The Price of Flight – part nineteen.
Maskirovka.
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: corrections. One character ended up in the wrong place (briefly) a phenomenon which cannot be explained either by Feegle crawstepping or by two people being lifelong friends. one among others nominated by eagle-eyed readers.
The bit about life-span of a Pegasus addresses a problem that's been niggling at me (and some readers) so I've slipped it in here, even if it does little to advance the tale. Also the Hebrew, a language of which I know little outside a Christian upbringing that was high on Old Testament and the Common Book of Prayer, is straight off Google Translate. Again, if anyone knows better...
Cenotia (Istanzia) on the Golem Heights
"Does she know?" Irena Politek asked, indicating the name-board of the Agricultural Collective. It readקולקטיב החקלאות מריאלה סמית-רודוס.
The local guide showing her around grinned a long happy grin.
"Oy vey, Irena! What do you think? I made sure to tell her."
"I'm sure you did." Irena replied, contemplating the Morporkian text underneath the Cenotian.
"She got this place started." her guide explained. "Got things on a sure footing when it was just starting out. Majority vote of all kibbutzim. I was there too, but, gevalt, she knew all the farming things."
"And lots of places at the other end of the continent are named after her family." Irena reflected. "You may as well have at least one at this end."
They walked on from the large board advertising that the visitor was now in the Mariella Smith-Rhodes Agricultural Collective. Irena wished she'd brought an iconograph. You know. To show it to Mariella.
"So you've considered the proposal?" she asked.
Mrs Rivka ben-Divorah Herschkowitz (Licenced and Graduate Assassin, Black Widow House) nodded.
"The money's right. I get to work with Mariella. I'm only in this place because this is Aaron's job. Gets boring. And if I can get whoever it was who tried to kill Bekki, that's something I don't mind doing pro-bono. You kind of get attached to somebody when you've been there since they hatched. Gevalt, you're her Godsmother!"
Irena indicated agreement.
"I wanted a combat air wing over Syrrit. I was bloody furious." she said.
"But you got over-ruled, and anyway they came home okay. So Vetinari wants Assassins out there. Same sort of result, but more discreet and less likely to start a war. Less great big smouldering craters in the landscape."
"And we fly you in." Irena agreed, "which means I've got to get you, and your working gear, over to Ankh-Morpork, quickly and discreetly, until we all get the word to go."
Irena studied Rivka.
"Listen. A Pegasus is never discreet. Anything but. We know the newspapers have got observation posts on top of the Opera House where they can watch everything coming and going at the Air Station. They're certainly watching Pegasus flights to see what comes and goes. We also know the Klatchians are listening in to our comms. So. Could you wear civvies and not Assassin black? Also, a big hat of some kind, so that whoever's watching is only going to see an anonymous civilian coming in as a passenger, probably a diplomat of some sort? Thanks."
"Got it. Where are you dropping me?"
"Palace gardens. Vetinari doesn't need to see you yet. We think that fits the cover story of "incoming diplomat" and it will fool the Press. Then we get you and your gear in a coach to the safe house where you'll be staying undercover."
"Suits me. I get to eat Dorothea's cooking. You've reminded her about kosher?"
Friday, 7th Grune. Bitterfontein, the Turnwise Caarp, Rimwards Howondaland
"You always time your visits here for breakfast, lunch or dinner." Mariella Smith-Rhodes-Lensen observed.
Olga Romanoff grinned.
"There have to be some perks to the job." she said. "Vassily, eat nicely!"
From the head of the table, Hendricka Lensen smiled contentedly.
"Ag, he's a boykie." she said. "You get some table menners into a boy, you are doing well."
She smiled benignly at the two children, overlooking Valentina calling her brother a disgusting pig.
"Are you sure you don't mind?" Olga asked. "It's a school holiday in both places, Eddie needs to be at the University, and that causes problems in my job."
"You are always welcome here, Olga." Hendricka assured her. "As are the children. Horst and Mariella heven't got round to it yet, end I quite like having children eround."
"Besides, you'll do what you have to far better, if you're sure the children are safe." Mariella said, hurriedly nudging the subject away from grandchildren. And her mother-in-law's strongly dropped hint.
"Da. Which is to avoid an all-out war." Olga said.
"But you will win, mamya." Vassily said. "You will destroy the Klatchians and come back as the victor."
Olga sighed and looked hard at her son.
"Vaska." she said, and then decided to be more formal. "Vassily Eduardovitch. Listen to me. My place and my duty here is to avoid a war. War is not pleasant. I have fought in one. I saw friends and comrades killed. I wish there to be no more, and I am working to prevent it. Which is why I am asking your Tannie Mariella to help out."
"You're almost certain to go to the School when you're older." Mariella said. "When you've hed the training, you'll get why people like me have to do this sort of job. People like you too, maybe, when you're eighteen."
"Vaska, one day you will be a Grand Duke." his mother added. "You will have received a military training and you will have the right to raise an army."
Vassily's ears picked up at this and he sat up, alert. olga took the opening.
"But this comes with responsibility. Great responsibility. I wish you to know in your heart that you have a duty and an obligation to care for your people. You do not throw their lives away like stakes at the gaming table. Where possible, you seek to avoid war, so your people thrive. If I am a Grand Duchess in any way at all, my Grand Duchy is the Air Watch. Where over a hundred people look to me for leadership, direction and purpose. I would not lose one of those hundred people. My people."
Vassily still looked unconvinced, in a confident six-year-old-boy sort of a way. Uncle Horst patted his shoulder.
"You cen come end see the horses with me." he offered. "Take you riding."
"Da. You go with Oompie Horst." Olga said. She looked down the table.
"Bekki. What are your plans for the afternoon?" she asked.
Rebecka, a working Witch again, explained she had a round to do at the Turfloop Township, then after that the rest of the day was her own.
"Horoscho." Olga said. She contemplated her daughter, six years old and showing all the signs of Witchcraft growing in her.
"Bekki, could you take Valla? Show her practice?"
Valla expressed delight at the idea. Her mother smiled slightly.
"Do not cheer too loudly, devyushka. I wish you to see Witchcraft is not glamorous and is hard work. Besides, it will be your job to grind powders and mix potions, under Aunt Rebecka's guidance. And I also hope you can make tea to an acceptable standard. Aunt Rebecka will teach you this, also."
Later, with the children in the care of responsible people and with Hendricka having gone to supervise work in the distillery and the bottling plant, Olga got to have a chat with Mariella about business to be done. It was rather like the one Irena had had in Cenotia, only from a different angle.
From the Ankh-Morpork Inquirer, afternoon editions, Friday 5th Grune:
WARBIRDS PREPARE TO TAKE TO THE SKIES!
Ankh-Morpork's vengeance on the Klatchies and the liberation of plucky Syrrit from occupation cannot be far away now. This morning we saw the most modern and lethal combat brooms of the Air Police coming out of their special hangar to be fuelled with magic and to receive a full weapons load, no doubt to be discharged on the arrogant enemy and to send them howling out of Syrrit and Laotan…
"Mother Hen Control to all stations Flying Pig. Advisory: I am training a new Controller for active duty. I will be present to guide and advise but you will hear voice of Tolstaya Utka control. For those unfortunate enough not to speak Rodinian, you may call her Fat Duck. Acknowledge. Over."
Nadezhda Popova took her thumb from the Transmit button, and grinned at her old friend Marina Raskova. They listened to the acknowledgements coming in, a lot managing to incorporate "Hi, Marina!" and "Welcome back, we've missed you!"
"It's easier than it looks." Nadezhda assured her. "Keep an eye on the plotting maps to check where everyone is in the air, although after a while you almost see it in your head, like playing chess. This is the callsign list so you can see who's who, and anything that needs to be written down goes in the log-book for when Syren or Red Star need to be informed about anything out of the usual. I'll be sitting in, if you get into trouble."
"This is new." Marina said. "We never had this in my day."
Nadezhda squeezed her arm.
"Da, but in your day you did not have sergeant's stripes, either. Syren thinks you deserve the extra authority. So do I."
Marina had been found a large tunic in her size. She'd asked Olga about the stripes on it. Olga Romanoff had said she had ordered this. Otherwise Marina was in a big flowing blue skirt with golden trim, for comfort. Britches and flying boots in her size had been ordered. Even in Ankh-Morpork this would take time to provide.
"I got fat and unfit." Marina said, ruefully. Nadezhda took her hands.
"You got married. You settled down. You became happy with a person who loves you. Hey, in those circumstances, try not to get fat."
-Starling to…Fat Duck Control. Rug, Klatchian pilot, approaching Air Station at Angel three-quarters. Am intercepting. Over.
Marina paused, then thumbed Transmit. Nadezhda nodded encouragement at her.
"Here Fat Duck Control. Starling, you are clear to persuade the rug not to fly over Air Station. Escort them around and tell pilot is Exclusion Zone. Over."
There was now a Standing Patrol over Pseudopolis Yard excluding any other air user from coming close. The pilots had been told to use any means short of actively shooting down anyone who tried to overfly. Meanwhile ground Watch patrols were telling local Klatchians who ran flying carpet taxis not to even think it, as things will get difficult for you if you do.
The journalistic parties on high rooftops around the Yard who could look down on Air Watch preparations had been told they could remain, no objections. However, the price for that is that you tell us if you see anybody else on the rooftops watching, anyone at all.
They listened to angry indistinct shouting over the Omnicon. It went on for some time.
"Mother Hen control to Starling. You left the link open, Starling. Sloppy. Over."
-Starling to Control. Apologies, Mother Hen. This idiot wouldn't be told. Had to get emphatic. Over.
"Fat Duck Control to Starling. How emphatic is "emphatic"? Over."
-Starling to Control. Had to force him down to street. Current position, Angels zero on Holofernes, with Ostrich unit who are reminding him there's a no-fly zone. Rug pilot is now insisting he is a Klatchian diplomat and he will be protesting to the Palace. Over.
"Fat Duck Control to Starling. Well done, leave him with Ostrich, and get in the air again. Over."
Nadezhda made a note in the log-book.
"We're worrying them if they're trying to see what we're doing on the flight-deck." she remarked. "This should be recorded."
"And that we're stopping them from seeing." Marina replied.
Nadezhda grinned.
"Syren's idea. She will be back from Howondaland later. Apparently we are to give them something they want to see and to do it publicly, in full sight. And we are to prevent them from getting close."
"Ah. A diversion." Marina said.
Nadezhda nodded.
"Da. Maskirovka. They will focus on what is happening here and other things will happen elsewhere that they will not be noticing."
-Vorona to Control. Vorona to Tolstaya Utka Control. Rug, half-angel, approaching Air Station from direction of Contract Bridge and Brewer Street. Moving to intercept. Over.
"Acknowledged, Vorona. Use persuasion, and be emphatic if you have to. Tolstaya Utka Control out."
Marina looked up Vorona on the callsign list. Her accent had been familiar.
Vorona – Officer Serafima Dospanova.
"New girl, since you were last here. She's from the Great Lake Country in Further Mouldavia. Baikal Cossack." Nadezhda explained.
Marina nodded. All the new unfamiliar people would take some getting to know.
"Nadezhda? The Klatchians really want to know what we're doing, don't they?"
Nadezhda grinned.
-Valkyrie to Control. Requesting permission to take Kriegsvogel up for a test flight. Over."
"This is Control. You are clear to take off, Valkyrie. Happy hunting. Over."
Nadezhda turned to Marina. Both felt the rumbling vibrations of a MIG-series battle-broom as it took off.(1)
"Maskirovka." she said, as if this explained everything.
The two Control-Witches smiled at each other.
An undisclosed and deniable location Widdershins of the City
"Thank you, gentlemen. That's pretty near perfect."
The woman in Air Watch uniform with sergeants' stripes smiled at the Army detail, who had been posted here under the command of an Engineer officer to perform certain bespoke construction work. The soldiers grinned, appreciatively.
Technical Sergeant Gertrude Schilling adjusted the set of her glasses. People had been working really hard out here to secure the perimeter and then build the necessary facilities. The dug-outs for hangars, crew rooms, ground servicing and storage of munitions had been dug deep, lined with wood, roofed over and then covered with earth and turf that not only camouflaged them, it offered protection from any air-raid. While witches on broomsticks normally did not need a long take off and in most circumstances they could take off vertically, the camoflaged and secure dug-outs, including some seriously large hangars that seemed way too big for Pegasi, were grouped along the end and the sides of a very long runway. Gertrude had insisted this needed to be as flat as they could possibly make it.
The reason for this base being built could be seen in the hills and cliffs around them, higher up the valley, which were liberally scarred with craters, scorch-marks and minor landslides, all caused by the Air Watch practicing attacks and bombing-runs. Normally the girls came out here in small parties and slept overnight in tents. Now, there were more permanent sleeping quarters which promised to be warmer and more comfortable. Gertrude had done the planning of the Forward Air Base (Training) in the Chirm Mountains. She was proud of her work here.
Chirm was a region which was technically a part of neighbouring Sto Kerrig. Once, the Kerrigian people had been more populous and the Kerrigian language had been heard all the way to Chirm City, a port on the coast.(2) Kerrigians had set out from there by ship, to colonise remote parts of Aceria, to claim Sumtri as a colony, and to make Rimwards Howondaland their own.(3) But the port had silted up and become largely unusable. The Chirm Mountains, which were more of a range of hills, but hills which had become barren and neglected were now empty of all but a few isolated farmsteads and the odd flock of sheep or goats. Its people had retreated inland to the Kerrigian heartlands. Where there were people in Chirm now, they were more likely to speak Morporkian.
Remote and underpopulated, this was the ideal place for the Air Watch to perform the sort of training and vigorous field exercises it couldn't do over Ankh-Morpork. The problem was, living in tents, and on the sort of very basic rations you could do over a campfire. This had not been seen as ideal. When Olga had recruited Gertrude and seen her potential as the sort of person who could do practical things like this, upgrading the ground facilities at the Chirm Air Station had been high up the list.
And now it was done. Hangars for the brooms and the Teks, secure arsenals for the munitions, barracks for the pilots, an actual real kitchen to properly cook rations, a source of springwater for drinking and washing in, and a perimeter fence that would be patrolled by Army soldiers detailed here for security. Perfect.
Gertrude smiled in satisfaction, and supervised the essential toping-out ceremony for an airbase, the running of a windsock up its pole.
Now we are an Air Station.
She noted the soldiers were looking up. She followed their gaze and saw the Pegasus coming in to land, in a slow, majestic, downward spiral.
She sighed, and went to meet it.
"Hi, Stacey." she said to the pilot.
"Looks good from above." Stacey Matlock said. "Well done. You're needed back in Ankh-Morpork, Penguin. Syren's orders. Grab your things and hop on the back."
The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork
Senior Sergeant Wee Mad Arthur brought Raduga Desh back into real space, a couple of thousand feet above the Broadways. Olga Romanoff and her passenger looked down over the City below them. Even though Ankh-Morpork exuded the essence of grey, drab and dingy even from this height, there was still something impressive about the sheer scale of the place.
"Spot-on, Arthur." Olga Romanoff said. With some of the Feegle navigators, accuracy wasn't always a given.
"Impressive." Mariella Smith-Rhodes-Lensen said, laconically.
"The navigating, or the view?" Olga asked.
"Both." Mariella said. Then she looked over to her left and frowned.
"Klatchian megic carpet, over to my left and a little behind, maybe helf a mile away. Heading this way." she said.
Olga looked round.
"The technical language is "Rug, bearing two-sixty, angels two, three thousand yards and closing." Olga said. She thought quickly. So far I've been in Omnicon silence, so they don't have a clue. It's likely they've seen a Pegasus come back into City airspace and they're coming to investigate. I gave them no transmissions to home in on. This is purely visual.
Olga considered.They'd just see a Pegasus and passenger coming into the City. They wouldn't know the passenger or the pilot. Mariella is in street clothes and her distinctive hair is tied up under a hat. She could be anybody. Nicely anonymous. But standard procedure is for a Pegasus pilot to report in on arrival. If I do not do this, they may become suspicious. I have to behave as if we do not know anything is wrong.
"Syren to Mat' Kuritsa Control. Have returned to city airspace over Turnwise Broadway. Mission complete, I am now in landing pattern over the Zygella. Over."
-Actually, this is Tolstaya Utka Control, Syren. Acknowledged. Over.
Olga grinned, and steered down to the landing circle in the Palace Gardens. Only Pegasi and emergency Air Police brooms were permitted to overfly or land here. Certainly not the Klatchians.
At the Mariella Smith-Rhodes Agricultural Collective (סקולקטיב החקלאות מריאלה סמית-רודו ) in Cenotia (Istanzia,) on the Golem Heights
Aaron Herschkowitz, the General Manager of the kibbutz, looked up from the seed-drill he was overhauling, and accepted the mug of tea with thanks.
"Hands are a bit oily at the moment. Just put it down there where I can reach it, could you? Thanks."
The young kibbutznik who had brought the tea did as he was asked, but lingered.
"So Mrs Herschkowitz has gone on a mission again." he remarked, half observation and half-question. Placidly, Aaron waited for the unspoken other half of the question.
"Errr… doesn't it worry you, Aaron? Your wife doing the job she does… I mean, putting herself into harm's way like that? I mean, err, don't you get worried?"
Aaron Herschkowitz looked up and smiled the sort of resigned little smile common to husbands of Lady Assassins the Discworld over. People like Horst Lensen, Ponder Stibbons and Peter Bellamy would have instantly recognised that smile and welcomed him into fellowship.
"Sometimes."
He shrugged.
"Personally, I'd spare the worrying for the people she's just about to start happening to and putting in Harm's way. Pass me that screwdriver, would you? Thanks."
The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh Morpork
Watchers in the street below, and certainly the journalists thronging on the roof of the Opera House, thrilled as the thaumomantic roar rose to a crescendo and the long, sleek, shape of the MIG-21 combat broom, a broomstick designed for only one possible purpose, took off from the Air Station. The pilot, small-seeming against the sheer size of the broom she was flying, gave them a friendly wave and very deliberately flew several circuits of the Opera House so as to offer maximum opportunities for iconographs.
Anyone who could tune into Air Watch comms would have heard
"Valkyrie to Fat Duck Control. Am now airborne and heading on preset route. Mission initiated. Over."
-Fat Duck Control to Valkyrie. Acknowledged. Safe journey and happy hunting, Hanna. Over.
The wording had been pre-arranged. Any listening Klatchians would not have been comforted at the idea of Hanna von Strafenburg, on a MIG-21, who had just been wished "happy hunting!" by Ground Control. Those three things together would, as Olga Romanoff had reasoned, make them very worried indeed. And nervous and worried people, Olga had said, make mistakes.
Irena Politek felt the buffeting in the air from a long way away. She glimpsed a fast moving blur in the air maybe a half mile away and slightly below her, and recognised what it was. She grinned and then steadied her Pegasus.
"Gevalt." her passenger said. "That thing was a broomstick, right?"
"Da." Irena replied. "MIG-21 combat broom, one of our battle birds. We agreed to send them out where they can be seen. To worry the Klatchians into making mistakes."
Rivka shook her head.
"I've been away from this place for too long." she remarked. "I knew you had the two-six-twos. The ones you bring out for air shows."
"Da. We have got some bright Teks now. One of them fixed the problem with the 262. Where the power could cut out and leave you flying a brick. We haven't told the Klatchians that, however."
Rivka considered this.
"So if they see a 262, they'll try to get you into a fight knowing you'll do the upward turn to the right, or whatever it is, and then, no power, and splat. Only, you've fixed that."
"That's the idea." Irena agreed. "Only it was a climbing turn to the left that caused the power to fail."
Irena was watching the fast-moving shape of the MIG-21. She grinned as it altered course slightly and steered towards the Klatchian flying carpet that was visible, perhaps a quarter-mile away. The carpet seemed intent on steering towards the Pegasus and was unaware of other air-users.
"Watch this." Irena said to Rivka, and thumbed her Omnicon on.
"Red Star to Fat Duck Control. Am in City airspace with passenger approaching landing zone at the Zygella…" she paused, watching the sky. "Stand by, Control."
The MIG-21 got no closer to the carpet than perhaps three hundred yards. Just enough to make the point, without actually killing anybody. However, the slipstream of its passing caused consternation as the carpet bucked and bounced in a sudden unexpected pocket of turbulence. The crew fought to stay on and one Klatchian lost his turban, which unfolded across the sky as a long streaming ribbon. Irena smiled slightly, as she watched what looked like a struggle to stay aboard and regain control. From the mane, Buggy Swires made a "Wheesht!" noise of appreciation.
"Oy vay." Rivka said. "Satisfying!"
"That should teach them not to try and kick my pilots off our flying carpets." Irena said. "As you say, satisfying."
"Looked like they were fighting to stop some sort of cargo from falling off." Rivka observed. "Can't tell for sure at this distance, but it looked like some sort of box."
"Pity." Irena remarked. "If we're right, that's a listening device they're using to intercept our comms. Even recovering the wreck would have been useful. Ah well, nichevo."
"Red Star to Fat Duck Control. Just had a visual on Valkyrie. She appeared to be enjoying herself. Remind me to have a word with her about dangerous flying. Over."
-Fat Duck Control to Red Star. Message received. Good to see you again, Irena. Over.
Shortly afterwards, another Pegasus landed in the Palace Gardens.
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork
"So good to see you again, Young Madam. I trust you had a pleasant flight?" Claude said, assisting Mariella with her bags. She smiled broadly and happily. She had been born in Rimwards Howondaland. Home, work and married life today might be Bitterfontein in the Turnwise Caarp. But in between she'd lived in Ankh-Morpork. This achingly familiar house was Home too.
"Claude, justnow I'm so happy to be here that I could kiss you." she replied, standing in the hallway and taking in the intensely familiar changelessness of it all, suddenly feeling as if she was thirteen again.
"I am given to understand that a single annual kiss on the cheek, on Hogswatchnight, is an appropriate display of physical affection from the mistress to a servant. The mistress may step beyond that to a kiss on both cheeks if she wishes to be even more informal." Claude replied, unperturbed.
Mariella smiled to herself. Claude had become the perfect Ankh-Morporkian butler, despite being a Black Howondalandian from Smith-Rhodesia. This city changes us all, she thought.
Then she was hugging her sister.
"You can have your old room." Johanna said. "Also, we have made a plan. When some other people arrive, we can go over it. But there's time for a drink first."
"Thought of that." Mariella said. She heard one of her bags clinking.
"Claude? Could you open the bag with the bottles in, they're on the top, and bring them in here? Dankie."
Johanna smiled.
Mariella said "Hey, I run a vinery, a distillery, and a bottling plant. If I can't give my sister a selection, as rent for staying over at hers for a day or two, then something is wrong."
Lancre Town
Mariella having been delivered discreetly and safely, Olga Romanoff flew on to her next duty. This time she was accompanying Nottie Garlick, who normally did the Central Continent Turnwise States route.(4)
The stated reason for Olga and Nottie to fly here, one they had been happy to confirm on the airwaves to Control, was Necessary Maintenance. As their Feegle brought them back onto real space above Lancre Town and they flew down, Olga considered the day so far.
Maskirovka. Giving the Klatchians lots to look at, lots to monitor, lots to watch. We are doing it in the open where they can see. I have put up a standing patrol to enforce an air exclusion zone around the Air Station. Therefore they will ask what we want to hide, what are we doing. They will pride themselves on every little glimpse they get, despite strenuous attempts to drive them away. They have seen the warbirds being prepared. By now they will have seen Hanna taking one up, but moving far too quickly to follow. They are not to know she has been instructed merely to take it on a test flight and then return. Later in the day, Drop-Bear and…. Olga paused, and winced… Belaya Smert are to go up with her for advanced training and familiarisation on the Twenty-Ones. If time allows, step them up to the Twenty-Fives. The Klatchians will see three warbirds going up, in full view. With any luck, we will give them so much to consider all at once that it will overwhelm them. They will not know which intercepted signals are significant and which are irrelevant. And while all this is going on, the things they should worry about are being done elsewhere, silently, and with omnicons turned off. Maskirovka.
The two Pegasi landed in Lancre Town's square. Passing Lancre folk looked at them without curiosity, taking it as One Of Those Things. Nottie and Olga dismounted, and led their horses to the forge, where Jason Ogg came to meet them.
"Routine maintenance, ma'ams?" he asked. He didn't seem surprised.
"Da." Olga said. She rummaged in a pouch.
"This pays the invoice for the last month's work." she said, handing the money over. "City rates, with premium."
"Thanking you kindly, ma'am, Mistress Olga." Jason said. "Our mam thought you'd be likely to drop in. She's hosting a meeting of the, err, older witches."
"I can spend time there while you work." Olga said. "Perhaps even a cup of tea."
"And a biscuit." Nottie said, cheerfully. "Two to shoe, Jason."
"Right you are, ma'am." Jason said. He appeared to remember he was talking to the Crown Princess of Lancre, and corrected "ma'am" to "Your Grace, Highness, Almost-Majesty, sort of thing."
A village smith to his core, Jason then took the reins, patted Raduga Desh on the neck, and frowned.
"Anything wrong, Jason?" Olga asked.
"Just wondering, Mistress Olga. You've been bringing this lad here for shoeing for a long time now, nigh on sixteen year. But he doesn't look much older than eight or nine. By rights he should be showing grey on the muzzle, proper grey, and getting' long in the teeth. Retired and put out to stud, with a couple of years in him before he goes, like. But he's still goin' on."
Olga heard the spill-question. This had perplexed her too. She had wondered about the inevitable moment when her Pegasus would die, ending her days in the Service except as its commander, fated to fly a desk from that moment on.
She had done such research as was available.
"I wondered that too, Jason." she said. "The best answer I can give is that Raduga Desh is one of the first two Pegasi, who were born from a magical accident, or perhaps an Act of The Gods. They were not foaled in the usual way. (5) The best guess is that they are immortal, or at the very least, have a vastly extended life-span."
She looked over to Nottie and her mount.
"Spike was the first foal, born to Irena's mare, Raduga's sister, out of a normal horse stallion. My informed guess here is that greatly increased longevity came from Spike's mother. And that this passes down the generations to all true Pegasi."
Jason nodded understanding.
"So, precious horses, then, Mistress Olga."
"Da." Olga said. "And you are the best smith on the Disc. Deservedly so. The man to whom we bring our mounts for shoeing."
Jason Ogg beamed.
"Rely on me, ma'am." he said.
Olga smiled.
"I know I can. Thank you."
She and Nottie retrieved things from their panniers, or in Nottie's case, slung over the saddle-horn, and walked across the square together to Tir-Nanny-Ogg.
All conversation stopped as they entered and made the witch-bows. Olga's bag audibly clinked.
"Wotcha, Olga, love!" Nanny Ogg called, cheerfully. "Come on in, prod the cat off a chair and sit down!" She paused, then called to an unseen daughter-in-law to hurry up with the tea.
Olga smiled, and made the obligatory bow to Leticia Earwig, then to the Duchess Keepsake, to Queen Magrat, to Mrs Proust from Ankh-Morpork(6), and then to Tiffany Aching. Several Feegle Kelda were also present. Olga Witch-bowed to them and addressed them by name.
She assessed Tiffany's face, which did not look pleased or happy, and composed her own into poker-face impassivity. Her bag clinked again.
"For you, Nanny." she said, offering two bottles. Nanny Ogg's face split into a rictus grin.
"Thanks, love! Ohh! That klip-drift stuff, I see…"
"I was at the Lensen plaas in Howondaland earlier this morning, Nanny. Only the best."
Nanny beamed thanks.
"Ooh, and some of that Bodka stuff!(7) Olga, you're either bein' a generous guest, or else you needs my help."
Olga heard a sussuration of excitement and interest from around the room and guessed the Keldas had brought a retinue of guards. She smiled slightly.
"Nanny, I need the advice and help of all of you." Olga said, honestly. "And, Kelda Jeannie, Kelda Peigi, Kelda Mauri, I would request the help of your people. Over and above that of your sons, who already serve me well and loyally."
The bag Olga was carrying clinked again.
Kelda Jeannie, the senior of the three who were present, looked up gravely.
"Hag O' The High Airs, ye are troubled." Jeannie said. "Ye have a place in this gathering. Sit ye doon and gather your thoughts."
"Thank you."
Olga took a deep breath. She nodded at Nottie. Everybody else followed her eyes.
"Funeral wreaths." Tiffany said.
"Indeed." Olga replied. She turned to Magrat.
"By your leave, Majesty. One purpose of our being here today is to visit the graves at the castle. To pay respect."
"Of course." Magrat said.
"We have all seen the news out of Ankh-Morpork." Lettice Earwig said. "The news out of Klatch is not good. Of course, I have no doubt at all that Ankh-Morpork will win if war breaks out."
Olga wondered how somebody who was a Witch could still get things so horribly completely wrong. She was about to interject when Tiffany Aching spoke up and confirmed the reason why Olga had sensed anger in her. Olga also knew it would not be a terribly good idea to make Tiffany angry.
"The Klatchians are weaponizing sheep." Tiffany said, in cold anger.
"Gods know how they're doing it." Mrs Proust muttered. Tiffany glanced over at her.
"You are a city witch. You usually do not see living sheep. I should inform you there is a so-called sport in the Chalk, or was until my grandmother put a stop to it, called "mutton-busting."(8) This involves people, usually very small nimble people with the build of jockeys, attempting to ride an unbroken sheep. Bets are taken as to how long the rider can stay aboard. Some people, at least until my grandmother found them, actually succeeded in getting large sheep, and we have some large breeds on the Chalk such as the Upland Black-Faced Punch, to accept a rider much as a horse will."
Tiffany sipped her tea.
"Da. The sheep-riders of Klatch were exceptionally small men. Like jockeys." Olga said.
Tiffany looked stern.
"Olga, would it interest you to know that a sheep-dealer in Twoshirts was trying to buy some Upland Black-Faces, our largest breed, for an unspecified foreign buyer? He was, when I asked how and who, working on behalf of buyers in Klatch. The Klatchians wanted prime ewes."
Olga sat up straight.
"How long ago, and were any exported?" she asked.
"Perhaps a year ago." Tiffany said. "Before I could put a stop to it, four were sent."
"The Klatchians were stealing rams out of Syrrit." Olga said. "About a year ago. Ram-lambs of the Flying Sheep herds."
"I'd love to see those…" Tiffany said, her voice softening and her eyes going mistier. Then she too saw the implications.
"They are breeding them." she said. "For war. Bigger sheep to carry bigger riders. That is abuse of animals. Of sheep."
Something about Tiffany said that she was prepared to put a very big stop to this. Olga ran with the moment.
"Tiffany, several years ago, when the Air Police was less than half the size it is today and my rank was only that of Lieutenant, I led my command to fight a war here against… them. We won. Four of my friends were killed."
She nodded to Nottie, who was holding the wreaths.
"Three remain buried at the Palace. The fourth was repatriated to her Homeland for a culturally appropriate funeral.(9) Later today, I will lay those wreaths, salute, and contemplate the nature of war."
Olga looked thoughtful.
Earlier in my life I rode with a Cossack Host and became one. On the last battle in the Chalk, where the rain grounded all my flyers, we took captured horses and rode them into war. To ride and charge into battle on a horse is exhilarating. But afterwards, you see what war does to horses. You see dead and wounded horses and you grieve."
Olga turned to Tiffany.
"I understand your feelings about sheep, possibly better than you think. To risk death or pain to a horse in battle is abuse."
"Broomsticks don't feel pain." Nanny Ogg said.
"Exactly, Nanny. People, however, do. Listen to me. I fought a war here. Nottie fought alongside me. That was as near as you can get to a just war. Against an enemy who were vicious, hostile, alien, deadly and who could not be reasoned or negotiated with. Every woman I led into that battle was a volunteer, who know what she was fighting. We won. We lost four dead. Then, I was younger, unmarried and had no children. Today I am older and I think differently. Today, there is a husband, a daughter and a son."
"Good girl, your Valentina." Nanny observed. "Got promise."
"I hope to see her become a witch. It is inevitable."
"Not brung her?" Nanny sounded disappointed.
"Nyet, Nanny. My children are with friends today. Valla is seeing a witch's steading, however. Rebecka Smith-Rhodes is looking after her."
"Good girl, Bekki." Mrs Proust said. Other witches agreed. Olga got back to the point.
"The Klatchians are not Elves. Klatchians are as human as we are. There are Klatchians on their side who are as alarmed by this as we are. War would kill many people. We wish not to have this. I am here to tell you I wish to help prevent a war from happening. To do this I need your help."
Olga made the witch bow.
"Tell us how we may help." Tiffany invited her.
"Thank you." Olga said. She reached into the bag and pulled out more bottles. She bowed to each Kelda present and set a bottle in front of her. There was a muted roar of excitement from the eaves and recesses of the house.
"I need Feegle. To help on a raid. Those of your sons who serve in the Air Police will not be enough in numbers."
"And the Bodka?" Kelda Jeannie asked. She smiled, aware of the bargain Olga was offering.
"For the victory party afterwards." Olga said. "So the ballad of the greatest raid and reiving in the long history of the Nac Mac Feegle may be sung loud and long."
A Place Where The Sun Doth Not Shine, Rimwards Klatch
A Pegasus popped into existence in one of the remotest desert corners of Klatch. The pilot felt hideously exposed and vulnerable and alone. Absolute Omnicon silence applied to this mission. This was necessary so that the Klatchians, at either end of the journey, would have no idea whatsoever that this flight had taken place. For that reason, the pilot, after dropping off a passenger at the Palace, had departed from there with a new passenger. A runner on foot had taken confirmation of her new flight back to the Yard.
Irena Politek grinned to herself. She liked this sort of mission.
"Good navigating, Buggy" she said, noting the desert oasis no more than fifty feet below her. This was pinpoint navigation of the sort you wanted an old hand in the Service to do, like Buggy Swires. You would not, for instance, ask Wee Archie Aff The Midden to bring you back into real space so close to the ground. (10)
"Ay, weel, mistress." Buggy said, "All there is here is sand. It's sort of flat, aye. Nae problem!"
She grinned. It had solved the problem. Coming in so close to the ground had minimised the chances of being seen. Now, the next problem…
Irena lifted her mare's nose slightly and steered her up and over the wall of the fort standing apart from the dismal desert settlement. Then she came in for an impeccable four-hoof landing. Dogs immediately started barking. Big angry dogs.
"Your move." Irena said to her passenger.
Captain Angua von Überwald dismounted, folded her arms, and adopted a certain attitude. After a while the barking stopped, subsiding into an apprehensive whimper in one case.
Irena saluted the armed female warriors who were running to the Pegasus.
"Take us to your Sultana, if you will." she said. "We are expected."
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork
Rivka and Mariella's reunion had been loud and joyous. Johanna Smith-Rhodes stood back, remembering them as schoolgirls, and reflecting that she had been that young too, once.
When the joy had calmed down, she said, mildly
"Got the background notes here. Let's get a drink, and then we can make a plan."
Three professional Assassins then got down to business.
After a while, Ponder Stibbons ambled down the stairs, wondering in a muzzy post-sleep way what the noise was. He too was pleased to see them again.
He sat with them, an accepted and tolerated fourth, whilst they discussed equipment and strategies. He smiled slightly.
"What's up, Ponder?" Johanna asked.
"It's just occurred to me." he said. "Isn't this the first time you and Mariella have been out on an official mission together? Ever?"
Mariella and Johanna looked at each other.
"He's right." Mariella said. "First time ever."
"Wellnow. Let's make it memorable." said Johanna.
Rivka ben-Divorah shook her head.
"We need to find out exactly where the Klatchians are based, first." she said, practically.
"That's in hand." Johanna remarked. "Vetinari has at least one agent on the ground. And the Air Watch are looking too. It should not take them too long to find where they are."
Rivka grinned.
"Then we hit them. Satisfactory."
A Place Where The Sun Doth Not Shine, Rimwards Klatch
"Irena Politek!" the woman exclaimed, joyously. "I am so very pleased to see you."
She hugged Irena dramatically and warmly, adding a few Klatchian kisses for good measure. Irena focused and applied Witch-senses. No, she genuinely is happy and pleased to see me. But there's a part of her that's holding back. Closed off. This lady is a schemer. Watch her.
Irena also sensed Angua von Überwald was assessing the woman too, in her own unique way. Tasting smells and impressions and body language.
"All those times you and I played chase-games in the sky, testing our wits and our flying skills, my carpet against your wonderful Pegasus. Where is she? I hope my people are stabling her away from the fierce sun and providing fodder and water? I must see her from close to, before you leave. And the famous Captain von Überwald, so good with dogs. And third in line to command the City Watch."
The woman stepped back and appraised Angua. Angua and Irena appraised her in return. She was wearing modest black robes and dresses thought suitable for a Klatchian noblewoman to preserve her dignity and modesty, but something about her suggested these robes could be thrown off in seconds. Possibly revealing something less modest underneath. Irena also noted that, as per briefing, she wore a lot of rings and jewellry. Irena reflected the notes also said that she had been taught by Lady T'Malia, and decided to watch the rings.
"Peace, my friends." she said. "For you both, should you require it, you are assured of the full seventy-two hours of sacred hospitality. For you, Irena, I would gladly extend the period, should you wish to go up in the air and fly with me. We are, after all, both pilots. Part of a sisterhood."
She clapped her hands and called for refreshments. Irena and Angua noted that these were brought by relays of distractingly attractive young men, who were not wearing very much. Ah, distraction.
And then the Sultana and Begum Miriam bint-Alhazred (Licenced and Graduate Assassin, Tump House, further trained by the Hashishim of Klatch) was all business.
Irena passed over a large black envelope, almost a parcel.
"In the circumstances, I will not ask you to sign for this." she said.
Miriam smiled slightly.
"In the circumstances, it is wise not to leave a trail of paper." she agreed. She scanned the notes, frowning slightly at intervals. She did not disclose too much of the contents to Irena or Angua. Neither expected her to; this was internal Assassins' Guild business, after all.
Miriam looked up.
"Please report to Lord Downey and to Lord Vetinari that whatever action is planned, there will be no interference from the Brotherhood of Mount Inhalat." she said. "It is very simple. The Hashishim may be Klatchians. But they are not beholden to Caliph or Seraph. They follow their own counsel. And they do not want war with Ankh-Morpork, either."
Miriam smiled and remarked that the hummous and pitta breads may be peasant food, but they are particularly piquant today. Do try them. And the falafel.
The three ate in companiable silence for a while. Irena was forced to admit to herself that Klatchian hospitality was not bad at all. It might be worth visiting this new friend occasionally. Once I figure out how to manage her guard dogs, when I don't have a werewolf to assist with that.
"Listen to me." Miriam said, with sudden intensity. "I was once exiled here for six long years by order of the Caliph. I learnt to make the best of this place. Once, two bright and personable young Assassins, girls I liked, visited. That was pretty much the highlight of those six years, apart from those occasions when a Pegasus Service pilot came to deliver mailings to the fat idiot at your Consulate here. I see you bypassed him, by the way." (11)
Irena and Angua nodded, emphatically.
"As the Caliph demands of one of his carpet pilots – I hold the rank of Major in our Air Force, incidentally – I went up to intercept her when she was spotted in our skies. I enjoyed those duels and mock combats with her. During which she would discreetly pass me any mailings meant for me, with nobody seeing this from the ground."
Miriam smiled warmly at Irena.
"Personally, I am glad those were mock combats, after which both of us lived."
"Likewise." Irena said. She smiled back, liking this devious and dangerous woman.
"But back to my story. When my exile was over, I was able to return to my main home in the great city of Al-Khali, and oh, how I had missed it. I attended the court of Prince Khufurah, where I was able to see all the intrigues as a spectator, and not as a player of the game. That way, you observe more of the game than the players. Khufurah I support as leader of our nation, by the way. The contenders and the pretenders, and they always exist, are slight men. Or else they have the same grasp of reality, and the life expectancy, of a child's balloon in a sandstorm. Or else they are paranoid and insane and really believe war with Ankh-Morpork is inevitable, we must strike first, and we must win to safeguard the future of Klatch."
"And this last grouping is in the ascendency." Angua said.
"Exactly so. There are power struggles going on in the capital. Khufurah remains Caliph, but barely. The opposition party is consolidating. It has forced exile on those it considers dangerous and hostile to its way of thinking."
Miriam sighed again.
"A large group of armed soldiers arrived at my house and suggested I may be safer here for the foreseeable future. Here, where I was exiled before."
Miriam sighed.
"None of my guard was with me in the City and in any case, I would not have wished to see my brave guardswomen die against greater odds. I pretended submission, and flew back here."
She looked around a vista of opulent luxury.
"It is tolerable. But it is not Al-Khali. I wish to return there, and next time, my personal guard accompanies me in some numbers."
Irena saw the point.
"Helping us gets you back to the City sooner." she said.
Miriam grinned.
"Exactly, my friend. And despite appearances, I have what I hope is the best sort of patriotism for my country. I do not want to see it destroyed. War with Ankh-Morpork is criminally stupid and foolish. All we can say for certain is that one great nation will be destroyed and the other fatally weakened. Which is which is a matter of debate, although the wily Vetinari will work to ensure it is not his. As a Klatchian who lived and studied in Ankh-Morpork, I am tainted by liberal and infidel ideas. One of which is a great liking for Ankh-Morpork."
"Who is behind this?" Angua asked.
Miriam smiled.
"Ah, a policewoman's question." she said. "If I am currently making a witness statement for the City Watch, the answer is Prince Cadram."
"But he died." Angua said. "After the Leshp business. I was there. Khufurah took control and promoted his brother to a Provincial governor. Commanding the army in Klatchistan and the Kazakh country. We heard later the Klatchistanis put his head on a pole."
"You are assuredly right." Miriam said. "The Klatchistani province, alas, generally does not recognise the authority of Klatch. Its heathen and rebellious people tie down a large army who were, in the main, chasing at shadows."
She bade a servant pour another round of cool refreshing sherbets.
"The elder prince Cadram, now deceased, had two sons." Miriam said. Too young at the time of Leshp, as they grew to maturity, Khufurah called them to him and took oaths of loyalty. Then he let them be. A mistake, but no man would want to contemplate slaying his own nephews. This character flaw is part of the reason why I support him as Caliph, incidentally. He is no despot."
She sipped her sherbet, reflectively.
"Cadram, the older, took the princehood. Barakh, the younger, chose to be educated as a Wizard at the University in Al-Khali. Cadram, who like his father is a man of action and little reflection, trained to be in the Air Force. He grew to renown for his actions in the ongoing pacification in Klatchistan. He used his fighting air force to be eyes in the sky for the Army on the ground, spying for and hunting down rebels, guiding the Army to where they were, alerting soldiers to traps and ambushes, and the like. He is also ruthless. He hit on the idea of using carpets to deliver large barrels of exothermic alchemical material. Over a village of Klatchistanis suspected to harbour rebels, he would then have his crews light these barrels and then drop them off. There was great loss of life, but he has come nearer than any other Klatchian commander to pacifying the region." (12)
Irena tried not to look horrified. How had the Air Watch not known about this?
Miriam looked gravely at her.
"You are a Rodinian, Irena. I understand that the more of a strong emotion a Rodinian feels, the less shows on her face. Right now, you have a stonier face than Samuel Vimes."
"If this is truth, it is another reason to want to see this man does not become ruler of Klatch." she said.
"I believe the word is "Pravda"." Miriam said, smoothly. "his exploit brought him fame in Al-Khali. His star rises, Khufrurah's fades. Insh'Offler. Barakh, the brother, gained his first degree in Magic at Al-Khali. It may interest you to know he then chose to do a postgraduate degree at Brazeneck, rather than at Unseen. Here he heard about the clever communication system you ladies use to keep in touch in the air."
And he offered this to his brother. The Air Force commander."
Miriam reached over and squeezed Irena's hand, with some sympathy.
"You could not keep it a secret forever." she said, reassuringly. "If you wish to find Barakh now, I believe he is at the Embassy in Ankh-Morpork. Trying out his ideas."
Angua and Irena looked at each other.
We need to get him.
"And Cadram the younger chooses to further enhance Air Force strength by sheep-rustling in Syrrit." Irena said. "Also, it does no harm to his bid for the Caliphate if he is then seen as the vigorous general who conquers new lands for the Empire."
"Exactly." Miriam said. "This is not an Army coup d'etat. Nor is it a Navy coup d'etat. For the first time in the history of the Discworld, we are seeing an Air Force coup d'etat."
She sipped her sherbet.
"So lucky for Lord Vetinari that Lady Olga Romanoff wants no throne in her own land, and that she is ambivalent about being at the last count a Baroness, a Countess, and a potential Grand Duchess." Miriam remarked.
"Mr Vimes would go spare if she tried." Irena said. "Besides, if she gets to be Tsarina, I'm leading the Revolution. Checks and balances."
Miriam laughed.
"So I hear, Red Star." she said.
Then she became serious again.
"A friend who I trust absolutely, who is known to you, Angua, and who is definitely known to Sir Samuel Vimes, is one who tours Klatch a lot. He has a network of contacts and friends who tell him things. His word is to be trusted. He himself is to be trusted completely."
She looked at Angua.
"At least, he can be absolutely trusted for the first seventy-one hours of your acquaintance."
She looked at Angua intently.
"I understand you." Angua said.
"Good." Miriam said, briefly. She clapped for another servant. This time it was her older, fatter, Major-Domo. He brought a silver salver, on which were several envelopes. These were presented to Miriam with a bow. She thanked him, with genuine affection.
"My most loyal and faithful servant." she remarked, handing the documents to Irena.
"One is for Sir Samuel. It details times, places, names and locations. He should detain these people. It comes from my trusted and reliable friend, who is a patriotic Klatchian, like me. Sir Samuel should reflect he helped stop a war before. The second is my report on events here for lord Downey and the Dark Council. The third is for Lord Vetinari. He knows my motivations and he is in a position to be helpful."
Miriam paused and smiled at Irena.
"The fourth is for Lady Olga Romanoff, who I have never met but whom I understand to be a honest and thoughtful woman, who is also deeply opposed to the idea of leading her command into war and death. Unlike Cadram, I doubt she would slaughter civilians from the air. My note contains the whereabouts and exact location of the Klatchian Air Force base from which the attack into Syrrit was co-ordinated, and where the stolen sheep are being kept. I imagine if this base was compromised in any way, the invasion would ground to a halt and our forces, currently reliant on resupply by air, must then be recalled. My nation's Air Arm would also be weakened to the point where war becomes something to be avoided. Not that I'm advocating you attack it, of course. I would be horrified to know I'd been so horribly indiscreet as to offer the enemies of Klatch an opportunity to weaken our air force."
Miriam stood up, indicating the conversation was over.
"I hope you are refreshed and rested, in preparation for your flight home?" she asked.
On the way back to the Pegasus, Miriam made a "tcch" noise.
Forgive me, my memory fails me." she remarked. "The Klatchian officer who unwisely sought to arrest your two pilots on the ground and to impound your Pegasus. That was Prince Cadram himself, who wished to see two of your fliers face to face. Also, he covets one of the flying horses for his own. Both your young ladies will be able to identify him, when they see him again."
"Good." Irena said, considering this. "Bekki Smith-Rhodes wears good boots. Lots of wear in the soles."
The Thaumatological Park, Ankh-Morpork.
"Professor Stibbons?"
Ponder turned, and saw an Air Witch. She had an unprepossessing look about her, was shorter and dumpier than the usual, and wore large round-framed glasses.
"How can I help you?" he asked, politely. "Sergeant."
She diffidently held out a letter of introduction.
"Gertrude Schilling. Technical Sergeant. Captain Romanoff suggested I make myself known to you, as she thinks I could be useful."
Ponder read the letter. Olga's writing, hastily scribbled.
This is Gertrude. She knows her stuff. I'd like you to fill her in on what you're doing about the Omnicon problem. Olga.
"Okay." he said. "Olga wants a presence here, and you're it. I'll show you the labs."
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork, a little later.
"Lieutenant Politek of the Air Watch, My Lady." Claude said, smoothly.
Irena burst in, looking excited. Johanna, Mariella and Rivka looked up expectantly.
"Johanna, we've got it!" she said, excitedly. "The exact location of the Klatchian base that launched the invasion of Syrrit and Laotan! We're in business!"
Johanna nodded to Claude. He was already pouring a large vodka, "just as the Lieutenant likes it".
She smiled.
"Now we can really make a plan!" she announced.
A little later, Olga Romanoff, looking tired and satisfied, joined them. She too had news to impart. Ideas to incorporate into The Plan.
TO BE CONTINUED. With lots of bangs, screams and loud noises.
(1) Broomsticks are completely silent. Olga had exploited this for stalking the enemy in combat. But she was completely of the opinion that some broomsticks should make a noise. Just to tell potential enemies that, for e.g., a combat wing of MIG-21's was getting closer. The MIG could be a silent stealth fighter if the pilot chose. But since it doesn't consume too much energy to make a noise, the designers had built in this option. Hanna von Strafenburg was a pilot who appreciated this.
(2) formerly known as Rottendamn
(3) Possibly un-necessary footnote as I know my readership is literate and well-read… but still. Paralleling Dutch expansion into the wider world, by sea to the eastern seaboard of North America (now known in the Discworld as New (Ankh-Mor)Pork, formerly Nieu DamnHamster), to Indonesia (the Sto Kerrigian Widdershins Indies, now Sumtri) and to, err, Suid Afrika. I needed a backstory as to what seaport people set off from, if Sto Kerrig is these days landlocked and a long way inland.
(4) Being a Princess and the daughter of one ruling monarch helped.
(5) See my story Bad Hair Day involving a Gorgon and a nose-bleed. And a very much younger Olga and Irena.
(6) "I would have flown you over, Mrs Proust, if you had let us know." Olga said.
"Thanks, love, but flyin' makes me throw up." Mrs Proust had replied. "never could get the hang of it. Too much down from up there. I come over by train. Relaxin'"
(7) Olga had given up trying to correct people on the pronunciation. If a Cyrillic word looked like something in good and honest Morporkian start to finish, Morporkian speakers would pronounce it as spelt anyway. After the "PECTOPAH" business, Olga and Irena knew there was really no point.
(8) Truth. Happens at some rodeos in the USA.
(9) Olga and an Air Police detachment had been there to salute at the side of a remote fjord, as a longboat bearing the coffin was set alight and pushed out to sea. Olga had been deeply appreciative that Sigrid, invisible to most, had been allowed to attend her own funeral.
(10) "Two or three thoosand feet above the ground is aboot richt, ye ken." Senior Sergeant Wee Mad Arthur had said. "Lower doon, mistress, there is the reesk, aye, that an in-ex-peer-ee-enced Navigator might put ye, for instance, inside a mountain, ye ken. And too close to the ground, ye gets unexpected buildings and trees, aye."
(11) go to my tale Gap Year Adventures
(12) In 1919, the advent of the Royal Air Force was a game-changer in fighting in Afghanistan. And yes, the British did use indiscriminate aerial bombing of Afghanistan to, er, pacify the region.
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.
Maskirovka; Wikipedia says:
Russian military deception, sometimes known as maskirovka (Russian: маскировка, lit. 'disguise'), is a military doctrine developed from the start of the twentieth century. The doctrine covers a broad range of measures for military deception, from camouflage to denial and deception.
Simo "Simuna" Häyhä – renowned Finnish sniper in WW2, known to Russians as Belaya Smert, The White Death. In Russian, "belaya smert" is apparently also a term for processed white sugar. As the person using this callsign is an acquired taste, like that great Finnish confectionary called salmiakki, it will be doubly appropriate.
Finnish sources describe that Häyhä was nicknamed "The White Death" by the Red Army (Russian: Белая смерть, Belaja smert; Finnish: valkoinen kuolema; Swedish: den vita döden).