Nothing to it, really! 13.
Moving the story on to the conclusion with mayhem, fighting, and (no spoilers). People will get hurt. Including the good guys. No getting around this. Ground rules: condense to
Drink Rooibuis tea.
And here we are, trying to wrap up this tale in at most another two chapters and perhaps an Afterword.
The Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy, Ankh-Morpork.
Staadtspraesident van Baalsteuwel(1) and Lord Vetinari strolled together on the grass lawn, engaged in Head of State-level discussion. The only visible security was provided by Captain Julian Smith-Rhodes, who had his men posted regularly around the gardens watching for any sort of intrusion or suspicious activity in the street outside or from neighbouring gardens. The City Watch seemed to have a larger than usual presence on Scoone Avenue, too. But Julian also knew that in this unprecedented situation, Dark Clerks had been allowed access to the Embassy and were also watching from hidden and discreet locations. Liutnant Verkramp had protested volubly but had been over-ruled. Julian thought he had seen a strange glitter of something metallic up on the roof, but that had been the only visible sign of the hidden security that was also watching over the two Heads of Government.
Julian sighed, resignedly. He really needed a holiday. Leave would be nice. A couple of days at a discreet hotel in Quirm where these things are catered for, and a genial hotel manager nods and winks and guards your privacy. And because he is a man of the world, he accepts that the couple booking in as Mr and Mrs Botha are keen not to invite publicity. Not when he is White Howondalandian and she is, I cannot help but notice, black of skin. But such is not a crime in cosmopolitan Quirm, monsieur. He smiled at the thought. Himself, Ruth, a hotel suite, and discreet room service for meals…
He reflected that Johanna had invited them over to dinner again next week. They'd arrive and leave separately, and in between, share an overnight room. It was something to look forward to.
He caught a glimpse of something black over in the rose-garden. He shrugged. The two politicians were probably as safe here as anywhere, and the City had settled down again after the bombs. But he frowned, wondering where they'd attack next. And he hoped it would be over soon. This wasn't exactly ideal for Johanna right now. How far gone was she? Seven months? Eight? There was always a plus or minus factor involved in calculating these things. The baby could be early or late by a few weeks. He fervently hoped he'd get to be a godsparent to the next generation of the Smith-Rhodes family. His father, the head of the wider Smith-Rhodes dynasty, wanted to be kept informed. And even knowing his father could be a cold dispassionate uncaring bastard you wouldn't want to cross, he suspected a normal human decency and concern for a member of the Family was in there too.
Julian resumed his patrol routine, not keeping his eye off the two men he was guarding for longer than a few seconds.
Tegg's Nose Quarry ("Little Howondaland"), Wednesday afternoon.
The Assassins' Guild School maintains an extensive outdoor estate, based on and around a disused quarry some miles from the city, which it uses primarily for outdoor recreational activities and open-air education of all kinds. The Guild's running track and field sports arena is here, for pupils of an athletic disposition. The first lessons in outdoor survival are taught here, where first-year pupils learn the rudiments of putting up tents and basic camp disciplines. The quarry offers a natural training ground for mountaineering proper, as opposed to the urban discipline of edificeering. Surrounding countryside owned by the Guild is used for field-testing traps and devices of all sorts and practically schooling pupils in recognising and avoiding common pitfalls. Because Doctor Smith-Rhodes (assisted by Major ffetch-Felix) is active here in practically testing students in their understanding of Applied Exothermic Alchemy, some of those devices have a more explosive quality to them. This explains the nickname of "Little Howondaland" for the training ranges.
Mr Bradlifrudd, the Head of Physical Education, also has an interest here. As well as using the running track and field sports arena, he takes pride in the cross-country running routes he has devised for his pupils. Sometimes they overlap the zone used by Doctor Smith-Rhodes for testing her devices, and the zone used by Mr Nivor and Miss Band in teaching about traps and pitfalls. In any other school this might be considered negligent of the PE Master and a step too far, even for cross-country running. Not in the Assassins' School.
This Wednesday afternoon, a busy programme of sports education was well under way. Wednesday was Sports Afternoon in the Guild School timetable and every student in the Lower and Middle School had been vectored to a physical pursuit of one sort or another. Guild first and second teams were either competing in matches against other City schools and institutions, or else at squad practice for games to be played on Saturday afternoon. The School's population of students and a majority of the teaching staff were therefore spread far and wide over a variety of locations, from the equestrian centre at Garstairs, to the martial arts donjon at Mollymog, through various football and hockey fields around the City, edificeering in various locations, or else here at Tegg's Nose.
The third year girls had been omnibussed out to the Track and Field Centre and had passed through the usual grim ordeal of the School changing rooms. Although relatively new, Mariella Smith-Rhodes wondered about the paradox involved in deliberately constructing new buildings so that they looked shabby, worn and run-down, with showers that almost worked, with the ingrained smell of old feet and armpits seemingly worked in from Day One by a skilled, if sociopathic, alchemist who delighted in synthesising bad smells. She suspected this was somehow a deliberate choice on the part of the school management. She wondered why those who administered sporting education for school pupils felt compelled to try to make a pleasurable experience into something skewed and nightmarish. Once out there, she loved the sport itself. It was the other stuff that came with it that was hard to stomach. And in this cold country, you had to keep moving to try to maintain a semblance of bodily warmth. The sporting clothing recommended for girls didn't bother her too much. At least the shorts were baggy and allowed freedom of movement. The knee socks were a chore, especially when they got soaked through and saturated with mud. She'd finished a race in bare legs and feet before now, bundling socks and running shoes under one arm. (2) And the baggy, almost sleeveless, vest was at least baggy. Anything more figure-flattering with so many boys about – ag!
She adjusted the black and red vest with the spider-and-web house crest, for maximum bagginess, and kept herself moving, going through warm-up exercises. It was that or shiver in the Ankh-Morporkian cold which was an ongoing enemy and a subtle torture to her Howondalandian body.
Other pupils were preparing themselves for the coming ordeals in their own ways, Mariella was still puzzled that so many of them considered Wednesday afternoons to be torment. The worst of it – the deliberately primitive and horrible, horrible, changing rooms – was behind her. She was looking forward to the run, four miles on Mr Bradlifrudd's Course D. She now knew all the running routes by heart. To somebody who'd learnt to navigate the Veldt around her family farm to a radius of thirty miles and knew about locating landmarks in what other people would dismiss as featureless wilderness, this was nothing. And as for running four miles quickly…
She looked across to another runner, her dark brown skin accentuated by the white vest with the Tump House crest, of the praying mantis in green clutching a severed male head in its jaws. (3) Sissi N'Kima was also warming up.
Mariella noted, without surprise, that the grandstand overlooking the running oval was filling up. From there, the beginning and end of most cross-country runs could be watched, as could a good part of the race in between. Mr Bradlifrudd now insisted the returning runners completed a full circuit of the track as they finished, so as to make it more of a contest. (4) She suspected this was down to his wanting to show off his best runners, and make it easier for the Gamblers' Guild representatives to work the crowd. School sports did not normally attract this level of interest, but apparently with runners of international standard competing, that made it a different proposition, even getting into the back pages of the Ankh-Morpork Times under the heading Ones To Watch For The Future? She frowned. She wasn't too happy about the undeniable fact a lot of money seemed to be exchanging hands on her running prowess. Well, mine and Sissi's. Mariella was slightly discontented that Madame Deux-Epées routinely won hundreds of dollars on the Wednesday race and she, Mariella, wasn't making a penny out of it. There might be a way around this, but the plan needs to be watertight, she reminded herself. Any slip-ups would not just reflect badly on her. Johanna wouldn't be pleased either. And, ag, she'd soon have a younger relative at the school, her snotty little niece. Ag! Covertly watching Sissi, she archived thoughts of her budding rebellion, for later. (5)
And then Third Year Girls, the race that had caught everyone's attention, was almost underway as the runners were marshalled to the starting line. One full circuit of the oval, four hundred yards, to sort out the front-runners from the herd behind, then to leave the track and onto the rough ground and along Course D. Four miles and possibly thirty-five minutes later, maybe sooner, return to the track for the last lap.
Mariella Smith-Rhodes moved, without fuss, to the front of the pack mustered at the starting line, choosing a position where she could easily break out with the leading group. And after an expectant silence, the whistle blew.
"Of course, the problem Charles is facing is the succession." The President said, amiably. "Oh, he's got three sons, alright, but I think he now realises they're in the wrong order."
Vetinari nodded, listening intently. The President continued.
"The only reason you can't call the Smith-Rhodes clan nobility is that we live in a Republic, and we did away with all that knighthood-baronetcy-lordship business right at the start. No insult, Havelock."
"None taken." Lord Vetinari agreed, equitably. "And I cannot help reflecting that the Smith-Rhodes family is too capable to merit any sort of hereditary peerage. My experience of hereditary nobility is somewhat different."
"You only have a handful of them here." The President replied. "And I see you have taken care to cultivate young Johanna and make her useful to you."
"The alternative is a Johanna Smith-Rhodes who poses problems." Vetinari said. "Which I believe is the reason why she was, ah, informally exiled here in the first place."
"None of my doing, Havelock." the President said. "It was thought, at the time, that a lot of interests could be better served by placing a young lady of her particular talents and inclinations in the care of the Guild of Assassins. (6) You know, to provide her a post-graduate education, a finishing school, if you like, and round her out. And you have to say she's blossomed for it."
"She has been useful to me and an asset to this City." Vetinari agreed. "In return I have sought to steer her along new lines of philosophical inquiry and to broaden her mind. A fair and an equitable exchange."
"No doubt, Havelock. No doubt. But Charles Smith-Rhodes. He has been blessed with three sons. Who, traditionally, are the heir, the spare, and the idiot."
Vetinari listened.
"And the difficulty is that the idiot son, the one who stands to inherit, is the eldest. Who cannot be packed off easily to the Church or banking."
The president nodded.
"And the spare has no interest in politics. He is a post-graduate student in theology at Witwatersrand University. Who actively wants to enter the Church. Or a church."
"Which leaves the youngest." Vetinari remarked. "The exceedingly able and capable Julian. A remarkable young man."
The president nodded.
"So the problem is how to bypass the older two and ensure the younger brother inherits and becomes, in his time, Family head. The Smith-Rhodes."
The old president exhaled loudly.
"From my point of view, Havelock, a strong Smith-Rhodes family is good for my country. I'd like to go knowing their line of succession is assured."
Vetinari pondered this.
"At least this city is reshaping and broadening Julian's outlook on life." he said. "Which is somewhat inevitable. Being under the tutelage of Ambassador van der Graaf, for instance. And with his cousin offering him – with innocent intent, no doubt – her own input into his further education. Introductions to her friends and associates."
"Oh, yes." The president said. "Friends and associates. Hmm."
Vetinari smiled, gnomically. His intelligence service had kept him informed about Ruth N'Kweze. He saw no reason to interfere in the relationship or to do anything other than to be kept informed. The idea both amused and pleased him. It had advantages. Thirty or forty years down the line, the next head of the Family, and the Paramount Crown Princess, would, if they were wise, be formally married to other more socially suitable people. But they'd remember a time. And both would wield influence in their respective nations. It was all for the good.
"I can facilitate your seeing mr van der Graaf in hospital." Vetinari said, smoothly changing the subject. "We can, I think, do this discreetly with nobody knowing. And the sooner he is back here, the better. Perhaps we should focus on what we need to do concerning the other situation."
Excused from Wednesday afternoon sporting duties, Johanna Smith-Rhodes was finally able to make the time to see her uncle in the Lady Sybil. Having been told he'd been shot in the hip and having received conflicting reports that the damage was both more serious than seemed at first glance and at the same time was only a flesh wound, she was relieved to find Uncle Pieter sitting up in bed, a pile of despatches from the Embassy and copies of the Times at hand, drinking tea and being gallant with the nurses, who seemed to really like the old gentleman from a hot foreign country.
His private room was protected by two City Watchmen at the door – a Golem and a Dwarf – both of whom recognised Johanna and had no objections to her walking in whilst wearing obvious weaponry. They'd obviously been briefed that this Assassin, also a Watch special, was not a risk to the man they were guarding. Her Assassin escort remained outside with the guard.
Just to be sure, she glanced out of the window. Yes. Constable Downspout, a gargoyle, was perched outside.
"Commander Vimes insisted." her uncle said, from the bed. "Veracity, could you go end refill the teapot? Enother cup for my niece? Dankie."
A smiling nurse said she'd be delighted. Johanna tipped the metaphorical hat to her uncle's application of charm and persuasion. She suspected thirty years as a career diplomat taught a lot of useful skills. The nurse gone, they spoke in their native Vondalaans, as they always had when circumstances allowed.
"Usually, I'm the one who gets into trouble, uncle." she said, finding a chair and sitting down carefully. The Bump was bigger than ever now and the child was shifting inside her. She wondered, from the motion, if there was an edificeering wall in there.
Uncle Pieter shrugged.
"Well, you're excused adventures for a month or two. It had to descend on somebody. In my case as an arrow in the hip."
"But you're out of danger?"
"Igor said it had nicked a blood vessel or two, and they had to extract it with care so as not to damage the sciatic nerve. There are apparently big problems if the sciatic nerve gets interfered with. Igor said I did not want to know what the problems would be. Barring accidents, I should be out in a few days. Just as well, really. Friejda got a message in, to say the Embassy's in a flap with unexpected guests."
"Aunt Friejda will cope, though. It gives her a chance to show off her hostess skills and it keeps her busy." Johanna said.
"She thrives on it." he agreed. He looked round and frankly assessed the Bump.
"Based on the personal experience of having fathered two girls myself. I'd say you're the same shape Friejda was in when the happy day was less than a month away. What's the official estimate?"
"Officially, uncle, I'm seven months and three weeks. But when do you count it from? It's not as if somebody taps you on the shoulder one morning and says "As of this instant you're expecting. Your nine months begin here." All I know is, I started getting sick in the mornings on the school trip to Quirm, and the official count began then. But it could have been a few weeks before."
The tea arrived. Pieter gravely thanked the slightly blushing nurse. Johanna tasted it. Not just any old tea. They'd even got Rooibuis from somewhere. Veracity the nurse bustled off, looking thoroughly appreciated. Johanna smiled at her uncle.
"Does Aunt Friejda know how well you get on with the nurses?" she asked, pointedly. Uncle Pieter smiled a happy smile.
"Veracity came into a little money. She was looking to see the world and asked about our native land. I was describing to her how the Caarp country looks even in winter. Explaining that if she can put up with seventy-two hours on a long-haul carpet, it is a far nicer place to be in February than Ankh-Morpork. And we have hospitals there that pay better for good nurses. The idea interests her. Especially if she can go with a personal reference from an Ambassador she looked after in his time of need."
"Don't mention that to Doctor Lawn." Johanna warned him. "He finds it irritating when other hospitals poach staff he trains."
He smiled.
"I hear you've been busy? Our troublesome friends planting bombs?"
She took this as her cue and brought him up to date on the situation. There had been no more obvious attacks since the day of the bombs. The Watch had followed two good leads but had remained one step behind the attackers, who had melted into the ground again. She explained her own suspicions that she and her sister were being staked out as bait to draw them out. Her uncle listened, attentively.
"If I were you, I would accept the risk." he said. "Let your Guild do what it is good at, and let them do the fighting. Right now you're in no shape for a battle, and you have two other people to think of. Mariella is as safe as she can be, although I do agree it will be a happier world when these creatures are removed from it. Hopefully soon. Now you have two colleagues who are also expecting children? Tell me about them."
To lighten the mood, she spoke about Davinia and Emmanuelle. Uncle Pieter smiled slightly. Emmanuelle had once performed a small contract for the Embassy, and he held her in esteem. (7)
"And neither appears to be a target." he said. "I'm glad of that, anyway."
He would have said more, but there was a commotion in the hall. People arriving. Johanna went to see what was happening, loosening her machete in its sheath. And then her cousin Julian walked in, looking sheepish.
"Sorry about this, Johanna." he said. "Got to check the room."
He addressed the ambassador, and saluted briefly.
"Important visitors, sir. I'm requested to ask if you're well enough to receive people."
"Depends if they're more important than my niece here." Pieter replied, switching to Morporkian.
"Up to you to make that call, sir. If I were to tell you one of them is President van Baalsteuwel and another is Lord Vetinari?"
Johanna gasped. Her uncle nodded. He did not seem surprised. She remembered Friejda had sent a message about "unexpected guests".
"Wish they'd warn me when they're in town for State visits." Pieter grumbled. "But then, I'm only the bleddy Embessador. The last to know. Show them in, Julian."
With guards from four different agencies piling up at the door to the private hospital room, Johanna and Julian, who'd been excluded from the discussion, made their way through a milling throng of City Watch, Dark Clerks, Assassins and Howondalandian Embassy guards.
"That has got to be the best-guarded hospital room ever, anywhere." Julian remarked, as they sought coffee and relative sanity. They found it in a hospital canteen that seemed to serve staff and visitors alike.
She agreed.
"How did he get here so quickly end discreetly?"
"Hitched a lift with Olga Romanoff. Decided he wanted to see for himself and visit the injured." Julian replied. "When he's ready to leave, a Pegasus flies him back. Quick, covert, deniable. Gives him a chance to confer with Vetinari while he's here."
"Not exectly discreet, though. Everybody bringing their own guards."
Julian sighed.
"The Times is bound to notice. But not my problem. I was asked to bring two good men on the coach and ensure the hospital room was secure. If it isn't, I'd be very surprised."
He thought for a moment, and beckoned over a waitress. Money changed hands. A little later, a tea-trolley rattled off.
"There's about ten people standing guard on that room." he explained. "Where it only really needs two. They might as well stand down for a teabreak. They're professional enough for some to keep watch while others take five. I hope."
Johanna nodded her approval.
"Golems do not need to drink." she said. "But that cost you? I should pay."
Julian grinned.
"I'm now on an open expenses account." he explained. "The Acting Ambassador set it up for me and said in the circumstances, if there's anything I need, the Embassy will pay. And my father sent a letter with Olga. It included a banker's draft for me to draw on the Smith-Rhodes family account at the Royal Bank. He suggested when I can get leave, to take a certain interesting young lady away for a weekend somewhere."
Johanna raised an eyebrow.
"And for the Gods' sake, to be discreet about it." Julian concluded.
"Neturelly." she said. She reflected that with access to the family fortune, Julian was probably richer than she was. Although Uncle Charles would no doubt ensure he spent it wisely, which precluded gambling and Seamstresses. Not, she reflected, that her cousin was into either expensive distraction. He had Ruth, for one thing. She wondered how it worked out when two hostile Embassies tried the honey trap strategy on each other, simultaneously. It rather took the point out of it. And which side would be embarrassed more if it ever got out in the Press. Johanna fancied a deal had been drawn up between the two Ambassadors and both were tolerating, if not actively encouraging, a very unorthodox channel of communication between members of very influential families at home.
"You're very welcome to stay over on Wednesday, es usuel. If you cen get the local leave." she said. "Other guests will be present, of course."
He nodded acknowledgement.
"Wonder what they're discussing in there?" Julian said. "Ah well, ours not to ask why."
And then the nervous messenger from the Guild found Johanna, with news of an incident at the School.
The first mile of the race found a leading group of maybe six athletes breaking away from the now disregarded pack. These leading six were the ones to watch and lay discreet bets on. For now, Mariella Smith-Rhodes was content to fall back into the middle of the leading group, as had her rival Sissi N'Kimi. To conserve her strength and stamina for when it would be needed, later.
"Tripwire." said Sally Ginnel, who was leading. She made an exaggerated hop to indicate where it was. The other five followed suit.
"Pit trap." said Sissi, pointing down and to the right. The group of runners noted the suspicious patch of dead leaves and branches and skirted round it. On this stretch of the track, Assassins' School cross-country runners were expected to pay attention. Nothing was lethal and nothing seriously injured you. (Well, nothing much.) But having to climb out of a pit half-full of muddy water, if you'd been leading the race, was embarrassing. At least it was only on this stretch, three quarters of a mile or so through the designated training area for Traps and Devices.
Somewhere behind them there was an explosion and a scream. Mariella thought an unwary runner hadn't noticed the first of the tripwires, set to detonate fireworks and thunderflashes that made ear-splitting noises.
She ran on. Later in the course, she knew, would be the mud-wallow, fifty yards of glutinous mud. She suspected Mr Bradlifrudd personally tended it with barrels of water and a hose-pipe. Otherwise it would have started drying out. At least they put no devices in it. Johanna had said it was impossible to properly mud-proof them, so they worked reliably. That had been where she had stripped off sodden and useless socks and running shoes and taken the risk of going barefoot. Words had been spoken later about the immodesty of going bare-legged in an environment where there were male pupils. Mariella gathered one of the reasons for the long socks and baggy shorts was to cover up flesh not normally exposed to the male gaze. (8) She had compared this to not being able to run effectively, and taken the soaking uncomfortable socks off anyway. (9) Strangely, since she had emerged as a star athlete, nobody objected to this any more.
Again she turned a rebellious idea over in her mind and tried to make it work. The problem is, it needs Sissi to co-operate. I am not sure if she will.
The runners crested and descended a hill. This took them out of sight of the watchers in the distant grandstand. They would be out of direct sight, now, for a good half-mile. Sissi picked up the pace suddenly, breaking out of the small pack. Mariella followed, knowing the real challenge began here. Very soon they had left the other four in their wake and were running together, almost side-by-side. The path was good and well-beaten, threading through irregular depressions and hillocks on the land at the foot of the hill. The two runners made good time here, keeping each other's pace, neither wanting to be the one to make the final break, just yet. Mariella wondered if this was an informal Assassin skill, weighing up the other person carefully, trying to read their body language, seeking to anticipate their actions and how to gain the advantage when the time came. Like swordfighting.
And then something made Mariella spin and stumble, tumbling her off the running path and down a hillock into the depression at its foot. As she fell, she wondered what had grabbed her lower leg like that, as if she'd tripped on a rope or a loose root. But there are usually no traps on this stretch? she thought, with quiet outrage at the perfidy of teachers. Then she tried to roll and hit the ground in a way that caused no further damage, as she had been taught, aware only of pain in her left leg.
Preet du Plessis nearly whooped as he reloaded the crossbow. So easy! The back pages of the Times had attracted his attention. The younger Smith-Rhodes girl, the one he'd stalked in the market, was also a keen athlete and a runner who had made the papers. The newspaper had also helpfully said where she ran. He'd come out and recce'd the place and discovered there was a stretch of the running track that was not overlooked, where the runners were on their own, where a runner heading the pack would be vulnerable to attack.
He had picked his spot and waited. And sure enough, the red-haired girl and the kaffir girl had split from the pack and gone off on their own. He had thought of killing the kaffir too, on general principles, but had disciplined himself to wait for the moment. And there she had been. Red hair, pale skin, black running gear with some sort of emblem. He'd shot, seen her stumble, spin and fall. A definite hit. Now to quickly run forward and confirm the kill before the rest of the kids got there…
Reloading quickly, he got to his feet and moved forward in a wary crouch towards where he'd seen the body fall.
And then the rock hit him, accompanied by an unearthly ululating screech that made his blood run cold. He'd heard a noise like that out on the Veldt in his Army service. He saw the kaffir girl running towards him, stooping to pick up more rocks. He thought quickly. The impact on his right forearm had not been that bad, but he'd have a bruise. He pointed the crossbow quickly and cursed as his injured arm made the shot go wide, narrowly missing the screaming Zulu.
Deciding not to get embroiled here – he'd made the kill, after all – du Plessis leapt into the saddle and spurred his horse on. He felt another rock impact his back – ag! That hurt! and decided against trying to run down the bloody insolent bleck. Zulus could be tricky. He'd heard of them leaping onto horsemen from the ground and taking the fight straight to the rider. He didn't want that.
He spurred and galloped away. He was aware of the Zulu following – he knew they could keep up with a horse, at least for a while – and was relieved when he saw her give up the chase as hopeless.
But Miss bloody Johanna Smith-Rhodes was now going to see a dead sister. The noose was closing in on the one he really wanted. Let her realise that and be frightened.
Mariella took stock. Her leg was numb from mid-calf downwards. She winced as she recognised a crossbow bolt, sticking right though her leg from one side to the other. Blood was beginning to drip, although the cold meant it was not flowing as fast as it could. And the weapons issued for her personal protection were in her locker, back in the changing rooms. She'd elected not to carry throwing knives on the run as they'd slow her down as dead weight. Gritting her teeth, knowing pain would come later, she carefully removed the running shoe and the sock on the other side. Ponder had said something about a wizard called Rincewind, hadn't he. Whose weapon of last resort had been….
She carefully filled the foot of the sock with rocks and loose gravel. If anyone came looking for her, she'd have time for one good swing… look helpless and injured. Until I see a face to aim at.
It was Sissi N'kima who came to her. The rest of the race was also catching up, and was halting in some confusion.
"I chased him." The Zulu girl said, as she tended to Mariella's wound. "Fast horse. Pointless. You people run on. Fetch help."
Sissi sighed, and removed her white vest. She deftly tore it into bandages and strapped up Mariella's injured leg.
"They say to leave the arrow in place and not to try and remove it." she said, wrapping makeshift bandages around the wound. "Matron Igorina will know."
Mariella found herself going alternately hot and cold and her heart raced. Sissi smiled down at her.
"Wound-shock." she said. "Think calming thoughts."
"Thenk you." Mariella said. The Zulu girl shrugged.
"They say to look after your enemies. You never know when you will need them. And you are my enemy on the track. I want you well, to race you again."
Soon, various staff members were on the scene. Sissi explained what she had seen, noting that people were looking astonished and consternated. Bill Bradlifrudd blinked.
Then he held out his tracksuit top to her.
"Errr… you might be feeling the cold, young lady?" he asked.
Sissi looked down on herself and realised. She'd taken off her vest to rip into bandages. This would earn her marks for improvisation. The fact she hadn't been wearing anything underneath it was a courtesy detail.
"It just isn't done eround here, Sissi. I mean, they did not like it when I bared my legs!" Mariella said, from the stretcher. "But thenk you, enyway."
Johanna scowled.
"I hev hed just ebout ENOUGH of these people!" she shouted. "Now they etteck my sister. My SISTER! Whet em I going to tell our mother? Es far es I em concerned, it ends here!"
Her voice dropped to a low whisper. Some still-traumatised students at the School had seen this. It was Doctor Smith-Rhodes, very angry. So angry she wasn't shouting. "They've ettecked the Smith-Rhodes family. They ere going to regret thet. Very much so!"
Julian Smith-Rhodes nodded grim assent. It was, indeed, time to stop this. And he wanted to be in at the kill. Family pride demanded it.
(1) I know. Somewhere else I've given him a different name. This one seems to fit better, with its slightly Satanic connotations (in one of the "van Veeteren" series of police procedurals set in Holland, this is the name of a priest. It is remarked upon that a name translating into English as "son of Baal's devil" is incredibly ironic for a minister of God.) It seems just right for a septuagenarian and very tricksy politician with fifty years of political survival behind him. I just can't find the previous placeholder name – when I do I'll correct it.
(2) This was the trademark of South African middle-distance runner Zola Budd, an athlete at the heart of several controversies in the middle 1980's. Despite the international boycott on apartheid South Africa which prevented the country competing at the Olympics, Zola Budd used her entitlement to British nationality to try out for the British squad. There was no denying that she was entitled to do this, but it inspired a controversy about banned South African athletes using dual nationality to get to compete at the Olympics via the back door. Her case was taken up by the Daily Mail, a right-wing newspaper renowned for its sense of racial sensitivity (ie, it didn't have one). And then when Zola actually got to the Olympics with the British squad… look her up.
(3) People looked at this, reflected that Miss Alice Band was the Housemistress and had personally chosen the emblem, and expressed a total lack of surprise. Black Widow House – naturally – had the spider, a sleek black creature with the red hour-glass on its back. Other girls wore the raven, in black over a yellow vest, or the scorpion, in green on red. Observers noted an emerging pattern here. From a distance, the ground colours of black, white, yellow or red made it easy to observe which girls belonged to which House.
(4) Traditionally the finish of the Olympic marathon; one full circuit of the track in the main stadium.
(5) Anyone who has read Alan Sillitoe's The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner might suspect a literary allusion. You may be at least partially correct here.
(6) Shamless plug: to my story The Graduation Class, in which a naïve girl from Rimwards Howondaland ends up in the big city.
(7) Shameless plug time: see my story The Black Sheep.
(8) Pretty much mandatory for female athletes in the early days of ladies' sport.
(9) Madame Emmanuelle had tutted and said "I am instructed to punish you for immodesty, ma petite." She had then reached over, given Mariella the very lightest slap on the wrist, and said "There. Consider yourself punished."