to go back to their homes tried to nick from the food sacks Precious had been using in place of sandbags. Well, in this city, people will pinch anything. All that flour and those onions and potatoes lying around with no obvious owner were a week's free dinners. The riot took Precious and six coppers to sort it out!"
Julian grinned.
"I hear you have a potential problem with your guard dogs?" she said, pleasantly. Need a hand?"
Julian knew Angua could be said to have an affinity with dogs. He nodded.
"We've got three or four currently orphaned puppies round the back." he said. "Their handlers were either killed or badly wounded in the attack. I'm reluctant to put them down, but it's getting to the point where there really doesn't seem to be an alternative."
"That's what Mr Vimes and the Patrician said." Angua remarked. "His Lordship asked if I could volunteer you my services to assist. And Lady Sybil said I should at least try. She's reluctant to see any animal put down if there's a chance of saving it."
Julian must have looked uncertain. Angua patted his arm.
"I think I can do this." she said. "In fact, I know."
Ten minutes later, Angua was standing outside a dog compound where four maddened and angry Ridgebacks were alternatively pacing, howling, throwing themselves at the wire fence, and issuing low blood-curdling growls of threat to anyone getting too close on the other side of the fence. It was getting too dangerous to do anything other than to feed them at long distance, and their exercise yard desperately needed cleaning up. Worst, their state of mind was beginning to infect the other dogs.
Angua watched them impassively. She stood without fear as one Ridgeback after another launched a snarling charge at the fence immediately opposite her. Sergeant de Kock watched, twirling his issue cap with fear and trepidation in front of his body.
Julian mentally compared the snarling canine maniacs in the cage to Johanna's good natured family pets. It was hard to contemplate that these were the same species. Related, even. Kaffee and Crème were from the same bloodline as some of these dogs.
Without fear, Angua walked to within two feet of the straining wire and folded her arms. Julian realised she was challenging the dogs, asserting dominance.
She allowed them to burn out their rage. Panting, the dogs formed a semi-circle, growling at her in a way that would have made a decorated combat veteran run for it. With a guilty start, Julian realised he'd been discreetly establishing his own escape route (6). There was a tree over there with lots of good hand and foot holds. Surviving would have been worth any loss of dignity. He'd been carefully edging towards it, in fact.
"What do you think, sir?" de Kock asked, agitated.
"Something's happening." Julian said. "Watch."
Without fuss and conceding nothing, Angua knelt down. In dead silence, she stared back at the dogs, moving her focus from animal to animal. Then she growled back. It was uncompromising. It had harmonics. It sounded as if she was throwing down a challenge.
De Kock said something short, sharp and very surprised in Vondalaans.
"Sir! they blinked!" he said. Julian stored up another piece of dggy lore for consideration. Apparently an angry Ridgeback on the point of going for your throat never blinked. it was unheard of. Until now.
It now sounded as if Angua was having a conversation with the alpha-dog of the small pack. She growled, grunted and snortled. The dog growled, grunted and snortled back. (7) Then she threw back her head and howled.
Sergeant de Kock had never seen a werewolf. But his genes went all the way back to Sto Kerrig, on the Central Continent. Werewolves had been known there. Some things were genetically encoded. Both he and Julian found themselves fighting an impulse to break and run like Hell, their nerve gone.
Without taking her eyes off the dogs, Angua said, as the pack went into terrified submission to their new Leader, "I believe they will be docile now. Bring food and water. Then open the cage!"
Angua made a point of feeding and watering each dog personally. They came to her quietly and respectfully. She stood back and said "Sergeant, bring four leads? I'll walk this one."
She indicated the formerly alpha-dog. It nuzzled her hand respectfully, glad of the human contact.
Three of your men can take the others. It wouldn't be a bad idea if they each walk the same dog from now on. Bond to it. While we're walking the dogs, you can have people in this cage cleaning up, as, frankly, it's a bloody disgrace. Make it fit for them to come back to. Don't worry, they'll be happy. But they need consistency and a lot of reassurance."
Julian saw the dog-walking party off, then persuaded a group of black servants to get into the dog-yard with shovels and brooms. An extra dollar each, discreetly handed over, helped him gain their co-operation. He wondered if this was the Smith-Rhodes name working its magic again. The soldiers normally mucked out the dog cages themselves, accepting the dogs had an ingrained nasty streak around black people. It wasn't part of an Embassy servant's contract, and for good reason. Ah well, he thought, wondering if he could make a valid expenses claim for the five dollars in inducements. Call it noblesse oblige. And it doesn't hurt for them to be reminded the Smith-Rhodes family are good baases.
He heard the slap of large wings in the air before he saw the Pegasus.
It was descending to the drive in front of the Embassy. Half-running to meet it, he recognised Olga Romanoff, who wasn't alone. She got off first, then reached up to her passenger, helping the well-wrapped elderly man to earth with every care and consideration. As he removed the heavy coat and blanket wraps he had been wearing, Julian recognised who the frail elderly man in his seventies was.
He yelled for the Guard to fall in on the road. He grabbed a passing Embassy clerk by the shoulder.
"Go and get the Ambassador!" he shouted. "In fact, get everyone. High-level visitor from Home!"
The clerk looked round at the old man, did a double-take, then ran for the main building.
And Julian stamped to attention in front of the Staadtspraesident of his country, the Head of State, and threw up the sharpest salute of his life.
"err… welcome to Ankh-Morpork, sir!" he said.
"Let's keep it informal, Julian." the President requested him. "I don't want too many people knowing I'm here. Vetinari, obviously. Although it's not as if he won't already know, damn him."
The old man grinned.
"Let's call this a flying visit." he said. "I want to see things on the ground here, for myself. See van der Graaf in hospital, if it can be arranged. Talk to people, after the business yesterday. Havelock. Vimes. And Downey. These your new guardsmen? Let's take a look."
The president's eye took in the dog-walkers on the other side of the Embassy grounds.
"Your guard-dogs? Seem well-behaved. You'll have to introduce me, later. I quite like dogs. I hear you had a problem with some of them?" Julian winced, remembering how well-behaved the dogs had been maybe an hour before. He hoped Angua would stick around for as long as it took.
"But you sorted it out. Then again, you're your father's son. I'd have expected nothing less."
And the president took an ad-hoc inspection of the new Embassy guard.
"You're older than me, man!" he said, pleasantly, to Private van Puhler.
"Never too old to do my bit, sir!" the over-age soldier replied, proudly.
"Appreciated." said the President. "We should sit on the stoep with a beer together, we old-timers!"
Julian had a suspicion this might happen before the old man left for Home.
The next man was Private N'Gemini. The President appeared not to notice the colour of his skin, but asked if he was the fellow who'd led the defence the other day? "Approved a bonus for you, by the way. Julian said you've got a wife at home and five children? She'll be glad of it."
And then the Acting Ambassador, and Lady Friejda, were hurrying down the steps.
"I do hope I get to meet Mrs Vinhuis." the President said, pleasantly. "Although Friejda has always been easy on a man's eye."
Alice leant on the wall and exhaled, frustrated. They'd been too late.
Yellow and black Watch tape was everywhere as officers began an intensive search. Malachy Purselips had been rousted out and was currently in the grip of Sergeant Detritus, as Sam Vimes patiently pumped him for news of his late tenants, the four men from Howondaland.
"And it never occurred to you that they might be the same four men who did the train robbery?" Vimes grated. "Murdered one of my Watchmen?"
"You don't ask these things." Purselips repeated. "I just takes the money, and facilitates rooms."
"I've got a room facilitated for you right now, Purselips!" Vimes growled. "It's underneath Pseudopolis Yard and it's got bars on a very small window. The only good thing about it is that it's rent-free. So you'd better start talking. Did you know where they went? Did you even know they'd gone?"
Purselips remained close-lips. Even when Alice took out a very sharp knife and began cleaning her fingernails with it in a very meaningful way.
"As you can see, the Guild of Assassins is also keen to find these people." Vimes remarked. And it's not to give them a handshake, offer the sherry around, and suggest they sign on the dotted line and become members. Oh, no. they've annoyed the Assassins. And if you're with-holding information, so will you!"
He noticed Purselips seemed to register this. Alice Band's full-on scowl certainly helped.
"Lord Vetinari is also taking a close personal interest after somebody tried to kill the Howondalandian Ambassador yesterday. And tried to blow him up this morning." he added. "These late tenants of yours are certainly making friends in this city. Although so long as they paid up on time, that doesn't matter to you, does it?"
Vimes paused, and added: "We do have the option of handing you over to the Palace so His Lordship's people can have a quiet word. Just between us, I suspect his people go a little bit further than the Watch are legally able, with regard to aggressive interrogation. But it's like you and your tenants' rent. Once I hand you over and get a receipt, that's not my problem, is it?"
He paused to let this sink in, and nodded to Detritus.
"Book him. Get him in a cell. The only available cells we've got have windows at street level, don't they? So if anyone wanted to keep a prisoner quiet and stop him talking, they could stroll by and fire a silenced one-shot down through the bars. Bit of a security problem, there, but I don't have the manpower to post a street guard on the off-chance. "
He shook his head.
"Take him away."
Alice Band raised an eyebrow. Vimes grinned at her.
"He'll be under full guard twenty-four and eight." he assured her. "Too important a prisoner to lose. But if he thinks he's going to be killed in his cell to stop him talking… well, imagination is a terrible thing."
Alice understood. She sheathed her knife, grateful of an excuse to stop pretending to manicure herself. It was an intimidation technique that seemed to work, when applied by a Lady Assassin who was wholly coincidentally demonstrating she kept sharp blades about her person.
"Besides, out here, where people can listen, he's going to be the tough hardcase who'll spit in a copper's eye rather than grass. He's got to be. His livelihood depends on it. But in the cells, where only we can hear, it's a different story. Always is."
And then Constable Pettibone came up to relate the neighbour's witness statement, about the removal cart that carried a small discreet address in Leastways. Being the sort of old lady who likes to know these things, especially about the undesirable rude foreigners who'd moved in next door, stinking the place out with their foreign food, she'd even memorised the cart number…
(1) He was another of those people cursed by having a name beginning with "ff". Nobody was sure where it went in the alphabet nor even how to pronounce it. "Fetch Felix" is also an in-joke that anyone who has spent time in the British armed forces will appreciate: "Felix" is the call-sign for "explosives ordnance technician". "Fetch Felix!" means "We need a bomb disposal man! And fast!"
(2) Ponder Stibbons had suggested this as a means by which the bomb-disposal person could keep in touch with a command centre and pass back pictures and a commentary which could be recorded by HEX for playback later. Johanna had added that if the transmission were to abruptly cut out at any point, at least we could then deduce what the operative had done wrong at that point, and seek not to do it in future.
(3) Unashamed plug for my taleClowning is a Serious Business, in which Alice drops in at the Troll's Head soliciting information. And gets it.
(4) what TVTropes describes as "rule of cautious editing judgement" again. Or "Do not try this at home". Cheery did correctly identify the substances, though. She's an Alchemist and has witnessed many a loud bang.
(5) Breytenbach had, at first, been pleased to see the sealed envelope was exactly where he had left it, apparently untouched. The night guards reported no intrusion. Then at breakfast, Johanna gave him an iconograph of the contents. Opening the envelope, he found she'd added her signature to the page. Her report detailed fourteen different ways in which night security could be made better.
(6) Julian Smith-Rhodes thought about this and decided that as a decorated combat veteran who'd survived two intense firefights, this time he was running for that bloody tree anyway. Regardless of who found him up there calling for help. He'd earned the right to.
(7) She was. In Basic Canine, it translated as "Master gone. We lonely and confused. No God. Nobody tell us anything. Other humans weak and scared. No Walkies. We get angry. Help us please?" to which Angua was responding "You know what I am. Bigger than dog. More vicious than Man. Do you wish to see what I can become? You know this already. You are fearful of this. You. alpha-dog. I am taking over as Prime. We can fight about this. But you will bleed and submit. This is the easy way." Angua then really growled. A Werewolf growl. It said "This is Hard Way. I will lead you. Speak to humans. BUT SUBMIT TO ME!" And then she Howled. Capital-h howling.