The Price of Flight – part eighteen.

Covert Action

After my brush with that emissary of Pestilence called Covid-19, let's get back into it now my enthusiasm has returned.

There is an Arms Race going on between two superpowers. This could be called the Syrrittan Flying Sheep Crisis, where Klatch and Ankh-Morpork are in a staring contest while the rest of the Disc watches to see who blinks first.

The Flying Sheep of Syrrit are discussed more fully in The Compleat Discworld Atlas (canonical) and have a cameo appearance in my tale Gap Year Adventures.

V0.2, starting on those damn typos to reveal themselves, as well as those nominated by eagle-eyed readers.

Back at work now for four long miserable days, so working hard to get another chapter out that advances the story. There might not be another chap now till Thurs 6th August, most probably Fri 7th.

Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork:

"Okay, Ponder, let's go through this again." Sam Vimes requested. His attitude was professional, businesslike and not – yet – brusque and confrontational.

Ponder's old friend Victor Tugelbend nodded encouragement.

Professor Ponder Stibbons relaxed. Waking up after eight solid hours of sleep in the daytime could be disorientating. Waking up to Claude the butler providing tea, the daily papers, an announcement his clothing for the day, or in this case the evening, had been laid out for him and a bath would shortly be drawn, was usual. Claude had gone on to pass on a message from Her Ladyship that the Professor was not to be an idiot all his life and the moment he felt so tired he was unable to contribute anything of use to scientific investigation, he was to call it a night, get a cab home and come to his bed. Her Ladyship had also added that while he was free to believe it or not as he chose, she did quite like seeing him and a protracted separation, caused by her working days and her husband choosing to work nights, was making her irritable.

"And His Grace the Duke of Ankh, in his capacity of Commander of the City Watch, would quite like a word."

Ponder spluttered on his tea.

"His Grace would appreciate your assistance in an ongoing Watch inquiry." Claude went on, smoothly.

Helping the Watch with their inquiries…. Ponder thought. As law-abiding citizens do in these circumstances, Ponder frantically tried to remember if he'd done anything remotely illegal. There's the ongoing research into medical technomancy… trying to safely harness magic in the service of medicine… as I recall, they got excited about elements related to Uselessium which appear to have beneficial effects on cancerous tumours in research animals… Doctor Bracefellow was shifty about where exactly he'd obtained those experimental samples of radioactive powder … I bet he's got hold of some Slab or Slice or something like that…

"Detective-Sergeant Tugelbend wishes to discuss some recently obtained information with you. In the presence of his Grace the Duke." Claude informed him. "Shall I advise the Watch you will be there shortly, and order a cab?"

Ponder had arrived at the Yard shortly afterwards. To his relief, Victor Tugelbend, who looked tired but alert, had met him and led him up to the Commander's office. Ponder had taken in the broken mirror and wondered, with thoughts of a recent over-enthusiastic interrogation rising unbidden in his head.

But Vimes had been affable and had welcomed Ponder with a finger-crushing handshake. He'd even smiled.

"We've been following a line of investigation, Ponder, based on some of the ideas we had last night." Victor said. "I'm still waiting for the people we sent to Pseudopolis to report back, but I believe we've identified a definite security leak at Unseen."

"Go on." Ponder said. He gloomily considered what the likely response of the Patrician would be to leaks from a sensitive government contract. Leaking to the very people the government contract was intended to give the City an advantage over. He considered the consequences to future funding for government projects. And then considered the inevitable interview between himself and an irritated Mustrum Ridcully. He winced. Vimes gave him what passed for a kindly smile.

"I'm forced to admit there's no blame, Ponder. At least, not much at Unseen. We're all learning all the time, when it comes to security."

He scowled, suddenly.

"How is that potential son-in-law of yours, anyway?"

Ponder Stibbons managed to wince and grin at the same time.

"Hardly that, sir. Yet. He's still a pupil at the Assassins' School. And he's only really been seeing Bekki for less than a year." And he managed to breach security and get into one of the most secure parts of the Yard. Without anyone noticing.

Ponder reflected that since even Sam Vimes could be caught out by breaches of his own security and was sensitive about being reminded, he, Ponder Stibbons, wasn't going to be blamed too hard for one at the University. He relaxed. They were here to establish what had happened, and then to take steps to prevent it happening again.

"Give him a clip round the ear from me, then." Vimes said, gruffly. "Call it a taster of police brutality, or something."

"Business, sir." Victor reminded them.

"Okay. Carry on." Vimes said.

"Sir. We know how the Omnicon system came into being. That it all comes back, ultimately, to a single Omnicope being broken and the discovery that all the fragments remain evermore linked to each other. What research Wizardry calls the Nothingfjordian Interpretation, or strictly more precisely, the Frivoli Principle.(1) Particles once linked remain in some way connected everafter."

Vimes looked semi-politely blank. Ponder grasped the point immediately.

"Which explains, if the Klatchians have somehow been able to get hold of at least one fragment of the original Omniscope, how they have been able to tune into our transmissions so easily. They can just passively tie into the Air Police network, and listen."

"And because, until recently, all they've been doing is listening, then we would have had no idea the system isn't secure any more." Victor said. "That is, except for two recent events…"

"Some cheeky bastard firing a spell over Syrrit that burns out two devices." Vimes grated. "And the growing evidence their own master device, like the one in Olga's command room, but Klatchian, is located at their Embassy."

"Ongoing work at the University this morning and afternoon suggests the Omnicon interference is not intentional." Victor said. "I've got the research digests here, Ponder, if you want to bring yourself up to date."

He passed what wizards described as the See Spot Run page, or the This Is Where Your Cow Is Summation, to Vimes.(2) He acknowledged this with a grunt.

"So there's a zone, possibly eight hundred yards in radius, located with its centre in the Klatchian Embassy on Park Lane, where Omnicon signals are fouled or garbled." Vimes said. "Are we sure of this?"

"Yes, sir." Victor said. "HEX has been going through past transcripts and recordings, and the duty Controllers have been logging instances with times and locations. I've had the new Air Watch auxiliaries plot reports on a map – they've had lots of experience in Plotting – and cross-referenced that to HEX. No doubt about it."

Vimes growled.

"Bloody Klatchians, interfering with my Watch." he said. This had an ominous air of finality about it, as if he intended to do something drastic. Victor noted this.

"Our best guess, sir, and HEX backs me on this, is that this is wholly unintentional. Something about the strength of signal and the magical flux they're using, as if they haven't properly got the hang of it or refined the technomancy. This is setting up a massive interference field. And if they stop and think, they can infer from this that sooner or later we'll be on to them."

There was a gloomy silence. Vimes went to the door to shout for coffee. And three cups.

"So. Whenever an Omniscope fragment needs to be chipped into the three-quarter inch Central Processing Units. Who designated these names, Leonard of Quirm?"

"No, sir." Ponder said, quickly. "The Patrician asked specifically that we refrain from using Leonard as a project advisor."

Vimes grunted.

"The fragment is logged as having left University custody. It is then despatched to an authorised, approved and security vetted glass-cutter from the Guild of Artificers, who then sends the finished work back with an invoice for payment."

He looked up, sharply.

"You've got nobody on site at the University who can… no, silly question. Wizards are not good at the practical and everyday. Who does the despatching?"

Ponder swallowed.

"Errr… if possible, sir, one of the Bledlows carries it over. Personally. And brings the finished work back."

Vimes accepted this. Bledlows were stolid men who didn't have the imagination to stop and think of how to enhance their pay, for e.g. with an unauthorised stop-over at the Klatchian Embassy. Besides, they were absolutely loyal to their employers. It came with the job profile.

"And if a Bledlow isn't available?"

Ponder gulped. He could see where Vimes was heading.

"Errr.. just now and again. An undergraduate wizard. Errr. A dogsbody. Unskilled work. With strict instructions to go straight there and come straight back."

"I've checked the records, sir." Victor said. "Who was despatched and their signing-out and signing-back-in times at the Bledlows' Lodge. I've got the names."

"Pick them up." Vimes ordered. "we can have a little word with them."

"Already done, sir. We also picked up the glass-cutter. And his workshop apprentices. They're all in separate holding rooms downstairs, stewing, and wondering why we brought them in."

Vimes nodded appreciation.

"And how the Hells did Brazeneck get involved, anyway?"

"They were already doing research of their own into phased technomantic signal transmission via imp-enhanced thaumic relays." Ponder said, falling back on the proven maxim of bullshit baffling brains.

"We are also aware of Omnicon transmissions failing according to the inverse square law of transmission strength against distance."

Vimes looked baffled.

"That is, the further you travel, the weaker the signal. We discovered if PEX, that is Brazeneck's thinking engine, is connected to the system, Omnicon transmissions to the Widdershins destinations can go much further before they fail. That is, if ambient climactic conditions are favourable. Errr…"

Vimes glared at him. Ponder almost mumbled:

"The Patrician approved an element of joint research. Err... the human material at Brazeneck might not be as competent as we'd like, and there is the issue of the University there having a larger proportion of revenue-attracting overseas students.."

"Did their research into Omnicons involve any bloody Klatchians?" Vimes demanded.

Victor intervened.

"I've despatched detectives to Pseudopolis, sir. With requests to the local Watch to provide every assistance, and a further request to Professor Turnipseed at the Higher Energy Magic Faculty to give every assistance."

Vimes nodded.

"And if Dean Bloody Henry refuses to assist?"

"I thought of that, sir. I'm hoping to bypass him for as long as possible. Adrian Turnipseed was an undergraduate at Unseen with myself and Ponder. We were on the same corridor in Halls. We have a bit of an understanding."

"Ah. Old school tie."

"Rather the old University Scarf, sir." Victor said. "Adrian doesn't want to lose a lucrative Government contract. And between you and me, he's a bit pissed off with rich foreign students who can barely speak Morporkian, struggled to get undergraduate degrees, who are only there because Dean Henry wants the money they bring with them, as it helps him pay for the catering budget. Also, he's worried about the motivations of one or two Klatchians. Problem is, the administration can't see beyond the fees revenue." (3)

"Keep me informed, Victor." Vimes said.

A knock on the door turned out to be Deputy Commander Carrot, who brought up to date reports on the day.

"Streets settling down, Carrot?" Vimes asked.

"Yes, sir." Carrot replied. "We've detained most of the people who were shouting loudest at Speakers' Corner, you know, at the Gibbet. It took some doing because, as you know, the Patrician doesn't like to be seen as silencing free speech, but…"

"Carrot, if a Watchman cannot find a good reason for arresting anybody, then he isn't a Watchman. You can book somebody just for walking down the street, if you look hard enough and you're inventive enough."

"Yes, sir." Carrot said, with a hint of reproach in his voice. "And most of the would-be rioters were discouraged when they kept running into roadblocks. And, er, Officer Budonova is complaining about a sore wrist. All those autographs she signed. But the streets are clear now."

"Okay." Vimes said.

He handed over a list of names he'd received from Victor and which had been confirmed by Ponder.

"New assignment. I want people at the University, to interview these named Bledlows. Assure them we don't think they're guilty of anything, but we just want to be sure."

"Eliminate them from our inquiries, sir?"

"Yes. Then check their statements for where they were on these crucial nights. Just to be sure."

"Yes, sir. And Fred's asking for confirmation that he needs to do a full uniform issue for recalled Air Watch members, but he can't find Captain Romanoff to confirm how many. And Lieutenant Politek went off shift as Control and disappeared. Sergeant Garlick tells me she and Sergeant von Strafenburg got called to the Palace."

Vimes sighed. "Tell him three of them, Carrot. One's okay, but going by the names, the other two are the biggest disciplinary liabilities I've ever met. Like human Feegle. But Olga would put her neck on the block for either, which tells me they're bloody good pilots and by all accounts they were competent coppers. Not that I think she's recalling them for policing."

"Would this tie in with what Vetinari described as covert operations, sir?"

Vimes sighed.

"By which I think he means we are not declaring war, but I wish for the Klatchians to receive a justifiable and memorable kicking, delivered by people we can deny knowing, if the recipient of the kicking complains about it afterwards, Carrot. But as always I'll know more about a shadowy operation, on the fringes of legality, involving my bloody Air Police, when the Times publishes all the details afterwards."

Vimes stood up.

"Professor Stibbons, we have three of your student Wizards detained downstairs and awaiting interview on what might turn out to be serious charges." he said. "I have to ask you, as I know the bloody Arch-Chancellor will bring it up in conversation as a point of protocol. Do you think you could be present on behalf of the University? Thank you. Oh, and how near are you to finding a means of protecting the Omnicons against whatever magical grievous bodily harm the Klatchians seem to be able to inflict?"

Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork.

Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes was first one home, shortly after three-thirty. She had left her last lesson of the day in the hands of a teaching assistant, picked up her load of exercise books to mark, and had gratefully taken a cab home. She mentally ran through the whereabouts of the other members of the household. Claude had assured her the Professor had slept well and deeply and had been called to a conference at Pseudopolis Yard, he was given to understand was due to the Syrritan Emergency.

Johanna added the knowledge that Bekki was out on Pegasus duty and was not due back in Ankh-Morpork till possibly six. Olga Romanoff had assured her that today, Bekki was going on routine flights to safe locations. Ruth would be home from school a little later. Famke would be accounted for in her dorm at her School. At least, Johanna hoped so. Which for now only left her… in a quiet moment where she wasn't Mum, wife, senior schoolteacher, Zoo director, or occasionally an Assassin who could be approached with a contract proposal. Just… Johanna.

She ordered tea. Rooibos, with lemon. A little urgent voice in the back of her head said Johanna Famke. Do not relax just yet. This is a second shoe moment.

Her maid Eve delivered the tea, poured, and stepped back attentively. Johanna took several relaxing sips. Then she frowned. Eve, who despite a degree of imperfectly concealed snark was a capable and conscientious maid, looked worried and edgy about something. She sighed, and put on the metaphorical head labelled Dealing with diligent, loyal and concerned servant.

"What's wrong, Eve?" she asked, kindly.

Eve bit her lip.

"Madam, it involves Miss Ruth. Something she has done."

Johanna sighed again. She added the metaphorical hat labelled Mum.

"What has she done?" Johanna asked, biting back the "…this time."

"It is strange." Eve said.

Johanna set down her teacup and stood up.

"I think you had better show me." she said, knowing some things, especially involving Ruth, were best seen.

The something was in Ruth's bedroom. Wordlessly, Eve indicated the bed.

"I was changing the sheets this morning and I wondered why the old sheets were developing holes and rips." She said. Then I looked closer, and…"

They inspected the bed together. Some sort of fine metal wire had been meticulously wound round the frame, the legs and the bedstead. Johanna looked closely, and saw here and there it had snapped, but had been spliced together to ensure a continuous run, leaving sharp little nugs that were probably responsible for tearing the sheets. She nodded.

"You did not cut yourself, did you?" she asked Eve. Well, I talk to Ruth about this, at the very least. You do not put servants at avoidable risk of injury. This is not courteous. And my daughter might cut herself. Avoidably.

"No, madam. But see what she has done to the headboard. This was not here yesterday morning."

Johanna looked. Ruth had what for other nine-year-old girls would have been the mandatory padded pink headboard. Except in this case, the hexagonal fencing material now known as chickenwire had been overlaid on top, and pulled tightly round the back. Johanna checked. It had been neatly secured in back with twists if wire to secure it. And the same wire that had been used to continuously wind round the bed frame was woven, neatly and meticulously, through the chickenwire in a neat mesh pattern.

"Madam, when I asked her, all she said was It stops them getting into my head at night." Eve said, urgently.

Johanna patted her maid's shoulder. From anybody else, such a statement would have betrayed Methodia Rascal levels of insanity. From her daughter Ruth, who had already exhibited multiple signs of pre-adolescent genius, a girl who was anything up to ten years ahead of her school peers in academic ability, but who in other ways was still only nine years old, this was probably a simple statement of fact.

Ruth had already had her confrontation with the Dungeon Dimension Things, Johanna recalled. She was a Wizard's daughter, and several Witches had diagnosed signs of incipient magic in her. As she was also an Assassin's daughter, she had devised a simple and terrifyingly effective inhumation strategy for the Things, and won her battle.

But were they coming back? Johanna wondered. And if not Them, then who?

Johanna realised this might not be her world. She knew where she was with non-magical perils.

"I'll talk to Ponder." she decided. "I don't care if a world war is about to begin, he can make time for our daughter. And I'll talk to Ruth. At the very least she can file those sharp pointy bits down, or something. This might be expensive in terms of bedlinen."

"Thank you, Madam." Eve said.

The Guild of Assassins, Filigree Street.

Lieutenant Irena Politek leaned back on the wall and folded her arms. She kept her face impassive, not liking the feel of this place very much, and wondered about the chest-height hole that went straight through one of the four pillars, like a flattened diamond.

A Cossack shaksha would not have left that exact shape, she thought. But definitely the cross-section of some sort of sword…

"That seems acceptable, My Lord."

That was the man who sat behind the desk; in black, he had the look of a cultivated and kindly priest, perhaps a man with an intellectual bent and an interest in theology. Irena, knowing who he was, was not fooled. He even had an Air Watch codeword, as did most of the other prominent Guild Heads around the City.

Lord Vetinari smiled slightly at Lord Downey.

"Four of your best people." he said. "Some of whom are not resident in Ankh-Morpork. And the usual arrangement, of course. Bonds drawn on the City for half the contract price in advance, the balance on satisfactory completion. I expect you to quickly complete the planning for this mission and to liaise with Lieutenant Politek, as the skills of the Air Watch will be vital to swift conclusion of this matter."

He looked to Irena, who nodded acquiescence.

"Of course, my Lord." said Downey. "With regard to advising Guild members resident outside Ankh-Morpork. I can have outline drafts and contracts ready for them to peruse, within the hour. May I call upon the goodwill of the Pegasus Service to deliver them promptly?"

"Da." Irena said. "There is a flight to one of the relevant home addresses due for the early hours of tomorrow morning. As this is urgent, I can arrange to bring that flight forward to tonight. As for the other, as it is a short flight across the Circle Sea, I can take that myself later this evening, and bring back a reply. It is perhaps best coming from a Service pilot who is known personally to this Guild member, rather than a stranger."

She looked at Vetinari and Downey.

"It may be best if there is a certain flexibility about the contract price. In case of informal negotiation, how high may I go on behalf of the City and the Guild?"

Downey smiled slightly.

"Oh, yes. This Guild member. A necessary precaution, Lieutenant. Thank you for considering it."

He consulted Vetinari. A maximum price was agreed, with the caveat Irena only went there if there was no other alternative.

Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork. The evening of Thursday 5th Grune.

Rebecka Smith-Rhodes arrived back at her family home, dead beat and in need of restorative services in the approximate order of bath, food and sleep. Back-to-back Pegasus flights with the continual jumping in between time zones could really take it out of you.

Pack my bags for the flight home tomorrow. Make sure I've got one Watch uniform there, as Olga wants me on fast recall if things here blow up. Take all the things on the shopping list from Ankh-Morpork that you just cannot get in Bitterfontein. While I was busy, Mum made sure everything on the list was ticked off, thanks, Mum. (4)

"Welcome home, Miss Rebecka." Claude said. "I trust you had some safe uneventful flights today?"

He smoothly took her flying cloak, and added

"You have a guest waiting for you. He is in the drawing room."

It occurred to her there was somebody she'd neglected. In fact, somebody she hadn't even thought of in the past two days. Bekki felt sudden guilt.

"Hello, Bekki." Ampie said. He grinned his usual wide grin. She hugged him, wondering why he only ever got to see her when her face was flushed bright red.

"Err.. I understand you've been busy. Other things on your mind."

After a while everybody sat down for dinner. A part of Rebecka's mind was planning ahead.

Up at four. It's unfair to wake up Dorothea just for one, so make breakfast myself. See I've got everything packed. Broomstick to the Air Station. Leave stick in hangar there for the obvious reason, saddle up Boetjie, transfer things to panniers. Clear it with control, take off. Damn, roust out Wee Archie and hope he's sober. Next stop, Bitterfontein, six-thirty-ish in the morning local time. And I really hope all this has blown over by the time I'm next on duty. I love two days here and six in Howondaland. It's just the travelling that takes it out of you.

Bekki enjoyed dinner with the family. And with Ampie. Who was practically family these days. And, joys, Dad was having dinner with them before, most probably before doing another night shift at the University… they discussed various bits of business. Apparently they'd worked out how the Klatchians had got hold of an Omnicon, and had plugged the leak. The next step was minimising the damage.

Two hours later, Claude answered the door. He came to the dining room with a grave expression on his face.

"Officer Myers of the City Watch Air Police, My Lady. She is here to see Miss Rebecka."

"Hi, Parrot, come and meet the family!" Bekki called, cheerfully.

Robyn Myers grinned, slightly embarrassed.

"Love to, Firebird, but this is kind of official." she said. "You're not going to bloo.. to love me for this."

"Okay, but I'll introduce you first." she said."

Won't hurt." Robyn replied.

Then she got to the point of it.

"Change of plan, Firebird. Red Star wants you to fly back to Howondaland tonight, if you will. Brought this little bladger."

They looked down. Wee Archie was looking up with a grin on his face.

"Mistress Rebecka." he said. "Ah should be pleased to get ye back to Bitterfontein."

"And not tomorrow morning?" Bekki asked.

"Got to be flexible, Firebird. Red Star says, at least you haven't got far to go, to deliver one official mailing. Get a signature for it, and somebody's going to be along tomorrow to follow through, she says. That's your last duty, she says, before you can clock off. Then you can go off shift till next week, the moment it's signed for."

She took sight of Ampie, and made an instant deduction.

"Sorry, oke. Got to take her away from you. Coud'j'ya sign here, Firebird, to say you've received?"

Bekki signed, and received a large, thicker than usual, black envelope. She read the name on the outside. Then she said "Oh…" and showed it to her mother.

"Can't say I'm surprised." Johanna said. "She's Guild. Tell her I'll put her up?"

"Ma'am? You are Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, Graduate Assassin, of Raven House?"

"Yes, that's me." Johanna said.

Robyn reached into her satchel. She brought out another black envelope.

"Got one for you too, ma'am. Be obliged if you signed for receipt…"

Cenotia, Hubwards Klatch. Eight-thirty pm by local time.

Irena Politek came out of Feegle Space over a country that looked green, attractive and alluring. The shadows of evening were lengthening, and the warmth of a late summer afternoon was dissipating into the air. She orientated herself on the hills in the near distance, and looked for landmarks, remembering that she had visited before.

Just a late unscheduled milk run, she thought to herself. One call, one delivery. Get recipient to sign, wait for her to read it over, fly back with her decision, advise the right people, then I'm off-shift, home, and bed.

She flew lower over the nation formerly known as Istanzia, but which these days had the revived former name of Cenotia.(5)

She took in well-ordered fields and terraces of olive trees and vineyards, as she flew into the hills. Then she got the fix she wanted on the exact location and flew down to a landing. Late-working Kibbutzim looked up at the descending white horse with interest.

Bitterfontein, the Turnwise Caarp, Rimwards Howondaland.

"Wasn't expecting you back before tomorrow morning." Aunt Mariella said, laconically. "Anything interesting happen in Ankh-Morpork or was it the same old same old?"

Bekki suddenly realised the news hadn't got this far to the rim of the world yet. News from Ankh-Morpork from two days ago took at least another two, in normal circumstances, to get to Rimwards Howondaland.

"I brought the papers." Bekki said. "I think you should read them. Errr. Do you mind if I also get very official and formal?"

Aunt Mariella scanned the front pages of the Ankh-Morpork Times and made a small whistling noise. Her eyebrows raised still further at the sight of the black envelope.

Well, Irena said I wouldn't have too far to travel to deliver…

"You are Mrs Mariella Elisabet Smith-Rhodes-Lensen, Licenced and Graduate Assassin, of Black Widow House?" Bekki asked. She offered the envelope with her left hand and saluted with her right.

"Errr… sign here, please?"

"This doesn't mean I'm accepting the contract." Mariella grumbled, signing.

"That's only acknowledging receipt."

Bekki peered down.

"Guild form 407/34, part one. The one behind is Guild form 408/3/ part a. Which is statement of intent to accept contract."

"I'll read it later." Mariella grumbled. "Come on in, we'll make tea and talk. Make a plan."

Mariella read the Ankh-Morpork papers closely, looking up to look sharply at Bekki several times.

Then she said, laconically

"Our little baby girl is all grown up." And grinned.

They refilled their teacups.

"A few messages for you while you were away." Mariella said. "Things to be getting on with as a Healthcare Practitioner."

"And strictly not as a witch." Bekki agreed.

"Absolutely not." Mariella agreed. "So do you need to fly back with a reply?"

"No. somebody'd coming over tomorrow. Could be Irena, maybe Olga."

Mariella considered this.

"After they nearly killed you." she said. "I'm minded to take this one. But only if I can get my own chosen working partner."

Bekki smiled slowly.

"Actually, Aunt Mariella…"

And in Cenotia, another Assassin was looking through the contract proposal.

"what do you think?" Irena Politek asked.

The Assassin she was speaking to frowned.

"Well, They tried to kill Bekki. I don't like that. The money's broadly right. Tell them I'll do it. But only if I get to choose my own working partner."

Irena Politek grinned.

"We can probably oblige you, there…"

TO BE CONTINUED.

(1) Nothingfjord is a place which is not Norway in the same way Fourecks is not Australia. As a research wizard in the neighbouring state of the Scatterguts was first to formulate what on our world would be the Copenhagen Interpretation, Wizardly protocol has now renamed the theory as The Frivoli Principle, after the capital city of the Scatterguts. Partly for accuracy of attribution and mainly because it's easier to write. Also, there are some mean beers and good eating in Frivoli (probably among the best on the Disc. Probably.), which is a consideration when it comes to planning academic research trips and other freebies.

(2) In British academic and Civil Service parlance, this is the one-page summation that is found at the front of a long scientific or technical report which sums up the major themes for laymen such as politicians, university administrators or people who make decisions about ongoing funding. It is known as the Janet And John Page, named after the very first reading primer British schoolchildren encounter, aged approximately three or four. In satirical political comedy Yes, Minister, wily mandarin Sir Humphrey Appleby remarks that his Minister, James Hacker, never reads further than the front page anyway.

(3) This is a running problem at British universities, where outside the established old places like Oxbridge and one or two others, where ability, talent, and potential are still valued entry qualifications, academics at other institutions have long expressed concern that the entry qualification that really matters for foreign students is whether or not they can pay vastly inflated tuition fees. All the above issues, including a functionally illiterate Saudi Arabian aristocrat offered a PhD place, have cropped up at various British unis. My old university, UEA Norwich, was embroiled in a scandal in the early 1990's, when an insufficiently vetted Iraqi student was allowed to do doctoral-level work into chemical and biological weapons, ultimately paid for by the British Ministry of Defence. When a war was brewing with Iraq on the stated premise of Iraq having weapons of mass destruction, a member of the ruling Ba'ath Party with links to Saddam Hussein was inobtrusively boning up on such weapons at a British university… then promptly buggered off home once she'd got all the information she could. UEA was suitably embarrassed and the PhD in question is not likely to be invited back to Alumni reunions. She also appeared on the USA's Most Wanted list.

(4) Bekki had discovered that once family and friends knew you were in the Pegasus Service, you ended up with shopping lists and requests. A working witch, Bekki used her overseas trips to stock up on remedies, powders, potions and medications unavailable in Rimwards Howondaland. Other Witches would ask things like "I've heard about Howondalandian Shixa root as a remedy for joint ailments. Don't suppose you could…?" Aunt Mariella had asked for some of her preferred bath salts and soaps, from Pairs, you know, on Sticky Widow Street. Mum had suggested next time Bekki was in Wreckjavik, could she drop in at Gunnar Asa Stofnandijarnssun's workshop, it's on Ásvallagata Street, to see if he could do a paired set of throwing axes, you know, things Famke needs for school…. Bekki found it easiest to keep a separate notebook for orders and requests. Aunt Mariella also asked Bekki if she could take things the other way too, you know, on the way out. Apparently all Pegasus pilots did little favours like this. It was viewed as a Perk of service.

(5) Updating my Discworld "Israel" with reference to the Compleat Discworld Atlas.

Notes Dump: The ground dispersal area where spare parts are stored in a dusty neglected hangar, on the off-chance they might be needed to get a story up in the air.