The Price of Flight – part twenty-two
Night witches – and friends
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.
V0.3, awaiting those damn typos to reveal themselves, as well as those nominated by eagle-eyed readers. Some horrors. Revising further typos discovered by reader "Guest", many thanks!
Saturday 8th Grune. Late afternoon, Ankh-Morpork.
Olga Romanoff made her way to the Palace later in the afternoon to present her report to Vetinari. Life had a surprise on the way; there was a military band on the Cham playing for the crowds. The tune it was playing was familiar to Olga, and she came down to ground, landing her patrol broom near to a Watch patrol.
Sergeant Fred Colon, a man who could be counted on to be spending a quiet shift doing such crowd-control as was necessary among a mellow crowd listening to band music on a Saturday afternoon, saluted her. He beamed in genuine happiness and respect.
"You really sent them Klatchians packing this afternoon, ma'am!" he announced.
"The news is out already, Fred?" Olga asked. She didn't sound surprised.
With the Klatchians dispersed and lingering plumes of smoke marking where stricken carpets had come to earth, everything else on the ground had been, well, just business. Once all three Heavies had landed,(1) the journalistic party had regrouped and conferred. Suki, Otto and Sacharissa had toured the Whistlestop to get more iconographs and what Sacharissa had described as "human interest stories", interviews with the brave people of Syrrit who had been, and were still being, crushed under the evil Klatchian sandal. There had been Klatchian soldiers around, but the sight of their Air Force being routed must have had a demoralising effect. They slunk off, looking anxiously upwards at the Air Watch brooms who were still up there, patrolling and holding the sky.
Suki had returned first, with an armload of iconographs, some hastily scribbled reports, and a request from Sacharissa to go straight to the Times offices and get an edition out, under both their names, asap.
One of the Heavies had ferried her back.
Olga had supervised the rest of the Desert Storm force in returning to Ankh-Morpork, with the two journalists riding on a Heavy. One of the documents that went back with them was the report prepared by Semyon and Sebastian, concerning the precise location and set-up of the Klatchian military base.
She had been last to leave on Raduga Desh, after confirming all her fliers had passed Transition safely, and reassuring local Syrritans that the job of liberating their nation was in hand, that we aren't just going to leave you stranded here.
Her own first job on returning had been to debrief the returning fliers and to write her own mission report, ensuring there were three copies. Vetinari and Vimes needed to be briefed. Olga had ordered there be no distractions, except for emergencies, while she did this.
In the very late afternoon, she had been summoned to the Palace. She had meant to take the direct route, but the military band music drifting up from below had fired her curiosity.
Fred Colon grinned at her. There was admiration in there.
"You haven't seen the papers yet, ma'am?" he asked.
"Nyet." Olga said. She was aware of other people in the square who were looking at her, nudging each other and pointing. Olga decided to conclude this quickly, then get to the Palace. Or else she'd be down here forever, taking handshakes and posing for iconographs.
"I'll see the newspapers later. The military band?"
"Massed bands, ma'am. The Massed Bands of the Palace Guards, Lord Venturi's Bantamweight Crossbowmen, and the Mid-Shires First of Foot."
"More specifically, the music they are playing?" Olga pressed him.
Fred Colon's face furrowed into a honest good-natured frown of puzzlement.
"You must know it, ma'am. It's the March of the Air Police."
"Do you know, Fred, I didn't know we had a March. But I know the tune. In Far Überwald, it is known as В'пуtь! That means –let's go, forward march, into battle. V'Put."
She listened for a few bars.
"It is a good March. There could be worse. I wonder who instructed the bandsmen?"
A little later, she took to the sky. She hummed the words.
Пусть враги запомнят это:
Не грозим, а говорим.
Мы прошли с тобой полсвета.
Если надо - повторим.
Together, we crossed half the world.
At need we will do it again.
Feeling oddly buoyed up, and suspecting that within an hour or two the adrenalin surge of the day would evaporate and she would be in desperate need of a bed, Olga touched down in the landing circle on the Palace lawn. She acknowledged the Palace Guard with a touch of her cap as they slammed to attention and presented arms, and then entered the Palace.
Rufus Drumknott came for her after a remarkably short wait.
"I see we have an official March all of a sudden." she remarked.
Drumknott looked thoughtful.
"Yes. His Lordship thought it would be fitting. He made several suggestions to the bandmasters, and even provided the sheet music."
Olga tried not to show surprise. It would be just like Vetinari to do something like this as a disorientation tactic. The musical equivalent of the clock in the waiting room, perhaps.
She was spared the waiting room. Drumknott announced her, and led her straight into the Oblong Office. She marched to the regulation six feet from the desk,(2) stamped to attention and saluted. This caused a throb of pain in her upper left chest, and she sealed her lips against any involuntary noise.
Vetinari smiled slightly.
"At ease, Captain." he said. Drumknott moved to a position behind his right shoulder. Next to him was a tabletop with stacked papers on it. He selected one from the top of the pile, and passed it to Vetinari, who took it attentively. Olga risked a look around. Mr Vimes, who was grinning and offering a thumbs-up. And Lord Downey and Dame Joan of the Assassins, who were scrutinising her with interest. Ponder Stibbons. Her husband Eddie. One or two others…
Vetinari waited a while before speaking.
"Captain Romanoff, I accept you have probably been too busy with more pressing matters which have kept you from trivial things, such as reading the first editions of the evening newspapers." he remarked.
"Sir." She said. It was a lesson she had learnt from Vimes.
"We'll get round to that in due course." Vetinari said. "Thank you for being so prompt with your report on today's events, by the way. Now I see under the standard headings here on the first page.
"Operational losses; none.
"Equipment losses: none.
"Personnel killed in action; none.
"Personnel missing in action; none.
Hostile numbers: counted as fifteen flying carpets, Klatchian Air Force standard model two or three seaters, and thirty single-seat mounted units of the Syrritan Sheep configuration.
Result of combat: All fifteen carpets were forced to land with damage ranging from moderate to severe. Estimate at least eight units are damaged beyond repair and will need to be written off. All thirty single-seat air vehicles were driven off and forced to surrender the airspace over Syrrit to us. No apparent deaths or fatalities among hostile crews.
Personnel wounded in action: One pilot with slight injuries, following Klatchian attack.
Conclusion: The Klatchians launched an attack, witnessed by independent witnesses, and were defeated in the subsequent engagement. We gained tactical control of the airspace above Syrrit.
Vetinari lifted his head and subjected Olga to close scrutiny for an uncomfortably long time. She tried to look as impassive as she could. Eventually Vetinari looked down to the report sheet again.
"Your single casualty. I hope she has been offered the appropriate degree of medical attention. And there is this interesting item, Captain Romanoff?"
Vetinari read it off, in a completely neutral voice.
"Ammunition expended: forty-eight jars of Merckle and Stingbat's finest Mint Sauce, to a total expenditure of six dollars precisely."
"Twelve and a half pence a jar, sir. Special offer for buying the whole case. " Olga said.
"To be fair, sir, it is advertised as the ideal accompaniment for all mutton and lamb dishes." Sam Vimes said, supporting her.
"Indeed." Vetinari said, drily. "no doubt after today's newspapers, sales will go through the proverbial roof."
Drumknott helpfully held up a copy of the Inquirer. The headline was a single word in extremely large font.
GOTCHA!
And the rest of the front page consisted of a close-up of Prince Cadram, in full colour, in mid-splutter, with thick green glop dripping off his face and onto his ornate clothing.
"The man who would be ruler of the Klatchian Empire received one very big NYET" Vetinari read. " As Our Girls triumph in aerial battle over Syrrit! Full story and more exclusive pictures on pages two to twenty-six. Note that our Page Three Girl is now on Page Twenty-Eight."
He looked at Olga.
"Would you care to hazard a guess, Captain, as to whose likeness actually made it onto Page Three?"
"I hope she kept her clothes on, sir." Olga said, poker-faced. "Improperly dressed, otherwise."
The Times had published more pictures, keeping back more than the relative handful they'd generously syndicated to the Inquirer. Its front page also had the Cadram picture. It also had a panoramic picture spread, of the sort that starts on the front page but extends onto the back page, showing Klatchian carpets, trailing smoke and flames, dropping out of the sky with combat brooms clearly visible. A smaller picture showed the Heavies scattering the flying sheep. The massive defensive armament of the Heavies was prominently displayed. What space there was for a headline simply said
KLATCHIAN STAND-OFF OVER SYRRIT. KLATCH BLINKED FIRST.
Reporting by Sacharissa Cripslock and Suki van der Graaf, Syrrit, Saturday.
"Did you not approach the Inquirer to ask if they wanted to send a reporter, Captain Romanoff?" Lord Downey asked, inquisitively.
"We did, sir." Olga said, honestly. "But Mr Littlehampton explained he gets very badly airsick, and declined the offer."
Vimes shook his head.
"Dick Littledick, the columnist who has spent the last week demanding we go to all -out total war with Klatch, and don't spare the fireballs." he remarked. "You would think he'd leap at the chance for a front-row seat when the fighting starts and he'd want to see it all close-up, wouldn't you? That he'd share the risks with the people he wants to see doing the fighting."
"And instead, two women go." Vetinari agreed.
"Sir, I've met them both. Try to stop them." Vimes remarked.
"And their reportage is most gratifying." Vetinari said. "It establishes that Captain Romanoff was threatened, intimidation was applied, and the escalating threat ended with a potent magical spell being thrown at her, by Prince Cadram, a spell that was so strong that her passenger, news reporter Miss van der Graaf, felt it too. As she makes very clear in her account. Klatch, or a single renegade Prince with ambitions for the Caliphate, fired the first weapon. And of course she is a neutral party from an uninvolved foreign country. Invaluable."
Vetinari looked searchingly at Olga again.
"I'm curious. That spell was thrown at you from yards away. I presume it was the same spell that was used to destroy two of the Omnicon communicators earlier in the week. This time it had no effect. What has changed?"
She glanced over to Ponder Stibbons. He nodded encouragement.
"We asked Professor Stibbons if he could help. Others, including my husband, and Technical Sergeant Schilling, collaborated. The first shielded Omnicons arrived this morning, in time for today's mission."
Slowly, carefully, and trying not to wince too much, Olga drew her Omnicon out of her top pocket. She handed it to Vetinari.
"Sir, you will see it is wrapped in a rough mesh of extruded octiron wire." She said. "This is roughly applied, but it is serviceable. It does the job."
Eddie stepped forward to assist.
"Sir, octiron is ebsolutely non-megical." he said. "It dissipates end ebsorbs megic. It was demonstrated a couple of nights ego thet octiron blocks megic."
He gave Olga a worried look. She threw back one that said I'm fine, Eddie. Do not fuss.
Vetinari nodded.
"This explains why a spell that might have destroyed her Omnicon, and perhaps even seriously harmed Captain Romanoff as collateral damage, proved ineffectual."
He turned the Omnicon over in his hands.
"Doctor de Kokamainje, Professor Stibbons. This piece of metal, which looks like it might have been roughly cut from a disc, which has been soldered into the mesh. This is not octiron. Please explain its purpose?"
Ponder cleared his throat.
"This idea came to us in the very early hours of this morning, sir." he explained. "We reasoned that if the original spell leapt between all nearby Omnicons that were switched on and it could destroy them all inside a fraction of a second, then it might be as well to build in a second line of defence. But there wasn't really a great amount of soratorium to be had in the University. All we could find was one smallish disc. Errr. I had an idea of what Captain Romanoff was going to do today. So while we were able to build an octiron wire cover on a dozen Omnicons, we split the soratorium into three pieces. One each for Captain Romanoff, Sergeant von Strafenburg, and Ser… Lieutenant – Popova. The three key commanders. So if all the others were still burnt out, three would still be operable. Err."
Vetinari heard this with grave attention.
"And the key property of soratorium is that any act of aggression focused on somebody who is wearing even the smallest amount will then recoil and bounce back on the person directing the violence." he noted. "Hence the full violence of a spell directed at Captain Romanoff's Omnicon was returned to its sender."
Vetinari steepled his fingers.
"And were you aware this would then violently burn out every Klatchian monitoring and transmission device that was keyed to Prince Cadram's master box? And that carpets are made out of flammable material?"
He looked directly at Ponder Stibbons. Ponder blinked.
"Well, sir. Earlier this week, they did try to kill my daughter." he replied.
Vetinari help Ponder's eyes for a few moments. Then he smiled slightly.
"Indeed, Professor." he said. He handed back the Omnicon to Olga and watched her return it, very carefully, to her top pocket.
"Professor, have you heard of a place called Shatta?" he asked.
"Vaguely, sir." Ponder replied. "Very vaguely."
Vetinari steepled his fingers.
"Up until now, there has been no reason why you should have more than a vague knowledge. However, they deal in a material called micromesh. Which has a high soratorium content. I require you to approach them, on behalf of the City, and to put in an order for micromesh covers for, perhaps, a hundred Omnicons. Please emphasise to Master Pépé that this is a City contract, and I will personally be approving the price. Thank you."
Vetinari addressed the room.
"I believe I can also reveal that a resident at the Klatchian Embassy, a man admitted there with no diplomatic accreditation and without our knowledge, in fact, an illegal immigrant, was found dead earlier this afternoon. The flame dagger of the Hashishim was seen near his corpse. I believe this is the last we will see of Barakh-ibn-Cadram."
"Ah…" Dame Joan said. "We did wonder."
"Apparently some technomantic machinery he brought with him is now being discarded as worthless junk." Vetinari remarked. "Not worth keeping." (3)
"So it's over, then." Vimes said. "One brother dead, another defeated."
"Not quite, Vimes. We still have what hopefully will be one last thing to do. Cadram ranks high in the Klatchian Air Force. They had one defeat this afternoon. But he still has a significant part of the Air Force strength at his disposal. He could still mount a coup in Al-Khali. We also need to conclusively eject the Klatchian occupiers from Syrrit and Laotan."
He looked around the room.
"Lord Downey, Dame Joan. I require you both to report back on preparations for the operation scheduled for the early hours of tomorrow morning. By now, I believe your operatives are assembling at the Guild and will soon be joined by the designated pilots and crews of the Air Watch who will be working closely with them. Captain Romanoff, please go with them."
Vetinari paused and studied her, carefully.
"The one casualty among your command, the pilot who suffered minor injuries, would benefit from a personal consultation with Matron Igorina." he added. "I fancy she can be dealt with at the same time."
Olga sighed.
"Yes, sir." she said.
She was aware of Dame Joan and Lord Downey studying her, with keen appraising eyes.
"I'm sure we can arrange that, m'Lord." Dame Joan said, briskly. "Saturday afternoons are usually fairly quiet for Igorina. She'd be glad of something to do."
"Capital." Vetinari said. "I'm sure the crew room at the Air Station needs a new dartboard. The last one must be quite worn out by now. And the new operational bases could benefit from a few crew comforts. But these are issues for another time. Now do not let me detain anybody."
The Guild of Assassins, Filigree Street.
Sebastian Bakewell's report from Syrrit had been messengered, without delay, to the right people.
Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes studied it critically. She compared an attached sketch-map to the rather less complete representation laid out on the planning table. Her two colleagues studied it too. The attached written report was read.
"How good is he?" Rivka ben-Divorah asked.
"Good enough." Johanna said, laconically. "I remember him as a pupil. Steady. Good all-rounder. Not outstanding at too many things but not a duffer, either. And Vetinari does not select idiots as Dark Clerks."
They moved to the planning table and critically compared the layout of the terrain with the new information. Mariella shrugged, and got her hands into the sand to sculpt up a representation of some long low sand-dunes. Periodically she consulted the sketch.
"Twenty-nine years old, and I'm still playing in a sand-pit." she remarked, laconically.
Rivka shrugged.
"Don't knock it. Nurture the inner child." she remarked. "And you'd better get the scale right."
And a table-top representation of the Klatchian air base emerged.
After a while, Irena Politek and her two selected pilots were shown in.
Introductions were made.
"This is Darleen, better known as Drop-Bear." Irena said. "This is Kiiki, known as White Death."
"Juu." Kiiki said. She studied the Assassins. "Two of you are called Red Death, right? Could cause confusion on Omnicon."
"Just in from bloody Syrrit." Darleen said. "Didn't have too much to do there. Not until the bloody end, when we got to stuka the bastards and drop mint source on them from a bloody great height."
"Juu." Kiiki agreed. "On second pass, I remembered to take lid off jar."
"You still hit the bastard, though. Heard the bang."
"The intention is." Irena said, "that we decide who flies with which pilot. Then we go through timings and events."
Johanna raised an eyebrow to Irena. Irena sighed and said
"Despite appearances, these are two of the best pilots in the force."
She nodded to the long, lanky, slovenly dressed one. And the manic white-blonde pixie next to her. There was almost a foot's difference in height between them.
"Darleen O'Hagan normally works in the Fourecksian Outback for the Flying Igor And Witch service. She has to find her way and do the navigation over some uncompromising ground."
"Too bloody right." Darleen said. "I tell you, bloody Syrrit looks just like the bloody Outback from a few thousand feet up."
"Ever been lost?" Rivka asked.
"Bloody hell, no!" Darleen said. "Always get my Igor to the right place when he's needed. And the Outback's a bloody big place."
Rivka grinned.
"I'm flying with you." she said.
"Suits me. You don't bloody weigh much. No excess baggage."
"Oi vey. Can I help being petite?"
Johanna shook her head. But she smiled slightly.
"You're Fourecksian." she said.
"Give the lady a gold star for being bloody observant." Darleen said. "You're a Yarpie, right?"
"Shall we get it out of the way now, or later?" Johanna said. "And I'd be very interested to know what a Yarpie is."
"One of your bloody mob. A Boer."
"New one." Johanna said. "You go first?"
Darleen grinned and drew her sword.
Johanna drew her machete. She grinned back.
"Call that a knife?"
"Well. I call this a knife."
The manic little pixie stepped in. Suddenly, without her seeming to have moved very much, a far shorter, but lethally curved, knife was in her hand.
"Well, I call this a puukko." she said, tossing it up in the air and catching it by the hilt in her other hand. Something about her stance and pose said she knew exactly what to do with it. One Rimwards Howondalandian and one Fourecksian watched her with interest, realising they'd both been outclassed in the "Call that a knife?" game. This, Johanna reflected, was something that didn't happen very often.
"Kiiki Pekkisaalen." Irena said. "From the Swommi country. She flies higher than anyone I know. She can also fly flat-out at fifty feet without hitting anything or crashing. By day or night. She doesn't do normal, but she'll push the extremes."
Mariella was studying the puukko. And its owner.
"I'm flying with you." she said, deciding.
Kiiki grinned.
"Suits me. Hey, I met a crazy red-haired kid a few days ago. Looks a bit like you."
"Niece." Mariella said, laconically.
"Daughter." Johanna said, equally laconic.
"Crazy runs in the family. I like crazy." Kiiki said. "Like the red-haired kid too. Get her angry, she flies crazy. And she fights."
At this point Olga Romanoff walked in. She took in two Air Witches and an Assassin, seemingly confronting each other with sharp blades, and did the face-palm thing.
"It's okay, Olga. We're just breaking the ice." Irena said. "Getting to know each other."
Blades were re-sheathed.
"So who's flying with who?" Olga asked.
"Darleen's flying Rivka. Kiiki's flying Mariella."
Irena looked at Johanna.
"Just leaves you and me."
"Suits me." Johanna said. "I know you. We've worked together before. Tried and trusted."
"Horoscho." Olga said. "I need to bring you up to date on the other thing."
Irena gave her old friend a long shrewd look.
"Before you do, Olga Anastacia." she said. "I want to know that you've had that wound seen to."
Olga sighed. She gave in.
"How did you know?"
Irena shook her head slightly.
"Dear Gods, Olga. It doesn't take too much working out. The combat report said "one pilot wounded." You said yourself on the Omnicon that you'd taken a hit. That got in the newspapers, Olga. And I want to know."
She stepped forward and eyeballed.
"Has it been seen to?"
"Da. I've just come from Matron Igorina. I had no choice. Vetinari as good as ordered it. Mr Vimes said "get it dealt with." And Joan Sanderson-Reeves, Dame Joan. I travelled here with her from the Palace. She as good as force-marched me to Igorina."
"Very forceful woman, Joan." Johanna remarked. Rivka and Mariella indicated agreement.
"Serious?" Irena asked. Olga shook her head.
Matron Igorina had not been surprised.
"I'll just leave her with you, m'dear." Joan had said before leaving. "Tell me if you need a hand tying her to the bed, or anything like that."
Igorina had scrutinised Olga for a moment or two, then nodded.
Strip off." she had said, briskly. "Then show me the damage. Left front chest, isn't it?"
Olga hadn't asked how Igorina had worked it out. A little later, naked to the waist and feeling vulnerable, she had submitted to Igorina applying various nameless salves and healing agents.
"So you were just going to dab a little antiseptic cream on it and leave it to sort itself out. And to not even see the Watch Igor."
Igorina tutted.
"Tell me. You're not related to anybody called Smith-Rhodes, are you?"
Olga shook her head and smiled slightly.
"Well. A nice neat rectangular burn. The inside of your tunic pocket and your undershirt are charred through. The burn is exactly the same size as your Omnicon device. Which took a massive magical hit, at very close range. Aren't you lucky it got fitted with octiron and soratorium? Without that, you would have had the Omnicon blasted straight through you. Which leaves not just a burn, but a very big messy hole."
Igorina tutted again.
"There won't be much scarring. Very little, in fact. Some bruised ribs and a little muscular damage underneath. I would recommend you take yourself off flying duties for a week, and if you've got to fly anything at all, make it a Desk Mark One. And don't wear any low-cut ballgowns or show too much décolletage for about three weeks, as it won't look good from outside. If wearing a bra is painful on that side, then don't. And put your Omnicon in the other pocket. Oh, and get a replacement tunic issued. Write this one off as destroyed by enemy action, or something. I'll put a light dressing on."
"Why have we got a reputation for being difficult patients?" Mariella asked.
"Because we are." Johanna replied. "Ag, Igorina likes having people to shout et for not doing es they are told. It makes her day."
"Do we need an Igorina ourselves?" Irena asked, practically. "A Squadron Medical Officer?"
"We're witches." Olga said. "We self-medicate. We see each other about little things like this."
"Bloody hell, Olga." Darleen said. "You get your left tit branded by a red-hot Omnicon. And you bloody well want to self-medicate? Show me a tit like that, and I'm bloody well dragging you to the nearest bloody Igor!"
Four other women in the room winced at once. Olga noted Rivka's arms came up over her chest in unconscious self-defence.
"Scorched." Olga said, sharply. "Three layers of clothing took the worst of it. Anyway, I have an Air Watch to run."
"You also have two Lieutenants." Irena said, forcefully. "Myself and Nadezhda. Step back. This Syrrit business is almost through. When you're done here, I suggest you go home and find a bed. Rest. Leave tonight to me. Here, Nottie is Control tonight. You can rely on her."
"Okay. But let me brief you on the other operation that will be happening tonight…"
"The other operation?" Mariella said.
Olga sighed. Then explained who else would be active tonight. With luck, the two missions would not intersect too much.
"But I would rather like a witch to be there to supervise. To let them know a Hag is nearby, and any bad behaviour will mean there will be a Reckoning."
"Anyone in mind?" Irena asked, practically.
"Da. I have sent her a recall message. She will be conveyed directly to the Chalk where the equipment she needs is there to collect. Tiffany Aching received it on our behalf, and is keeping it securely. She is simply to pick up and deliver passengers. She has been instructed on what to look for. Her passengers will return by their own means, and she can make contact with us and fly back with us at the conclusion."
Olga took a deep breath. The long day had been draining and she was beginning to feel the adrenaline fading, the excitement of action that had buoyed her up.
"I need now to reassure Eddie I'm alright." she said.
"Good. He worries." Irena replied.
Olga stood. She tried not to wobble.
"It's all yours. Your mission, your operational plan. Good luck, and happy hunting."
She ritually hugged, but very carefully, her three pilots.
"Get some rest." Johanna Smith-Rhodes told her. "Make sure your desk is fit for flight tomorrow."
Bitterfontein, Rimwards Howondaland.
Rebecka Smith-Rhodes, now conventionally dressed for her civilian day job, frowned down at the man lying on the cot in her surgery. She shook her head at him.
The black man was dressed in nondescript ragged shorts and a faded shirt. In his thirties, he was one of the native labourers employed on the Lensen plaas. A few days previously, he had been working on one of the higher terraces of the vineyard, where he'd been helping to clear undergrowth from a terrace Mevrou Hendricka wanted to return to vines. He said that while doing this, something with thorns had cut his leg. Thinking nothing of it, he had shrugged and carried in working.
Today, his leg had swollen to twice its normal size, but he had turned up for work as he could not afford to lose the pay. Baas van Linden, the foreman, had taken one look, and sent him to Miss Rebecka for treatment.
"She's good." van Linden had said. "Get you fixed up a treat."
Bekki had cleaned and patched the wound. and had focused her Witch skills on reducing the swelling and discomfort.
She decided not to waste her breath on asking why he'd not had it seen to earlier. It had probably happened on one of her Ankh-Morpork duty days. And, well, you get a little cut. Minor wound. You don't think anything of it, you clean it up, you let it heal. Except that something about that patch of thorns had carried an infectious agent.
"Cellulitis." she said. The frightened black man – Bekki realised he was ill at ease about being in the lair of an isangoma, a witch – looked blank and incomprehending. She sighed and switched to the Xhosa she'd learnt from the family servants while growing up.
"Listen to me, Thib'we. That little cut on your leg allowed untold numbers of tiny little black muti demons to enter your leg." She said, trying to render what the Watch Igor had explained was "a streptococcyl bacterial infection" into terms he understood.
"Demons so tiny you cannot see them with your eye. Waiting patiently on that thorn, for somebody to come along so they can enter his leg through the cut, and eat him from the inside."
Thib'we whimpered. Bekki smiled and took his hand.
"Luckily for you, you came to me."
She indicated the surgery, dispensary and practice area that Mevrou Hendricka had given her. It was clean, well-appointed and said, to those who knew, "Lancre-trained Witch".
"In this place I am strong. In this place I can defeat the tiny muti-demons. My muti is stronger. Has the swelling not already gone down?"
The Watch-Igor had been experimenting with the old Lancre idea that the sickly blue-green mould that grows on stale bread was good for infections. He had been trying to refine the active component, to find out what worked best, how to refine and concentrate the as-yet un-named substance. Bekki and Vasilisa, part time Air Witches who ran Steadings, had been asked to help out, and had been given phials of Igor's test serums to try out on likely cases.
Reasoning it would do no harm, Bekki had diluted some of the bread-mould-serum into sterile water, and carefully made subcutaneous injections into the whimpering Thib'we.
I now have to write this case up for Igor… but if I do nothing, Thib'we develops sepsis and blood poisoning and may end up losing his leg. Or worse. And the pain that feels like fire ants moving under his skin and eating to the bone will only get worse.
Bekki had, for the moment, taken the pain and discomfort away. She had also had to soothe a frightened man who had seen a bucket of cold water near the bed suddenly erupt into a rolling boil, despite it being nowhere near any fire. Casting a handful of salt into the heart of the boiling water to kill the pain and cleanse the contaminated liquid, she had thought for a moment about the difficulties of practicing at the interface of magic and practical medicine. For old-time Witches, it was all Headology with a little magic. For Bekki's generation of Witches, the Craft involved Headology and practical everyday nursing. With some judicious magic, when the situation called for it. Learning a little medicine had been unavoidable, such as how to deliver injections safely and appropriately.
Headology, for approximately two-thirds of her Steading, involved dealing with ill-educated and often illiterate people who were not stupid. Far from it. They were just terrified of muti and drew on generations of folklore that held, as established fact, that an isangoma was capricious and often malevolent, that black isangomas could summon demons to torment, and could kill from a distance if anyone displeased them.
Seven months in Bitterfontein had convinced Bekki that building more and better schools for black people, to deliver Education, would be a good idea. Among many other things. Aunt Mariella and Mevrou Hendricka had heard her make tentative suggestions. They'd not said "impossible", and had looked thoughtfully at each other.
For now, Bekki had to explain what she was doing and why she was doing it in terms of local folk-beliefs. Headology.
"I opened a doorway for good muti-spirits, whole impis of tiny but valiant warriors, to enter your blood, to seek out and slay the dark muti-demons." she had explained, patiently. It sounded way more plausible than saying "Igor in Ankh-Morpork is doing research into what he calls antibiotic medications to destroy bacterial infections".
Bekki salved her conscience at this sort of thing by reminding herself that you also had to use the same sort of lies-to-children-talk with a lot of people in Lancre and the Chalk. It wasn't just black people in Rimwards Howondaland where you had to come up with a plausible, almost completely untrue, narrative, one they could understand. Ignorance, in the sense of something that could be cured with time and education, was universal. Till then, you had to mediate. This wasn't an apartheid thing, this wasn't pandering to the prejudice that black Howondalandians were a race of inferior child-like simpletons who needed kindly guidance and a firm hand; it was, unfortunately, how to practice Witchcraft. Anywhere.
She held up the syringe. Thib'we's eyes widened. She smiled.
"Listen. An evil thorn pricked your leg and poisoned you. Made you sick. This is a good thorn. It pricked your skin and will make you well. The cure must be the same as the sickness. One sting cancels the other. Do you see?"
She smiled. Thib'we wasn't the brightest candle in the box. He needed simple messages and a colourful story.
"Now. Sleep here for a while. I'll try to arrange a way to get you home by eight. Wish you could stay overnight. But…"
Thib'we sighed, resignedly. Bekki wanted to grit her teeth. Her dispensary wasn't licenced as any sort of hospital or nursing station for black people. It was on white-owned land, and apartheid law was clear. When a black had no business to be in a white zone, they must get back to their township or face arrest. And that louse Captain Verdraainer was perfectly capable of turning up and checking. Thib'we would end up in a cell, and Mevrou Hendricka would be fined for permitting a breach of the racial separation laws. Here, the agricultural day allowed an exception: blacks could be on the plaas till nightfall or eight o'clock, whichever came first. In Bitterfontein town, the town hall rang its bell at six. Any black without a pass found in the town limits after six could be rounded up and arrested.
It was all part of living in Rimwards Howondaland.(4)
Thib'we's face fell.
"I cannot work. I will not be paid. I have family."
Bekki expressed concern. She knew about the wife and six children. She also knew Aunt Mariella was likely to make sure enough food arrived at his house, so that at least the family would not go hungry. Aunt Mariella took care of good workers and their families.
"I will talk to the Young Mevrou. To Aunt Mariella. Now, sleep."
Bekki focused again on bringing sleep to her patient. The infected leg was so tender he couldn't even bear a sheet over it. She reckoned a few hours out cold would at least take away the compulsion to scratch, and by then, Igor's medication might have made more of a difference.
She busied herself in stock-checking her cabinets and making notes of what was running down, useful things to bring back the next time she was in Ankh-Morpork. And she doubly ensured the more interesting preparations were safe in a secure lockable cabinet and were all accounted for. Hardly any crime happened in Bitterfontein, but she suspected that leaving things like Agatean poppy juice unattended might be expecting too much. Use of lesser soporific drugs was not unknown in the townships.
She heard running feet.
"Yes, Dertien?"(5) she asked, not looking up.
The amiable black man assigned to her as a general assistant and labourer looked excited.
"Miss Rebecka! One of the marvellous flying white-horse messengers is coming in to land outside! It must be for you!"
Bekki sighed. She went to see who it was. She wondered why she was getting a visit: she wasn't due on a rostered shift now until next Wednesday. Bekki suddenly felt anxious: had the Syrrit situation taken a turn for the worse and there was now a general recall of all Air Witches to active duty?
She watched the Pegasus come in to land. To her surprise, it wasn't Irena or Olga; she recognised Stacey Matlock, who in normal circumstances ran her Steading on the hazy border between Lancre and Escrow. Like Bekki, she was a part-time Air Witch and Pegasus pilot.
"I got the right place, then." Stacey remarked. "Olga was right: once they know they're heading for a distillery, the Feegle get you absolutely straight there. Isn't that right, Muckle Big Geordie?"
Stacey's Feegle roused himself out of sudden euphoria.
"Wha'? Hey? Oh… aye. 'Tis right, Mistress Stacey."
There was excited whinnying. Stacey's mare, Millie Vanilla(6), whinnied loudly back. Stacey patted her neck understandingly.
"Geordie? No nicking anything." she said. "Bekki, got a paddock free?"
"I'll get Boetjie." she said, understanding. "They can say hello while we talk."
The two witches, covertly watched by interested farm and distillery hands, turned their respective mounts out into a safe corral. They leant on the fence and watched as the two horses greeted each other.
"It's a wise son who knows who his mother is." Stacey remarked.
"They never forget, do they?" Bekki agreed.
"I think she's getting the point over. "I went through Hell to bring you into the world, you little bugger. You and your sister." Stacey said. (7)
They watched the two Pegasi for some time, as they whickered and nuzzled, definitely happy to be in each other's company.
"So. What brings you here, Corporal Matlock?" Bekki asked.
Stacey grinned.
"Recall orders." she said. "The Syrrit thing came to a head this afternoon. They say a picture is worth a thousand words."
She rummaged in her satchel and brought out the early editions of the Ankh-Morpork papers. Bekki took them, wordlessly. The Inquirer had gone to print on one of those wraparound covers, where the front page in its own is not nearly enough and has to be continued over the staples and onto the back page. Under an apology note concerning the sports features being necessarily moved inside the paper, Bekki looked at a panorama of Klatchian carpets being forced to earth and trailing smoke. Obvious Air Witches on fighters were in pursuit.
"Wipe-out." Stacey "Greygoose" Matlock said, laconically. "We knocked them out of the sky."
She paused.
"One casualty. Olga caught a wound. Now don't get alarmed. It was just a flesh wound, a bit of a burn when the Klatchians opened the shooting. She got it seen to, when she got home."
Stacey paused.
"At least, I hope she did. But anyway."
Stacey briefed Bekki on the day's events.
"so. They might realise they're beaten and retreat?" Bekki asked. Inside she was thinking – I must see Olga. Just to make sure.
"There's one hopefully last thing to do. You know the Assassins are going in tonight on a job?"
"Yes. Aunt Mariella's involved." Bekki said.
"And your mother." Stacey reminded her. "We've got a mission of our own going in at the same time. Olga wanted you to run a taxi in. You know. Collect and drop off. You'll probably run into your mum and your aunt. When everyone's done, that's hopefully the last not-a-skirmish in the second not-a-war."
Stacey patted her on the back. "Here are the mission notes. Read them over, get into the recommended clothing, then I'm flying you to the Chalk to collect. We can leave Boetjie and his mum to their reunion for a while, and have a cup of tea? Lovely!"
Bekki asked how long it would take. Stacey grinned.
"It'll all be done by one in the morning, two at latest. Where's that bloody Feegle of mine? Geordie!"
"Distillery and bottling plant are over that way. Try there." Bekki said.
"By the way, did Olga explain why me? There have got to be other Air Witches she could use!"
Stacey gave her a long tolerant look.
"Think about it. Family night out for the Smith-Rhodes women. Fun time, let your hair down, completely destroy a few things? You were there at the start. You should be there at the finish. Olga thought that was right. And besides. You had a unique upbringing. You are the nearest thing we've got to a dual-skilled Air Witch and an Assassin. Olga thought that's important too."
Stacey grinned.
"If it helps. You could call yourself the liaison officer between the Air Watch and the Assassins?"
She patted Bekki's back.
"You'll be back by three in the morning. Or four. And it's regular pay, flight pay, danger money and possibly a bonus."
Bekki sighed.
"Okay. I've got a few things to wrap up here first. You know. A Steading." she said, meaningfully. "Things to do."
"Like a pot of tea." Stacey said. "Three sugars."
Bekki sighed again.
"If I were you, I'd go over to the distillery." she advised. "We make brandy here. You brought a Feegle with you."
Bekki had the pleasure of seeing Stacey's grin fade as she realised.
"It's not that they don't mix." Bekki called after her retreating back. "They mix too well. Geordie could let it go to his head if you don't catch him first!"
TO BE CONTINUED
In the next chapter. The not-a-war ends. Hoped to cover it here but this is getting too long and I'm running out of steam, for now. The night raid on a Klatchian air base is sketched out. Watch this space!
TO BE CONTINUED. With lots more bangs, screams and loud noises. Rivka will be responsible for many such sound effects.
(1) There had been a necessary hiatus whilst ladders had been found to allow the crews to disembark. Olga and Nadezhda had made a note – at least have a collapsible ladder aboard, as Essential Stores.
(2) This is standard in military circles. It maintains Social Distancing between superior and subordinate, and is well outside stabbing distance.
(3) Harry King's men, suitably briefed and incentivised, would retrieve it from the Embassy garbage.
(4) This is all genuine South African and Rhodesian legislation under apartheid law. No kidding.
(5) Afrikaans proverb: ʼn Man van twaalf ambagte en dertien ongelukke - " a man of twelve skills and thirteen accidents", ie, accident-prone. Dertien - "Thirteen" - will feature in more detail in Strandpiel2.
(6) Stacey conceded this sounded like a Brindisian ice cream, but it was held as an inviolable thing that a Witch got to name her Pegasus.
(7) See the tale Strandpiel, where Boetjie is one of twin foals born to Stacey's mare.
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.
Current reading: Marked for Death by James Hamilton-Patterson, a history of British military aviation from the earliest beginnings of the Royal Flying Corps to the creation of the Royal Air Force.
Lots of interesting background stuff about pioneer aviators who had to make a lot of things up as they went along, also contending with the inanities of a political and military establishment that simply did not understand flying. Some of which is transferable here!
General impression – how the Hell did Britain get to remain the world's superpower for so long, given some of the mediocrities and outright idiots who rose to the top….
Finnish – pülttopullo, Molotov cocktail . Watching a documentary on TV which covered the state alcohol factory at Rajamaki, which during the Winter War was turned over to the production of Molotov cocktails. Several very large anti-aircraft emplacements were built at the factory to provide cover against Russian bombing raids. Amusingly, as the presenter of the documentary is presenting to camera from outside one of the concrete flak towers, there is graffiti in two-foot high letters sprayed in red on the outside saying "PERKELE!" This remains on screen for some time… Finns. A fine people.