The Price of Flight – part twenty-four
Aftermath
There is an Arms Race going on between two superpowers. This could be called the Syrrittan Flying Sheep Crisis, where Klatch and Ankh-Morpork are in a staring contest while the rest of the Disc watches to see who blinks first. The Cold War became, very briefly, hot. Now the fighting forces have had their battle, it is down to others to negotiate the future.
In which one magic user might reflect she ought to have listened more carefully to Granny Weatherwax.
From Wyrd Sisters. Granny on why magic users should keep out of politics. Most of the time.
Granny looked wretched. "It's meddling, you see." she said. "It always goes wrong if you meddles in politics. like, once you start, you can't stop. Fundamental rule of magic, is that. You can't go round messing with fundamental rules."
"You're not going to help?"
"Well... naturally, one day..."
Then again, the same book also notes:
"It was probably some sort of wondrous organisation on the part of Nature to protect itself. Nature saw to it that anyone with any magical talent was about as ready to co-operate as a she-bear with toothache, so all that dangerous power was safely dissipated as random bickering and rivalry."
But the same Witch who now realises she's at the sort of level where "meddling in politics" comes with the job description – quite apart from her being heiress to a Grand Duchy – has also succeeded in getting lots of magic users to co-operate and work together, drawn as they are by the glamour of flight. She believes the trick for managing this is that they all volunteered.
She is not sure how she feels about this.
However, there are even more fundamental forces at work in the life of Olga Romanoff, set against which everything else is so much govno. The story begins in the city apartment she shares with her husband and children.
V0.4 - having to return to this one, or perhaps another, for a couple of very minor adjustments and to resolve something which is "out" in the larger chronology of the interlinked tales - remember from "Strandpiel" that Bekki, as indeed is Emmanuelle de Lapoignard's older son (born within days of Bekki - see "Hyperemesis Gravidarum") - is a year younger than Ampie du Pris, who in this tale is just coming up to his Final Exam. Therefore Bekki cannt be of an age where, had she become a student Assassin, be approaching her final Run - she'd have a year to go amd Joan Sanderson Reeves would not have got it wrong. Okay, it might have been history monks. But... finding the reference and correcting... Ampie's Final Run will be covered in more detail in Strandpiel Book Two. In which his nickname "Amper" - "Almost" - will be proven inaccurate.
Sunday 9th Grune. Haliflax House, off Sterling Court, off Runecaster Way, Ankh-Morpork
Olga Romanoff had returned home on the Saturday evening, dead tired and in need of sleep. She had found Eddie had prepared dinner for the family and had somehow succeeded in getting Valla and Vassily to sit up straight and eat what was put in front of them.
"I thought of sending out for dinner." Eddie said. Olga accepted that sending out for a takeaway was first and preferable resort for a wizard confronted with the need to provide for people, and felt happier that he had taken the time to cook. She appreciated this.
"I did what I could. Some things are important." he said.
"Thank you." she said.
She accepted hugs from the children, wincing as Vassily bumped up against her injury.
Valla glared at her brother.
"Mamya is sore just there." she said. "I can sense it."
"He wasn't to know." said Olga. "Vaska, a bad man hit Mummy in the… chest. I have a…. bruise."
Vassily looked up at her.
"Did you kill him, mamya? For hitting you?"
"Nyet." she said. "Vaska, you will learn that there are worse things than killing somebody who offends against you. I let him live. So that he knows he is defeated. That is sufficient."
Valla looked up at her mother.
"Mamya, is that the Klatchian who was in the newspapers? With mint sauce all over him, as if he were Octeday dinner?" (1)
Olga smiled down. She had a feeling that this was mother-and-daughter stuff, certainly. A private moment. But looking at Valentina's serious face looking back up at her, she realised this was also witch-to-witch.
"Da, devotchka. He hit me. I threw mint sauce in his face. The writer-of-news flying with me took the iconograph. And it will be in every newspaper, in every country with newspapers, tomorrow. So the world knows he is defeated. Better than killing him. This way, he will see the newspapers himself."
Valentina Romanoff smiled back up at her mother. Olga suddenly realised it was a far more understanding and knowing smile than you'd expect from a girl of very-nearly-six. She recalled both Johanna and Ponder, experienced parents, said you got this with daughters. Just now and again you had a glimpse of a far older person looking back at you, an intimation of the adult woman she'd one day become. And yes, Olga, it's bloody disconcerting.
"I understand, mamya." Valla said.
"Da." replied Olga. "I know you do."
Perhaps I should call her "devyushka" and not "devotchka", she thought. My daughter has the witch-stuff.(2)
Olga took a long hot bath, taking scrupulous care not to get her bandaged wound wet, and relaxed gratefully into the heat and the steam. After a while there was a knock on the bathroom door; this was Valentina, who with grave care and concentration, brought her mother a glass of tea, made the Rodinian way. Valla knelt at the bath-side and offered her mother the tea.
"Thank you." Olga said, with real affection. "Did you make this yourself?"
"Daddy helped with boiling the water." Valla replied. "He was happier he did that for me. But the rest is mine. When I was with Aunt Rebecka last week, she said you and Auntie Irena taught her to do tea the way you like it. She showed me."
"It is good tea." Olga said. "Thank you."
The first lesson for a pupil Witch is how to make tea, Olga thought. And Bekki knows that.
"Mamya, you're hurt. May I do your hair?"
Olga allowed her hair to be washed and cleaned. She tried not to think of Air Watch business. Moments like this were important.
I must take her to Lancre. Introduce my daughter, properly, to Nanny Ogg. Nanny will make time and give me an opinion as to how to teach her Witchcraft. Nanny will say, no doubt, it is never a good idea for a mother to teach her own daughter. "You're too close, for one thing." she will say. "Best you stand back, and let the teachin' be done by other Witches." And by tomorrow, if all goes well, the Klatchian Air Force will be a lot smaller. But we will not know until four or five o'clock in the morning. I should be there… in the Rodinia, there is Xenia Galena, who is teaching my daughter about Witchcraft as we practice it at home. Xenia is good. Valla adores her. But Valla also needs to spend time in Lancre. When she is older. If this mission tonight were to fail, seven people I know, and in some cases love like sisters, are all imperilled. Best not to think of failure, Olga Anastacia. If anyone can do this correctly, it is Johanna. How long ago is it now, that I flew her to the top of the tower keep at Müning Castle, and we captured it together?(3) Too long ago, now.
"Is this good, mamya?"
"You have gentle hands, Valla. I thank you. Be careful not to get your clothes wet."
Valla also has a lot of adoptive aunts at the Air Station. She and Vaska are like squadron mascots. The girls adore them and spoil them rotten. Hanna. for instance, can be counted upon to be a stern and loving aunt who enforces the rules. She has only needed to speak sharply once to Vaska. He now takes great care not to attract another telling-off from Auntie Hanna. That is good for him. Valla is careful not to attract even her first telling-off from Auntie Hanna. She anticipates, where my son can leap straight in with both feet. And Nadezhda. She and Grigori have a daughter, about the same age as Valla, who is also showing signs of Witchcraft. There. I ask Nadezhda how she is coping with Tatiana. Seek her good counsel. Bring the girls together, perhaps. Tatiana. Named after a friend who died in combat. What happens to Cadram when the raid is over? At the very least, disgraced in Al-Khali. His supporters will fade away, not wishing to be associated with him. No longer holding high rank in the Air Force. But who replaces him, and how do we deal?
"Shall I fetch you towels, Mamya?"
"Thank you. One for my hair, please?"
And this apartment serves. I will be sorry to leave it. But we need a house. The children are twins, they accept a shared room for now. A boy and a girl will soon each need space of their own. You cannot provide that in a two bedroomed apartment. I must sit down with Eddie and go over the finances with him. What sort of three-bedroom home, at the very least, can we afford in Ankh-Morpork?
Olga smiled at her daughter, who was carefully wrapping her mother's hair in a towel.
And a place where we can install or build a banya. The Ankh-Morporkian idea of a bathroom only goes so far. I only feel properly clean after the banya. Now there's something where I completely agree with Kiiki. What's her people's word for it, a sauna… big enough for friends. The banya is a place where you can get clean and relax with friends. Irena, Nadezhda, Marina, if she is here on Reserve training…
A little later, Olga, nightgowned, allowed Valla to dry and brush her hair. After the long day, this was gently soothing and pleasantly normal. Olga decided this sort of normality was exactly what she needed at this moment. The Air Watch was capable of looking after itself.
"You are hurt, mamya. That is not a small bandage. I should look after you."
Olga winced as the smouldering, throbbing, pain of the burn began to reassert itself. Even touching the wound lightly, over the protective pad, still stung badly. Igorina had said this would assert itself over the coming few days, and she should grin and bear it.
"I can do something about that." Valla said. "Let me…"
Olga felt her daughter's fingertips on the site of the wound, just a gentle pressure. Then she watched the cold water in the jug on the bedside table. She felt the discomfort in her chest easing and witnessed the water in the jug begin to seethe and roil.
"Valla…" she said.
"It's alright, mamya. I saw Aunt Rebecka do this for a woman in pain who was brought to her. She explained this is a witch skill. I know how she did it…"
Olga asked no further questions, understanding a Witch had to concentrate on doing this or the pain could go anywhere.
"You did well." she said, afterwards. "And Bekki didn't teach you this? You just watched her, and you understood?"
"Da, mamya."
They watched the roiling water together.
"One thing you need to know." Olga said. "That is now poisoned water. The pain from my burn is trapped in there. Did you see what Bekki did next? No? Then go to the kitchen and fetch a little salt. Return here, And throw that in the water. This is necessary."
Olga waited, placidly.
Valla returned, and added a handful of salt to the water. It settled and the seething roil died.
"That is necessary to kill the pain." Olga said. "Leave it, and the job is half done. Worse, when that water cools, somebody might try to drink it. What do you think happens then?"
"Then they feel the pain, mamya?"
"Exactly. Now take the jug and pour it away, down the privy, perhaps. The jug should now be rinsed thoroughly. Take care, it will be hot."
This girl needs to be taught how to use the magic, Olga thought. And properly. Under supervision.
She considered the problem of Valla developing witchcraft, until she fell into a deep sleep. Next to her at the bedside, her Omnicon relayed the night's communications between the night shift and Ynci Control. Her husband Eddie, joining her after putting the children to bed, sighed resignedly, and turned it off. He gently put an arm around Olga, feeling thankful she was there. She made a little noise in her sleep and moved closer.
And her household slept.
Above Ankh-Morpork, at three-forty-five am, Sunday 9th Grune.
"Red Star to Ynci Control. Night Witches are above Dolly Sisters at angels four. Four brooms, three passengers, no casualties. Mission successful. Over."
-Ynci Control to Red Star. Welcome home. I've got the kettle on. Over.
Irena Politek heard cheering in the background. She grinned. She also reckoned a short clacks message would now be going to the Palace and to the Assassins' Guild.
++The eagles have landed. Hunt successful.++
Irena oriented herself and pointed downwards in the direction of the Isle of Gods. The flight turned with her and began the descent.
"Of course, the next step is debriefing." Johanna said from behind her.
"Da. Report writing." Irena said, ruefully.
"Filling in the claims forms." Rivka ben-Divorah said, from the next broom. "You'd be surprised how long that takes. Longer than the actual mission, in fact."
Broomstick flight was silent, Johanna reminded herself. And sound carried at night. But there was no longer any need for secrecy. The Air Watch ruled the night up here. There were also no Klatchian interception devices to do any listening. Not any more.
"You realise I'm taking Assassins into the Air Station." Irena said. "Mr Vimes may go spare when he finds out."
"Is he on duty tonight?" Johanna asked, practically.
"Probably, not. Although you never know with Mr Vimes. And besides, you're a Special Constable. He makes an exception for you."
She thumbed her Omnicon again.
"Red Star to Ynci Control. Entering landing circuit over Air Station. Over."
-Clear to land, Red Star. Ynci Control out.
There was a long pause.
-Ynci Control to Red Star. Message from Stoneface. He requests our guests be confined to the Crew Room for now, under escort. Well, what he actually said was, don't let those bloody Assassins out of your sight for five seconds. Apparently other guests are on the way, who'd like to talk to you all. Oh, and he also says well done, and he doesn't want to know the bloody details. Ynci Control out.
"Isn't it great to be back home?" Rivka remarked.
"To receive the thenks of a grateful City." Mariella agreed.
The four brooms landed. Pilots, navigators and passengers got off and stamped their feet, re-acclimatising themselves to the feel of firm ground under their feet. The flight-Feegle noisily welcomed their own, while the Teks busied themselves with collecting the brooms for post-flight checks and return to the hangars.
"Need the iconographs." Gertrude Schilling said. "Did anyone tell you Vetinari's likely to be on the way over? He said he wanted to be informed the moent you came back and said something about his working late. I'd like to have some sort of montage to show him."
"What are you doing here, Penguin?" Irena asked. "There is a thing called sleep. I'm betting you've not had much of it lately."
"It'll keep till later. Besides, I don't know if you've noticed I've been working a lot of night shifts this week." Gertrude replied, as she deftly removed the iconograph units from the brooms. Each had a large collection bag stowed behind that had stored the finished prints as they were wound out.
"Got the hand-helds? Thanks. By the way, Dame Joan's coming over to speak to you. Apparently, Downey delegated her."
"He would." Mariella agreed.
"Likes his sleep." Rivka agreed. "Can't have the Guild Master coming out at four in the morning, can you?"
"Thet's why he's got a Deputy. To hendle the unsocial out-of-hours work." Mariella said.
"I'll let you have some of these pictures back for your claim sheets." Gertrude assured them. "Copies, anyway."
There was a flash of light from a dark recess. Johanna noted the sudden smell of cigar smoke and gave the source of the smoke a nod of professional approval for his concealment skills. She genuinely hadn't noticed who else was there until he chose to reveal himself, but reflected that four decades as a Watchman must give a man better-than-usual abilities.
"You're on Watch premises, so you are now Special Constable Smith-Rhodes." Vimes said. "All Assassin work done for tonight, so there's no conflict of interests? Good. Okay, Johanna, I'm now directing you to escort your sister and… her friend… over there and through that door into the Air Watch Crew Room. Just so we all know where we stand. Go in there, make a cup of tea and play darts or something, and don't budge from there. We'll direct our guests there to meet you and do the debriefing."
"You play darts, crazy red-haired person?" Kiiki asked. "Then we play. The Air Watch way."
"What, we sit you in a bloody swivel chair with wheels on, and set it rolling, so you're throwing the bloody arrows from a moving platform at a moving target?" Darleen asked. "I'm up!"
Irena intervened.
"No chance." she said. "You've got reports to write. I've got a report to write. Besides. I've seen you playing darts that way. Do you know how many people ducked for cover?"
"I'm glad you're all back safely." Vimes said. "I'm not going to ask what you did, but if Vetinari himself thinks it's important enough for him to come here to ask about it at four o'clock in the bloody morning, I could make a few guesses. And anyone throwing a stray dart anywhere near the bloody Patrician, even accidentally, is going to find herself regretting it, isn't she, Officer Pekkissalen?"
Kiiki considered this. Being eyeballed by Sam Vimes helped.
"Hey, maybe not that crazy." she conceded. "Come on, crazy red-haired people, we have cup of tea like normal people."
"I brought some rooibos." Bekki said, keen to make a contribution. "Otherwise it's Rodinian zavorka, the sort that can melt armour, or else cheap nasty teabags from the local grocery store."
"Suits me." Mariella said. "Show me where it is, end we can set a pot up."
The ill-assorted party trooped off to the crew room. Vimes shook his head, and then grinned.
"They're pilots, Mr Vimes." one of the Tekniks remarked. "You have to make allowances. Nuttier than a squirrel's nest, and you didn't hear me saying that."
"I've seen them coming back off missions." another Tek said, thoughtfully. "They need some unwinding then. Especially after a combat flight. Miss Irena's good at unwinding them safely, though. My guess is that when they've done what they have to, and they're off shift, she'll get a bottle of vodka out."
"Young Rebecka's pretty sane, though. Level head. Look at the way she got them to agree to a cup of tea."
"Give her time. She's new."
Vimes grinned and shook his head. He reflected that if Auntie Joan was coming over from the Guild and Vetinari himself was coming here, rather than expecting people to see him at the Palace at his convenience, then it was going to be one serious debriefing. He sighed. I'd better be present. In case there are any nasty surprises.
"Alright, ladies. This is the boring but necessary part." Irena said. "You each have a clipboard, a standard report form, and a pen. Standard headings, if anyone needs clarification, ask me. Johanna, can you adapt our report sheet for your own purposes? And we each have a mug of hot sweet tea, and I haven't noticed you putting a slug of vodka in yours, Kiiki, just don't top it up. Horoscho. Pilots, do not forget to transfer this over to your log books. Important. Sooner we start, the sooner we finish. Go!"
Irena set about writing her own report, and the crew room was soon full of diligent writing. After a while, Gertrude Schilling joined them and began pinning iconographs to boards, sorting diligently through the piles of pictures they had taken, assembling a montage of the Klatchian base from the shots. Periodically she conferred with Kiiki and Darleen to clarify points about their height and direction over the target.
"Bloody hell, Penguin. I wouldn't know where to start. I just took the bloody pictures!"
"Fortunately for you, I like doing jigsaws. And the imps in the iconographs have a built-in clock, and know to time-stamp every picture. It's just a matter of following the circuits you flew, and putting them together in order."
Mariella, her report written, walked over to join them.
"I've seen pictures like this before." she remarked. "Not so long ago. There's a crazy General called Hans Dreyer. He took a flight over the Zulu Empire end took lots of iconographs of the Queen-Regent's hometown. Could heve been a lot of shit coming down if he'd been caught out. I got to see them." (4)
"I thought your country doesn't have any sort of Air Force." Gertrude said.
Mariella shrugged.
"It doesn't. Crowbar Dreyer hed to pay a freelance. A med Kletchian, who did it for the excitement es much es for the money."
"That's interesting." Irena said. "Anyone we know of?"
She recited a list of names. Mariella listened and confirmed a name.
"Ja, that's him. Recognise the name."
"We like to keep an eye on mercenary pilots for hire. Ex Klatchian Air Force, veteran of the Klatchistanian Front, and if he ever turns up in this city, we're running him in. Just for a little chat." Irena said. "He probably finds being a civilian is totally boring."
"Can see where he's bloody well coming from, there." Darleen agreed. She turned back to the iconographic montage. "Being a bloody civilian is bloody boring."
She considered the emerging iconographic mosaic and compared it to what she'd seen from the air. It was disconcerting that she'd largely only seen a blurry black and "grey smear with the occassional pinpoint of firelight. Here, what was just about recognisable as the same scene was flooded with detail and illuminated with...
"So why's everything bright bloody green, like poisoned duckweed on a billabong?"
"Because that's how the octarine light, which the imps see and most of us don't, gets translated to the iconographs." Gertrude said, patiently. "It's analogue. The imp sees the land underneath flooded with octarine. It's trained to replace octarine with green in the final print. Now. Because you were descending as you took the shots, and flying in a wide banking circle, I've had to arrange the pictures in a sort of spiral and rotate them to compensate for the movement of the broom. Mariella, Rivka, Johanna. You saw this on the ground. Could you confirm a few things for me so I can label the composite? I'm guessing this line of tents just here is barracks quarters…"
After a while, accurate interpretations began to emerge. The group clustered around the picture-boards added their own ideas and impressions. Gertrude diligently compiled the ideas presented by the eight people around her. Then she frowned. Only seven had gone on the mission?
"And those five rectangular objects just there would be the large transport carpets." one of the group said. "These are expensive to manufacture, take a long time to charge with magic, and will take time to replace. Capital."
Irena looked over her shoulder. Standing between Kiiki and Bekki.
How the Hells does he do that? And how long has he been here?
Lord Vetinari nodded at Irena, and walked forwards to examine the air iconographs more closely.
"Fascinating." he said. "So this is the base before the Guild paid a visit. And this is the base afterwards."
He turned to take in Johanna, Mariella and Rivka. Then back to the second set of pictures that were illuminated with a lot more light.
"My word." he said. "This looks like very thorough, methodically applied, destruction."
He looked at Rivka again. She smiled back. It was the smile of a person who really loves her job.
"And both you young ladies, these days, spend most of your lives as managers of farming and horticultural enterprises." he remarked.
"My husband does, sir." Rivka said. "I just help out."
"You need a break sometimes." Mariella said.
"Indeed, Mrs Lensen." Vetinari said, benignly. "I believe the farming life can become predictably staid and dull, and in these enlightened times, a landowner's wife can take on a legitimate part-time job to boost the family income. How is your husband, by the way? Thriving and healthy, I trust? Capital. Ah. Sir Samuel, Dame Joan. Do come and join us!"
"Hullo, m'dears." said Joan Sanderson-Reeves. She shook hands with all three Assassins.
"All back safe and sound, then? Good-oh. Now let's take a look at the results of your little trip, shall we? Got the reports, Johanna? Smashing."
Vimes nodded at his Air Watch.
"Thought only three of you were going out." he said, gruffly. "But four of you came back?"
"Change of plan, Mr Vimes." Irena said. "There was a secondary mission. That needed a fourth pilot, and Firebird – Rebecka – was the best qualified. Olga did clear it with her mother first."
"I heard about that." Joan said. "Rebecka, m'dear. Looks like you've had a busy week."
Then, to the surprise of many people present, the austere and severe-looking Deputy Mistress of the Guild of Assassins stepped forward and gave Bekki a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. She graciously ignored a Fourecksian exclamation of "Bloody hell!" and stepped back.
"I wouldn't usually do that even for her mother." Joan said. "But as everybody told me at the time, I'm the gel's grandmother. Don't look so surprised, long story. Jolly fond of her, too. Just now and again, you make an exception."
She nodded to Bekki.
"I'm sure you did well, m'dear. Always thought if things were different, you'd be a damn fine Assassin, in your own way."
Joan paused. She studied Bekki. It was a long, appraising, examination.
"If things had gone the other way when you were eleven, today you'd be a few weeks away from completing the Lower Sixth and getting ready to step up to your Final Run next summer. And here you are going on an Assassin mission through a different route. Damned odd coincidence."
Joan nodded to Johanna, who was trying not to show too much pride.
"Need to talk to you later. Privately. But it can wait."
She nodded to Bekki, who got the disting impression she might well be a topic of conversation, then turned to Vetinari.
"Should we look at the reports together, sir? Then we can talk to these ladies, save them hanging around too long."
"Certainly." Vetinari agreed. "Shall we retire over here?"
The seven members of the mission, disregarded for the moment, waited over to one side. They watched Sam Vimes studying the before and after composite iconographs, guided by Gertrude.
"Blimey." Vimes said, shaking his head. "And they tell me this is like Leshp, and this isn't a war? Just a misunderstanding?"
He looked at Irena and the pilots, a disbelieving expression on his face.
"It wasn't us, Mr Vimes. Not this time. We just provided the taxi rides." Irena said.
"For the bloody Assassins." Vimes grated. "Hope you left the meter running and charged waiting time in between the outward and return journeys. Don't tell me they can't afford it."
He paused and studied an iconograph showing a rather large explosion at ground level.
"And that was visible from five thousand feet up? I'd ask for a big tip, on top."
"Three thousand, Mr Vimes." Gertrude said. "You can estimate height by… well, doesn't matter. But we can get it to the nearest five hundred feet."
"And what are these white blobby things down here… oh, right. Silly question. But they aren't in the afterwards picture? Lots of roast mutton spread over the landscape?"
Irena intervened.
"That was Firebird's task, Mr Vimes. The secondary mission."
Vimes frowned and eyeballed Bekki.
"You don't look like the sort of girl who'd be cruel to animals, Officer Smith-Rhodes."
"I'm not, sir. I brought in some… mission specialists… they took charge of the sheep and got them to a safe place where they're out of danger."
Feeling this wasn't nearly enough, Bekki added
"Mistress Aching insisted, sir. And you need to know. There's a sort of chain of command among Witches, too. If she asks, we listen. And, errr…"
"What Firebird is trying to say, diplomatically." Irena said, taking over again, "is that you're not the only person who could make a suggestion to any of us, including me, and definitely including Captain Romanoff, which we'd then have to, er, accommodate in our thinking."
Vimes nodded understanding.
"I get it. Mistress Tiffany Aching is Chief Witch, right? So if she tells another Witch, for e.g. that she wants those sheep to be rustled and taken somewhere else, that's an order, and you do it? And even Olga has to say "where do you want those sheep taken to?"
"That's it in one, sir."
Vimes held her gaze for a few seconds and then looked away. He looked at Irena, who smiled and nodded, then exhaled, resignedly.
"It's a witch thing. Right. I get it. And those mission specialists. Would they, by any small chance, have been a blue colour and about so high?"
"The best sheep thieves in the world, sir." Bekki replied. "And one of them was a little bit taller and wider and green, but you're right about the blue."
"Rebecka. Tell me none of the little sods come back here, with you?"
"Only the green one, sir."
Grindguts, perhced on a tabletop, grinned up at Vimes. Vimes scowled back.
" And our Navigators needed to be reminded that if any of them went back to the Chalk with the rest of them and they left us in the lurch, there would be a lot of annoyed Witches and Assassins who'd like a quiet little word later, when we caught up."
"And that was your job. Feegle-wrangling."
"Yes, sir." Bekki said.
"Performed in an exemplary fashion, I expect, Vimes." Vetinari said, rejoining them.
He smiled slightly at the assembled group.
"Dame Joan and I have been reading and cross-checking your reports." he said. "We just need to ask a few questions of you all. To clarify some points."
He smiled slightly again. Dame Joan beamed, benevolently.
"It seems like you've done a damn good job." she said, when the question-and-answer session was done. "I'm satisfied you have met all the contract conditions, so on behalf of the Guild I have to congratulate our members. You can now submit your claims forms and there should be no problem with the payment, which will be with you in due course. Satisfactory, Mrs ben-Divorah-Herschowitz? Jolly good. And to our friends of the Air Watch – that was a bloody good show. Our most sincere thanks to you all, and I hope we can work together again in the future."
"I have a few ideas." Irena said. "We now have four bases. You should test our defences. Just to make sure."
She explained her idea. The Assassins were receptive, especially when she pointed out it would also be a good field test for senior students.
Vetinari smiled. He appeared to relish the expression on the face of Sam Vimes.
"Events have proven that an Air Force may be powerful in the air, but it is most vulnerable on the ground." he remarked. "After all, a young Assassin made it into this Air Station not so long ago."
He nodded to Bekki.
"I understand that because his intentions were romantic and not malign, a decision was made not to prosecute too vigorously. I see definite advantages, Commander Vimes."
He turned to Joan.
"That young man, if all goes well, graduates in two months? You might allocate him this task as a grading exercise. To see if he can repeat the feat."
"I'm sure we can arrange something, my Lord." she said.
"Capital." Vetinari said.
He turned to Johanna.
"Doctor Smith-Rhodes, you were in charge of this mission tonight. I understand from your written and verbal reports that for you, this was a most successful return to the active profession."
"I am pleased, sir." Johanna said. "It is good to be back."
She waited for the next shoe to drop.
"And the Klatchian carpets that you sought to destroy on the ground?" Vetinari said, pleasantly. "Fifty-seven, I believe, including five of the large, expensive and hard to replace transport carpets?"
"Between the four of us, sir, including Mr Bakewell, we counted fifty-seven destroyed, ja."
Vetinari nodded pleasantly at her.
"According to my information, this represents somewhere between a quarter and less than a third of the total available strength of the Klatchian Air Force. And this is on top of their losses in the earlier engagement. As Prince Cadram was the man in charge of this disaster, I feel confident that at some point later today, he will no longer be in a high command post in the Klatchian Air Force."
"Or even, perhaps, no longer in a living and breathing position." Dame Joan observed. "Klatch does not have much tolerance for people who fail on this scale."
"Indeed, Dame Joan." Vetinari said. "A man who loses a quarter of his nation's fighting air assets overnight for no gain whatsoever will find hard and difficult questions will be asked of him, even from his former supporters. It will take time for the Klatchian Air Force to rebuild its strength. By default, Prince Khufurah is in a far stronger position as Caliph, with a coup averted. By this time tomorrow, the crisis will be resolved. With the absolute necessary minimum of bloodshed."
He looked at Irena. She tried to read him as a witch. Even for a witch, reading Vetinari was difficult; but she had a fleeting impression that in some indefinable way, he was relieved, even pleased.
"Lieutenant Politek, I require a Pegasus flight, possibly more than one, to our Embassy in Al-Khali, from as early as can be managed tomorrow morning. How many pilots can be diverted to this duty?"
"At present, sir, I could brief four pilots. Possibly six, including myself."
"Capital. Have them on standby. I also require one additional duty. Have your Heavy Squadron in readiness for an early flight. Material will be delivered to the Zoo Station, along with instructions."
He turned to Joan.
"I believe this is everything, and we may all now retire to our beds. Thank you all for a great accomplishment. The city is grateful to you."
He turned to go, and then paused, as if something had just occurred to him.
"Doctor Smith-Rhodes. Mrs Smith-Rhodes-Lensen. I trust the Smith-Rhodes family is now completely satisfied that the attack on one family member was appropriately and completely avenged?"
"Sir, this was a professional Guild contrect." Johanna said. "Emotions like "revenge" end "retribution" do not come into it."
"You said that with a commendably straight face, Doctor Smith-Rhodes."
"Well, sir." Mariella added. "A Guild contract ebsolutely requires a Guild member to leave a correctly completed receipt efterwards, signed by the Guild member or members responsible. We were professional enough to leave ours exectly where Prince Cadram will find it. Signed clearly, end legibly, by all of us who were present."
"Pinned to his dress uniform tunic, sir." Rivka added. "His manservant had laid it out for him for the morning."
Vetinari reflected on this.
"And the Prince himself?" he inquired.
"Dead drunk, sir." Mariella said. "He slept through our visit. Which was useful."
"So he will awake to know his fate. Capital. Well. There is now no reason for anyone to be detained here. Thank you. Lieutenant Politek, you are now going off duty?"
"It looks like a long day tomorrow, sir. But there is one last thing here."
"An Air Watch tradition? Then I am happy to leave it to you. Goodnight, ladies."
He nodded to them, and departed. Joan Sanderson-Reeves remained.
"I'll brief Donald in the morning." she decided. She looked to where Irena was unlocking a secure stores cabinet, and heard the chinking of glass.
"I didn't go on the mission. What happens now is just for you girls, I think. Goodnight, ladies."
"I'll be on my way too." Vimes decided. He got grumpy when strong drink appeared that he could not share, but appreciated that some things were Air Watch custom. Better not to interfere. "Goodnight, ladies." He became the third person to walk out into the lonely Saturday night. (4a)
A little later when it was just Air Police and invited guests, one who had flown with the Air Watch and who were therefore worthy, Irena filled eight glasses of vodka. Sto gram, in the Rodinian manner. It was the traditional way of rounding off a mission.
Sunday 9th Grune. Al-Khali.
The great capital city of the Klatchian Empire had awoken several hours before and was going about its business. For most of its inhabitants, the rumoured power struggle at the Palace was immaterial; whoever ended up as Caliph was not relevant to them. The face of the ruler might change; the office would always be there, regardless. The doings of the great and powerful were remote and far away and not for them. Where people thought about it, Cadram, the contender, sounded like a tyrant, an utter bastard, one who would lop off limbs or even heads at the merest perceived slight. But then, all Caliphs had to be autocratic bastards. It went with the office. To the people, what mattered was getting by, working, doing a day's work, putting food on the table. Ankh-Morpork was equally far away and remote.. there were rumours of war, yes, but it was likely to be fought a long way away. Therefore only those with sons in the armed forces were inclined to worry. "Not our business". Or even the universally fatalistic "Insh'Offler."
People in the main souk looked up. Some shrugged. It was only one of the magnificent winged horses that you saw over the city every so often. An impressive sight, people admitted, but you saw them every day, messengers from distant Ankh-Morpork flying to their Embassy or sometimes direct to the Palace. Lately, there'd been more than usual, possibly to do with the rumoured tension and the possibility of conflict.
People looking up might appreciate the sight, but would still shrug. The doings of those in power. To those of us shut off from power, nothing to do with us.
The Pegasus, the first of many such flights to take place that way, passed from view. People on the ground shrugged, and got back to the day.
And then the sound of a trumpeting elephant was heard. From above.
People looked up. And to a Klatchian, tried to look as impassive as possible at the sight of a flotilla of flying elephants. Borne aloft on immense wings.
Almost as if on cue to the raised faces, people aboard the elephants got to work. And those few Klatchians below who had experienced snow would describe what they saw as a snowstorm. The sky became full of white, particles swirling down, descending snowflakes…
The Ankh-Morpork Times (Al-Khali Edition)
The Truth shall make you!
It was printed in Klatchian and Morporkian and was a single sheet. A large iconographic picture spread showed Prince Cadram, first looking at an unseen threat with wide-eyed alarm that was unbecoming to a Prince and one who would be Caliph. The second picture showed him spluttering and coughing as some noxious green stuff spread all over his face and dripped onto his clothes.
A caption underneath said "Hail to Prince Cadram, your new Caliph!" in both languages.
A few paragraphs gave a brief neutrally written account of the Syrritan adventure, but the text was mainly human interest stories indicating that whoever had compiled them had both a knowledge of local events in Al-Khali, (5) and an accurate idea of what made people want to read newspapers. (6)
The flying elephants crossed the City, distributing the free newspaper, leaving an awed crowd watching them from packed streets and rooftops. By the time Klatchian flying carpets had scrambled to intercept them, they had gone. Eyewitnesses said they had climbed a few hundred feet and just vanished into thin air. The Air Force carpets, their pilots and crews already unsettled by rumours of a catastrophic defeat in the air down on the Syrritan border and of some unspecified disaster at a forward air base, chased shadows and nothingness for a while, then gave up.
Sunday 9th Grune. Haliflax House, off Sterling Court, off Runecaster Way, Ankh-Morpork
Refreshed and relaxed, Olga Romanoff had breakfast with her family, appreciating a Sunday morning with people she loved. She wondered about the night's events, but reasoned that no news was good news and Irena was perfectly capable. She'd find out later. They could get her on Omnicon if there was a need for her to rush back on duty.
The Sunday papers arrived. Olga frowned. The cover story carried a rumour that the Guild of Assassins had launched a raid into Syrrit and destroyed a Klatchian military base with, according to "an informed source", no casualties.
As always, the Guild refuses to disclose who paid for the contract, citing "discretion" and "professional confidentiality", but does not deny an operation took place. Lord Downey has informed the Sunday Times that he may release a press statement later in the day, reminding us that after the event, the Guild never denies its members were responsible and in fact is usually forthcoming as to which Members undertook the action.
"We announce these things at breakfast every morning." His Lordship reminded us, "so as to focus the minds of our students on the nature of the Profession they are entering. And we are always forthcoming with press releases, as they make for very good public relations. But the one thing we expressly do not do is to disclose who paid for the contract. This is an inviolable rule. After I have had a chance to speak to people who may or may not have performed a certain action in a place they may or may not have visited, I will speak to you, mr de Worde. Thank you."
We understand nobody was lost or injured on a very recent mission to do with the Syrritan emergency, and we rejoice in that.
Editor's Note: This article was prepared under the P-Notice convention where sensitive information is pre-vetted by the Palace secretariat.
Olga's Omnicon crackled. She put down the newspaper, sighed, and motioned the children to silence. This was the message she'd been waiting for.
-Red Star to Syren. I know you're off duty, but propose I call round and see you at home? Need to talk. Red Star out.
"Okay, Red Star. Samovar's on. Syren out."
Olga sat back and considered, then waited for Irena. She asked Valla to find an extra cup and saucer. She might as well make being briefed into a civilised occasion over tea.
In faraway Syrrit, Price Cadram was awoken by a party of Air Force officers, who requested that he got dressed, and accompanied them to al-Khali. They informed him that he was relieved of his command, no longer held high rank in the Air Force, and their unpleasant task was to escort him into the presence of Prince Khufurah so as to account for the dramatic shrinkage of the Air Force over the previous forty-eight hours. And no, my prince, you will not wear weapons. So sorry. And our condolences go to you on the recent death of your brother.
A little later, Cadram discovered the Assassins' Guild receipt pinned to his best uniform tunic. His reaction, observers conceded, was interesting to watch.
To be completed.
(1) Yes, I've given insufficient thought to the Discworld eight-day week and fudged it a bit. When the week runs as ours does from Monday to Saturday, and the last three days go Saturday – Sunday – Octeday. How does this work… in most of my works I've used "Sunday" and "Octeday" interchangeably. If you're a Cenotian, and have the day of religious contemplation and Temple attendance mirroring Jewish practice on our world, beginning at nightfall on Friday and lasting to nightfall on Saturday, then almost all other religions have the next day as default Sabbath and Holy Observance Day. Technically, Rivka in the last chapter was not breaking Sabbath by doing paid work (an Assassin contract), as her flight to Syrrit set off after nightfall on Saturday… although she could have argued that duffing over Klatchians in order to prevent a wider war counted as a work of necessity and mercy… (now how would a Rabbi have adjudicated on the difference in time zones… she left Ankh-Morpork on Saturday, but arrived in Syrrit on Sunday morning, by local time…) Anyway. Is Sunday still a normal working day? Do some religions on the Disc consider Sunday is Sabbath, while others argue it's Octeday? Help…
(2) As I understand it – in Russian, a very young girl, under ten or before puberty, is "devotchka". After puberty, she is "devyushka". If I'm getting the convention wrong and any Russian reader wishes to correct me – please do! I also use this as a "structure" for Rodinian witchcraft - a young pupil Witch is "devyushka". The mature adult form is "ved'ma". The older, post-menopause, experienced Witch is "babiuschka". And the rare, the very powerful oldest Witch of all, the Granny Weatherwax of Rodinian witchcraft, is a "babayaga".
(3) Go to Clowning Is A Serious Business, in which Olga and Johanna fly a joint mission together.
(4) Go to my tale Strandpiel.
(4a) Added on first revision. It occured to me that three people, two of whom are unmarried and live single lives, have just said "Goodnight, Ladies" and walked out into a lonely Saturday night/Sunday morning. All it needs is a mournful tuba marking the beat, and Lou Reed's smoky late-night voice on a French-slanted torch song, and it's a theme-tune for the soundtrack. (go to the Transformer album by Lou Reed)
(5) Prepared by staff at the Embassy in Al-Khali with impressive local contacts
(6) Selected and prepared by Sacharissa Cripslock and William de Worde with the aid of a translator and a very specialised type-setter
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.
Found a Russian filmcalled The Dawns Here Are Quiet (А зори здесь тихие, A zori zdes tikhie). Dates from 1972 and the Soviet Union and manages to be touching, funny and dramatic at the same time. It's… the USSR celebrating the part it played in WW2, being justifiably proud of this, but not mentioning Stalin even once. You get the feeling he was an embarrassment in the latter days of the USSR. (In much the same way in today's Russia, the old May Day parade has now become Victory Day – same month – and the current administration cannot really skip over the inconvenient fact the Germans were defeated by something called the Red Army that marched under a red flag with a hammer and sickle on it. So red flags and some Soviet era imagery had to be present in Red Square for the troops to march past. And don't get me started on the marching… I do understand it wasn't only the Germans who goose-stepped… just looks odd. And worrying. an army that performs the ceremonial goose-step and doesn't care about the asociations of this marching style, and that the last army which made a virtue of goose-stepping actually got a long way into Russia before being stopped... worrying. )
But the film: somewhere on the quiet Finnish front where nothing much happens, and a sort of awareness exists that the real enemy (the Germans) is somewhere else, and the Finns will let you be, as long as you don't cross to their side of the border… the Fred Colon-like Sergeant Vaskov is sent a draft of new soldiers. In fact, he ends up commanding anti-aircraft guns crewed by women. Hilarity ensues. (I'm wondering about plundering this for names and personalities for these stories…)
Not, in fact, a bad movie. Recommended, even if the English subtitles in YouTube are weirdly quaint, like a 0.1 version of a translation engine. .
Also… playing with Russian/Rodinian character names. From somewhere the name Elena Mikhailovitch(na) came to mind as a possible Air Witch. In the interests of due diligence I did a Google search on this name to see how many real people have it and – wow… it seems to be as common in Russia as "Jane Smith". I've found a politician, artists, musicians, models and one rather striking porn actress with this name…. worst, the porn actress of this name looks a lot like an ex-girlfriend of mine, only taller (and who lacked the distinctive tattoo…)
Not sure if I want to keep this bit: things just aren't flowing as they might… call this a bonus add-on.
"I have a few ideas." Irena said.
She looked steadily at Joan.
"Tonight, I saw how four Assassins managed to walk into a guarded air base, bypass its security, and wreck it so thoroughly that it ceased to be an air base." she said. "By the way, Mr Bakewell, who stayed in Syrrit. He put in a lot of the work too. I hope he's not forgotten when it comes to acknowledgement."
"Noted." Vetinari said. "Proceed."
Irena nodded.
"Make it a good bonus for him, sir? Anyway. We have at the moment four air bases of our own. We know here and the Lancre Station are well guarded. But I want to know if the Zoo Station and the Chirm Station are open to raids. Because if we can do it to them, somebody else can do it to us, too. And destroying their flight capability on the ground is easy. I realised that's where we're vulnerable too. So. I'd like the Guild to test our security. Without actually destroying anything. Important. You know, like the Vimes Run? To find our weak points, and tell us afterwards."
She smiled slightly at Johanna.
"Might be a good practical test for your students, Dame Joan? You get something out of it too."
"Good point, m'dear. I'll talk to people."
Vetinari smiled. He appeared to relish the expression on the face of Sam Vimes.