The Price of Flight – part three
V.02: minor corrections and revisions. We're back… this one has been gestating for quite some time and feels like a logical direction to take, given the way the Air Service has been developing and evolving in the course of the tales so far and given that, In-Universe, at this point in the tale it's been growing for the best part of two decades. We've established that Vetinari's long-term plan is to have something like an Air Force to mesh with his New Model Army and the resurgent Navy. And that the growing Air Arm isn't completely part of the City Watch, despite the fact all pilots have to be Watchmen. What would happen if the Service is ever put to the ultimate test? And one form of that ultimate test has been a central point of two Discworld novels. In my Discworld, the Air Service has gone to war. And found out. Here, Olga and the others contemplate the ultimate Price of Flight.
The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork. One eventful January(1). For those who have asked: this is set earlier than the "present" day in which the service has at least seventeen Pegasi and is poised to add flying elephants. Looking at the chronology: in "Bungle in the Jungle" the Service only had two Pegasi. By the time of "hyperemesis Gravidarum" a year or so later it has at least three - Nottie has joined the Service; and has expanded a little bit more in the years immediately following "Gap Year Adventures". so I'd say the action here in this chapter occurs shortly after the end of GYA - in which Olga is promoted first to Sergeant and a little later to Lieutenant - with accelerated Pegasus breeding now beginning to take off after a slow start. As another "fix" for the time, Rebecka Smith-Rhodes might be six or seven and her sister Famke is pushing three and learning how to be trouble. (neither appears in this tale - too young... and not their story). Which makes it ten or eleven years before Osibisi. E am trying to stick as closely as I can to the chronology of "The Shepherd's Crown", which does allude to a little air-fighting with elves and describes an Elf on a yarrow stalk being shot down in flames after being too slow to dodge a fireball. TP concentrates, for obvious reasons, on the fighting on the ground; he doesn't rule out that Witches are also up there over Lancre and the Chalk fighting in the air, and that's good enough for me. Thus the Air Watch arrive a little too late for the main War Room conference seen in the book. Terry, outside the "main cast" tells us a lot of other, un-named, Witches were in there fighting. Good enough for me - I have imported twenty-six in total, many of whom will be un-named or only appear incidentally. it's probably churlish to be critical of "Shepherd's Crown", but my reservation is that the fighting with the elves is over so soon - I'd have expected that to go to the wire a bit more and last for more than one night. It reads a bit perfunctory. But seeking to weave my own additional story in without contradicting or damaging the original too much. interesting side-note: in TSC, Vetinari gets the news of Granny Weatherwax's death long before the official announcement, as HEX has worked it out and informed Ponder and Ridcully. No doubt Ponder saw the importance of advising the Palace. Here, Vetinari hints to Vimes that something big is happening in Lancre, but does not say what. The news breaks the next day.
Commander Sam Vimes knew something was wrong. He could sense when the smooth operation of the Yard had been disrupted and his Watchmen were concerned about something. It was part of the antennae any leader needed to develop if he hoped to lead effectively.
Vimes stalked around the Yard, trying to look as inobtrusive as possible, trying to track back from the ripples to the stone thrown into the pool. Something was happening. And, as Commander, he was usually last to know. This bothered him.
"What's up, Fred?" he asked. "Something's happening. And I don't know what. That makes me nervous."
He studied Fred Colon intently. Fred had a slightly worried look on his face. Vimes appreciated this. An old-time street monster like Fred had even better antennae than he did for this sort of thing.
Fred gestured upwards, from where they were standing in the open courtyard and stables – the downstairs stables for conventional horses – and took in the large flat roof above the coach mews. Vimes looked up, frowning. The clacks tower, the seriously tall one with the adapted space at the top, had gone silent. Everything had gone silent. Nothing was moving.
"I'm not sure what, Sam, but Miss Olga got a clacks. She went all quiet. Looks like she was crying a little. Which isn't Miss Olga, not at all. Then she took it to Miss Irena. Miss Irena got a bit tearful too. Then they called in all the pilots. They're all upstairs. Nobody in the air. Something's up, Sam. They're good girls, the best, but they've all been all edgy since yesterday. You know, since young Nottie never come back."
Vimes cross-referenced this to something maddeningly gnomic the Patrician had said at a briefing the previous day. Bloody Vetinari hadn't said it straight, had he? He'd just hinted, and left Vimes to work it out for himself.
And it involved the Air Witches. Vimes steeled himself. He was going to have to confront a gaggle, or a cackle, or a coven, whatever the Hells the word was for a bunch of witches, in their own space where they weren't inclined to open up to outsiders.
Damn it, they're also Watchwomen. And I'm in charge. Olga might have been promoted Lieutenant recently and Irena got made up to Sergeant.(2) So they report to me. I'd better go up there and remind them of how things work.
"Thanks, Fred." Vimes said. "Oh, and Nottie got delayed in Lancre. She's safe. Probably slept in her own bed at home last night. We'll find out why when she reports in." He took a deep breath and went to the stairs.
The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork. The previous day.
"We now have seven Pegasi." Vetinari observed. "That is pleasing. The breeding programme is paying dividends."
"Sir." Vimes replied.
"And seven riders. Who when they are not on horseback are performing sterling service as rank-and-file Watchwomen."
"Sir." Vimes agreed.
"All in all, Vimes, the expanded Air Watch is proving to be a great success. I am gratified."
"Sir." Vimes said, automatically, wondering what the catch was going to be. There was always a catch. Vetinari frowned. Vimes realised there was a certain expectation that he should be contributing more to what was meant to be a two-sided conversation. He elected to focus on police work. This was safest.
"When they're not on call to deliver diplomatic messages and mailings around the world, sir, I agree it makes one enormous difference. Not just aerial observation and a way of getting around the City that avoids traffic jams. Criminals tend not to put up a fight when somebody like Olga Romanoff chases them down from a broomstick. Then again, anyone picking a fight with Olga is Being Bloody Stupid and on the way to a Suicide. Same goes for the other girls."
"Ah, yes." Vetinari said, thoughtfully. "Lady Romanoff. Lieutenant Romanoff, since she accepted promotion."
Vetinari steepled his fingers. Vimes ploughed on.
"Not just the Pegasus Service girls, it's all the other Witches who just ride brooms and are available all the time for routine police work. Can't see how we did the job without them, sir."
Vimes realised afterwards he'd provided the opening. Vetinari smiled slightly.
"May I ask, Commander Vimes, if you have a contingency plan in place against an event, unlikely as it may seem, in which you would lose virtually all your air cover for an indefinite period?"
"Sir?"
Vetinari looked at him gravely.
"Officer Garlick covers the Pegasus duties to Lancre and the states on the Turnwise coast." he began. "I received a clacks earlier apologising for her not returning on schedule. It appears there is a potential situation in Lancre."
Vimes frowned. He tried to think of scenarios that would detain Nottie Garlick in her home country. Then it hit him.
"Shit, her father's died?" he asked. "She can't come home – well, back here – as she's suddenly become Queen? Hellfire, that means I've lost a good copper, young as she is!"
Vetinari shook his head. He looked grave.
"No, Vimes. Happily, King Verence, and indeed Queen Magrat, remain in the greatest of health. I rather suspect a far more significant person has died. And that this is a death with massive potential to destabilise a country which remains a key ally. I am awaiting confirmation and further information. But I must ask you to be prepared and to be extremely flexible, especially in matters of personnel deployment. As more information comes in, I will keep you briefed. That is all, for now."
"Sir." Vimes said. Puzzled, he let himself be dismissed. Who could be more significant in Lancre than its ruling monarch? Again he wished he paid more attention to things happening outside the City. And why did it impact on his Air Witches? His mind ran the numbers: the Air Watch consisted, at present, of seven Pegasus Witches – he recalled hearing that two mares were gravid with what might well be new Pegasus foals, so, within a year or so, nine? Then there were twenty-one full-time, part time and Special Witch Police Constables, who only rode brooms. A dozen or so Feegle and Gnomes who either navigated the Pegasuses or else rode the birds of prey used as patrol vehicles or rotated between both. Then the clutch of Mokos, the only male pilots in the Service(3), who piloted the flying carpets. All commanded, efficiently and austerely, by Olga. Vimes felt a shred of reassurance. He remembered all the witches were Lancre-trained. Okay, so whatever's going on there, they won't all go off at once? Even if they do, I've still got the birds and the carpets, so I can cobble some air cover together…
Vimes absently noted a change in the atmosphere at the Yard. The Air Witches, or those he met, seemed to be preoccupied and distant, as if they'd sensed something. Something in the air. Literally.
He paused again. The shoes haven't started dropping yet. But it's as if they just know the first one's about to fall. And then there's going to be the second one. But from whose feet? And when? They don't know. And it's worrying them.
A little later he went off shift to spend time with Sybil and young Sam. Work could wait. He'd find out what was going on when it started to smell.
The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork.
Sam Vimes reluctantly climbed the stairs to the Air Station. He wondered exactly why he was reluctant. Okay, they were Witches. You had to be cautious around Witches. But these Witches were also Watchwomen. And a Commander outranked a Lieutenant and a Sergeant. By quite a long way. And they were on Watch time. And the Air Station was still part of his bloody Watch House. He had a perfect right to walk in and ask… Vimes paused. Rank had its privileges, but he still had to find a tactful way to ask Olga Romanoff and Irena Politek exactly what the bloody Hell was happening.
Vimes emerged onto the long wide flat roof of the mews. Underneath him, he knew, was the stabling and garage space for those conventional horses the Watch kept, as well as the patrol and pursuit vehicles. The builders of Pseudopolis Yard hadn't bothered building up from there. On either side of the flat space, the rest of Pseudopolis Yard rose, four storeys higher on one side, if you counted the rooftop. On the other side, only three storeys. In between was a large flat space. Perfect for air vehicles as it offered unimpeded access from two sides. Doorways had been knocked through into the main buildings on either side. Vimes knew two inner floors were the Air Service domain. On the lower side, the clacks tower rose, larger, higher and sturdier than usual, rising to well above roof level. It could be, and was, used for conventional clacksing. But the platform on the top was wider, and extended further than usual. The Air Witches called it The Control Tower. Below and built against the walls on this side were the hangars and technomantic sheds, usually a hive of ground crew activity. Above them, the aviaries housing the patrol birds, the domain of the Flight-Feegle. And – bizarrely if you didn't know The Secret – the rooftop stables, capable of accommodating seven or eight horses. Forty or fifty feet above ground level.
Vimes frowned. Everything was silent. Nobody moved. Hardly any noise from the miscellaneous birds. No hammering, banging or flashes of light from the technomancy that went on. Where were the bloody Dwarfs? And no flight. Nobody taking off or landing. Vimes shook his head. He prowled to the nearest hangar.
Inside he found the ground-crew, the Dwarfs who were employed by the Watch to keep the witches in the air. They looked worried and silent, sitting in a moody group, partially dismantled broomsticks neglected on their worktops, an unrolled flying carpet dangling unheeded from a clothesline, secured by dolly pins. Cigarette and pipe smoke hung heavy in the air.
Vimes glared at a Dwarf who wore a loose baggy tunic and britches, with knee-boots. This Dwarf also sported a cylindrical fur cap, but in deference to his species, it had two horns in it sticking out one to either side.
"What's going on, Mr Oyeff?" he asked. "Why is nobody about and why is no flying happening?"
Senior Ground Technomancer Mig Oyeff gulped nervously.
"There is big problem in Lancre, Commissar Vimes." he said. "Bad sityuatyion. The Great Baba Yaga is no more. Schmert."
Vimes nodded. He gathered somebody important in Lancre was dead. But he was asking a Far Überwaldean whose Morporkian was limited.
"Okay. Where is Lieutenant Romanoff? Why don't I see any pilots?"
"Lady Olga, she is in briefing room. With all pilots. They discuss. Great Baba Yaga is no more. Schmert. Dead. Sad day to be ved'ma."
The other Dwarfs nodded. They had a brief muttered conversation in Dwarfish. That at least was universal; Mr Schmidt, who came from the other half of Überwald, said something about K'ez'rek d'b'duz. Vimes did the linguistic equivalent of counting on his fingers as he reassembled the syllables. Past very definite tense. Female gender, who is – was – to be avoided. No imperative-sense to proceed using the alternative route around the mountain any more…
He nodded thanks and went out. He knew where the Air Witches' briefing room and aircrew mess was…
Still feeling an irrational and uneasy sensation of somehow intruding on private witch business – in my own bloody Watch house? – Vimes moved on.
Then he heard it. The best part of thirty female voices intoning, at various speeds and tempos
MayhersoulhavemercyontheGods!
Vimes blinked. Didn't people usually say….
"She's gone, Mr Vimes." Irena Politek said. "We got the news from Nottie."(4)
Sam Vimes looked sympathetic, or as sympathetic as he could. He noticed all his Air Witches looked a little bit red and puffy round the eyes. A lot of grieving was going on. He reflected they'd all learnt their trade in Lancre. He got uncertainty and anxiety as well. The greatest Witch on the Disc had died. Witchcraft had lost its expressly not-a-leader. Who had at some point interacted with all these women.
"How does it work?" he asked, diffidently. "Is it like, you know, with the Arch-Chancellor? Do you all get together and elect a new one?"
Vimes realised he'd probably said the wrong thing and that he was being glared at.
"Nyet." Irena said, firmly. Vimes noted she was reverting to her own language, usually a sign of stress or high emotion. He also noted quite a few Air Witches repeating the "Nyet!" and tried to put names to faces… Air Policewoman Tatiana Grigorenko. Air Policewoman Marina Raskova. Air Policewoman Nadezhna Popova… Vimes felt vaguely proud of getting the names right. It took some stunt-pronunciation sometimes. He was aware of a longer bit ending somethingavichniya that invariably went somewhere in the middle, but he knew he wasn't ready for that just yet.
He wondered about asking Olga how she selected her pilots, and decided that could wait. He also noted how, even allowing for his faux-pas in comparing witches to wizards, everyone, not just the Far Überwaldeans (and there seemed to be a lot of them about the place) all turned to look at Olga Romanoff. Especially after Irena explained
"A new leader will emerge. There are possibilities. But we are not ready for this just yet."
Olga, who despite reddened eyes was standing silent and impassive, folded her arms.
"Oh, no." she said, firmly. "Nyet. Not me. Absolutely nyet. Nyet!"
After a long silence, Vimes asked
"So what happens now?"
Olga stared at him for a few uncomfortable seconds. Then she said
"In the future, who knows? But for now we have our work to attend to. That takes priority."
She started barking orders. Quickly, quietly, with no great drama, the work of the Air Police resumed.
"Быстрый! быстро! Работать, девочки! Пошли!"
Vimes didn't know what it meant but he got the idea. And left, knowing Olga Romanoff was good at command.
Nothing happened for a few weeks. Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway. Vimes noted more Pegasi than usual were going to and from Lancre. Flying carpets, laden with boxes and crates, were travelling to the Turnwise. Olga, Irena and senior pilots like Nottie Garlick and that mad crazy Überwaldean, Hanna von Strafenburg, were to be seen in heads-together conferences around the place. Nottie in particular seemed anxious and worried. There was talk about somebody called Tiffany Aching who appeared to be stepping up into the Granny Weatherwax position as leader of witchdom. Vimes, who had once met Mistress Weatherwax, idly wondered what sort of uncompromising old bag-of-nails the new woman was.(5)
And then, one morning, the second shoe dropped.
Olga Romanoff, backed by a delegation of Air Witches, saluted him with impeccable parade-ground precision. Vimes noted the grave intent on their faces. Especially on that of Nottie Garlick.
"I, and twenty-seven witches under my immediate command, formally request to take a grandmother's funeral." she said, in a voice that did not in any way, shape or form allow for the possibility of the answer being "no".
Vimes sighed. He'd spoken to Vetinari. Or rather, Vetinari had spoken to him. He'd been expecting this.
"All of you? She must have been a busy grandmother." Vimes remarked. He refrained from commenting that surely the Grandmother he was thinking of had already been buried, some weeks previously.
"Da." Olga said. "Almost right. Except her funeral has not happened yet. And we are all most keen to be present when it does."
"Olga, you are not advocating murder, are you?" Vimes said, wearily.
He noted the witch delegation indicating their assent and willingness to be present at a funeral.
"Nyet, Commander. We think of it as pest control. The grandmother we have in mind is not our grandmother. But a lot of Elves are her grandchildren."
Vimes saw Olga part-draw her Cossack sabre and touch the blade. He restrained a shudder. That wasn't just necessary prudence when you said the word out loud. If the metal you touched had a long sharp edge, that was also a threat.
He recalled the time Elves had tested the defences of Ankh-Morpork. So had Vetinari. Who had reminded Vimes.
"How long do you reckon you'll be gone for?" he asked.
Olga gave a fatalistic shrug.
"As long as it takes." she said.
Vimes sighed.
"El..They.. can fly, can't they?" he asked.
Olga nodded.
"Da. We meet them in the air. And we destroy them."
There was a long silence.
"When are you going?" he asked.
"I think today. We are prepared."
Vimes offered Olga his hand. He'd heard things about the other sort of training the Air Police was giving its flyers. Vetinari had said he saw no reason to interfere, and it appeared to be good healthy exercise in the open air that was sharpening their reflexes most admirably. Capital recreation for the ladies of the Air Service, he fancied.
"Bring them back alive, Olga. If you can." he said.
She nodded. Then took her squadron off to war.
Vimes watched his Air Wing depart for Lancre. There was something depressingly military about it. But it radiated efficiency. All normal work in and about Pseudopolis Yard had stopped and Watchmen were looking up, absorbed in the spectacle. Vimes was up in the viewing platform in the control tower, watching, and quietly hoping he wouldn't lose too many people. His most senior officers had gathered here too: Carrot, Angua, Pessimal, Inspector Loudweather of the Particulars, and, inevitably, Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs.
"ME-110 model, is that." Nobby said, watching a large two-seater broom taking off. "Saw action in that business in Howondaland not so long ago." (6) Nobby sighed a frustrated sigh. "Repeating crossbows fore and aft. Designed for fighting and shooting things down."
Nobby mimed a "dakka-dakka-dakka!" to emphasise the point.
"You know, I asked Miss Olga if I could transfer to the Service as an air gunner." Nobby said. He sounded genuinely baffled that he'd been refused. "I could do that, I know I could!"
"Right now, they're using the two seaters to take passengers" Angua observed. "That poor Dwarf doesn't look very happy at all!"
"Essential ground crew." Inspector Pessimal said. "It does look as if Lieutenant Romanoff has covered all eventualities. And there's only so much room on the carpets, and not enough of them."
They watched the flying carpets, laden with crates and what looked like tied bundles of reserve broomsticks, fall into formation with the larger two-seaters. Echelons of Air Witches fell in to give cover on both sides of the transports.
"Why's she sent a lot of her flyers up high and nowhere near the transports?" Vimes demanded.
"Top cover, sir." Carrot explained. "Olga explained it to me. Apparently you can never get high enough. Anything attacking the transports has to get through her fighters first."
"And some of them looks like the ME-262's!" Nobby exclaimed. "You know. The ones his lordship don't want them to fly at full turbo over the city, as they makes a hell of a bang and breaks windows! And -wow! See them twin-broom beauties? They've got to be Mr Oyeff's design, the Mig-twenty-one! Two brooms on one shaft, see? Fastest thing out, even faster than the two-six-twos! Oh, wow! I knew they was developing those, but this is the first time I've seen one flying!"
Nobby, bouncing in excitement, squinted upwards.
"That's gotta be Miss von Strafenburg flying the MIG-21… integral repeating crossbow in the lower stick, built in, heavy bore… just sight the nose on whatever you're firing at, and it gets creamed, cheesed and turned into yoghurt!"
They watched the air fleet disappear into the Turnwise sky.
"They're flying the long way, then. She's not using the Feegle to craw-step them?"
Pessimal shook his head.
"Too many Witches in the air and not enough Feegle, sir. I understand the Feegle are accompanying them. Well, try to keep Feegle out of a fight."
Vimes shook his head, fervently hoping they'd all return.
"Did they leave anyone behind?" he asked. A little part of him was gloomily thinking "At least Widows and Orphans is in a healthy state.."
Inspector Pessimal cleared his throat. "I understand Lieutenant Romanoff made her pilots draw straws for one essential duty, sir. Lord Vetinari flatly forbade them from taking any of the Pegasi. They are, in His Lordship's opinion, too valuable to risk losing. They remain here. The ladies who lost in the draw are tasked with feeding, watering, grooming and exercising the Pegasi and, where possible, providing you with a skeleton air service. Otherwise, they've cleared out virtually everything. The hangars and stores are empty."
Vimes sighed. He'd expected that. Although, he had to admit, he'd just witnessed some impeccable organising going on. His flyers knew what they were about. He almost felt sorry for the Elves, in fact; his understanding was that they came in great big bunches in a sort of chaotic undirected rush. And it looked as if they were going to be up against a well-organised professional air force. Well, yes. But only Olga and Irena have been in action. In that business in Howondaland a year or two back. And even then, they were only doing ground attacks. Nothing came back at them in the air. They got shot at from the ground, yes. Irena's Pegasus got hit. How will they deal with other flyers?
The Great Hall, Lancre Castle
The Elves had been trickling into Lancre and the Chalk in small groups for some time now. These were just nuisance raids, reconnaissance perhaps. But they had caused damage, hurt and death. The gathering of Witches at the Castle, Witches drawn from all over, all the Witches who could be found, were discussing and debating what was to be done. There was one thing they were in agreement on: these were the opening skirmishes. A greater battle was to come.
Mrs Earwig was determined to get the last word in. The others, understanding and patient, allowed her to intone "Let the runes of fortune guide and protect us all…"
And then Shawn Ogg ran down into the Great Hall. He seemed excited.
"Ma'ams! We got some more witches arriving! Loads of Witches!"
Tiffany Aching smiled slightly.
"Magrat, is this to do with all those flying carpets delivering lots of stuff here?"
Magrat Garlick smiled, the smile of a Queen with an Ace in her hand.
"Esmeralda Margaret and the girls she works with. Yes."
Magrat was probably the only person who used her daughter's full name. She was Nottie to everybody else.
And then Nottie was descending the stairs along with Olga, Irena and Hanna.
Olga looked around her, recognising faces and friends. She made the Witch bow to Tiffany and Nanny Ogg. Tiffany smiled and bowed back.
"Well, Olga, love." Nanny said. "You come back."
"Da. We are here." Olga agreed. She exchanged nods with Petulia Gristle and others she and Irena had known in the long-ago training coven. And exchanged a long moment of eye-contact with Annagramma Hawkins, who had signally failed to impose her dominance on the two older foreign girls. Like a cat presented with a problem she couldn't fix, Annagramma had dealt with it by simply ignoring them.
Lettice Earwig, Annagramma's mentor, who disapproved of Olga and Irena, glared at them.
"I would have thought this would be of no interest to you." Mrs Earwig said. "What with you being foreign. And with you working for a salary. For Lord Vetinari."
Olga acknowledged that she was in Ankh-Morporkian uniform and at the moment did not look like a witch.
"Babiuschka Earwig." she said. There was a way of putting backspin on the word "babiuschka" that made it sound almost but not quite like an insult. Where it meant "silly ignorant old woman", and not "esteemed older lady with a good idea as to how things really work"(7)
"That's Ea-ah-wig-AH!" the older woman said, icily. Olga inclined her head as a sort of apology.
"For that I apologise. I am, as you say, foreign, and Morporkian is not my first language. My pronciation is poor, perhaps? Nichevo. I am, nevertheless, here. There is a need for witches. And for people prepared to fight. I bring you fighters. Twenty-six of them. With others to help and support."
"We are foreign." Irena Politek said. "But we lived and trained here. We will not see this place trampled on by Elves."
Irena drew her sword. It had an ominous metallic ring as it slipped from the scabbard. Observers saw twenty-seven inches of uncompromising metal. Irena touched the steel. She noted the strange girl nearby to Tiffany Aching, the one in idealised peasant costume that did not look right, shudder in revulsion.
"I don't hold with Witches using weapons." Mrs Earwig battled on. "It says that you don't trust magic. That you're not really a Witch. Besides, the Lore says do no harm."
"Really?" Irena said. "A year or two ago I was caught in a battle in Howondaland. I used magic, da. But when a lot of enemies are rushing at you with great big spears and they are too close, then you are glad of a sword to draw. And in that fight I used this sword. Gladly. Also." Irena patted the pistol crossbow holstered at her waist. It had been a last-minute loan from a friend before she had flown out. "I used this. Or something like it. With every intent to kill. And it harm none may be the Lore, but it is not so difficult to break the Lore when others are seeking to do harm to me. And if you are trained in the shaksha by Cossacks. They are a direct people who will tell you that if you are not doing harm in a fight, then you are not fighting."
"But you're here now." Queen Magrat said. "With lots of pilots. Who are all trained to fight?"
"Da, Majesty." Olga said. "Lord Vetinari sends greetings. And an Air Force I am instructed to place under your command. He also reminds King Verence that he is honouring the Treaty."
The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork.
"Now we wait, Vimes." Vetinari said.
Sam Vimes nodded. There wasn't really a great deal else he could do.
"Vimes." Vetinari said. "Do you recall the incident some years ago, when those entities who we choose not to name decided to test our defences and our preparedness? The wizards at the Thaumatological Park had been doing unwise and ill-advised things which allowed them a gateway. Those wizards were of course spoken to most severely afterwards."
"Of course." Vimes agreed.
"They released a single unicorn into a crowded produce market." Vetinari reflected. This caused chaos, confusion and a lot of direct and indirect damage later estimated at eight thousand dollars. It tied up a lot of Watch resources. Major roads into the City were impassible. Whilst the Watch – with no blame to you or to Captain Carrot – was tied up in dealing with this, the main incursion happened in the Unreal Estates causing a lot more damage and loss. It required the combined resources of the University, the City Watch, the Assassins' Guild, and such City Witches as could be found, to contain and to destroy our intruders."(8)
"I remember, sir. Doctor Smith-Rhodes got a bit annoyed."
"And embarrassed, Vimes. She made the error of viewing the unicorn purely as a horse with a horn on its head. I understand she had an opportunity later of pointing out to the owners of the unicorn exactly how irritated she was."
The two contemplated the memory of the Day of the Elves together, in a reflective silence.
"This is an adversary not to be underestimated, Vimes." Vetinari said. "They are dangerous and, to a certain value of the word, intelligent. Let us say they break through in Lancre and take control of that country, thus gaining a foothold in our world. Do you believe they would stop there? An army of el – these people – marching on Ankh-Morpork, having had time to consolidate and exploit the resources available to them. And that endangers this city. I will not have that!"
Vetinari calmed himself.
"Besides. Lancre is an ally. Our Pegasi are bred there. The country provides raw materials this city consumes. Its people have migrated here and enrich our city. Captain Carrot, for instance, is a Lancre man. Or possibly Dwarf. Every Witch in the Air Arm was trained in Lancre. Several are Lancre natives. Did I mention we have a mutual assistance treaty with Lancre?"
Vimes thought quickly.
"If Lancre is attacked, we come to its aid?"
"And if Ankh-Morpork is attacked, Lancre is treaty-bound to come to our aid." Vetinari said. "Which is a useful clause when it comes to releasing Lancre-trained people in my service to go, on indefinite leave, to fight for Lancre. Whilst wearing Ankh-Morporkian uniforms. Verence will then continue to honour the agreement by which, for instance, Pegasi bred in Lancre to be flown by Ankh-Morpork. Goodwill and international understanding, Vimes."
Vimes tried hard to look approving.
"And the Air Watch?" Vimes asked.
"They get unparalleled combat experience." Vetinari said, with a hint of satisfaction. "Something nations such as Klatch will watch and take note of. They took the carpet pilots with them, after all. All of whom report back to an intelligence handler at the Klatchian embassy."
Vetinari paused.
"Which you were, of course, aware of?"
Vimes tried not to say "errr…". Damn it, it's obvious. And damn him, he spotted it before I did.
"Klatchian spies in the Air Watch…. Of course, sir. Obvious."
Vetinari gave Vimes a long knowing look.
"Lieutenant Romanoff is aware. She sees no reason to take action, provided the Klatchians are kept away from information that really needs to be kept secret. But we'll discuss this later. Also, Vimes, following the passing of mistress Weatherwax, Lancre requires time to become stable again. I understand a new Head Witch is emerging. I have privately assured her of my full support. The presence of the Air Watch is testimony to this. I therefore require you to cope as best you can in their absence. And, Vimes?"
"Yes, sir?"
"What are the exact provisions of the Widows and Orphans fund with regard to compensation of the death on active Watch service of an Air Witch? Please furnish the details. No great rush."
Lancre Castle
Tiffany Aching and Nanny Ogg welcomed each of the new Witches by name, and made themselves known to the Klatchian pilots of the magic carpets and the ground technomancers, who were officially non-combatants, despite tulwar swords and axes having travelled with them.
They quickly dealt with administrative details, such as organising crew quarters and establishing a ground support base in one of the lower rooms of the Castle.
"I can start taking patrols out straight away." Olga said. "Tell me where elves have been reported. We will begin searching for them."
"One thing first." Tiffany said, noting how Olga had done the touching-the-metal-of-my-sword thing. "You need to have no doubt at all as to what you're dealing with. Everybody else knows, after I organised a practical demonstration. However, you all arrived late. Get all your people together, and I'll introduce you to Nightshade. Let me explain…"
The next eternity – afterwards, Tiffany said it had only been fifteen minutes – was the most hellish thing Olga had ever experienced. And she wasn't the only one.
Olga Anastacia Ekatarinavichnya Romanoff. The voice in her head was kindly, and amused. A daughter of a great family. And of a great people. Your family were rulers once. Of a vast Empire that stretched from Überwald to the ocean and from the Hub to Klatch. The Empire of the Ruskiya, the Rus peoples united. In her head, Olga saw the Disc. Not just the relatively tiny sliver of land straddling the border of Zlobenia and Far Überwald where she had been born. But the massive, almost unimaginable, extent of former glories, running like a wave virtually to Genua and Kythia on the most distant sea. Your father is a disappointed ineffectual bombastic oaf who has neither the wit nor the power to be the Tsar. But his daughter can be Tsarina. She can lead. She can unite. You got nearly thirty Witches to do your bidding? You have learnt how to herd cats? You made them into an Air Force? Imagine what you can do with a people. Tsarina Olga. Olga The Great. Little Mother of all the Rus Peoples. It can be yours, Olga Anastacia. Maybe we can help.
"Nyet." Olga said, wondering why her voice felt small and uncertain and ineffectual. She saw her cousin Natasha, also a Grand Duchess in waiting. Natasha the trained and experienced Assassin.
Of course, Natasha could kill you and take the crown. The triple tiara of the Tsarina, isn't it beautiful? Maybe Natasha could. She is cold, beautiful and ruthless and without conscience. Diamonds suit her. She went to the Assassins' School. You did not. She would kill you. And you would not withstand. Of course, you could kill her first, but you're weak. Ineffectual. Hesitant. And even if you withstood her and became Tsarina? You get the restored Empire? Do you think you could hold it? Vetinari would see a threat to Ankh-Morpork. Why do you think he took an interest and tamed you to his service, to do his will? And you, a Romanoff, heir to Tsars, allow this? To be Vetinari's trained she-bear? Tsarina Olga. Your Empire would fail and fall. You would be too weak, too stupid, indecisive. You would as your people have done before. Your people. Hah. Wherever a people like the Rus have emerged in the multiple worlds, sooner or later a Leader arises who mistakes brutality for intelligence, terror for rule, the whip for enlightenment. You would be weakest of all. Imposing new terrors on top of old because you believe the previous terror was not enough. To die in a gilded cage in an empire of ruins. Imagine. A protracted lonely death with people too terrified to approach you, lying paralysed and unable to move, in your own bodily waste because none will clean and nurse you(9)… your death, Tsarina Olga, and all because you were too stupid to notice the trap.
"Nyet!" Olga screamed.
And elsewhere…
Princess Esmeralda Margaret Note Spelling of Lancre. Sounds grand, doesn't it? But look around you. An impoverished backward one-horse kingdom populated by rustic peasants. This is your inheritance? To be tied to this crumbling ruin of a castle forever? Named for the old bitch who taught you witchcraft, who you know, deep down, you will never even be one tenth as good as? Child of a mother who sincerely tried to get your name spelt correctly on the birth certificate but who failed even in that? This is what you want to fight and risk your life for? Are you that stupid and naïve, girl? You know, I rather think you are… there's no hope for you. Look at the parents who made you…
"No!" Nottie screamed.
And elsewhere…
You are a Countess, Hanna von Strafenburg. But look at you now. What are you doing here? What, taking orders from Ivankas? Everybody knows they're Untermensch. You have been taught that since birth. Ivans are smelly primitive peasants who dress in animal furs and live in swamps. They grunt at each other in an uncivilised language. You are Überwaldean nobility. You belong to a purer race. Something is lacking in you, Hanna. You take orders from Ivankas. You have no self-respect, do you? No pride. None whatsoever. Still, it all goes back to childhood, habits of self-abasement and degradation. Remember the time when you…
"Nein!" Hanna screamed.
And elsewhere…
Abdullah el-Khalim. You like your job. You respect the people. You fly carpets for the Air Police. You are trusted and accepted by the witches. If truth be told you look on Olga Romanoff with adoration, a strong, commanding, beautiful woman, and you have little daydreams about her. What it might be like if.. ah, you poor fool. That woman is as far above you as the top of Cori Celesti and as unreachable. And when she finds out you are also spying for the Klatchians and keep their Embassy informed about the Air Watch and all they do – well, isn't that nice? Betraying their trust and confidence in you? Does that make you feel good, Abdullah? Or like a lowly squirming maggot in fresh camel dung? Enjoy the dung, maggot. Crawl. That is all you are fit for and you know it. Betraying the confidence and the trust of a woman you are, foolishly, in hopeless love with. Eat the dung, Abdullah. Yum, yum. Yummy dung. And even that is still too good for you.
And carpet pilot Abdullah el-Khalim screamed.
Irena Yannesavichniya Politek. It's not hard to see what makes you think the way you do. Your father is a rebel. He cannot hold down much more than the most basic labouring jobs because he is viewed with suspicion. Oh, he's careful. The Chekha suspect him. You remember when late at night other men and women visited your home with great secrecy and they would discuss politics. They looked with nostalgia to a time in your country's history when things were different and a new way was possible, and the nobility, including the all-powerful Romanoffs, were either liquidated or forced to flee into exile. Your father and his circle endlessly analyse what became when The People took power, and vow to learn from those mistakes, and to do it better next time. And you absorbed this and were schooled in the ideals of Kommunisma. Why, you even have small discreet red stars painted on either side of your broomstick just to make the point. Remember how much you hated Lady Olga, the same age as you and born to privilege you could not even dream of? Is she your friend? Really? Are you not merely a useful servant to her? A lackey of nobility? Yet you fight alongside her and take her orders? What sort of a communist is that? How you betray your ideals. You travelled and went to Lancre. And then to Ankh-Morpork where you met people like Reg Shoe and Estressa Partleigh. And even after meeting people like this you are still a communist? Even after learning what became of the Rus people when they tried to make it work, when people who think like Reg and Estressa got into positions of real power? And knowing all this, you still cling to the Manifesto? This takes a special kind of stupidity and wilful perverse idiocy, Irena Yannesavichniya, and you have this in abundance. But this is not surprising. Inability to learn from experience. Harnessed to a peasant idealism. You should never have got this far, Irena Yannesavichniya. Your destiny, born a mouzhik and a kulak, is to be ankle-deep in mud and filth. You're a filthy ignorant peasant who thinks she is intelligent. Wrongly so. You are born to cabbages, beetroot and potato. And you don't even deserve those. But you do deserve being smothered in mud and dirt and the human waste used to fertilise the fields. Mud and shit, Irena. The mouzhik's destiny.
"Nyet!" Irena moaned.
Afterwards, the Air Witches discussed their experiences. Oddly enough, they felt closer afterwards.
"And now?" Nottie asked.
Hanna stood up. "With your permission, Lieutenant." she said. "It is time to begin killing Elves. I am ready to do this. I would be delighted to do this."
"Horoscho." Olga said. She looked at Irena. "Tovarischnya Politek. Does the inescapable logic of the dialectic allow you to begin killing the enemy?"
"Da." Irena replied. "The hammer to crush their skulls and the sickle to gut them with. Is Her Ladyship prepared to sully her hands with elf-blood, or would she prefer her servants to do this for her?"
Olga grinned. "let's get everybody together." she said. "V'Put."
The fliers were tired after the long flight out of Lancre, but eager to get into the air again. Olga grouped them in a semicircle on the upper ramparts of the Castle, and began the briefing. Tiffany and other senior Witches were watching from a little way away.
"I shall be brief." Olga said. "The main attack has yet to come. Mistress Aching and Mrs Ogg believe it will come from two directions. From here and from the Chalk. What Lancre and the Chalk have seen so far are merely probing attacks. Nonetheless, these have been destructive and have caused hurt and death. We will seek to impede those. I wish for standing patrols over – around – the Stones. Do not under any circumstances seek to over-fly the standing stones. Important. Fly around them. At first sight of the main attack – which will come from the air as well as the ground – raise the alarm. Tonight we will get to know, or to remind ourselves, of the ground where we will fight. If you meet elves – seek to damage them. By whatever means."
Olga paused.
"Thanks to the Lady Nightshade we now know what they will try to do to our minds. They will play on our deepest fears. On events in our pasts where we did not behave as we should, or where we failed. They will seek to make us feel worthless. I believe they will realise we are of many nations and ethnicities and seek to drive divisions between us."
She looked to Hanna.
"Is that not correct, Fritz?"
Hanna grinned.
"Very much so, Ivanka."
"So therefore, we wear steel. Breast and backplates. And where possible, steel helmets. This will confer protection in more ways than the obvious. And now, dispositions. I have an idea to draw out any airborne Elves who have crossed over. I am told there are some. Listen to me now…"
Tiffany, Nanny Ogg, and Lady Nightshade watched them go, taking off by ordered echelons. Tiffany Aching, a woman who was not a natural broomstick pilot, wondered briefly about the mind-set of a Witch who lived to fly.
"Witches for everything, Tiff." Nanny Ogg said, cheerfully. "Them girls are the ones what loves flyin'. You recall Olga and Irena were buggers for flyin'. Allus have been."
"I remember." Tiffany said. "And it seems they're a sort of magnet. They're drawing in the others who love to fly. The best pilots."
"Ankh-Morpork. Best place for them." Nanny Ogg remarked. She took a draw of her pipe.
"Lankin and Peaseblossom and the rest are in for a surprise, I think." Nightshade said. "My people may be fast in the air. But is that enough?"
"Not by a long chalk. No." Nanny said. "Time for bed, I think. We got the Watch, watchin' over us."
Elves were indeed aloft, searching for prey. In the dark of the night, a scout flew close to his leader and nudged him. They exchanged delighted smiles with no warmth or kindness to them. Several hundred feet below, two black-clad women in the distinctive pointy hats were puttering along on broomsticks. Old human women, riding those laughable slow contraptions that could barely go much faster than a walking human, not very far above the ground. They looked nervous, frightened, as if aware they were exposed to danger and wanting to get to their destination as quickly as possible. An easy target, one they could have fun with. A brief burst of Elf-song alerted the others. Six Elves manoeuvred into position on the fast agile yarrow-stalks. They would play a chase game, have fun with the old women, pretend to offer them escape routes, and then close them – with luck, this would occupy them for some hours before they tired of the game and moved in for the kill. Elves were already nocking arrows and drawing sharp flint knives.
("Цель видела. Ожидать." Tsel' videla. Ozhidat'.")
They utterly failed to spot what was several hundred feet above them and closing in fast.
The leading elf realised something was not right when the two old witches suddenly veered off in opposite directions and their brooms put on an unbelievable acceleration that he had been assured human broomsticks were incapable of. That was his past thought before the fireball, projected from some way behind him, the one he never even saw coming, hit. It suddenly illuminated the night. The other elves, pulling up short, saw the dark shapes backlit by the glow. They were getting nearer.
"ЦеЦель уничтожена! Tsel' unichtozhena! Ozhidat'."
One of the remaining Elves looked around him. Where he had previously counted five fellows in the air, he was now hard-put to see even one. But what he did see was the human woman riding an impossibly fast broomstick. Straight at him, head-on. Desperately, he tried to discharge his arrow. He reflected that the black fur cap she was wearing looked really good, so if he got to kill her he'd have that. Maybe take that long red hair too, perhaps keep it attached to her scalp to keep it all together…
The arrow went wide. And the red-haired woman in the black fur cap veered off to her left, for just far enough. The Elf's last visual impression was the long flashing sabre in her right hand, the iron getting near enough to confound his thoughts, and then it was no longer near but somewhere on his other side, receding from him and trailing green blood…
"Я казак! с мечом!" Olga shouted. She dispassionately watched the two parts of the elf plummeting separately down towards the treetops of the forest. His yarrow stalk floated uncertainly, and then inert, in the air. Olga wondered for a second or two and then, very cautiously, retrieved it. Maybe the technomancers can work them out, she thought.
"Any casualties?" she asked, as Tatiana Grigorenko flew up beside her, still in the old-witch disguise that had taken in the elves.
"None. Looks like we got them all."
"Horoscho. Are these things worth retrieving, do you think?"
Tatiana studied the yarrow stalk.
"Probably not. Maybe they go inert like this when the elf's dead."
Olga shrugged.
"Let's get a couple anyway. For the tekniks."
They were the first kills in action by the Air Witches. They would not be the last.
8500 words… to be continued.
Приготовь мне копченую рыбу. Я вернусь на завтрак. – the nearest I can get to "Smoke me a kipper. I'll be back for breakfast". To which the only possible reply is – "what a woman!"
(1) Checking background detail in The Shepherd's Crown to get this right: the early part of the book mentions that the action, including the establishing event of the death of Granny Weatherwax, takes place in a time between Autumn and Spring when the dead leaves of Autumn are still on the ground to be picked up and swirled about in the wind, and the trees are gearing up for new growth. Tiffany Aching at this point has time and leisure to visit the standing stones of the Chalk, so spring lambing evidently has not begun yet. January, possibly February, fit the timescale for this. I could be wrong – as this story is contemporaneous with TSC, I am going to re-read the book and look for clues as to the time of year and will revise accordingly.
(2) See my tale Gap Year Adventures, where Olga and Irena end up with the promotions both have spent years avoiding.
(3) Vimes had vetoed, for the moment, hiring in any bloody Wizards. Olga had backed him up. The fact some Wizards are flight-capable didn't mean they'd fit in, she had argued.
(4) Irena had earnt her right to a "Mr Vimes" by extricating him through a sky that was full of large rocks being hurled by trolls. That had taken some seat-of-the-pants flying.
(5) Angua and Carrot tactfully reminded him that Tiffany Aching had once spent a night in the Watch cells. Vimes, his mind set to hard as nails old crone, boggled slightly. "What, the kid?" he asked, incredulously.
"more than a kid, Mr Vimes." Carrot said, seriously. Angua nodded, emphatically.
(6) Now go to my story Bungle In The Jungle.
(7) or "Witch".
(8) to my Disccworld Tarot short, The Ace of Swords.
(9) The death of Joseph Stalin happened this way – after a stroke he was paralysed and lying unattended on a sofa for over two days, completely conscious, but unattended because the people around him were utterly terrified and no doctor would come out because they were terrified of taking the blame (it didn't help that just before his death, Stalin had been purging Russia's medical doctors of "undesirable anti-social elements", which is unfortunate, as very shortly he would need the best medical attention himself)… Stalin's death was long, miserable and utterly lonely.