Second Strandpiel 39
"Sumetskaya" V0.02, revised for the usual reasons. ("gingers" for "fingers". I ask you...)
The drought is apparently over. Ideas are flowing again. This may be due to the nameless pills (actually some sort of potent beta-blockers) I am currently required to consume like plain white evil-tasting Smarties. Or M&M's without benefit of chocolate. I should explore this altered state of consciousness while it lasts and conclude the last five chapters, which covered a mere 48 hours in the lives of our main characters but took eternity to write.
And by the feel of it I am wearing out yet another bloody keyboard – the letters on the most commonly used keys have almost worn off and need to be re-added in Sharpie pen, which gives a block of keys on the left an interestingly lopsided appearance. It's interesting that they're all clustered here – E,R,T,A,S,D... and my typing is also skipping letters, usually E and T. Ah well.. Another new keyboard beckons, hopefully one with indelible and indestructible lettering.
Also... to the reader who asked whether the large looming rugby player Markus Swaart, a man with great brawn and a domineering personality, is directly based on Eben Etzebeth, at all. I have to say... not consciously. But after watching the Bokkies' number four on the field (same position in the scrum as Swaart) I can see where the association comes from. As reader vtondetm kindly said when I asked for suitable Afrikaans vocabulary – this player is a Buffel, a Renosterbul and a rhinoceros bull. Dankie. It also occurs to me... Bokkies' scrum-half Faf de Klerk is comparatively tiny. (five foot eight, which is at the lower end of average sized. But he's among people like Etzebeth. Who is six foot eight and a half). You would think somebody that size has no right to be a fifteen-a-side player, that he'd be trampled on. But he is a veritable Feegle on the field. Watching him, I am thinking of my character Famke Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons, who had a very short career as a scrum half, before inconvenient Rules like "no mixed-sex teams" caught up with her. Faf de Klerk is a gender-flipped Famke.
The name Etzebeth has knowingly entered these tales... think back to the names given to Mariella's pet Ridgebacks. She did remark to Bekki that "He's difficult around new people."
I also want to write a key scene which is slightly tangential to the main themes, but which I've been promising for ages, mentioned and hinted at in other tales set chronologically later to this one, and which may well give warm fuzzies to several regular readers who've been politely asking when I'm going to get round to it. Also to catch up on other slightly neglected characters and themes. Now's as good a time as any...
The city of the Inghomyamazi, in the Zulu Empire.
The Queen-Regent-Elect of the Zulu Empire made a delighted gurgling cooing sound with no coherent words. The Heir Apparent gurgled back, delightedly, and beamed his complete happiness and delight with his world.
"I wonder what his first actual words will be." his father said. He allowed himself a moment of unaccustomed levity as he stroked his son's face.
"Repeat for me. Uncle Simbothwe is a fool and an idiot." Lord-General Denizulu said. Baby Nipho gurgled happily.
"A bit premature for all that." Ruth observed. "They say he has to be at least a year old before you get the first actual words."
"I hope I am present to hear them." Denizulu remarked.
Oh, we should have Simbothwe sorted out by then." Chakki N'Golante said, cheerfully. She was carrying the inevitable clipboard, necessary in her role of Personal Assistant To The Queen-Regent-Elect.
And, as the atmosphere was relaxed and informal, she added
"I bet you can't wait for him to be old enough for you to do the father-son stuff. You know, get him fitted out with his first assegai, so you can teach him the warrior things."
"Alongside the other boys of the same age." Denizulu replied. "The moves, the stances, the warrior-steps in the battle line of the impi. I greatly look forward to that."
Ruth smiled indulgently and switched from isiZulu to Morporkian.
"You know, back in Ankh-Morpork, Heidi tells me Danie's just as keen for Matti to be old enough to know how to catch a fifteen-a-side ball without dropping it." she remarked. "It must be a universal father thing."
"Fifteen a side. That's almost as lethal as an impi charge." Chakki agreed.
"Agreed. Have you seen the size of some of those forwards?" Ruth said. "Ah well. When he goes to the Assassins' School, he'll be in the same year as Matti Smith-Rhodes. I wonder if we can steer it so they're in the same House?"
Both considered what an interesting situation that would be. The unspoken thought was that this might not be a bad thing at all, if it could be contrived to happen.
"Anyway." Ruth said, reverting to isiZulu. "What have you got for me, Chakki?"
The clipboard was consulted.
"Reports from our advance scouts at various points on the Border say that everything is quiet. The Boers on the other side seem relaxed and aren't showing any signs of nervousness or increased activity. Yuri Khemeletsky reports that he suspects, but can't prove, they're being watched from various likely vantage points on the Boer side of the Ulunghi. He believes the people opposite have set up covert hides at various strategic locations overlooking the most likely crossing points. Yuri stresses he's not actively trying to uncover them, as he's mindful of the need not to start anything."
"Good, keep it that way." Ruth said. "I don't want a fight with Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes. And tell Yuri. Barbarossa is the sort of man who would set up very covert observation points on his border to watch our side. It's exactly the sort of thing he'd do."
"And if not him, his daughters would." Chakki remarked. "They know how to do it."
"And besides, they're a phenomenon." Ruth observed. "White cavalry in the service of the Empire. That's never been seen before and I'm just betting it's caused a stir and they want to watch, to find out what it's all about. So tell Yuri to keep it all out in the open where they can see." Ruth said, decisively. "No secrets. Maybe even put on a display for any watchers to see. I'll get messages out to the usual contacts on their side, to explain what I'm doing and why, and to remind them that that they are not the target. So what's next?"
"Speaking of white cavalry in the service of the Empire." Chakki said. She consulted her notes. "The reinforcements were collected on schedule from the port of Chirm City. You know, Rottendam. There's talk of reviving the old name for it, now it's open to deep-sea vessels again for the first time in four centuries. Marianne's travelling with them, as she's dead keen to see how her brainwave works out in practice. The reports from the convoy say everyone's fit and well, there are no losses among either people or horses, and that they are likely to be steaming into Rimwards Howondalandian waters within the next few days prior to rounding the Cape."
"Ah, the tricky bits." Ruth said.
Chakki nodded, and looked worried for an instant.
"Even in steamships, the safest route around Cape Terror is to hug the coast and stay in sight of land." she observed. "The Rimwards Howondalandians don't like that at all, and the only reason why they gave consent is because Vetinari offered them a free run at the sweet shop. You know, like pick-and-mix, where you get to the till and you can't believe how much the bag weighs?(1) Except Vetinari's offered them a full bag for free. Which demonstrates how much importance he's putting on the cavalry arriving safely."
"They will be potent in battle." Denizulu said, thoughtfully. He'd seen the Cossacks training for combat and was deeply thankful he'd be fighting on their side. The alternative did not bear thinking about. "Three full cavalry impis. And more, still arriving at Sagalo, via the other route."
"And Olga Romanoff was instructed by Vetinari to give the mission full priority." Ruth remarked. "She's detached some of her very best people with horses to travel with them, and support the convoy. Sophie, for instance. I hope she doesn't get too seasick."
"She's also rotating her Rodinian people for a few days at a time." Chakki added. "To liaise, to smooth over, and apparently to fulfil that promise the language schools make. You know, the one that goes In Three Short Weeks You Can Speak Rodinian Like A Native!"
Ruth grinned.
"Sophie's adaptable." she said. "And you can't say she isn't getting full immersion in a foreign language and culture. That usually does the trick."
"Also, she's got the best part of a thousand horses to look after." Chakki said. "Spread over quite a lot of ships, admittedly, but she's Air Watch. Word is the sailors are impressed at the way those girls can just zoom between them on broomsticks as if it's just another job. And those communicator boxes they've got are making the various Naval captains sit up and pay attention. One Witch out in front reporting on the sea ahead, or else on a ship a mile astern, and another on the Bridge relaying what she's saying to the commanding Captain. Whatever the magitek is, the Navy want it."
"To talk over a long distance, as if you were standing side by side, would be a massive advantage to a General, also." Denizulu said, thoughtfully. "Especially if the General you are fighting does not have that magic."
"That's what I like about you, husband." Ruth said. "You're adaptable and open to new ideas."
He smiled.
"You bring new ideas, wife." he said. "Good ones. Ones that work. I would be stupid not to be open of mind. And I suspect the generals serving your brother are neither adaptable nor open. Like your brother."
"The convoy." Chakki said. "We're reasonably sure it'll pass through White Howondalandian coastal waters with no opposition, but Vetinari's provided an extra insurance policy. There's going to be a Naval escort for them, a flotilla of destroyers. The ultra-modern ironclad steamships, led by the HAMMS Indisputable. Diplomatically, they're on a goodwill visit to Rimwards Howondaland and to the Zulu Empire."
"Ah, Gonne-boat diplomacy." Ruth remarked. "The new Assassin-class destroyer boats. Something the White Howondalandians can't match even with their entire Navy, and they know it. They're coming here, too. Just to remind everybody that the goodwill's conditional."
She shook her head. She also remembered how the last attempt to set up a Zulu Navy had gone. A picture of Mariella Smith-Rhodes formed in her mind. And of her friend Rivka ben-Divorah. (2)
"We can't match them either, and for now I'm not even going to try." she decided. "Let's do the possible and the achievable first."
She paused, and added
"The impossible takes longer and there are more immediate problems to solve first. Husband, what's my dear devoted brother up to right now?"
"Prince Simbothwe is still drilling and training his troops, wife." Denizulu said. "Information from inside his camp says he is gathering his forces and does not look like marching out at this moment. On the one hand, he is drilling them for war. But war in the traditional manner, as our people have known it for centuries. And all the time his resources are being consumed by the expense of housing and feeding his legions. The word is that he will march shortly after the old King departs to greet his ancestors."
"May my father have the longest possible life, then." Ruth remarked.
She snuggled Nipho and smiled happily.
"What else is on the list, Chakki?"
Her personal assistant looked slightly more uncomfortable.
"Errr... the umthakathi is outside and wishes to speak to you. You know, Nomsa Omdala? Who was present at Nipho's birth, and advised Sophie about Zulu customs?"
Ruth made a little grimace. She remembered the elderly native Witch who had, for diplomacy and custom's sake, been present at Nipho's birth. Sophie Rawlinson had done the actual birthing part, she remembered, as an insurance policy against an elderly woman in or approaching her ninth decade, whose mind tended to wander a bit. But Sophie had still needed to be told about Zulu customs, for instance of not cutting the umbilical cord with a metal blade, and somebody had needed to perform the ancient ritual over the placenta before it was buried, with reverence, at the roots of a chosen tree. Selecting the right tree had been Nomsa's part in the process. Sophie had been found a spade.
"Okay, bring her in." Ruth said, resignedly. The problem is, in this country we also have Witch-Finders. Therefore the best witches are few and far between, tend to be older women who are cunning enough to avoid detection, and are good at it. Minus points: older women are not immortal. There are few successors coming up, because of Witch-Finders.
She stood up to greet the hunched over and blanket-wrapped old lady who hobbled in. Ruth reflected that she, and nine decades worth of Witchcraft, would be gone in a few years at most, and told herself there must be a better way. Witches were valuable people.
"How may we serve you, Grandmother?" Ruth asked, politely.
The old lady made what was either the best reverential bow she could make to the woman who was soon to be Paramount Queen and Empress of the Mthwezi, or else a sort of perfunctory gesture to a girl she'd fairly recently seen screaming in labour pains and yelling horrible threats directed against her husband. Ruth sighed resignedly, realising it was the best respect she'd ever get from a Witch, including ones of her own people, and she'd better get used to it.
"You can get me a gourd of tea." the old woman said. "Keepin' me waiting out there for half an hour. Hospitality from the Royal House ain't what it used to be, young woman."
Ruth heard the sound of her husband trying to restrain a laugh. Chakki went to the door and called for tea to be brought.
"Lots of sugar." the old lady said. "Now let me have a look at the little babby boy... ah, isn't he lovely? such a sweetie! Who's a beautiful little man, then?"
Denizulu, who was trying to keep a straight face, observed that he now knew more of the nature of democracy, the strange foreign idea that all are equal.
The old lady gave him a grave stare.
"Listen to me, General. When it comes to tiny babbies, they all comes into the world the same way, through the inkhomo, and childbirth is the same for a Queen as it is for a nightsoil gatherer." she said. "That's democracy."(3)
Ruth smiled. Evidently the old lady was in one of her lucid phases, then. This was for the good. She also recalled that Nomsa, after the birth of Nipho, had looked the head Witch-Finder full in the eye, folded her arms defiantly, called him an ignorant didi amasende, and reminded him that the last time he found a Witch, that Witch had ignored the pointing bone, smacked him around the head, shouted at him, and have you got the dust out of your mouth that she made you eat? (4)
"Well. You found a Witch, sonny boy. And I tell you, I've got to this old age. What do you intend to do, tie me up and set fire to me? 'Cos I ain't scared. Too old to be scared. I reckon you're the one who's scared, though."
The Witchfinder had slunk away, publicly defeated twice in as many days by Witches he had Found. His prestige in the eyes of the people had diminished too, which in Ruth's mind was all for the good. She'd also heard her father, on hearing of this when he visited for Nipho's Naming a few days later, had laughed in appreciation and ordered the Witch-Finders: Witch, yes. But she helped deliver my Heir. Leave her alone.
No, Ruth decided, she'd earned the right to informality. She signalled for tea to be poured and for Nomsa to be served first.
"Good tea, this." Nomsa observed. She added another spoonful of sugar and stirred it in. Ruth waited, placidly. There had to be a reason for the old lady to have demanded an audience.
"Let me get to the point, young Ruth." Nomsa said. "Big things moved last night. You not having magic or muti, you'd not have been aware. But it was big."
She took another slurp of her tea.
"Ghatian? I knows you only get the best."
Ruth, who knew about dealing with Witches, smiled slightly.
"I'll have some bagged up for you to take away, Nomsa." she said. "Actually it's Ghatian Breakfast Tea. I get it through Ankh-Morpork."
"Delivered by them young women on the flyin' white horses? Thought so."
She took another long appreciative slurp.
"Where was I? Oh yes. Round about the darkest part of last night. I was still awake. Had that feelin' something was about to blow up but I wasn't too sure what. It was rainin'. Felt like the last gasp of a bigger storm goin' on somewhere else. Comin' up and over the Edge. And then somethin' else happened."
She slurped the tea again.
"Somebody, a long way over to the Turnwise in the white people's country, opened up a volcano." she said. "Well, not as such. But there was magic involved. Muti. A lot of muti. Felt it from here. Which tells me it's strong. And I spent a while tryin' to find out why. Called in a favour or two."
She noisily finished the tea, then stood up, crossed the room, and reached up, with difficulty, to touch the steel blade of Denizulu's assegai. Ruth reflected that normally this was a shocking breach of etiquette. You did not touch a warrior's spear without asking first, and if that warrior was also a General...
"Touch iron, Princess. You too, young woman. And you too, General. Best touch something of iron to the babby, too. He ain't immune. Just. Do it."
Nomsa waited for iron to be touched. Ruth, aware of a greater sense of urgency, had found a steel letter-opener on the desk. She laid it on Nipho's bare skin and closed her hand over it.
"Everyone got iron? Good. The reason for so much magic in the world during the night. THEY are walking. They are seeking to get into the world. They had a good go last night, 'cept they took on an umthakathi what sent 'em packin'. The Bisembere. The Emere. They're coming. You've got to tell them girls on the flyin' horses. They'll know what to do. They've beat 'em before."
Ruth listened intently. On top of all the rest. Supernatural attacks from the bloody Elves. At least it's the Whites' problem, if I hear correctly. So nothing to do with us. Yet. But best I pass this to Irena or Olga. One of them's going to be here by at latest tomorrow.
A little later, Nomsa left the royal residence, with a generous gift of imported tea. And a pound of imported white sugar. And a couple of blankets that Ruth had graciously said were of no immediate use to the Royal Residence. Behind her, the Queen-Regent-Elect and her innermost circle of advisors were debating whether this new complication would leak over to their side of the Border, or if it could be contained and defeated on the White side.
Wes Sandrift, the Turnwise Caarp.
Irena Politek stood in the warm scented fug of the Distillery. One of the largest and necessarily tallest buildings on the Lensen plaas, the interior space was as full of machinery and technology as could be found anywhere in industrial Ankh-Morpork. She reflected that she didn't know nearly enough about this. She drank vodka, certainly. She was vaguely aware vodka began as things that grew, usually grain or potatoes. Some sort of mysterious alchemy happened in between to turn one into the other. Having heard of and seen and most importantly smelt Nanny Ogg's still in action, she appreciated the in-between bit involved heat, water and tubes. Lots of tubes.
She had just not appreciated the sheer quantity of tubing needed to distill drinking alcohol on the grand scale, one big enough to sustain a business. There was lots of it and it glowed, with the dull muted red fire of copper.
"These are the original pot-stills." Mr George Graham said, indicating copper cauldrons that looked older and smaller than the rest. "The ones that served the Lensen family well for over a hundred years, and in fact were its entire capacity until the take-over by the Smith-Rhodes family."
He looked like a man who took enormous pride in his professional domain and derived lots of job satisfaction from it.
"With care, the old stills will be good for another century yet. In fact, when the new investment happened, these stills were left completely intact, in the exact same places they occupied in the older distillery building."
He beamed, happily.
"The new Distillery, in fact, was built around the old pre-existing stills and they have pride of place here, even though the newer pot-stills are larger, more modern, more fuel-efficient and can handle a greater volume of output."
"We also rent out still time, in season, to other smaller producers who find it's more cost-efficient to pay us to process their crop." Mariella Smith-Rhodes-Lensen said. "I saw the value of having a little surplus capacity straight away."
Irena tried to grasp the essentials. She looked up to one of the newer pot-stills, which to her mind looked like a massive kettle, with a spout that tapered up into the ceiling, feeding into other piping in the overhead space. Including the veteran stills, she could count nine of the massive pot-stills ranged around the building interior. Her Navigator, Buggy Swires, looked deeply fascinated too. Wee Archie, who'd taken the opportunity to tag along, looked like he was in Feegle Heaven. Irena kept an eye on him; he'd already had one generous glass back in Ankh-Morpork.(5)
"What powers this place?" Irena asked, fascinated. She felt the strong, fundamental, connection between a Witch and recognisable cauldrons straight away, calling to something very deep in her psyche.
"Coal." Mariella replied. "Big deposits out to the widdershins of here. It has to come out in bulk via the river system, which takes time, but there's a coaling station up on the Orange River. It travels by wagon the rest of the way. We send out a big wagon once or twice a week, depending on how busy we are." (6)
"The heat engineering built into this place during the big investment programme was state of the art, the very best money can buy." Mr Graham remarked. Irena read him as a man who was deeply appreciative of the faith placed in him to manage such an undertaking. She wondered what he'd previously had to work with, before the influx of money and new ideas had happened.
"I pride myself on running this concern in as economic and energy-efficient a way as I can manage."
"Also, I appreciate being able to bathe in reliable hot clean water." Mariella said, drily. "Made sure there's a central boilerhouse that won't break down, and does its job."
"The glassworks requires a lot of energy. More so than here, for the obvious reason." Mr Graham said. "That was a new venture, too. Mrs Lensen agreed it made more sense than buying in bottles manufactured elsewhere."
"Anything up to half of which arrived chipped or broken because of potholes." Mariella said. "Makes sense to do this on site. We also make bottles for the smaller producers nearby. And print their labels."
Irena let the Guided Tour pass on, feeling an intuition that Mariella had a favour to ask. She wondered what form it would take. She had thanked her hostess for the earlier gift of strong drink and confirmed it had all arrived safely in Ankh-Morpork. She had also explained that Sam Vimes had raised an eyebrow and had needed a diplomatic reminder about the nature of Perks. And I hear you slaughtered an ox and a couple of pigs recently?
Mariella had grinned, getting it.
"Cook made up a few yards of boerewors." she said. "Reckon I can spare one for Sir Samuel. I might find a pound or two of bacon, too. If it helps keep the Air Watch on side when I need them, and stops Olga getting a few digs about all the bottles on her desk. Tell him it's from the serial battle-starter, when you give it to him? Thanks."
Irena Politek had visited breweries in the course of Watch work. She sniffed the air, recognising the smell of hops and malting barley. Or some sort of grain, anyway.
"You're branching out into brewing beer, Mariella? That's new."
"Mr Graham thinks it's beneath his dignity." Mariella remarked. "I had to persuade him. Isn't that right, George?"
Mr Graham smiled ruefully.
"I know better than to argue with you, Mariella." he said candidly. "But it does seem to be a distraction from the core business."
"We're starting here for convenience." Mariella said. "So we can monitor the experiment, assure quality control, and get people trained up to do it properly."
She indicated the black labourers, both male and female, who were tending to the beer vats.
"Eventually, when we're sure they're properly trained, we'll be moving all this to a new location. It'll be out of Mr Graham's way then." Mariella said. She exchanged greetings with the black woman who seemed to be in charge here.
"It's like this." Mariella said. "Out in the townships, there are unlicenced bars called shebeens, that brew any old filth so long as it's got an alcohol content. You can't stop it, you can't legislate it away, you can't go in and order them to close down. Waste of breath. However, tainted alcohol kills people. It means we get scenes like yesterday, when a guy who was still half-drunk from the night before and probably couldn't see straight went for this other idiot with a panga. You read Bekki's report? Anyway, people in the townships will drink. Fact of life. They can't go into white bars to drink, where everything's licenced and regulated and the drink won't blind you. So we need to make the bars for black people better."
She nodded to the black woman, who looked back without a hint of any sort of subservience.
"Isn't that right, Zola?" she turned back to Irena. "So what I want to do is to get shebeens set up that serve good quality beers and spirits at fair prices. Well run and well managed. To drive the bad ones out of business. Through a joint company at first, with me and Horst providing the capital. Then as the Township people learn more about managing and running a business, they buy out our share."
"And this is where it begins." Irena said.
"This is where a lot of things begin." Mariella said. "I want Zola here to run the shebeens for me as she's good at it. She's here to learn everything from the ground up. The brewing side, especially."
"And while I'm here I get paid." Zola said, grinning. "Good place to be. Learning and getting a wage."
Irena looked at Zola, a middle-aged black woman with a no-nonsense look about her, and a suspicion dawned. She made a cautious Witch-bow. Zola grinned and made something that could have been taken for a bow, but very carefully.
She's also a herbalist." Mariella said, casually. "One of the native healthcare practitioners."
"Ah." Irena said. She recalled that in the Turnwise witchcraft tradition, witching and brewing beer tended to overlap. Apparently yeast had its own unique magic. She also gathered that going any deeper and saying it out loud would be unwise here, and she didn't know nearly enough.
"Is Bekki aware?" Irena asked. Bekki was not with them; Mariella explained that she had been kindly, but firmly, sent to bed for a few hours with all the immediate drama over, and a continuing quiet day at the Surgery. She had been fast asleep when Irena arrived. Irena had thought it was kinder to leave her be.
"She's making contacts, yes." Mariella replied.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Irena." Zola said, extending a hand. Irena took it.
"I hope everything works out well for you." Irena said, politely.
"And for you too. You're one of the ladies on the flying white horses who get to travel around the world?"
Zola smiled again. She gave Irena a searching long look.
"You're going to have an interesting flight very soon." she said. "To a place where the skobar people live."
Irena tried not to show puzzlement in her face and thanked her courteously.
"Now I want to show you the other thing." Mariella said, moving the tour on. "I managed to get Nadezhda and Serafima down here earlier, just briefly, but they were short on time and really needed to get airborne again, because they thought a lot of people would be getting worried. So I just loaded them up with bottles and waved them off."
They walked on. It suddenly occurred to Irena that the woman Zola had known her name, without needing to be introduced. That was interesting. So there were other witches here, but necessarily stealth ones. And she didn't know how good they were, how they were trained, how they practiced...
"Where did George wander off to? Ah well, he's got a distillery to run, he can't be everywhere. Dimitri? Come over here a moment, would you? Thanks."
The man who came over had a look of Wizard about him, Irena decided. But no magic. That was interesting. She placed him as middle twenties, academically inclined, intellectual, smart but shabby clothing, beginnings of a beard, slightly too long hair. There was an air of familiarity about him.
"Assistant distiller, on a short-term contract to work with us, came here on a reference from Olga Romanoff." Mariella said, casually. "Some bother with his residence visa having expired and not being able to go back to Witwatersrand University just yet, so he was in danger of being deported."
"That is so, madam." Dimitri said, in a very familiar sort of accent. "No university place, no job, and a very unsympathetic Bureau of the Interior hinting my time in this land was up. I explained my woes to Lady Romanoff when we met at the Zlobenian Embassy. She showed kindness and said she thought I had skills a friend might wish to employ. She made the introduction."
"Otherwise, back to Zlobenia and conscription to the Army, then the Kneck Front." Mariella said. "Which is a waste of a talent."
"Indeed, Madame Mariella."
He offered a hand to Irena.
"Dimitri Ivanovich Mendeleyev, madam."
She took it.
"Irena Yannesovna Politeka." she replied. Adding, in Rodinian, "Also from Zlobenia."
"Dimitri's responsible for the new product line."(7) Mariella explained. "Vodka. The single simplest drinking spirit that you can distil. It seems like a straightforward way of keeping the plant running at capacity, when we aren't doing too much klipdrift. Which reminds me. You're off-duty. Nadezhda and Serafima weren't. Want to try a glass and tell me what you think?"
Irena was forced to admit that Howondalandian vodka was actually quite interestingly good, if perhaps diluted a little too much, so as to suit local tastes. Only forty per cent? Nichevo.
Making small-talk over the drinks and wondering if Dimitri was interested in her at first, she was preparing a gentle rebuttal, but was deflated somewhat she she realised where his real interest was. Coming back down to earth, she paid more attention to his guarded questioning about Serafima Dospanova.
"I only got to meet her briefly, Irena Yannesovna, so I am wondering if she will return here at any point? And, err, I saw no rings on her fingers..."
Irena tried hard not to show amusement, and said yes, she's single. There's no harm in asking, but please understand we all lead busy lives and our duties take us literally all over the world. There can be no time left over for men, which does not mean that the men we meet are lacking in any way, so do not take a refusal personally.
Above all, she wondered if she ought to say anything to Serafima, and if she'd even noticed. Serafima has a follower. Well, stranger things have happened.
In a vague sort of way, she wondered where she'd fairly recently heard the word skoba before, or something like it. It rang a distant, barely-heard, bell in her mind.
Aboard the Hippocampus-class cargo vessel MV Bucephalus, somewhere in the Turnwise Sea off the coast of Howondaland.
The two witches, tired, sweaty and dishevelled, leant on the ship's rail and appreciated a rare moment of peace and freedom from work. The sea was placid now and the sky was blue. It made a big change from the night's rainstorm.
Sophie Rawlinson looked out over what she could see of the rest of the convoy, towards the recognisable coastline that had appeared. Landfall looked like a really wonderful prospect right now, after what had felt like a month at sea, first to Chirm and then out again on this far longer voyage. She had to admit it was a jolly interesting experience, but she was yearning to have real land under her feet again, and not a ship's deck.
Maybe not this land, she thought. Jolly bleak and depressing. All that orange-brown sand. They tell me this is where a desert comes to the sea, and it's called the Skeleton Coast. Well, that's me warned. Never ride a horse where there isn't any water. The sailor chaps say it gets greener and more interesting further Rimwards, where you get the Caarp Country. (8)
She accepted, with a resigned sigh, that there would be no more shore leave on this side of the Howondalandian continent. Not from any of these ships. It was down to politics, apparently. She was looking at Rimwards Howondaland, and this convoy was bound for the Zulu Empire. One of the navigating officers had explained to the witches that the unpromising desert-looking coast they'd be looking at for a few days was Numibia, miss. Capital, Windhoek. Port Smith-Rhodes (9), where we were able to drop anchor and replenish on things like water and so on, is a different case, as that's a Free State, like Zemphis. It affiliates to Rimwards Howondaland, but makes its own laws, you see. Independent.
Sophie reflected that they'd be passing by the port city of Caarp Town in a few days. Her friend Rebecka Smith-Rhodes lived nearby. Sophie sighed again. Meeting up with Bekki and catching up with news was going to have to wait.
She yawned. The sailors had been reassuring during the night and had said this wasn't bad, by storms-at-sea standards. The real storm is happening a long way further Rimwards, miss, look. If you care to look over there, you can just see the lightning on the far horizon, all those flashes down on the Rim, lighting the sky up. Provided it all stays down there, miss, we're alright. (10)
Helping the ship's crew and the concerned Cossacks to keep the horses calm had been a long exhausting duty.
But now, it was over and they could rest a while.
"Is good, Carthorse." Vasilisa Budonova said. Sophie looked at her, suspecting she was doing it deliberately. At least Vasilisa looked just as untidy, tired and dishevelled as Sophie, although the irksome thing was that she still managed to look attractively blonde and beautiful. Sophie suspected she herself just looked jolly sweaty and scruffy.
She wondered about reminding Vasilisa that her Air Watch callsign was actually Lancre Punch, and decided no, that's only drawing attention to it. It's like Robin insisting she was called Kakapo, and the way everyone else said, yes, but it's still a sort of parrot, isn't it, Parrot.
And besides, a Lancre Punch is a sort of carthorse, when you get down to brass tacks...
"Need to decide." Vasilisa said. "Were both up all night dealing with Duty. Had to fly between ships in the dark and rain, to check on other cargoes. Was tiring night."
"At least these chaps know their horses." Sophie pointed out. "They can do a lot of the work. We just take over when we're needed."
"Da." Vasilisa agreed. "Cossacks. Makes many things easier."
"Knew what to do with that foaling that happened. Mikhail picked up on the dam having a touch of eclampsia, without me needing to tell him. All I needed to do was a routine injection. That was jolly impressive."
"Mikhail." Vasilisa said, with what to Sophie's suspicious eyes looked like a knowing grin.
"Yes, Mikhail." Sophie said, with a hint of embarrassed cross-ness. Several weeks into a voyage punctuated by a lot of frankly silly male interest in me, a lot of nonsense, just because I know my horses they're queuing up to offer me marriage and a share in their horse-herds, it's getting ridiculous!, Sophie had noticed one of the Cossacks, a younger chap of about twenty, maybe nineteen, who tended to hang around wherever she was, just looking at her. At first she'd been irritable and impatient, but then she'd noticed he knew his horses, and had conceded that maybe, that was a bit of a plus point. So he'd informally started hanging around her. She had accepted this and had started noticing other things. He kept himself clean and tidy for one thing, and that big baggy tunic with the decoration did seem to suit his figure, and he was clean-shaven and hadn't started growing one of those big insanitary looking bushy beards these chaps seemed to favour. He had also kept a full head of well-tended hair, and hadn't gone for that other style a lot of these Cossack chaps seemed to think was the latest fashion. You know, shaving the head almost completely to leave only a long straggly top-knot. That might frighten the foe, but it just looked distinctly off-putting, and not the sort of chap to take to a Hunt Ball back home in the Shires. He even spoke some Morporkian, and was contributing to Sophie's growing fluency in the Rodinian language.
Vasilisa and others had vetted him, Vasilisa had suddenly become serious and said "Is from Ron Host, Lancre Punch." Sophie had gathered this was Vasilisa's own division, or tribe, or clan, or whatever it was. "Father is Hetman." Sophie had guessed this meant Colonel or at least a senior Major. Also good. He might even know how to behave at a Hunt Ball.
Mother Hen, when she'd spent a few days out here, had also asked her own questions and had said to Sophie "Good boy, good family, but remember he is going to serve Zulu Queen and when this is over, you return to Ankh-Morpork."
She'd got it. Call it a sort of holiday romance... well, practice. You know, for the real thing. Mummy was hinting that some interesting young chaps from the right families are likely to be visiting Rawlinson's End, you know, for garden parties and the big Hunt Ball, so it'd be good if you visited home more often. Best to have a trial run, in that case.
She had envied the Rodinian Air Witches here with their easy familiarity around the Cossacks. They fitted in. Sophie was painfully aware she was the foreigner here. She had watched Olga Romanoff receiving respectful bows from just about everyone; Irena Politek laughing and cracking jokes with men and women alike, ocassionally erupting into strings of ear-stinging cussing; Nadezhda Popova, who had put on an attitude that really demanded, and got, respect, who moved among Cossacks like a warrior queen combined with universal mother status among their children. Serafima Dospanova, who had spent more time with the Cossacks in the mustard-yellow coats, who were apparently her own tribe or clan or whatever. And Vasilisa, who carried her blonde beauty easily and lightly, rot her, who usually managed to trail a retinue of interested and besotted men wherever she went. Sophie thought this was for the good, as it took attention away from her.
But here, at the ship's rail...
"девушка из Ланкра, которая бьет кулаками." Vasilisa said, in Rodinian. Sophie understood, and wondered at how much of it was rubbing off on her. She also appreciated the off-hand teasing about being the Carthorse was only for when Vasilisa spoke Morporkian; in Rodinian, she was Girl Out of Lancre With Big Punch.
"Only three of us on this ship, Lancre Punch." Vasilisa said, keeping it in Rodinian. "Penguin is on the bridge with the Quirmian major, advising the Captain. I will be available for any flying if it is needed. You go to cabin and sleep."
Vasilisa looked at her with an expression of kind mischief.
"Mikhail's family have invited you to dine with them, remember? Best you're fresh for that, and get a chance to clean up and change clothes."
Sophie went, and gratefully fell into a bunk. Eventually she had a jolly odd dream about meeting a Horse Goddess called Devana. She foggily remembered this was a Cossack deity and that this was a sort of recurring dream, or at least a regular character. Hazily, she wondered if this was an actual Goddess or just something her dreaming mind was creating, then decided it was best to show some manners and treat her as if she was, just to be on the safe side. As you never knew.
Two days later, in the skies above Far Überwald.
Lieutenant Irena Politek turned ideas over in her head as Pryaniki flew steadily on, her wings beating the air with ease. The familiar vista of a Rodinian forest spread out underneath her, in the colours of late spring and early summer. It was familiar, reassuring and pleasant to look at from above.
She wondered about over-stretch, the demand on Air Watch resources caused largely by the need to have a rotating detachment out at sea supporting Sophie aboard the vital Howondalandian convoy. It was necessarily occupying time for the Rodinian officers of the Air Watch, who were each spending two or three days out there. There was no helping it: she and Olga were each part of the roster, and days off were fast becoming a fiction. Effectively it meant they were working eight-day weeks, just to provide the necessary support out there, and Olga had stressed to Vetinari they couldn't hope to do this indefinitely and cover all the other responsibilities.
"For two more weeks, Captain Romanoff." Vetinari had said, looking gravely at them. "Until the vessels dock and the cargo is unloaded. And thank you for the ongoing reports from the ships. Most enlightening."
He had raised the prospect of a new dartboard to Olga, remarking that by the time her duty was discharged, Officer Rawlinson would have spent six full weeks on this duty, He noted that far from losing any horses en route, Sophie had managed to augment the size of the herd by six or seven, having been midwife at the stall-side of a succession of foaling mares. Most impressive.
"And as a bonus, you will get another officer who is fully fluent in Rodinian." he remarked.
He had mentioned, in passing, that the duty Witches had also performed one of the primary Witch functions aboard ship, and had brought several human children into the world to Cossack wives who were taking ship alongside their husbands.
"Officer Rawlinson's tally of successful births - to human mothers – has now doubled." he remarked.
Vetinari smiled slightly.
"Which of course raises interesting questions of what to put on the birth certificates." he said, a propos of nothing. "If we have, for instance, a birth occuring in international waters, with the nearest landfall being, let us say, Ymitury. Is the child then Ymiturian? Or if their parents are from the Zlobenian Ronbas, for instance, does Zlobenia take precedence? And the birth occurring on board a vessel registered in Ankh-Morpork is also a consideration. Technically, the child was born on Ankh-Morporkian soil, or at least on an Ankh-Morporkian deck. And of course, the first actual land that child will encounter will be the Zulu Empire."
Irena reflected that Lord Vetinari really enjoyed intellectual conundrums like this. They made his day.
"I'm almost tempted to run the puzzle past Mr Slant." he remarked. "Except for the fact he would take a month to come back with a judgement, and then deliver a bill costed by the hour."
He steepled his fingers again.
"Do hint to Officer Rawlinson that I might lean on the side of generosity in recognition of her exemplary service." he said. "I understand she's had her eye on a yearling chaser colt with a good pedigree, to augment her own herd."
Olga acknowledged this, Irena suspecting a track in her mind was also calculating the wages bill: an Air Watch officer, on solid duty for six whole weeks, with regular Watch pay, overtime pay, on-call pay covering her (theoretical) sleeping hours, flight pay, hazardous conditions flying pay, or danger money, for doing things like flying between ships at night, over open sea, in the dark... then multiplying this pro-rata for all the other officers who'd rotated out there. Mr Vimes, Irena reflected, would be taking a very deep breath at the sight of the next Air Watch wage indent. If only to enable him to shout loudly at somebody. And Sophie might theoretically be able to buy her own stables, as somewhere to house that pedigree colt.
Not that she hasn't deserved it, Irena thought. Several times over.
"Thank you, sir." Olga replied. She had then remarked that supporting the mission would become harder over the next week, as from this evening, Sergeant Popova is going on overdue and well-deserved leave for a week and will be on a family holiday.
"Oh yes. Howondaland, I believe?" Vetinari had said, in the sort of voice that called for a very full reply.
Olga had sighed, and supported by Irena, had provided one. Vetinari had nodded, understanding.
"So this well-deserved time off for Sergeant Popova might well turn into something of a working holiday for her." he remarked. "I also understand you have stepped up the frequency of communication flights to the Turnwise Caarp in recent days. No doubt to provide support to Officer Smith-Rhodes."
"Yes, sir." Irena had confirmed. "Officer Smith-Rhodes came here as usual for her duty shift days on Wednesday and Thursday. By consultation with our local hosts, we are also trialling an arrangement by which her increasingly busy healthcare practice is covered while she is away. Her Steading was therefore covered by a volunteer locum, Officer Serafima Dospanova, who had elected to spend her rostered days off performing the accepted range of Witch... Healthcare Practitioner – duties."
"To stay up to date on all the fundamental Witch skills." Olga said. "It is an informal requirement for all my pilots. Including myself."
Vetinari smiled.
"I can see you have the situation in hand and there is an experienced presence there." Vetinari said. "On past form, then, the potential issue is likely to be resolved quickly and with resolution. Capital."
He had not referred to the Haartebeeste Problem again.
Irena reflected again on the over-stretch problem. Factoring in daily comms missions to Wes-Sandrift hadn't helped, and although Nadezhda would be in place, as the shipping convoy passed along the coast of the Turnwise Caarp, to be in comms range and to fly out to help, if necessary, it represented overstretch for her too.
Besides, she should have some sort of family holiday, without being overburdened with odd little time-consuming jobs.
Irena contemplated over-reach again.
They'd sent out Yulia Vizhinsky to a three-day tour on the ships, with reservations. Yulia was Rodinian, certainly. She was a Witch, definitely, but the problem with Yulia was that she had arrived late to Witchcraft, had therefore not had years of in-depth training as an apprentice, and really hadn't spent too long in everyday Steading work. That would resolve itself, with time. And she'd also learnt to ride late in life. And she didn't have the slightest trace of Cossack in her upbringing or ancestry. She'd learnt about horses out of necessity. It wasn't in-the-bone with her.
In the present, about fifteen hundred feet above a Rodinian forest, Irena regarded the second Pegasus, her wingmate, keeping station with Pryaniki.
Yulia had actually been a success aboard ship. It was down to her outgoing pleasant personality, her sense of humour, and the key fact, overlooked here by her commanding officers, that she was a musician. Yulia had brought her violin with her and had started playing some of the old songs and themes, which had made her a great big hit with everybody on board. She had put the call out among the passengers and crews for people who could play music, and had formed an impromptu Concert Party. A request for a magic carpet to be sent out meant she could take her musical group from ship to ship. After a while it hadn't mattered as much that her everyday witching skills for people and animals were minimal. Sophie had assured Olga that the Fiddler had also done her best on the general Witching side, and had learnt a few new skills.
So, a win all round, then.
Irena studied Yulia again as she kept station on her left. It was a bonus here that this was pretty much Yulia's home Oblast; one of them had to know where she was going, and could read local landmarks. Irena hadn't really come out this way before; other people had done such Pegasus flying as was thought necessary. Yulia coming from round here was the reason why she'd ended up as Irena's wingman. A Second Pilot with local knowledge. Which was useful.
Vetinari had wanted an extra Pegasus mission to go out there, to this remote Rodinian Oblast, to convey his considered thoughts on several issues to the Governor General. Apparently Governor General Yalenskoff ruled the region in the name of the Tsar, and took care to assure everybody that whenever a Tsar chose to come along and call by, he would be happy to surrender the office to the illustrious and radiant true Gods-anointed ruler of all Rodinia. Until then, he and his heirs would faithfully rule the region, on their behalf, of course. (11)
"Of course." Olga Romanoff had agreed, her face poker. "So you wish me to fly out to Count Andrei Andreyevich Yalenskoff, and make him aware your opinions on these matters?"
Vetinari steepled his fingers.
"It would be appropriate, would it not, Lady Romanoff?" he said. "Count Yalenskoff protests that because of a charter granted to his remote ancestor by the last uncontested Tsar, the House of Yalenskoff are but humble servants doing the will of the Imperial Family, and administering the region wisely and prudently, until such a time as the Tsarate is revived."
Vetinari smiled an almost serene smile.
"A situation which has complete legal validity to it." he said. "A licence to print money, and to own the printworks. In perpetuity. I agree that I could call his bluff on the exact wording of the Charter, and despatch you. I believe the Governor General knows this is a possibility, and is worried at the prospect."
Vetinari had smiled again.
"I will hold this in reserve, as a potential course of action. For the time being." he said. Olga tried not to let the relief show too much and realised this was also a message to her. If it becomes politically expedient for me to do so, your status as the oldest child of the senior branch of the House Of Romanoff can be brought to the forefront of public attention. For now it is more expedient and beneficial for the status quo for you to carry on doing what you are doing, for the benefit of this City.
But that was the unspoken bargain. Vetinari smiled slightly again.
"That's why I'm sending you, Lieutenant Politek." he said.
Irena had tried to look as poker as she could.
"The Governor-General knows I employ a Romanoff to command the Pegasus Service." he said. "Under the strict and legally binding terms of the Charter that makes him the legal ruler of Nobonivgorod and its environs, a member of the Romanoff family walking into the Winter Palace to convey my greetings could be viewed as akin to a visit from the bailiffs. Or perhaps the auditors."
He paused, possibly for dramatic effect.
"It is sufficient for him to know this. And for him to know that I know this. Which is why I'm sending Captain Romanoff's deputy to speak for me and convey my greetings. And of course the Count is also sufficiently well-informed to know Lieutenant Politek is not only of humble peasant stock, she also has rather radical political views concerning the place of the nobility in society. He will rightly perceive this as something of an insult, and, with luck and careful management, be inclined to get annoyed about it."
Irena sighed. A nice easy afternoon, then. But this was normal. Members of the nobility forced to treat a muzhik as if she were a social equal, and having no choice in the matter, could get indiscreet in their indignation, and let things slip. She was to listen carefully for the spills and report them back to Vetinari later.
And looking down over a near-infinite expanse of birch trees, with the mission complete and time in hand, Irena was inclined to use a little of that spare time to indulge a wish expressed by her Second Pilot, Officer Yulia Vizhinsky. Irena felt everyone deserved a little slack now and again, and Yulia had just reported back from a three-day posting aboard ship, only to be almost immediately despatched on a Pegasus Service mission.
Yulia had mentioned her parents had a home in a town near here, Irena. The spill words had been clear. Can we drop by?
Reasoning that there was no immediate hurry to get back to Ankh-Morpork, and that a glass of tea would be welcome, Irena had agreed. Why not?
She considered what she knew about the Nobinovgorod region as she flew. Centred on a city that had once been the rival of Imperial Blondograd, it had been the second power-base of old Rodinia. After the fall, it had gone its own way under the lazy and somewhat venal management of the House of Yalenskoff, who ruled what, if they could be bothered to do it properly, was potentially a state larger than Zlobenia and a potential rival to Mouldavia. As she understood it, the Yalenskoffs let things be and allowed a lot of self-determination to the various oblasts and okrugs and krais under their rule, so long as the tax revenues kept flowing. They had a small standing army that made them a worry to established power elsewhere on the Disc, especially as they were too far away from established Far Überwaldean authority for even Lady Margolotta to monitor. For this reason, Vetinari had wanted it to be made clear that he was watching attentively.
Geographically situated on the other side of the Hub, Nobinovgorod itself was an attractive port city on an inlet of the Widdershins Ocean, on the River Nevaneva. The wider state had an ill-defined border with the Swommi country and shaded at one extreme into the Vortex Plains, and in another into the largely unclaimed territory of "The Great Outdoors", a region which by degrees was becoming an extension of Aceria.
To Irena's mind, it was bucolic, backward, hillbilly country where people were strange.(12) To her, it made outlying parts of Lancre look like models of suburban normality.
It was all a routine flight, really. More flying hours to log and undemanding exercise for two Pegasi.
"Almost there, Red Star." Yulia reported via the Communicator. "Two minutes away from a samovar. Skripka out."
Irena acknowledged this, and then felt the slight shift and unfamiliar tug underneath her. She tensed. That did not feel good at all...
"Stand by, Skripka." she reported. Then she heard the snap and Pryaniki whinnied in alarm. This time the saddle really shifted and fell away to one side. Irena instinctively slipped her feet from stirrups that were no longer her friend, and vaulted forwards, aware she was a thousand feet up and something had gone wrong. And that she was now effectively flying a Pegasus bareback. With no parachute.
She registered the forest ending, for now, and the wide calm expanse of a big river opening up to her. Steppe plains opened up on the other bank with the odd stand of managed forestry. Down below, the riverbanks were effectively wide flat mudbanks broken by the wavering paths of streamlets and deep fissured cracks baked into sun-drying earth. She noted they were dry enough for people to walk on, but mistrusted their ability to support a Pegasus in an emergency landing.
"Skripka to Red Star. Reporting that your tack has failed. It looks as if the main cinch and girth straps have gone, and your saddle is still attached, but falling to your port side and potentially fouling the left wing." Yulia reported.
Irena acknowledged, aware Pryaniki was now favouring her starboard wing and her flight was pulling her to the left. Buggy Swires, her Navigator, excused himself and scrambled over her to check the damage.
With a red flush of shame beginning, Irena reflected that Pryaniki's tack was almost as old as the Pegasus herself, and she'd noticed wear and tear on the leatherwork and the buckles. It had just continually slipped her mind to actually do anything about it, and while leather was long-lasting, fifteen years of continual use was probably asking too much of it...
She saw the town underneath her. Fortuitously, it was on her port side and fell in with Pryaniki's tendency to steer left, her left wing slightly impeded by the rogue saddle and tack.
Even while focusing on losing height quickly and safely and making a safe landing, she registered it was quite an attractive looking place. A well-kept prosperous looking town. An edge. Where forest met plain, land met water, sterile mudflats shaded into cultivated land. A place of edges.
She was also aware of lots of fascinated-looking people stopping what they were doing and looking up at her. She also noted they were standing on a large open grassy meadow. A perfect place to land. Khoroscho.
"Red Star? We can land on the field. I think it's best you go first." Yulia prompted her. Irena acknowledged, and focused on her landing, which wasn't going to be elegant at all. She hoped people would have the sense to get out of the way. She hoped she had the sense herself to trust Pryaniki to manage the landing in her own way... she wrapped her arms firmly round her mount's neck and tried to communicate It's down to you now, old friend.
A minute or so later, Irena slid inelegantly to the blessed green grass, lying on her back to get her breath back, the smell of early summer grass and earth and meadow wildflowers in her nostrils, and marvelling that she'd got down in one piece.
Prayaniki anxiously nuzzled her face, and she expressed her thanks to her mount. Forcing herself to sit up, she was aware of a circle of interested and anxious faces. She sighed.
Well, they'll certainly remember that landing and dismount...
Knowing she was currently in the altered state of consciousness that settles on every pilot who has survived a landing that could have been so much worse, she ran a finger round her neck underneath her blood-red pilot's scarf, and brought out the Sacred Potato of Epidity. Feeling as if generations of Witches were scowling at her for being soft, and generations of Communists were denouncing her for backsliding into the opium of religion and therefore being a bourgeois revisionist, and caring about neither opinion, she spoke a short prayer of thanks. It never hurt, she told herself, and you never knew.
She looked up, and realised a lot of the men in her audience were actually shirtless. And pleasant to look at. She smiled. There had to be some compensations for a bad landing. One or two of them, and a few of the women present, had actually joined in with the prayer of thanks and were signing themselves with the Threefold Seal of the Great God Epidity. This was a complicated gesture that necessarily could not be rushed and took some time.
"Amen." Yulia Vizhinsky said, rushing over. Irena realised the second Pegasus had landed, and she'd simply not noticed.
"I saw you fall off." Yulia said, anxious. "You're not hurt? Let me help you..."
Yulia helped her to her feet. Together, they checked the damage.
"Cinch and girth both blew out." Yulia said, as they surveyed the damage. "Until it's fixed, you're either flying bareback, or you're not going anywhere at all."
They contemplated the tangled mess of Irena's tack together. The crowd, keeping a respectful distance, were also watching gravely and chattering at the exciting thing.
"I don't suppose there's a Clacks near here?" Irena asked.
Yulia shook her head.
"The nearest tower is fifty miles away." she said. "It's a bit remote out here."
One of the older men tentatively approached and held out a flask. Yulia beamed.
"Thank you, Anton Klimentivich." she said. "But offer it to Lieutenant Politeka first? Thank you."
Irena gratefully accepted an emergency restorative. Then she looked at the shirtless men again. They were definitely pleasing to the eye. Yulia took the vodka flask from her, and took a restorative nip herself. Irena noted the metal was ornately and attractively engraved, decorated by somebody with a good eye for this sort of work. But, she conceded, not nearly as pleasing to the eye as other things.
Yulia wiped the neck of the flask, replaced the cap, and handed it back, with thanks. Then she said, thoughtfully, "Irena Yannesovna, we need to see about repairs to your tack. Ones that will at least hold everything together, until we return to Ankh-Morpork."
She looked around her.
"I believe I know the man."
She addressed one of the shirtless men.
"Vitali Antonovich?" she said. "We need your help."
He was possibly about forty, Irena thought. He looked younger. He had well-kept brown-blond hair and a very neatly trimmed beard, close-cropped to his face. His strong, intelligent, attractive, face. And his body... no spare fat, well-muscled, broad at the shoulder, narrow at the hip...
Irena shook the inconvenient and, as she firmly told herself, inessential, thoughts out of her mind, and let Yulia introduce her. When Vitali Antonovich smiled at her and introduced herself, she had to double down on inessential thoughts, Irena Yannesovna!
"We all saw you coming down to land, Lieutenant Irena Yannesovna." he said. "Everyone was surprised and relieved you managed your landing with no injury. You must be a very good pilot?"
Irena felt the beginnings of a preen, and controlled herself. She remembered she'd just fallen off a Pegasus and landed flat on her arse in front of this man. It can't have looked good...
He took her hand, an everyday social politeness, she reminded herself. It felt like a lot more. She reminded herself of inessential thoughts! again, wondering why she had to keep repeating it in her mind. And why part of her mind didn't believe it for one second.
"Among other things, Vitali is a leatherworker." Yulia said. "I believe he can repair your tack."
"I've hardly ever met this sort of horse before. Not from this close to, anyway." Vitali admitted, running an experienced eye over Pryaniki. "I've certainly never fixed the tack for one. But the principles will be the same."
He smiled at Irena again.
"Lieutenant Irena, could you lead her to my workshop?" he asked. "Just give me a moment to put my tunic on..."
Irena admitted to an instant of disappointment as that interesting bare torso was covered up. Watching him don his gymnastiorka tunic, she also realised he was still as good-looking dressed. She stored the interesting thought for attention later, assuming the adrenaline rush of the near-crash had affected her senses and made her light-headed, or something. Definite giddiness. Which is not me.
"Were we interrupting anything when we landed?" Irena asked as they walked into the town, leading their Pegasi.
Vitali laughed.
"Not at all. Lieutenant Irena." he said. "Just playing, and dancing the steps of the Sumetskaya."(13)
"That's a sort of mock-fight." Yulia explained. "Usually accompanied by music."
"Yulia plays for us, when she visits." Vitali explained. "She's good."
"Nice to watch." Yulia admitted. "Sometimes you don't mind if there's no performance fee."
She grinned at Irena. Irena sensed something knowing in the grin. It made her feel distinctly uncomfortable.
They arrived at a large prosperous-looking isba, with a fenced-off courtyard. Something about it said Village Smithy to Irena. The sign of a horseshoe hung over the door. This prodded a memory for Irena, and she looked at Vitali again. Then back to the horseshoe. She put the two together, and liked what she was thinking.
"You can tether the horses in the yard." Vitali said. "Lieutenant Irena, if you strip the tack off and remove the saddle and the panniers, we can take it into the workshop and I can see where I need to do the repairs?"
Vitali smiled a big "All's well with the world" smile.
"I'll get Alina to make some tea while you do that. Won't be long."
He turned and walked into the house.
Alina's evidently his wife. Silly of me to think otherwise, really. A man like that is never single and available. Ah well... She wondered why she felt so disappointed.
Yulia frowned, registering Irena's bubble bursting. They worked on stripping off the tack together, checking to see if Pryaniki had suffered any injuries.
"Irena Yannesovna, Alina is his daughter." Yulia said, clarifying. "She has a sister, Larisa."
She smiled at Irena.
"Vitali Antonovich is a widower." she said, in a low voice. "The girls' mother sadly died six years ago. May I speak frankly to you? He is perhaps at a stage now where he grieves less, and may be open to the idea of somebody new."
Irena caught the spill words. You could do worse. Do you wish to be single for ever?
"Thank you." she said.
The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly. Irena asked about Vitali's livelihood as a worker. He shrugged as he measured and cut and drew templates of parts and straps.
"Blacksmith, mainly." he said. "Also leatherwork, whitesmithing, general repairs, and I like to do ornamental work, the small fine delicate things. But mainly blacksmithing. Hence the sign of the skobari over the door."
"The skobar." Irena said, mainly to herself.
"Da. To people from the city, we in Pskov are the skobari, for some reason." He grinned that wonderful grin again. "I assume they mean it in a derogatory way, calling us country bumpkins and yokels."
Irena sipped her tea, trying to disguise rising excitement at the way all the pieces were fitting together. Yulia Vizhinsky, sitting opposite her in the workroom, was looking quietly impassive.
Irena tried to force her mind back to the practical.
"How long will this take?" she asked, politely. "Not that I'm rushing you, but..."
"You need to return to Ankh-Morpork, or people will worry." Vitali said, understanding. "I believe I can complete a temporary repair in two hours. Frankly, the leatherwork is dangerously worn in several places, and some of the metalwork is showing signs of fatigue. I imagine up in the air, everything must hold together against stresses, or else another incident like today might happen. So I need to take my time, Lieutenant Irena."
"I have an idea, Irena Yannesovna." Yulia said, finishing her tea. She thanked the girl Alina, who was quietly watching. It was hard to tell what she was thinking, watching her father making smalltalk with a lady visitor. You couldn't get if the girl was approving, or felt threatened, or was simply accepting it as one of those things.
"If I go airborne and ascend to maybe six angels. I believe then that a direct communicator signal might travel to Ankh-Morpork. If I can establish contact, I can explain there's been an emergency and a forced landing due to equipment failure, we and the Pegasi are both safe, but our return will be delayed. Just so that people know?"
She stood up.
"If that fails, I can go to the nearest clacks tower and send a message from there."
She put on her flying helmet. Irena read the spill-words.
It doesn't need me. I'm the gooseberry. And have you noticed, he's taking his time, so he can talk to you while he works?
On her way out, Yulia nodded down at the two Flight-Feegle, silent witnesses to events, and said, in a suddenly authoritative voice,
"You two. You will come with me. Now."
Irena gloomily reflected that she needed a prompt from a girl fifteen years younger than her, when it came to romance. Well, possible romance. Let's not get carried away here... She had a distinct feeling that Yulia wasn't going to hurry back. The reason for visiting here was that her parents lived in this town, didn't they? Irena tried to remember. Her father had a business making musical instruments in the City. Was this a holiday dacha for them, or a permanent residence? Either way, Yulia was a better witch than she seemed, at first acquaintance. She seemed to know a lot of people in this village, well, small town, what was it called again, Pskov....
She settled down to appreciating an unexpectedly interesting day. Yulia was right. And so was Vitali. Why hurry things? Let us see where this goes.
To be continued. Look up the Otava Yo version of a traditional song, Sumetskaya, available on You Tube, and you will get the visuals that go with the theme of this bit of the story. It's a delight.
(1) Both former Assassin students in the room remembered Viani's sweet-shop, and that after a couple of expensive early fails at the pick 'em and mix'em self-serve section, they had learnt not to let their enthusiasm run away with them, and how to more accurately estimate what the bag weighed.
(2) Now go to my tale Gap Year Adventures, in which the then Zulu Navy gets scuppered.
(3) I did it. I found a legitimate, in-context, use for the word. I thought I would!
(4) Sophie again. See Strandpiel Book One.
(5) It had delayed her flight out; Olga had permitted Sergeant Wee Mad Arthur to gather all the Feegle together for an extraordinary parade. She had brought out the specially commissioned Feegle-sized glasses, counted heads, and ordered them filled, then explained why. After explaining about Wee Archie's act of heroism that went above and beyond the call of duty, and formally welcoming Grindguts as an Air Watch member, she had permitted them to drink a celebratory toast. Wee Mad Arthur had then taken charge of the unexpired part of the bottle and locked it up, pointing out that "have ye nae seen the size of the Green Yin? Aye weel, I reckon I has a dependable Provost in him, who will assist wi' the disciplinary issues, where called for." Irena, who was to take Wee Archie and Grindguts back to Howondaland, had gone along with this. She was also relieved that one glass of vodka had not appeared to effect them overmuch.
(6) In an earlier tale I made the assumption that South Africa is fuel-poor and any Discworld analogue would have to buy in its coal from places like Ankh-Morpork. Piss-poor research. Just discovered that the nation is in fact a net coal exporter and has the largest deposits in Africa. The twist for these tales is that most of it appears to be concentrated in the north and east of the country; the Western Cape doesn't appear to have much coal-mining. I've therefore had to fudge things a bit and locate the nearest coal deposits in either the Turnwise or Hubwards Caarp to somewhere where Mariella can reasonably access them, to power her business. (Improvising a river network for transporting it was a fudge, too – I'm sure it happens, especially in a nation with legendarily bad roads, but this needs further research)
(7) D.I. Mendeleyev, or Mendeleev, on our world, is best remembered outside Russia for the periodic table, the simple-seeming yet elegant way of categorising all chemical elements in relation to each other. What isn't so widely known is that he did this as a sideline: his principal interest in chemistry was distillation, especially distillation of alcohols from grain spirit and plant matter. He revolutionised vodka production, for instance, by devising the Russian Standard for grain spirit: he moved away from the unreliable and inconsistent proofing system to determine alcoholic strength, and pioneered Alcohol By Volume for drinkable spirits. That 40% we see on the label is down to Mendeleyev: 40% alcohol mixed into 60% water, invariable, precisely measured and unchanging. On the Discworld, an unemployed university postgrad or possibly doctor of chemistry, with expertise in distilling, would be of great interest to somebody like Mariella.
(8) Namibia, on our world, formerly German South-West Africa and then an administered territory of the Republic of South Africa, which became independent of the RSA in 1990. The Skeleton Coast is not a place to be shipwrecked on.
(9) Port Smith-Rhodes is one of those places, an anomaly. Mentioned in other stories, it began as a Fort, representing the furthest reach Hubwards of Rimwards Howondaland, but international pressure forced RH to demilitarize and cede control. Renamed as a Port, it now represents a free city-state and a strategic location where the nations of Central Howondaland and Rimwards Klatch have an outlet to the sea and therefore the world. It also offers a good place where a convoy of ships on a long voyage may, for a price, spend a couple of days replenishing essential stores and supplies, and offering shore leave to crews and passengers. Nominally ruled by a City Council, the more thoughtful visitor might reflect for a moment on how it got its name and why only the initial letter F was changed to a P when it became a city-state.
(10) As the sailor reassured them, St Onan's Fire had begun glowing around the top of the mast in octarine and electric-blue, and there had been a sudden short shower of tinned pilchards. The sailor had beamed in happiness. "Oh good, you've got to mind where you stand, miss, but this is always welcome. Varies the rations, see?" Sophie and Vasilisa had registered there was magic in the air, but were too preoccupied with dealing with horses and Cossacks to wonder what it meant.
(11) Full name: The Chartered General Governate of the Nobinovgorod, Tver, and Vitebsk Oblasts, incorporating the lesser oblasts and okrugs of Velikaya Luki, Slutski, Viborgya, and the Krai of Pskov.
(12) Irena is voicing what I understand to be the prejudice of people who pride themselves that they are from more sophisticated parts of Russia, when they contemplate the more bucolic rural hinterlands around places like Novgorod and St Petersburg, in much the same way Americans contemplate Arkansas and the Ozarks, or British people think of Norfolk and the West Country.
(13) For more on the Sumetskaya, the mock-fight set to music, look up Russian folkies Otava Yo and Сумецкая (русские частушки под драку), which sets the play-fighting to music in a place not unlike this isolated village, fifty miles from the nearest clacks tower. Shirtless men figure, while the model for my Witch, violinist Yulia Usova, has a suitably beatific smile on her face.
Notes Dump:
Items which may lead you into a Vision Quest to explore other tales.
Research done in this chapter: coal production in South Africa and underlying geological strata and wossnames such as the Dwyka Levels. What the Namibian Coast looks like from the PoV of passing ships. And then more about Namibia itself and wondering what the Hells to call it on the Discworld. All I previously knew for story-writing purposes is that Johanna Smith-Rhodes nearly came to grief in its deep desert, in her younger and more adventurous days. (It's in a tale somewhere.) Stuff about the status of witchcraft in Zulu society, its historical context, and the precise difference between an Isangoma and an Umthakathi. Also more on the history and practice of local administration in Russia - when is an oblast not an oblast, sort of thing.
Watching lots of videos of the Springboks rugby side in action, so as to answer a reader question or two.
Do. Not. Remove. The. Golden. Eye. From. The. Un-naturally. Large. Holy. Woman's. Skeleton.
Please.
Dor the significance of the above, go to "Facebook Shorts Written For The Times", where I copy over Discworld-related shorts I contribute to an FB page.