The Price of Flight – part twenty-three
Night Witches – unexpected, undetected. Stealth - almost - perfected.
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. I still seem to be going for longer-length or even double length chapters, but this seems to be the nature of this particular beast. (normally five thousand words per chapter, but here I seem to be getting into at least 7500, sometimes even 10000)
Homage to Sabaton's tune "Night Witches", which I have tried to work in here.
V0.4. Awaiting the Printer's Demon to snigger Satanically as those damn typos reveal themselves to me, as well as those nominated by eagle-eyed readers.
Saturday 8th Grune. Nightfall, Home Farm, the Chalk
"You've done the conversion course on one-tens?" Stacey Matlock said.
Bekki looked down at the long- heavy, two-seater broom. She noticed that it wasn't a standard model, by any means. The power bristles were longer, thicker and heavier, and there were more of them. At least, she assumed so.
"Why are the bristles shut inside that metal box?" she asked, looking at the rear, doubtfully.
"Aerodynamic fairing, according to the teks." Stacey said. "That's shaped aluminium sheet, to cut down on weight. Covered on the outside with octiron foil. Net result is that the magic only has one direction to go in. More speed. We also discovered the octiron foil seriously cuts the octarine discharge, if anyone on the ground is a magic user and looking up. Everything painted black. Therefore, stealth broom for night work."
"No defensive weapons?" Bekki asked. Only the most residual mounting post was present where the fore-and-aft repeating crossbows should be.
"There'll be nothing in the air." Stacey reassured her. "Except us, and we don't need any friendly fire accidents. The Klatchians don't really do night flying to the same extent as us. They prefer daylight. And this way, nobody is going to be tempted to do any ground-strafing. There are going to be Assassins down there, and they tend to get intense when you shoot at them."
"Tell me about it." Bekki said, gloomily. "What's this? This is new."
She indicated the array of tubes secured underneath the broom, where the pilot could lean forward and reach them.
"New thing. Navigation lights." Stacey said. "Based on those alchemical tubes the Clacks people use at night. Inert till they're shaken. Now they're in spring-loaded sleeves. These cover the active light. Just pull the sleeve back, this agitates the tube. Hold for a second so that anyone directly underneath sees the light, then release. Tube gets covered again. They're directional. Only somebody standing directly underneath sees the light. They'll reply with light of their own. You see somebody underneath signalling red then yellow, you reply with red and yellow, then you land there. Got that? Now you try."
Stacey patted her on the back.
"Nothing to it. Piece of cake, really. Milk-run."
"Over a very big and well-guarded Klatchian air base." Bekki said. "In Klatch."
"Can't use Omnicons." Stacey said, regretfully. "They might still have some listening capacity we haven't destroyed yet. So we have to improvise, to be sure we keep it stealth."
"This is a two-seater. Who's the passenger? And what's all this stuff hanging along the sides? Looks like cargo-net." Bekki said.
"Passengers. Plural."
The voice came from the doorway of the empty barn. Bekki turned, and instantly did the witch-bow. Stacey bowed too. Mistress Tiffany Aching returned the bow and walked up to join them.
"Fifty-four passengers, to be precise."
"What, all on this one broom?" Bekki asked.
Tiffany and Stacey smiled.
"They'll fit." Tiffany said. Then she raised her voice.
"Rob Anybody! Warriors of the Red Twig! Come forth! Show yourselves!"
Suddenly, the barn filled with Nac Mac Feegle.
The Guild of Assassins, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork.
The three crews ate an evening meal together which was sent up to the planning room where they were waiting for nightfall. Johanna was pleasantly surprised that the three pilots were inclined to decline wine.
"Best to keep a clear head." Irena remarked. Kiiki nodded assent.
"Got vodka." she said, producing her flask. "Best Rajamaki."
"Could use a beer." Darleen said. "A long cold Roo."
"They haven't changed, have they?" Mariella said to Rivka. "It was cold collation salad on summer Seturdays in our day."
"Gevalt." Rivka said, shrugging. "Be thankful it isn't the same chicken."
"Now you know why I got merried end moved out." Johanna said. "It is good food, but the same menu, night upon night, week upon week, for the ten years I was in charge of Raven House. You want a change."
Irena noted the three Assassins were allowing themselves a glass of wine each. She sighed.
"You. You may have a small measure of vodka." she said to Kiiki. She beckoned over the Guild servant who had brought their food.
"Is a single cold beer a possibility, do you think?"
"Fourecksian lager, ma'am? We can do Roo Beer. Imported."
"Ace, mate! Totally bloody beaut!" Darleen said.
The Guild servant smiled slightly.
"I believe we can also manage chilled, Officer."
Johanna pushed a full glass of wine over to Irena.
"It's not as if it's going on an empty stomach." she said, practically. "We'll work it off later".
"Wait." Rivka said. The other five, even Kiiki, sat back silently and respectfully as she donned a prayer shawl, lit candles, and intoned prayers.
"בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָּ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָּעוֹלָּם, אֲשֶר קִדְשָּנוּ בְמִצְוֹתָּיו, וְצִוָּּנוּ לְהַדְלִיק נֵר שֶל שַבָּת".
"Still Sabbath." she said, after dinner. "Didn't go to Temple today."
"This is not a time to go annoying any Gods." Irena agreed.
"Precisely." Rivka agreed. "And certainly not…."
She indicated upwards with a finger.
Unusually, Kiiki Pekkissalen was thoughtful and respectful.
"Juuu." she drawled. "I am noita. Witch. Noita since I was eleven and taken to old woman Louhi to learn the rituals and the craft. A noita knows Gods exist, juu. But that's no reason to go around encouraging them."
"Too bloody right, mate." Darleen said.
Kiiki looked reflective.
"But when I go high. It gets a bit strange when you go above fifteen angels. Air gets thinner. Up there I think – this is realm of Sky-Goddess Ilmatar. And her brother Ukko, Thunder and Lightning God. Probably just Blind Io with Swommi phrase-book, but I think. Maybe it is true I am up here by their leave. Not a place to make enemies. Especially if Ilmatar slaps me to earth, where below, the Earth-God, sort of, Väinämöinen, waits, and he may or may not catch me, depending on his mood. So no, you do not call the attention of gods to yourself. "
It had been a long thoughtful speech by Kiiki standards. The people around the table considered this.
"I live in the Outback." Darleen said. "That place can mess with your head. Really flat, sort of, but then you get Arsehole Rock in the dead centre and you think. One bloody mountain, on a flat plain? Fly over that, it really does look like a bloody great bum sticking up. The Abboes say that's the God Damari, still in his Dreamtime, only strewth, he's sleeping in a funny position."
"Fourecksian sense of humour." Johanna said.
"Or else a really big troll." Mariella suggested. "If Fourecks ever cools down and he wakes up…"
"Just don't wake him up." Darleen said. "You don't go around bloody well encouraging gods, but just sometimes, you pay respect. Or something close."
"I agree." Irena said. "For me, the Orthodox Potato Church. Four dreary hours in church each Octeday as I grew up, going through those drawn-out tedious rituals and chants to the god Epidity."
Irena reached inside her collar and drew out something on a chain. The others turned to look. It turned out to be a blobby mis-shapen something, only in gold.
"Yet I wear the Holy Potato of the Great God Epidity." she said, and shrugged. "Never fly without it. I have a strange feeling that the day I leave this at home is the day I crash."
"It's a pilot thing." Darleen said. "Got my unlucky rabbit's foot in my pocket here."
"Unlucky?" Mariella queried.
"Bloody unlucky for the rabbit". Darleen said, laconically. "The rest of the little bladger made a decent dinner."
Johanna and Mariella, feeling a need to reciprocate, talked about the Kerrigian Reformed Church of Io and Offler in Rimwards Howondaland, agreeing most of the time it was just social convention. But, ag, you never knew.
"Do not ennoy any Gods." Johanna said.
"All of them." Mariella added. "Bekki saw things I'd never really considered ebout the bleck peoples' Gods. Thet they are es real es Io end Offler in their own space, end they heve been longer in Howondaland. With more believers."
The call to fly came at ten o'clock. The six had a final equipment check and went down to the courtyard of the Assassins' Guild, where black-painted two seater stealth brooms, navigating Feegle, and Teks for last-minute flight checks, awaited them.
Home Farm, the Chalk
The Feegle looked like a mass of intent little bodies. But Bekki got the idea they belonged to anything up to three separate clans, judging from the fighting that was going on amongst them. She did the face-palm thing. She was meant to insinuate fifty-odd Feegle silently into Klatch, where they were meant to perform a specified task where qualities like stealth, discretion and above all silence were important?
She shook her head. Then she realised one of the Feegle was larger and greener than the rest. He was enthusiastically engaged in holding two smaller and struggling Feegle by the neck in each hand, and bouncing their heads together. Above the noise, she yelled
"Grindguts! Come here right now, will you!"
Her demonic familiar grinned sheepishly and dropped his victims.
"Sorry, guys, got to go."
"Och aye, Green Yin, nae bother." one of them said, rubbing his head.
"Tis a Hag who commands ye." the other said. "Ye must go."
Grindguts amiably pushed his way through the fighters.
"Bekki, love. What's up?"
"How is it you're here, Grindguts?"
"Well, Bekki, love. You know the Pork Scratching clan adopted me and made me one of the lads? They give me the clan tattoos and everything, and I was here seeing everyone, and we heard about the bother in Klatch, and…"
Bekki was glaring at him. He tailed off.
And we heard one of them tried to kill you, and I didn't like that very much, so I come to join in. You know. Thump a Klatchian for you. Just to make the point."
"Grindguts. How can I get them to shut up and behave?"
Bekki was horribly aware of Tiffany Aching and Stacey Matlock. Who were watching. And not doing anything. She recognised "test".
"Depends. What did you bring from work?"
"What, you mean… bring it out now?" Bekki said.
"No time like the present, Bekki, love. When you got their attention, they'll listen."
Bekki sighed and went to one of the bags she'd brought over from Bitterfontein. She heard Grindguts bellowing, in a voice that belied his only being six or seven inches tall
"YOU BLOKES BLOODY WELL SHUT UP RIGHT NOW! HAG TALKING TO YOU!" followed by "OI YOU, SCUNNER WEE JIMMY! TALKING TO MESELF, AM I?"
Bekki thought it was mainly that. And the fact that her bag clinked.
Before travelling out, she'd explained to Mevrou Hendricka and Uncle Horst where she was going and why. The old lady had sighed.
"As I keep saying to your aunt. Stay safe. If you can."
Hearing that Feegle were involved, Uncle Horst, being practically minded, had taken her to the bottling plant.
"You may find with Feegle that you need to offer a carrot as well as a stick. Here are three bottles of carrot. And come home safely. You and Mariella both."
Wordlessly, Bekki lifted a bottle of Lensen family klipdrift into the air.(1) Over fifty pairs of eyes followed it hungrily.
Bekki scanned the room, eyeballing individual Feegle.
"Listen to me." She said. "I am Hag. I am travelling with ye tonight. Ye are in my keeping and I am in yours. I know ye are drawn from three different Clans. Therefore. If ye come back successful, there are three bottles o' klipdrift for ye. In addition to any bargain ye struck with the Hag o' the High Airs, who I serve."
Bekki built on this theme for a while, demanding teamwork, focus and above all silence on the mission tonight.
"The klipdrift I will leave in the keeping of the Hag of the Hills." she said, indicating Tiffany. "She will greet ye on your return, hear your accounts, and judge if ye are worthy of it. And if you are not, if you let me down, then ye also let down the Hag o' the High Airs, who will be disappointed in ye. And then there will be a reckoning!"
I'm not paid nearly enough for this, Bekki thought, as she folded her arms and glared down. She didn't need to turn round to know Tiffany would also be glaring at the Feegle with folded arms. And possibly tapping feet.
One Feegle, braver than most, stood proud of the mass.
"Mistress, I am Rob Anybody of the Chalk." He announced. "Ye have met me, Mistress Rebecka. By acclaim, aye, I am first among the Big Men of the Clans, an' it fell to me to lead this great reiving."
Bekki noted a few bruises, although it was hard to tell among the clan tattoos, and an obvious black eye.
She nodded acknowledgement.
Rob Anybody continued.
I assure ye, Mistress. What ye have seen, when Feegle of many clans get together, the best, the strongest, the finest, of Feegle, is a wee bit of a sairting-oot, aye, just getting' tae know each other."
"Aye, mistress!" another Feegle called. "Breaking the ice, ye ken."
"Tonight, we, the Brotherhood of the Red Twig, go on a great raid, a reiving of the like never before seen in the lore and legend of our folk. Ye will get us there, Mistress Rebecka. Ye will be our Hag for the night. One who will see, an' bear witness, an' one who will do Hag things for us if they are called for. In return we will fight for ye and defend ye. And ye will come to see, mistress, there is none so silent as a Feegle intent on robbery. Save for fifty-four Feegle intent on robbery."
A great roar arose.
"AYE! SILENCE! NONE SO SILENT AS FEEGLE!"
Bekki blinked and shook her head.
Tiffany Aching stepped up.
"I'd have gone myself on this one." she said. "But this is Air Witch work. Rebecka will get you there. She is one of the best pilots in the Air Watch…"
"Best available, anyway." Stacey corrected her. Tiffany went on.
"And in any case, I'm not the best flier in the world. Not at all. I can do a straight line between two places, but this sort of flying is something other Hags do better. So go you all tonight with my blessing. You know what is to be done. What you need to steal and bring back. And I charge ye all: Harm no sheep. Or there will be a reckoning!"
Later, after Bekki had eaten a light evening meal with the Aching family, after Stacey had taken Boetjie with her to stable him alongside his mother at the Lancre Air Station, after she had changed into the dark clothing provided and bound her hair up underneath an anonymous broad-brimmed black hat that made her look from the outside like an Assassin, her assigned Navigator, Sergeant Buggy Swires, supervised loading the Feegle onto the cargo-net attached to her stealth broom. They were loaded twenty-four to a side with the rest on the staff above, "tae keep it balanced in flight, laddie, and I'm watchin' ye, aye, and do ye not dare MOVE!"
Her part of the mission took off, from the back paddock of Home Farm, as the Chalk night turned into twilight. Tiffany Aching and her parents saw her off. Bekki glimpsed the white horse on the hillside beneath her and found it oddly comforting. Although she felt strongly that there ought to be a version with wings somewhere.
The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork
Rufus Drumknott laid the latest editions of the evening papers in front of Vetinari. It appeared the reading public could not get enough of the acclaimed air victory over Syrrit and even the slightest scrap of new information was being seized upon.
Even the selection of tunes that the military bands had been required to learn in a hurry were being pored over and analysed, for what clues might be offered by Morporkian translations of their lyrics.
The Inquirer was running a readers' poll: "which would you like to see adopted as the Victory March of the Air Watch?"
Vetinari smiled a brief little smile.
Drumknott set the mug of tea within reach of his left hand. Vetinari acknowledged it, lifted it, and took a brief sip. He set it down again.
"I rather fancy Captain Romanoff will soon have a new challenge, Drumknott, and one that will occupy her energies and her undoubted organisational skills for some time." He remarked.
"Sir?" Drumknott asked.
Vetinari steepled his fingers.
"By this time tomorrow, the threat of war with Klatch will no longer be an issue." he remarked. "Prince Cadram's bid to usurp the throne is no longer tenable, and by tomorrow evening he will be struggling to retain his head. Those who supported him will now be reconsidering, as nobody likes to be linked to a failure. After all, when you leap off a sinking ship, you require a lifebelt to survive, and not a millstone."
Vetinari sipped his tea again.
"By three this coming morning, I expect further news will reach me from our people currently on their way to Klatch. News of the same events will find its way to Al-Khali. I rather expect Prince Cadram will be summoned to the Capital to offer an explanation as to how he came to be so negligient in his management of the Air Force that he, and Klatch, are humiliated in the eyes of the world in an engagement with a numerically inferior force operating far from home."
"And then there is tonight's operation…"
"Indeed, Drumknott. Any future visual depiction of the relative strength of the Klatchian Air Force, compared to our own Air Watch, is likely to occupy a far smaller space on paper. The Inquirer will need to revise its graphic."
Vetinari sipped his tea again.
"If I were Prince Khufurah, I might take the view that there are to be no more second chances and there is no possible doubt to be in the benefit of. Klatch does not like a failed General. And the Palace Guard have very big sharp swords. I may have one more duty for the Air Watch tomorrow morning, more of a full stop at the end of the paragraph which is this week's activities, and then Captain Romanoff can focus on less exiting duties."
Vetinari smiled, almost benignly.
"The three senior ranks in the Air Watch are all Rodinian Zlobenians. It is fitting they should have a parade march which comes out of Rodinian military tradition. With the state visit of Prince Heinrich of Zlobenia set for next month, there should be a military march-past."
Vetinari smiled, benignly.
"Captain Romanoff now needs to thoroughly drill her command, including herself, in the art of parade-marching. After all, having their own March means they then, necessarily, need to be able to march to it. I fancy this should keep her occupied for some time."
Drumknott considered this.
"Prince Heinrich witnesses a formidable military asset march past him. Officered by people who are technically Zlobenian, but in the service of Ankh-Morpork. This reminds him a large part of Zlobenia is populated by people not of his ethnicity, and who regard him only as their conditional monarch."
Vetinari nodded.
"A parade led by a commanding officer from the House of Romanoff. Who has proven that she can lead, organise, and command."
Vetinari looked far away and reflective for a moment.
"Heinrich wishes to award her a medal. As the incident that sparked this crisis involved a mission on behalf of the Zlobenian Government, and she is Zlobenian, he has the right. So she has to bow her head to her Prince, whether she wishes to or not. In public. Checks and balances, Drumknott."
Vetinari looked down at an ornately headed and sealed letter.
"The Blue Riband Order of Crown Prince Maximilian, I believe. Zlobenia's highest award. I have no objections. She is, after all, Zlobenian."
"Ah. The Blue Max."
"Indeed, Drumknott. Indeed. And once the ground parade is done with, I'm sure a visually spectacular fly-past can be arranged. Things for Heinrich to consider before he returns home. Capital."
Berga-Bagush-Fuka, in the furthest Rimwards part of Klatch on the border with Syrrit, nightfall, Saturday into Sunday.
Night falls swiftly in a desert. The guards patrolling the outer perimeter of the airbase were both worried and demoralised. They'd seen nearly fifty carpets and flying sheep leave the base earlier in the day to meet the expected threat from Ankh-Morpork. They'd cheered the fliers off.
And then. Nothing. Only a handful of the sheep-riders, maybe a dozen, had limped back. And none, save one, of the carpets.
The Prince had eventually returned in a foul mood on a stricken and scorched carpet with a large hole burnt into it. It had been barely airworthy, and he had stormed to his command tent and not come out again.
None of the sheep riders, crazy men recruited from the ranks of small nimble camel-jockeys, had wanted to talk about it very much. They had gone to get drunk on arak and then knurd on coffee.
Rumour had arisen that there had been a shattering defeat.
Throughout the evening, crews from carpets forced down, those who had survived crashes, limped in. Patrols had gone out to retrieve them. Their news was not good either.
And on top of that, the D'Regs had massed, somewhere out there, and were raiding supply convoys. Everybody was on half-rations. The occupation force in Syrrit was now dependent on what could be spared and sent forward on the transport carpets. And if the terrible crazy women of Ankh-Morpork now ruled the skies…
The makeshift and temporary forward base of Berga-Bagush-Fuka was not a happy airbase that night. It was about to get a lot unhappier.
Lord Downey had shaken hands with the six operatives and wished them a successful mission. Irena Politek had noticed that for a covert mission departing in conditions of great secrecy, there appeared to be a lot of Assassins who had found reasons to be in the courtyard to see them off. Johanna Smith-Rhodes leant forward and whispered in her ear that they were being overlooked from a lot of dormitory windows, all of which were lined with student Assassins, up after their bedtimes, who were covertly watching.
"Wouldn't like to be in charge up in Raven House justnow," Johanna remarked. "Ethylene's going to have a hell of a job getting them to settle down end go to bed."
"Bet Famke's up there." Irena remarked. "going spare with frustration because she can't join in."
"Be surprised if she wasn't." Johanna said, drily.
"All students are on complete curfew right now." Downey assured them. "No news will leave the premises. Forgive me, but this is a completely new way of despatching a mission. People are excited."
"Indeed, sir." Irena said, politely. She turned to the ground Teks who had delivered the brooms here, by covered wagon.
"All systems go, Mr van Fokker?"
"Everything ready, ma'am!"
They exchanged a salute.
"Navigators ready?"
Sergeant Wee Mad Arthur, the senior Navigator, stamped to attention and threw a salute.
"Aye, ma'am! Ready to go!"
"Okay. Night Witches, this is Red Star Leader. Let's kick the bristles and start a fire.(2) Take off in five, four, three…"
And the Night Witches took to the air. Transition would be high, at angels five.
Hundreds of eyes watched them from below.
Bekki busied herself with the business of flying as she ascended to the right height for Transition. She tried to close her ears to excited cries from behind her, of "Are we there yet?" and "Hey, Medium-Sized Jock! I can see your mound from up here!"
"This is meant to be discreet, stealthy, and silent?" she said, wondering exactly how her mother would react to Feegle being present on an Assassin mission.
Sergeant Buggy Swires, perched on the staff just in front of his pilot, looked up at her.
"I should not be too concerned, Mistress Rebecka." he said. "They're excited now, 'tis true, and when Feegle are excited they are noisy. But when ye lands, ye ken, they will see the nature of the task they are charged with. And I assure you, they will become very silent. Ye will see a different side to Feegle then. Captain Olga knows what she is aboot. And your mother knows this. Which is why she consented to this part of the mission. You are their Hag. The boys will also see to it that ye are kept safe. Your mother is wise, and she knows this too."
Mariella Smith-Rhodes watched in fascination as the familiar shapes of Ankh-Morpork diminished into the dim gloom below her. Night was closing in fast, and she was also aware she could barely see the two other brooms of the flight. It fascinated her how they were flying in such close unison, the two flanking brooms anticipating and following any course change made by Irena, and still staying in the same relative position all the time. It was as if the three brooms were fixed, and somehow the rest of the world was rolling past them.
Irena had said "We can't rule out that the Klatchians might still have one listening device active. Odds are that there are currently none. But we don't know that. Therefore total Omnicon silence, and we do this the old-fashioned way."
Mariella also knew that below them, a clacks had been sent from the Guild to the Air Station saying something non-committal like "The guests have left the dinner party and are on their way". From the time of the clacks, Nottie Garlick could then accurately work out when they would enter Transition, and from that, when they'd be over Klatch and getting to work.
The three brooms angled higher.
Mariella's pilot, the manic pixie, turned her head and grinned.
"Pretty good, hey, possibly crazy red-haired person?"
I'm on a mission I accepted at short notice, I'm going to a country where there is still a death sentence on my head if I'm caught there, there are going to be Feegle running around among lots of heavily-armed Klatchians, thinking they're being discreet, and just to even get there, I'm four thousand feet up, flying with a certified maniac who is in charge of the air vehicle.
This was the kind of thing that made Mariella feel alive. She grinned.
"Kiiki. Why are you saying "possibly?"
The Transition through Feegle space had been uneventful, if colourful. Everybody had been here before, after all.
"Ready for Transition to Syrrit, ma'am!" Wee Mad Arthur called, saluting.
Irena nodded.
"Everybody ready? Remember. Verbal communication only if absolutely essential. Also remember. It is light in here. It's going to be dark out there. Circle gently for a count of a hundred and fifty to allow your night vision to adjust. Darleen, proceed to your additional duty, then find us on the ground. Proceed, sergeant."
"Ye two scunners take my mark!" Wee Mad Arthur barked to the other two Flight-Feegle. "Get it wrong an' I'm claiming ye! Pimp! Pethera! Tethera! Tan! And YIN!"
The three brooms popped back into Disc space, out of the fantastic light of the transition zone, and into the purple of a desert night. Irena, in the lead, raised her left arm and made a circling movement. Just as a reminder. Three night witches and three Assassins took the opportunity to let their night vision assert itself, and the brooms settled into wide slow circuits of the ground beneath, getting a feel for what they would soon be dealing with.
Johanna started to see lights and fires down there. Another complication for moving by night; this would not be straightforward night concealment and movement, but the Guild taught you how to deal with this. She shook her head. If they were this lax on basic security – especially since they must have realised they were now in a combat zone – it was hardly likely anyone down there was looking up.
Fires in a wilderness tell anyone watching that there is something there, that somebody lit and is tending that fire. And what else is there to justify a fire being lit? Fires attract attention. Have they not worked this one out? Except in need, you extinguish your fire. Elementary. Second year students can work this out.
Irena Politek, coming to the same conclusion in the pilot seat, smiled to herself.
Out of Ankh-Morpork in complete silence. I'm not sure if we're unexpected, but so far, undetected. Let's hope it stays that way.
She watched as Darleen and Rivka peeled off. Darleen gave her a laconic wave.
Another long wide lazy banking turn took them to the widdershins of the airbase.
If the plan works, they're down there, behind that line of long low sandbanks… the Klatchians don't have guards patrolling that far out.
Irena lost height, unhurriedly. She was aware of Kiiki and Rivka over on her left.
Abruptly, Kiiki began activating her navigation lights. Red – yellow – red. The immediate glow illuminated the forward part of her broomstick from underneath. Irena made a note for Gertrude Schilling: The onboard lights are not nearly shielded well enough. Back-glow illuminates the pilot. We need to look into that.
She looked down. Regular flashes were coming up from below: red-yellow-red.
"We're here. Prepare for landing." she said to Johanna.
Darleen O'Hagan remained at five thousand. She reached underneath the broom to tap the iconograph box. Reaching into a pouch attached to the forward broom, she took out a night iconograph camera and handed it back to Rivka, who understood. It had been part of the briefing.
There is a stereo-lensed night iconograph mounted on the broom, facing down. Activate it and the imp will take pictures at two-second intervals until it runs out of ink and paper. As a back-up, the passenger will manually take pictures using a second iconograph. We want definitive air pictures of the Klatchian base. Intelligence.
As Darleen had said to Rivka, "helps you too when you claim the money afterwards. So you can prove you were in the right place."
Stereo iconographs had been Gertrude's idea. "Take two pictures of the same thing but slightly displaced, then put them in a viewer with the right lenses. You know, like the way you have two eyes, two separate pictures, but the brain puts them together, so you see depth and can pick out more detail. Three-dimensional iconography."
The infra-octarine night flash was a calculated risk, as if a magic user happened to be looking up and detected the flashes, they might raise the alarm. Anybody else simply would not notice. But "before and after" pictures were part of the contract. And, as Darleen pointed out, the risk of detection wouldn't bloody matter when they took the "after" pictures.
They circled for as long as it took, taking pictures, then spiralled down.
Nothing stirred much underneath. Apart from the occasional "baaa!" that could be distantly heard from several thousand feet below.
Johanna shook hands with Sebastian Bakewell, Assassin and Dark Clerk. Irena supervised unloading equipment satchels and stowing the brooms for easy retrieval and return to the air, while Kiiki and Mariella, in silent agreement, moved to the top of the sandbanks to do an immediate recce of the local area. Johanna and Sebastian conferred in Assassin sign language and finger code.
They sensed something passing over them; Sebastian smiled slightly and indicated where his assistant was flashing the code up, red-yellow-red. There was an answering yellow-red, flickering in the sky overhead, then Darleen and Rivka came in to land.
Mariella scrambled back down the bank.
"We're free to talk." she said, in a low voice. "Nearest sentry is seven hundred yards away."
She indicated the embankment.
"Bosbefok's(3) up there, watching." she said, laconically. "with that bleddy knife of hers."
People in the huddle looked politely blank.
"Oh that. It means meschuggenah." Rivka said, cheerfully.
"I'm not going to ask who." Irena said. "No point. "Crazy" identifies her. So long as she pays attention."
She looked critically at the other man dressed in black, or at least in dark clothes.
"Should I know you? she asked. "you look familiar."
"Semyon Casimirovich Romanoff at your service, madam. You perhaps know my cousin better."
Irena considered this. Olga had mentioned she had a relative here. She hadn't been especially flattering about him, but then, that was Olga.
"She delivered some working equipment yesterday, ma'am." Sebastian said. "With a briefing and instructions. Then collected our reports. You received them?"
Irena nodded.
"Horoscho. Okay. I am Irena Yannesavichniya Politek, Lieutenant, Air Watch. I command in the air. Here, on the ground, Doctor Smith-Rhodes is in charge of what needs to be done. Her area of expertise. My personnel will do what we can to assist as directed, but this is from now on an Assassins' Guild operation."
Irena nodded to Johanna.
"All yours."
Johanna took over the huddle.
"There is one hour before a lot of Feegle arrive to make things interesting." she said. "They too have a job to do, which is important."
She nodded at Irena.
"I believe Mistress Aching, the most senior witch, was most insistent. Therefore Captain Romanoff had to incorporate this into her plan. Never mind, we have an hour for discreet silent work. I propose we divide this camp into three parts. We each take one-third of the camp and act independently. One task is to be completed at the well-guarded command tent in the centre; the big colourful marquee which so helpfully stands out from the rest. Then one of us needs to be at the Turnwise-by-Hubwards corner to guide the Feegle in. Olga says a witch will be with them, to make it clear they are being supervised. I suggest one of us makes themself known to her."
"If we need to disable any guards." Sebastian said, diffidently, "I suggest if we conceal the unconscious body out of sight. They change detail every four hours. The last guard change was an hour and a half ago. Therefore a disappeared guard will not be discovered for some time."
"Good enough." Johanna said. "But no inhumation, if you can help it. This is not an inhumation contract. Let us move out."
The Assassins donned rucksacks, checked essential equipment, and silently moved off. Johanna clasped hands quickly with Irena.
"Stay safe." Irena said.
Johanna nodded.
They watched the Assassins move off and disappear into the distance.
"Horoscho" she said. Then Irena positioned Semyon, Darleen, Kiiki and herself to provide all-round defence guarding the precious brooms that would carry them out of there when all was over. She loosened the sabre in her scabbard, considered, then decided the shorter kijndal knife in one hand and a pistol crossbow in the other would be better weapons if a Klatchian patrol were to surprise them. She ensured the others also had weapons to hand. Then they waited, each lying prone on high ground, within sight of the others, guarding the approach routes to the depression in the ground where the brooms were lying idle.
Mariella and Rivka parted company as they skirted round the air base perimeter. They had already evaded two or three sentries, men who radiated both boredom and apprehension. Even the body language of the sentries, when read carefully, suggested this was not a happy encampment and morale was low.
Rivka tapped out a finger code message on Mariella's arm.
Remember last time?
Mariella considered, and answered
Vividly. They just do not learn, do they?
Meet you in there.
We'll find each other.
Hey, we always do.
They squeezed hands quickly, the sort of squeeze that speaks volumes for a lifelong friendship, and merged into the dark vaguely-seen lines of tents, taking care to spot for and not to trip over any guy lines. That was an elementary error that teachers at the Guild School could get darkly sarcastic about. Then they parted company, Rivka to the left, Mariella to the right.
Mariella soon realised this was a barracks line. It was obvious from the smell, and to a lesser extent the night noise, that these tents only had sleeping men in them. Once identified, she paid these tents no further attention(4) and moved deeper into the encampment. Then the tents became differently shaped. She smiled to herself. One shape of tent for sleeping twelve men. Another shape of tent designed for housing stores and equipment. They might just as well label them in large letters.
This is where we keep the magic carpets when we are not flying them.
Mariella noted a lethargic sentry posted at the front flap. She shrugged and let herself in under a loose trailing edge at the back of the tent. Then she unslung the bag of incendiary Devices on her back, and got to work among ten or twelve neatly rolled carpets.
She noted the tent was also used for sundry other stores, and found a bottle of what smelt like methylated spirits.
An accelerant. Bloutrein. Perfect.
The carpets soaked the liquid up beautifully. She smiled, let herself out the way she had come in, and moved on.
Rivka's movement through the camp could be likened to that of a self-aware neutron in a nuclear reactor. She methodically quartered her allocated area, distributing her Devices carefully in the best possible places. She also found a store of lamp oil, placed Devices among the amphorae where they would make the most satisfactory impression on their surroundings, then considered, liberated a portable container, and went back to a tent where she had so far only found six stowed carpets. Like Mariella, she reckoned that adding an inflammable liquid would be the icing on the cake of the job so far.
Just making sure, she thought, and slipped out of the tent again.
Straight into a Klatchian sentry who looked surprised , although not for very long, at seeing a slightly built young woman wriggling out from underneath the skirt of a tent.
"Don't mind me, I'm here to burn your camp down." she said, in Klatchian.
The Klatchian let his mouth drop open in surprise, and then the slightly built young woman hit him.
"Should have raised the alarm, soldier." she said, dragging him to the deeply shadowed side of a tent she knew she had not rigged to explode and blow up, where she deftly gagged and bound him with his own torn-up surcoat.
After leaving the unconscious guard where she knew he'd be safe, the rest was routine.
Meanwhile, the Guild School's Principal Tutor In Exothermic Alchemy and Asymmetric Warfare was doing what every Assassin schoolteacher has to do occasionally, so as to stay on top of emerging trends in the Profession, and to be able to teach effectively.
Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes was out Seeing Practice and putting her skills into action.
She took a deep appreciative sniff of the night air. It was cold and smelt of camels. She had missed this sort of thing during her years of semi-retirement from the active Profession. It reminded her of why she'd become an Assassin in the first place.
Well, that and having about ten people pointing loaded crossbows at my back. (5)
She sniffed again. There it was, a definite hint of bloutrein, methylated spirits. She considered it would be very handy if she could find some. Soak that into the magic carpets alongside the incendiary bombs. Just to make sure.
And then she found the jackpot. The big, the seriously big, transport carpets. They had been tied down at all four corners, probably to tether them down, and two of them were full of cargo. She studied these. Either a flight in that was yet to be unpacked. Or a flight out, possibly to resupply the forward troops in Syrrit, that had been loaded and was here under light guard, maybe to take off later in the morning.
Johanna reflected the flight might have been delayed, if bad news had got back to the air base that the Air Watch now controlled the skies over Syrrit. No point in sending out a transport flight, if the other side's fighters are waiting either to shoot it down in flames or else force it down and capture it.
She concealed herself in a patch of shadow and considered, watching the lethargically patrolling guards. She watched their regular beats. And discovered there would be a blind spot of around eighteen seconds where both had their backs to each other and were walking away. And combine it with that one on the other side who has just taken a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and is contemplating them…
And a minute or so later, she was in among the stores on the laden carpet, liberally distributing Devices and discovering, to her satisfaction, that lamp oil was indeed among the stores.
A few minutes later, she was doing the same on the second laden carpet.
Adding a few Devices to the unladen transport carpets was a courtesy detail.
She considered again as she made her way to the agreed rendezvous with Mariella and Rivka.
We need to lay the diversion Devices. The relatively harmless ones, the distraction that will go off first to divert attention. But these need to be timed more precisely.
And before that, almost the last little thing, the one Ponder and the very clever Gertrude asked for. Jislaaik, a woman who is more Wizard than Witch. That makes her unique. No wonder Olga recruited her…
Johanna found a likely Spot in the concealment of shadow, and watched the big ornate well-guarded tent in the centre of the camp. Prince Cadram's private quarters. And likely to be where the last detail was, the central control console of the Klatchians' version of the Omnicon, the one they'd used to attack the Air Watch with. Olga wanted it destroyed, or failing that, disabled past the point where it could be repaired. Ponder had demonstrated what she could do there. It would take five minutes with a screwdriver.
But they had to get past three… no, four… guards.
Johanna nodded her awareness to the shadowy figure who was moving towards her. She made a point of doing this, if ever young Assassins thought they could sneak up on an old hand. It reminded them that old Assassins have been doing this for longer. Rivka came up to join her. A minute or so later, Mariella found them.
They communicated in sign and finger code. Somewhere in the night, restless sheep bleated. It focused Johanna's mind on the other thing that would soon happen. Better wrap up our part in this, soon. And the moment we set those first Devices, we also set an alarm clock. we want to be somewhere else when the bells begin ringing.
We get in. Steal the active components of their master Omnicon. Then a Device to destroy what we have to leave behind. Then back to the drop zone. For most of us, anyway.
The three watched the command tent and the sentries. Looking for weak points to exploit. After a while they found what they sought, and moved in.
Rebecka noticed a change in her cargo of Feegles as they popped into Disc space above Syrrit. They had become quieter, more serious, more intent.
Somewhere below them, sheep were bleating.
There was an answering sussurus of "Ahhhh…." among her cargo. And Bekki could feel the intent. It was like sensing the mind of a hunter, or borrowing a predatory animal when it sensed prey nearby.
"Here we go, Bekki, love." Grindguts said, quietly. He had climbed up, respectfully, onto her shoulder. She tolerated this from somebody who had begun as a not-so-imaginary childhood friend, one who had been part of her life since forever, first appearing when she had been not even three years old.(6) It was oddly comforting.
She scanned the ground, coming down in a wide sweeping descending spiral, looking for light, or a pattern of lights, below.
She smelt Syrrit below her. Around her, the cold, slightly whispering, night breeze. Above her, bright stars in a clear sky.
It was almost poetic.
Beneath the starlight of the heavens,
Unlikely heroes in the sky….
And I will come back from this, she decided. She focused on what horizon she could see, wondering if peripheral vision could pick up any lights below her. Stacey had said they were directional. Which meant she needed to be right above them. Reaching down, she activated her own navigational lights, briefly, hoping this would be a prompt. Red, then yellow.
As they appear on the horizon
The wind will whisper when the Night Witches come!
Bekki caught a marginal glimpse of yellow and red lights from below. She banked and turned, hoping to pick up on it again. Second Thoughts emerged.
Where did all that stuff come from, about the wind whispering when the Night Witches come? Mystery.
You're keyed up, her Third Thoughts said, in her mother's voice. You're psyched up, on an Air Watch flight at short notice. You are short on sleep. You're alone over enemy territory. Well, except for fifty-odd Feegle and a Demon. You've got magic. When you get a chance, you like playing music. This is leaking in from somewhere else. Somebody else's music. Some other world. What do you expect? You're a Witch. Well, meisie, you can try to make a tune out of it later, but for now, focus on red and yellow light. Fifty-odd Feegle need you to put them in the right place.
And she saw the red-yellow repeating lights again, repeating, insistently, lower and closer. She reached down and activated her own lights again, noticing this time how they lit up the front of her broom and reflected on her face and clothing. Only faintly, but enough to mark her out if any enemy night fighters were in the air.
As always at night, the ground rolled up from below far more quickly than she anticipated, and she was focusing on landing. Among people in black. A dark face, only the eyes showing between hat-brim and a face-covering mask, appeared in front of her. The figure placed a finger to where its lips should be. But she recognised the eyes.
"Hi, mum." she whispered. Behind her, Feegle scrambled down the net to mass on the ground. Somewhere nearby was the bleating of sheep. Lots of sheep.
Rob Anybody, small, intent and barely visible, forced his way forward. He looked up at Bekki and bowed, respectfully.
"By your leave, Mistress." He said.
Bekki realised he was asking her permission. The other Feegle crowded round, respectfully.
"Do what has to be done." Bekki said, knowing she had to be one hundred per cent Witch here. Nothing else would do. "And seek not to go beyond what is asked of ye. And do it well. This I charge."
Aye, Mistress." Rob anybody replied. "But can we no' also pillage the camp? Just a little?"
Johanna Smith-Rhodes stepped forwards.
"Unwise." she said. "I'm not a witch, end I cennot bind you. But there are a lot of bombs in there, primed end ready to explode. You do not wish to go into thet place, not knowing where the bombs are."
"Entirely up to you, of course." Rivka-ben-Divorah added. She smiled genially at the Feegle. "But, gevalt…"
She mimed an explosion.
"Boom."
Rob Anybody considered this.
"Nae looting, boys. Ah wants to bring yiz all back."
The Feegle raced off into the night.
The bleating and baa-ing noises from the sheep enclosure grew louder. They began to take on overtones of surprise and affront.
Three Assassins and a witch watched from concealment.
"Jislaaik." Johanna said, laconically.
"Gevalt." Rivka said.
One by one, large white shapes rose into the air. In the night and at this distance they were recognisable as sheep. A faint shout of "Yiz ready, boys? One, two, three and HUP!" was audible even at a distance.
They watched the Flying Sheep ascend into the air. Bekki just knew there'd be a Feegle at each hoof, lifting and holding on, with one of the four seeking to co-ordinate the other three, and then…
Each sheep rose for about twenty feet and then popped out of existence.
"This is as discreet and as stealthy as a troll on an ice-rink." Rivka said.
Mariella did the face-palm thing.
Johanna smiled slightly.
"If my timing is right, it won't matter in about five minutes." she said.
And now Klatchian guards, alerted by the commotion, were running to the sheep pen. Bekki was close enough to see a green blur forming on the chest of one of them and distinctly heard, as it scrambled higher and eyeballed the luckless Klatchian,
"I don't like you, matey. I know it wasn't you personally, but one of you buggers tried to kill somebody I care about. So this is for her. General principles, see."
There was a distinct cracking thud, and the Klatchian keeled over backwards.
"Hey Green Yin! Gi' him one for me!"
"Feegle wha'hey!"
More and more white wooly balloons ascended into the air, and winked out of existence. The watchers saw one of the sheep-pilots, alerted by the noise, despairingly try to rescue a sheep, grabbing at its hind legs, and ascending maybe five feet off the ground before the Feegle loosened his grasp, possibly by stamping on his fingers. He dropped and hit the ground.
More Klatchians were stirring now, running and milling around in an undirected mass.
Like human sheep, Bekki thought.
"Shall we go?" Mariella asked, urgently. Johanna checked her.
"Just wait…"
The dark of the night erupted into light, noise and fire, somewhere towards the heart of the camp. Klatchians started running to the sight and the acrid smell of explosives.
"Just fireworks." Johanna explained. "Distraction."
"A sight to gladden the heart of young and old alike." Rivka quoted.
"Exectly. Bought them off the shelf."
Klatchians, seeing they couldn't save the sheep, were now running in exactly the wrong direction. Voices of authority, possibly sergeants, were loudly trying to restore control and authority.
Bekki noticed her mother counting down.
Suddenly there were other explosions, loud, ominous, crumping sounds with less light and sparkly colours. And the acrid smell of burning fabric.
Johanna reached out and shook hands with Rivka and Mariella.
"Now we go." she said. "While they are distrected."
Seven minutes later they reached the dispersal area. Johanna was pleased to be challenged, and to have pistol crossbows pointed at her. It proved the Air Watch knew their jobs.
"Bloody good, crazy red-haired people!" Kiiki said.
Irena was shouting instructions to power up and to move out.
"What about you two?" Johanna said to Semyon and Sebastian.
"We've got fast camels parked up. We can be back in the Whistlestop by breakfast time." Semyon said. "I really doubt they'll pursue. Too busy trying to put fires out."
"Okay." Irena said. "Safe journey. Kiiki, you've got an iconograph fitted. Get up there and take the pictures. We'll wait for you. Where's… oh, here she is."
Bekki flew low into the dispersal zone, Grindguts and Buggy on her broom in front of her. She knew the rest of the Feegle would have craw-stepped back to the Chalk by now. All they'd needed was a lift to the right place, a one-way ticket.
"Officer Smith-Rhodes reporting, ma'am." she said, respecting the form. "Stealthy and discreet agent insertion completed, passengers now finding their own way home, as per mission instructions."
Irena grinned.
"Never mind that. You can fly back with us."
Can we get going quickly?" Rivka asked. "It's not exactly dark round here any more with all this fire and flame going on. I don't know if you've noticed, but we stand out against the light. Sitting target. And I've got a completion fee to claim."
Very soon afterwards, three brooms took off for the return flight, picking up a fourth on the way.
Several thousand feet up, un-noticed from the ground, they passed out of Syrrit and into Feegle Space. Below them, a camp blazed.
Mission accomplished.
Home Farm, the Chalk. Three am, Sunday 9th Grune.
Joe Aching was awoken by a commotion. It sounded like lots of sheep. Nearby. But his own flock were out in a far paddock and shouldn't be so close. What if they'd escaped and were running loose?
He awoke his son Wentworth, who dragged his boots on and went to help deal with the emergency.
The two plodded round the farm. No sheep had got loose. All gates were closed. But the noise appeared to be coming from the big barn. Which should be empty…
They went to drag the door open. Joe held up the lamp and discovered it was full of bewildered looking sheep. He blinked, disbelievingly, at the ones who had perched up in the rafters…
Slowly, deliberately, Joe Aching closed the door again. He took a deep breath.
"Wentworth, lad. Go and get your sister, would you? Explain we've got a tricky sheep problem here and it really needs her advice…"
To be completed.
Just to get another chapter out – and it will be tidied, corrected, streamlined and expanded – before I go away for a few days.
(1) Was reading about South African brandy production and wondering which class is an appropriate gift for Feegle. What am I saying, if there's alcohol in it, Feegle will drink it. Therefore it's appropriate. I'm guessing this is pot-still blended klipdrift using grapes at 27brix. See? Doing the research.
(2) in Derek Robinson's novels of the Royal Air Force, "kick the wheels and start a fire" was a Bomber Command crew's pre-flight ritual before setting off to visit Germany by night.
(3) bosbefok; Afrikaans, "bush-fucked", ie, crazy. Derived from soldiers who spent too much time on active service in bush, jungle and desert. It is possible Mariella is using this affectionately after spending time with Kiiki.
(4) Especially not with her nose. She'd once smelt the early-morning air of a male changing room at the Guild School and reckoned it was composed of two parts' sweaty feet and three parts fart. Once was enough.
(5) to my tale The Graduation Class, in which a nineteen-year-old Johanna receives a job offer which she is in no position to refuse.
(6) Grindguts the Destroying Demon had been brought to full sentience by a pre-school Bekki, causing headaches for her parents, especially for her father. See Strandpiel.
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.
Reading about SAS night raids on German airbases in North Africa and wondering which names to plunder. Tamet (Libya), Sidi Haneish, Berka (52 aircraft destroyed), Bagush-Fuka (22 aircraft), El- Daba…..
Navigation lights on a plane(universal) :
Red – port
Green – starboard
White – tail.
Apparently the convention dates back to the Washington Conference in 1896 making it mandatory to carry these lights on ships. It was extended to aircraft in the 20th Century, and the same principle for navigation and advisory lights is now used on spacecraft, satellites, orbital space stations…
And from Fortean Times . Reading back-numbers. The FT reported on the case of Elizabeth Klarer, an English-born South African who married into a Boer family and lived in unfulfilling isolation in the Drakensberg Mountains among people she thought were a bit, well, crude and uneducated and bigoted. In the 1950's, she started seeing UFO's over South Africa (not piloted by prawn-like life forms but recognisably human people – in the Apartheid Era, they were impeccably Nordic, and broke no racial separation laws when they abducted her, and, err, the inevitable happened…)
All together now…
I've had a close encounter of the 22nd kind,
That's when an alien spaceship disappears up your behind; (pop)
I got Directory Enquiries after less than forty rings, I've even heard a decent song by Paul McCartney's Wings;
I've seen a flying pig, in a quite convincing wig,
But I've never met a nice South African!
Vrou Klarer has to be worked into the ongoing tale somewhere. I am working on the idea that she will be verging on elderly, a bit nuts, and one of Bekki's more interesting patients in her Steading. A case for the old Dried Frog Pills.
How Bekki will deal with instances of what satirical author Tom Sharpe described as "black-cock fever" (apparently endemic among older White South African women with too much time on their hands) is yet to be worked out.