The Price of Flight – part twenty-five
Aftermath
V0.10 - 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.
V0.09 - Fitting in a couple more typos and an addition error notified by reader "Guest". Thank you for the beta-reading! Just one quibble, though. I'd argue "denier", pron. "den-ee-ah", is correct, as at least in Britain this is a measurement of the thickness and durability of tights/pantyhose. "Ten denier" is absolutely sheer and looks good (but ladders almost as soon as you look at it. Terry Pratchett invented Nylonhotep The Laddering God for a reason, as any woman - and the ocassional man - knows) At the other end of the scale, "sixty denier" is practically chainmail - thick, heavy, winter wear and often provided for girls as part of school uniform not because it looks good but because it's durable and can take any punishment. "Eighty denier" is practically leggings or trousers.
Definition in the textile sense:
Denier refers to the thickness of the yarns used to knit a pair of tights. ... Deniers lower than 20 are referred to as sheer tights, which are made of fine threads and offer light leg coverage. While, opaque tights begin at 30 denier and mean you won't be able to see as much skin through the fabric.
Expanded the scene in Vetinari's office at the end, as there are a lot of mute spear-carriers milling around in the background with not a lot to do or say.
Also one embarrassing not-paying-quite-enough-attention error pointed out by reader Guest... duly corrected. Whoops. Thank you, Guest. I can only think somewhere inside my head I was conflating the OC Gertrude Schilling with the canonical Grace Speaker.
And... I knew there was a word for the Kathryn Janeway - Bun of Steel hairstyle Olga is forced to adopt when she needs to be a member of a Rodinian noble, perhaps formerly Imperial, family. The name for the hairdo (adopted in pre-1917 days by ladies of the Russian Royal Family) eluded me because I was looking for the Russian name for it. The name is in fact French - it's a Pompadour.
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.
Right, a week of ten-hour days over and also forming an informal Neighbourhood Watch - against rats (long and unwholesome story – lockdown means less bin-collections, our district's food waste bins were not touched for a couple of months, just behind the house there's a public space next to a railway siding where nobody from the council has been out to trim back undergrowth… result, wildlife park for rats with food laid on.) Trying to gee up neighbours to keep gardens clear and uncluttered, organise garden clears for anyone not able to do it for themselves, really heavy session in our own garden space… also transport and disposal for waste…. ye Gods, it's like being in the military again, thinking, planning, leading, organising…
Less time for writing. And joys, our neighbour just found a clearly dead rat in the front garden that needs disposal. Quick perfunctory post-mortem delivered at arm's length with a spade… broken back, signs of being mauled about, quite possibly the resident spawn of Greebo at number thirty-two was out having fun. Corpse disposed of.
Back to the story. I know what needs saying and even have several scenes written, the trick is getting them into the right order. And you know when the author is fighting block, he gets anything creative down on paper even when it's only tangentially relevant to the story – this tends to get the creative spirit flowing again after a lay-off. Getting this out as it's been too long.
From the Ankh-Morpork Times, Tuesday 11th Grune
The City Watch Air Service was born out of a need for our Watch to expand into a third dimension, that of the air, as part of the ongoing and evolving purpose of defending our civil liberties and making the City safe to live in. In its most humble beginnings, with Gnomes and urban Feegle patrolling on tamed birds of prey, it expanded to incorporate the first Witch Police Constables, Watchwomen who brought their own brooms with them, seen at the time as "a great saving".
From these humble beginnings, those first two Air Witches, trained in the everyday Craft in Far Überwald and in Lancre, members of a Cossack Host in the Far Steppes, who viewed flying on brooms as riding a different sort of mount, have been here ever since. Captain Olga Romanoff and Lieutenant Irena Politek, ordinary Watchwomen at the beginning, have shaped and formed the evolving Air Service into the formidable City agency it is today and deserve our thanks and respect.
The Air Police is still an arm of the City Watch and, as we have been asked to make abundantly clear, is still ultimately under the command and the direction of Sir Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh and commander-in-chief of the Watch. As a senior officer of the Watch, Captain Romanoff reports back to Sir Samuel and accepts his direction in deploying her Air Witches as rank-and-file Watchmen, who in the main serve as part of this City's police force. They can be seen daily in the skies over us, watching, guarding, and Keeping the Peace, protecting and serving as all our Watchmen are sworn to do.
However, the Air Service is also semi-autonomous. The élite within the Service must be the nineteen, the Few, who each command a magnificent wingèd Pegasus, the majestic flying horse thought long extinct but which have returned to the world. From those first two, a managed and controlled breeding programme in Lancre has expanded their numbers, while treaty with our ally King Verence has ensured they are only in the service of the King of Lancre and the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork.
Those nineteen élite women and girls, the cream of the cream of flyers, simply the best, are in the service of this City and while also Watchwomen, are placed at the service of Lord Vetinari to fly strictly peaceful and diplomatic missions all over the world in the service of Ankh-Morpork. Combined with the Feegle mystery of the "craw-step", a Pegasus plus pilot and where necessary, a passenger, can be anywhere in this world within an hour. Those Feegle who serve as Navigators are utterly loyal to their bonded Witches and as such are a powerful and indispensable part of our Air Service.
Lord Vetinari has ruled that the Pegasi are never to be used in war or fighting. Their use is peaceful, to communicate, to bring the world together.
And indeed, most of the time the role of the Air Watch is to keep that peace, to protect and to serve.
What happens when the peace fails?
Then the war-birds come out of the hangar, those flying technomantic artefacts which may have the ordinary Witch's broomstick somewhere in their distant ancestry, in much the same way a small lemur-like ape is somewhere in the evolutionary past of the human race.
Years of research and development have given us such flying machines as the Me-109, the regular everyday Watch broom, built somehow to be larger, sleeker and faster than a civilian broom. From there we go to the two-seater, the large and impressive ME-110, with its repeating crossbows mounted fore and aft, when called for, as a means of taking offensive firepower into the sky. (Captain Romanoff also assures us that unarmed 110's are the preferred model for training new pilots, where an experienced instructor can impart her skills to a novice where it matters, in the air).
There are the intermediary models called the MIG-15 and the MIG-17, purpose-built fighting brooms designed to get the pilot where she needs to be as quickly as possible with as much manoevrability as possible. These days, they are used as advanced trainers before the pilot is judged worthy for the best warbirds in the Air Fleet, the truly revolutionary MIG-21 and MIG-25 designs, which (as seen recently in Syrrit), nothing can match or withstand.
There are oddities, such as the Fokker Tribroom, a flying device looking like a rotated bedstead, but apparently capable of the tightest possible turns and loops in the air.
And then there is the ME-262, which in its latest redesign looks as completely unlike the traditional broomstick as it is possible to get. We are reliably assured there is a broomstick, or multiple broomsticks, in there somewhere…
Rumour has it that other designs, currently secret, are on their way. Whispers concern a Model 87 to be used for dive-bombing, and a broomstick with a boat-hull has been rumoured, capable of landing and taking off from water. Time will tell. No doubt the amphibious brooms will be placed in the service of our Navy and inshore Coast Watch, to augment the work of our valiant sailors and to impart an additional dimension to our Naval forces…
… and the newest, latest, operational air-capable unit, the Heavy Squadron, which is based on captured and domesticated Osibisi, the rare and elusive flying elephant of Howondaland. Fittingly, these units are based at the City Zoo, and proved their worth in operational flying over Klatch and Syrrit. Even by elephant standards, these creatures are built large. An extremely old and archaic word of un-known provenance has been revived to describe them: mumakil. Will these be for peacable use only? Again, time will tell.
We asked the most fundamental question of them all: how does womanned flight work? But whichever Witch we asked, the only reply we got was the two word answer: "witch stuff." We can only theorise that something in the persona of the magic user interacts with the thaumaturgy of the broomstick, and that you must be a magic-user to even contemplate flying in the first place. But for now, this is only conjecture.
JARGON AND SLANG OF THE AIR SERVICE
The Air Force is a young Service which is still building its traditions and its ethos. Flight creates its own argot, and any outsider in the company of Air Witches will be bewildered by the turns of language they use. We do not pretend this is a complete glossary. But it addresses the most common words and phrases you are likely to hear. The Service is multi-national and draws in, as if by magic, the very best flying witches from around the Discworld: slang words drawn from their native languages, if they catch the collective fancy of the Service, tend to stick.
We are reminded that where foot and parade drill are called for, this is under the management of Senior Sergeant Hanna von Strafenburg, who by ethnicity is a Prussican Überwaldean, born into a proud and long-established military tradition, and who makes it her business to insist that where it matters, the Air Watch can march and parade impeccably and hold its own when in the public eye. Therefore the word of command on formal parades is, uniquely for an Ankh-Morporkian uniformed corps, delivered in the Überwaldean language.
Per Ardua ad Arduam: a proposed motto for the Air Service. "Through hardship to even more hardship" sounds like Service black humour.
"Area Fifty-Seven": Self-referential humour acknowledging that to some over-imaginative and excitable sections of the public mind, the well-guarded Air Station at Pseudopolis Yard is a place of sinister experimentation with fiendish Flying Devices where dark and nameless things happen. Air Witches are not above "shooting a line", or multiple lines, about this, to the gullible, concerning black magic, destructive Devices of immense power, and contact with alien intelligences from other worlds who are, naturally, inimical to humanity. Now the Air Service has a forward base in remote Chirm, people prone to thinknig this way are alleging that Area Fifty-Seven has been moved there so as to thwart their relentless seeking after Truth.
Angel – comms slang for a unit of one thousand feet. "Angels high" – above me. "Angels low" – below me.
Bosbefok (Vondalaans) A recently acquired slang term denoting one made a little crazy by active service in difficult inhospitable places. Generally – completely lunatic and a "nucking futjob"
Bystro! (Rodinian) – an imperative command for speed, for alacrity. See "Schnell!"
Des – codeword for the Bursar of Unseen University, who is often seen flying himself. Believed to be short for "dessicated frog (pills)". The Air Watch look out for him when seen in the air and keep an eye on his welfare.
Devyushka (Rodinian) – (young) girl, recruit, greenhorn, novice, tyro. See also "Fledgeling".
Erk: Aircraftsman, an affectionate name for the (male) members of the Air Watch Auxiliaries, recent recruits to the Service.
Essential Stores: generally vodka for preference, but any other strong distilled spirits will be considered. ("Have we packed the essential stores?") Also known as "pilot fuel" or "lubrication".
Five-Eighty-Eight: a veteran of air combat, of any situation where other air users are trying to shoot you down. The 588 badge was originally conferred after the Lancre War, but veterans of the fighting over Syrrit have been granted this right.
Flamer – any mid-air explosion involving burning objects descending to earth.
Govno (Rodinian) – see also "bly'at", "der'mo", "drisnya". Nonsense, rubbish, offensively smelling substance, something of little worth.
Horoscho (Rodinian) - often "horrorshow" – good, excellent, satisfactory, an expression of contentment.
Milk Run: any mission involving little risk, danger or peril, a completely uneventful flight, considered as problematical as delivering morning milk. See also "Ronnie".
Nichevo (Rodinian) – never mind, that's how it is, no matter.
Penguin: slang for a non-flying officer. See also "emu" or "ostrich".
Piece Of Cake – often partnered with "nothing to it, really" – a mission which may or may not be easy.
Pilkunnussija; (Swommi) – an overly pedantic or anally-retentive person. Regrettably, the original Swommi can only be paraphrased in Morporkian and defies accurate translation. Often abbreviated to "pilk".
Prang (verb and noun): To have an awkward landing up to and including crashing. See "Death of Broomsticks".
Rark (verb, Foggy Islands Morporkian) to mess up, for a situation to escalate in difficulty, to screw up, to end up SNAFU'd. "Totally bloody well rarked, mate!"
Red Baroness, The: an affectionate nickname for Air Watch commander Captain Olga Romanoff, who has distinctly red hair and who is a member of the Rodinian nobility.
A Ronnie: believed to refer to City milkman Ronald Soak, a "Ronnie" is a milk run that goes wrong, where chaos and difficulty intrude.
Rug: A dismissive term for magic carpets of any sort.
Rug-jockey – any pilot of a magic carpet, not exclusively Klatchian.
Scraggie, Scalbie – were-birds employed by other countries as air-sentinels or as a local Air Force, for instance were-cranes over Agatea, were-vultures or impondulos over Black Howondaland.
Shooting a line: the rumoured practice of telling tall stories to non-aviators, usually with a very straight face.
SNAFU – Situation Normal, All Fouled Up. Apparently there are other phrasings which are possible.
Stillgestanden! (Überwaldean) – a parade ground command, meaning "Attention!"
Stuka (Überwaldean) – a steep and long dive almost at the vertical, often ending in a short decisive air combat.
Stoneface: codeword for Sir Samuel Vimes.
To strafe (Üb), shtraf (Rod) – to attack a target on the ground with extreme prejudice.
Stunting – any sort of showy flying indulged in when there is no operative need, basically performing aerial evolutions purely for the Hells of it.
Sunbeam: codeword for Mr Rufus Drumknott, personal secretary to the Patrician.
Sunray: codename for the Patrician.
Taxi ride; any mission involving delivering a passenger or passengers. The "cab fare" refers to the (minimal) additional flight pay due to an Air Witch who performs such a mission.
Ten-tenths: such heavy cloud cover that flying is impaired or in extremis, rendered impossible. ("Look, even the ducks are walking!")
The Assassins' Guild School, the morning of Sunday 9th Grune.
Lord Downey strode to the front of the dais and smiled benevolently over the assembled student body. Sunday breakfast, with no classes scheduled, was generally a relaxed affair before students were despatched to compulsory religious observance, according to denomination and deity of preference.
"I won't keep you for too long." he said. "For one thing, I rather wish to sit down to my own breakfast before it gets cold."
He smiled again, relaxed and benign.
"All of you would have witnessed extraordinary activity in the Guild last night and I am aware rumours have been circulating. Therefore I wish to explain what exactly occurred, and to furnish you all with the facts."
There was a hush of expectation. Practically everybody present had seen the quad turned into an extension of the Air Watch and had seen the bustle of brooms being prepared for flight by the Air Teks, and had then witnessed the mission taking off. Rumours had indeed circulated.
"Last night, we despatched a contracted mission to Syrrit and to Rimwards Klatch to perform an important duty which it is hoped will avert an all-out war between our nations. I am not at liberty to divulge the identity of those who paid the contract fees, but I can say the mission was completed with no casualties and with complete success."
He smiled again, relaxed and benign.
"Four Guild members were involved in concluding this contract. It was under the operational command, as Senior Assassin, of our own Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who I hardly need to remind you is Principal Tutor in the subject areas of Asymmetric Warfare and Applied Exothermic Alchemy."
Downey paused to let the implications of this statement sink in, then added
"She was assisted in this work by Mrs Rivka ben-Divorah Hershewitz and Mrs Mariella Smith-Rhodes-Lensen, both graduates of Black Widow House. It is therefore no surprise that between a quarter and a third of the effective fighting strength of the Klatchian Air Force was destroyed, utterly, on the ground."
Downey smiled, contentedly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Guild therefore was responsible for inhuming the fighting ability of the Klatchian Air Force."
Downey allowed excited cheering to happen, then raised a hand for silence.
"They were assisted in the task by Mr Sebastian Bakewell, of Welcome Soap House, who was already present in Syrrit, and who has been collating invaluable information on Klatchian dispositions for the guidance of mission planners here in Ankh-Morpork. Without the intelligence he gathered, this mission would not have been the unparalleled success it was. Those of you who are being trained by Doctor Perdore and Monsieur le Balourd will see that gathering effective and accurate information is vital to any mission."
Out in the hall, among the Raven House students, Connie Mutheleze grinned at her friend Famke Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons and squeezed her arm reassuringly. She reflected that Famke was going to be difficult to deal with while all this was going on. Definite mixed emotions here. Right now she looked like a bomb about to go off.
"Mr Bakewell was one of your pupils? Doctor, Monsieur, you are to be congratulated." Downey said. It was clear that he was in a very good mood indeed. He turned back to the student body.
"I am not at liberty to divulge the identity of the city agency which assisted in this mission and was also indispensable to its success. The Patrician has asked me to with-hold this information."
Downey shook his head slightly. Several hundred students looked back, radiating the unspoken Yes, we do know it was the Air Watch straight back at him.
"However, I can freely name one of the city agents who was also involved, and hold her name up for recognition, as she is an Associate Member of this Guild. Pilot Officer Rebecka Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons of the City Watch Air Wing, who performed valuable services in support of our Guild, and who is therefore worthy of praise."
Downey overlooked a swiftly cut-off high pitched squeal of green-eyed envy that he judged came from the direction of Raven House. He smiled, understandingly.
"Who is of course the older sister of our own Miss Famke Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons of Raven House, a young lady of whom much will be expected in her rightful turn. You will need no reminding that any Associate Member of this Guild, if their skills and aptitudes warrant it, may be invited to participate in a working contract at the discretion of a full Assassin. You are all counted as Associate Members, and it is not unusual for a student to be invited to assist a graduate in a contract. The courteous thing is that the Licenced Assassin then rewards their Assistant with a small share of the contract fee. The only thing forbidden to you is of course inhumation…"
Eventually the Guild sat down for breakfast. Famke sulked into her cornflakes, watched by anxious people who recognised she was in a strop, then appeared to realise that mad as she was, she was still hungry. People relaxed as she started eating. After a while, she was even capable of cracking a joke.
Haliflax House, off Sterling Court, off Runecaster Way, Ankh-Morpork
"And how is my most very favourite man in all the world today?" Irena Politek asked, as Vassily Romanoff wrapped himself around her.
"Aunt Irena does not normally recognise the notion of "favourite men." Olga Romanoff said, drily. "Consider yourself fortunate, Vaska."
She sighed, recognising that her little boy had quite a lot of indulgent adoptive Aunts in and around the Air Station, and that they were perfectly capable of spoiling him rotten. Johanna Smith-Rhodes has offered him weapons tuition, she thought. He recognises Aunt Johanna is a different sort of Auntie, one who may one day be formally teaching him at School. Therefore, she shows him a different sort of affection and also firmness, and he shows her great respect, which is good for him.
"If you can bear to put him down for a moment, Irena, you are here to brief me on today's developments. Remember? Also, you look tired."
"Long night." Irena said. "Vaska, I need to speak to your mamya. Please go and do something else for a while? Spassibo."
"Go and get ready for Church." Olga said. "Bath. Thoroughly. Comb hair. Your best Sunday clothes on, And do not put that face on, Vassily Edourdavich. At least three hours in the Church is tedious. But for one who will one day be Grand Duke, it is duty. Learn the lesson. Bathe, wash your face, comb your hair, best clothes. Go."
When he had gone, Olga poured two glasses of tea. Irena reported back on the night's mission.
"Fifty-seven." Olga said, thoughtfully.
"Da. Can you be surprised? And on top of fifteen we forced down in our own engagement."
"And all the flying sheep are now in safe hands in the Chalk. With people who know how to care for sheep."
"Da." Irena agreed. "Tiffany Aching will be happier. So we no longer have that complication. With over a hundred of their available flying strength gone, the Klatchians must surely now come to the talking shop and make a peace with Vetinari."
"With the sheep. One hundred and twelve." Olga repeated. She felt a hot throbbing in her left shoulder and breast and winced slightly.
"Da. Prince Cadram is now, politically, a flamer. Let me do something about your injury."
They sat in silence, Irena's fingertips on the wound site, Olga feeling the pain and discomfort easing, and watching formerly cold water in the carafe on the breakfast table beginning to roil and bubble.
"Seventy-two front-line fighting and transport carpets. The flying sheep lost, dispersed and taken elsewhere. A grievous blow."
"Which reminds me. Your supposedly idiot cousin organised something for us. Give these to Eddie."
Irena produced a bag, which clinked. Olga sensed magic, and tipped it out on the table. Over a dozen small glassy squares, some slightly crazed and cracked, fell out.
"After their carpets were forced down on Saturday, many of the pilots tipped their burning omnicon boxes over the side. Some crashed with the carpets." Irena explained. "Semyon, and the Assassin Bakewell, saw the need. They put the message out for Syrritan shepherds to get to the crash sites before the Klatchians did. They knew to find the wreckage of the boxes and retrieve the active processing chips. Also, Bakewell toured the camp in the wake of Johanna and the others, finding and disabling such listening devices as he could."
Olga turned one over in her hand. It had a warmth and a sparkle to it as of something more than glass, as if tiny crystals had been embedded in there. She sensed the magic.
"Ponder and Gertrudewere correct, then." she remarked. "Stolen fragments of the original Omniscope, melted into fresh glass. Which would then be in tune with our own Omnicons."
Irena shrugged.
"Semyon believes there may be a few others out there. People are out searching. The Klatchians are in disarray and have not thought to look. Also, when Johanna and the others raided the camp, they took the hearts of what others they could find, including Cadram's master console. If he opens it up to look, he will find only an Assassins' Guild receipt. The ones Johanna took, she is giving to Ponder Stibbons. I believe the threat is gone and we can use our Omnicons again."
This time Olga smiled.
"Thank you."
Irena took a sip of her tea.
"Now let me tell you about the mission Vetinari ordered for this morning. By now all of the Heavy Squadron should have returned."
"What?" Olga asked, sitting up.
"Vetinari sent the Heavies to fly over Al-Khali in a show of strength. First reports say no resistance was shown."
Olga frowned. She indicated Irena's Omnicon.
"Get Nadezhda. Patch her in. We need to talk."
The Assassins' Guild School, the morning of Sunday 9th Grune. Raven House.
Cassandra Venturi was not a sympathetic girl. Sympathy, empathy and human compassion were not qualities the Venturi family bred for, and the relevant genes were so recessive in the Venturi pool as to be terminally agoraphobic.
However, she could spot a sore point instantly and follow through with a hard prod. This was a quality the Venturi family informally valued.
She smiled at Famke Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons from across the dorm. Calling it a warm smile might have been qualified by a physicist in terms of liquid nitrogen being, indeed, warmer than liquid helium. Relatively speaking.
"Poor you." she said in mock sympathy. "It's got to hurt, hasn't it, when there's a big family night out, and your mother and your auntie invite your big sister along. As if she's one of the grown-ups now. But they leave the little kid at home, just to say she's not grown-up enough yet. It must hurt."
The girls of Two Raven collectively winced. Several took steps backwards. Some of the braver ones like Connie Muthelezi and Thora Brittasdottir stepped forward, quickly, trying to get between Famke and Cassandra. It's not as if Sandra doesn't deserve a thumping, Thora reasoned, it's just that Kay would get into trouble for it.
Suddenly, Miss Glynnie was standing in between Famke and Cassandra. Thora blinked. Up until then nobody had even noticed their Housemistress had been present and watching. Miss Glynnie was like that. Okay, so she would have noticed Kay was in a strop. Advance warning. But how does she even do that? It's like the Igor thing…
Miss Glynnie, tall, slender and severe, folded her arms. She scrutinised both girls in turn.
"Cassandra, I will speak to you later." she said. in her meticulously re-assembled voice. "I see we require another little talk. Famke, come with me. The rest of you, you will shortly be attending Chapel or other religious observances. I am trusting you to attend without my supervision. Do not disappoint me."
She turned to the senior girl who had arrived with her.
"Miss van Steinhuis, please take my apologies to Doctor Smith-Rhodes. Advise her Famke will be a little late attending Church, because I now need to take her aside for a necessary pastoral talk. Reassure her mother that I'll deliver her as soon as possible, personally. The rest of you should set off without her."
Mina van Steenhuis suddenly looked relieved. Ensuring Famke attended Kerk every weekend, without undue incident occurring on the way, was a chore Johanna Smith-Rhodes had delegated to her. The walk to Kirk was a short one, but it had the potential to get interesting. Mina left, looking as if a weight had fallen off her shoulders, walking with her head held higher. Miss Glynnie turned to Famke.
"Follow me." she said. Miss Glynnie left the dorm without looking back.
Famke obediently followed, noticing, without surprise, that her teacher abruptly climbed out of a window and disappeared from sight, kicking her legs out into the air. She shrugged, and followed, watching Miss Glynnie moving up the wall as if scrambling up the side of a building was the most natural thing in the world. Famke hitched up the hated walking-out skirt to allow her legs freer movement, reflecting that she was wearing the approved School tights that were so heavy denier they could double as light chainmail, and followed, allowing her fingers and toes to find the right sort of purchase.
A minute or so later, she was scrambling over the low balustrade to find her teacher sitting on a low-sloping roof, waiting for her. Miss Glynnie beckoned her over and patted the space next to her. She shook her head at the roof-guard in a manner that said I am permitting this. Go out of earshot.
They sat, watching the blue sky and the scudding clouds, feeling the warmth and sunshine of a summer morning. It was a relaxed feeling, and a better place than most to get a talking-to from your teacher. Besides, Miss Glynnie seemed in no hurry to start the talking-to, and Famke was in no hurry to prompt her. Every minute here was a minute less spent at Kerk, enduring the dour joyless service and Pastor van Niedermaaier's Gods-awful sermoning.
The Kerrigian Reformed Church of Io and Offler was something from the Other Country, and was Famke's registered religion. She had to attend every week. The School was big on freedom of religion and took pains to ensure every pupil got to their preferred church, chapel, temple, tabernacle, synagogue, ashram, mosque, sacred grove, monolithic rock circle, standing stone or other holy place, as often as they needed. The one religious freedom that was denied was the freedom to dissent and not attend. Pupils had attempted to claim atheism. But usually they tried this only once.
Famke sighed. She was KRCIO via her mother, who was a Vondalaander. Dad was Ankh-Morporkian. What religion was he? She'd never asked. Maybe she could claim a right to shift allegiance to her father's birth religion, providing it was one with shorter services, so she could be out sooner…
They silently watched two Air Witches fly past overhead. Famke thought of her sister, and felt envious.
"They are going to be busy today." Miss Glynnie remarked, as the air flight passed into the distance somewhere above Dolly Sisters. Then she smiled and took Famke's hand.
"I imagine I'd be feeling locked out. Excluded." her teacher said. "I was several years above your aunt as a pupil here. I was aware of her as a pupil, but we never really interacted. Afterwards, I heard of her growing reputation. And she is one of only two Assassins who have ever visited Syrrit, so do you think for one minute she would not be asked to go?"
Miss Glynnie's look was intent, but sympathetic.
"Your mother's reputation speaks for itself. And your sister has special skills in the Air Watch and is from a family of Assassins. The ideal person for the Air Watch to send. A pilot who knows how we think and act. When you think about it, isn't it inevitable they would end up on a joint mission?"
Famke nodded. Her teacher looked gravely at her.
"You, on the other hand, have a little way to go before your thirteenth birthday. You are still in the second year here. You are learning some Black skills but you are not yet even on The Black. I know you feel left out and ignored. Right now, however, this is inevitable. You are too young. You have not yet received the training. Taking you along was not even considered."
Famke nodded, mutely. The fact all this was right, and that she knew it already, didn't help. Miss Glynnie was mercilessly hammering it in.
"Both these things will pass." Miss Glynnie said. "You have five years to go at this school before you graduate. In those five years you will learn many skills and competences. I know your mother has a few extracurricular things planned for the coming two or three months, for instance. She wants you involved. Because she thinks you're good. Our own extra training sessions will continue. Because I think you're an outstanding student."
"Mum thinks I'm good?" Famke asked, disbelievingly.
"And she should not? You board here. She sees you more as a pupil than as a daughter, out of necessity. Therefore she can make an objective assessment of a pupil. There is space elsewhere for her to be your mother. You're an outstanding pupil, Famke."
Miss Glynnie's face went serious again.
"But in other respects, there are things we need to work on. Cassandra Venturi is skilled at finding somebody's weak point, so as to insert a stiletto. She is good at that. You allowed her an opening. She is exploiting that opening. Your task is not to rise to that, and to be aware of when she is trying to manipulate you. Right now I require you not to respond in kind, and to leave her physically undamaged. Try to break out of a habit of mind that tells you physical violence is the first and often the only appropriate response. Find another way."
Miss Glynnie stood up, a sign the interview was over. She looked down and smiled.
"Famke, you know your strengths. I would like you to know your weaknesses. Better."
She stood up and extended a hand.
"We can return to the world from the inside of the building. Tidy yourself up, and I can deliver you to your family at the Kerk."
The Oblong Office, the Patrician's Palace.
Lord Vetinari was engrossed in studying the plans and drawings which Rufus Drumknott had presented to him. He turned them over in his hands, smiling slightly, taking in the details of the sketches and the proposed plans. Drumknott stood respectfully back from the desk and waited.
"I think now might be the right time to allow the City Councillors in, Drumknott." he remarked. The noise of heated discussion from the anteroom was rising steadily in volume.
Drumknott looked down at the sketches.
Vetinari looked gravely back at him.
"Later in the morning there will be an Air Watch delegation here." he said. "But not yet. There are other people to see. I understand Captain Romanoff has a scheduled day off today and is with her family at their religious observances? I do not intend to intrude on this. Just yet."
Православная Церковь Картофелясвятой Василия Блаженного (Блондоградский Патриархат), Gods Street, Ankh-Morpork
As the most socially prominent Rodinian in the city, Lady Olga Romanoff had to attend Church. It was expected. Sometimes if she was rostered to work on a Sunday, she could delegate this to her cousin, Lady Natasha Romanoff. The Rodinian community in the City absolutely expected there to be a Romanoff present for the Sunday service. The Romanoff family couldn't buck this.
Therefore Lady Olga had to dress the part, neither a Witch nor as the Captain of the Air Watch. Irena and Valla had helped her pile her hair up into a crown, (1) bound with regular strips of golden ribbon. While her daughter had said she looked beautiful, and Irena had said she was now ready to start grinding peasant faces into the dirt, Olga privately thought it made her look twenty years older.
Combined with her best formal Sunday clothing, bespoke by Boggis, she was now Lady Olga, heiress to a Grand Duchy.
Olga sighed resignedly. Sometimes you had to accept it, and not fight it. At least the people had an air of relaxed deference in church, seeing it not only as a place to show reverence to their patron God Epidity the Lord of Potatoes, but as a meeting place, to catch up and meet.
Lady Olga Romanoff and her consort Baron Eduard de Coquamainie, together with their two children, were indeed greeted with the reverence due to them. She gave Eddie a consoling waist-hug. Being a newly-minted Baron among his wife's people was strange and alien to him. Rimwards Howondalandians did not, as a rule, recognise nobility much and were, in a limited respect, an egalitarian society.(2) He was learning how to be Rodinian just as she was learning how to be a Rimwards Howondalandian. It was, she admitted, a strange journey for both. Then again, it was a unique marriage.
Olga wished she could be more anonymous in here and move on the same level as most of the people, who were freely and uninhibitedly going through the Peace of Epidity, the mandated hug and kiss-kiss-kiss, left cheek, right cheek, then left cheek again, often with a joyous and genuinely happy whoop. For Lady Olga, it was as often as not a nervous bob and a symbolic kiss of her right hand, which one who was two or three steps away from the dormant Tsarate was graciously extending to her subjects. Even though many of the people saw her during the week as a City Watch officer and quite a few had nervously, privately, sought the good and wise counsel of Olga Anastacia, Witch.
Here, Headology and the regal hairstyle, as anything else was unthinkable, dictated a different sort of interaction. Even Patriarch Igor, the old and wise priest whose domain this was, had tacitly asked her permission to commence the service. Olga knew what this signified: only the Imperial Family could command the Church. Officially, at least.
"Hey, Baron Eddie! Give us a year, and we'll make a Cossack out of you, hey!"
Olga smiled and let herself be uninhibitedly hugged. At least there was one section of her society that didn't give govno for social rank, except the authority it chose for itself. And off-duty Air Watch people were here too. Olga got the full hug and kiss-kiss-kiss from her pilots.
"Marina." she said, to her old friend.
"Olga." Marina Raskova replied.
Olga formally greeted the Air Watch fledglings and the children who Marina was escorting to the service, then the two linked arms and went to the back of the church for a private heads-in conversation. In a church where the congregation stood for the whole service and moved with the priest as the processional made its stately way round, this was accepted. Older and infirm people could sit at the back, and the priesthood could turn an understandingly blind eye to those who wanted to nip out of the sacred space for a few moments for a quick smoke or a sly slug of vodka. The rule was that the closer you were to the priest, the service or the consecrated things, the more reverent you were. The further away, you could relax a bit. There was often a back-of-the-classroom thing going on. (3)
"The Fledglings?" Olga asked.
"Usually Nadezhda's duty." Marina said. "But she had to fly this morning. She asked me to take over. Also to keep an eye on her own children."
"Da. The flight over Klatch. Authorised by Vetinari without my knowledge."
"He is commander in chief, Olga. He has the right."
"Da. But even so…"
They watched the service for a while. Patriarch Igor had now got to the icon representing the moment in history where the blessed and revered St Basil was visited by the God Epidity and received, in a divine visitation, the Secret of the Life-Sustaining Potato. Blessings Be Unto Epidity!(4)
As was expected of them, Olga and Marina signed themselves with the Threefold Seal. Olga watched as Eddie fumbled it – it was really quite an intricate hand-movement to perform for a newcomer – and had to be patiently instructed as to which hand went where, and in what sequence, by their daughter Valentina. She smiled. Poor Eddie. A whole new culture to learn.
"He must have had a reason." Marina said, thoughtfully. "Sending the whole available Heavy strength to fly over Al-Khali. The Klatchian capital. If it were any other world leader, this could be called a reckless gamble, a declaration of outright war."
"Da." Olga replied. "Or else after last night's events, a demonstration of strength. Asking the Klatchians – do you still wish for war?"
"And all that effort, just to drop bundles of newspapers." Marina said.
"Or to make the point as to what else the Heavies might have dropped, were we so minded." Olga replied.
She and Marina held each other's eyes for a moment.
"I hear there are experiments. With launching exothermic alchemical Devices from the air?" Marina asked.
Olga shuddered slightly. Gertrude Schilling had suggested airborne bombs and even sketched out a couple of Devices. That was Gertrude: she had a distinct Leonard of Quirm streak about her, of letting enthusiasm run away with her without really thinking. And Hanna von Strafenburg had seen the possibilities and was enthusiastically supporting her and advocating. This idea she had, for the Model Eighty-Seven dedicated dive-bomber… Olga could see the possibilities, for legitimate military purposes like attacking warships, or else reducing military defences which might otherwise take a toll on an attacking ground army. But she, Olga Romanoff, was determined to draw the line at needless civilian casualties, that bombing towns and cities counted in her eyes as murder on the grand scale. She had let this be known to Sam Vimes and by extension to Vetinari. Mr Vimes had shaken her hand and said "I'm on your side on this, Olga."
"The Heavies could carry many bombs." Marina said, thoughtfully. "Be thankful this time, at Vetinari's bidding, they dropped only paper."(5)
They changed subject.
"So. Your first time back with us in some years. No doubt you'll be wanting to go home to… Hevonkuusi… once the emergency is over? And I thank you, old friend. Sincerely. You and Kiiki both."
"I didn't want to come back, at first." Marina said, frankly. "I only came because Kiiki was so eager. But now I'm here. I realised how much I missed it. I really like being a ground controller, and if I could also fly a little… I also met some of the younger, part-time, girls like Firebird and Snegoroshka. They showed me possibilities. Olga Anastacia, is there any bar to my becoming a part-time pilot again? For perhaps two days in eight?"
Olga embraced her.
"Neither you nor Kiiki are Pegasus pilots." she said, thoughtfully. "That makes it so much easier for Firebird to muster with us, for instance. But these days we have many Pegasi. We have Fledglings who have Pegasi, like Lexi. They are too young to be regular Air Watch, but they could perhaps be allocated to taxi-runs for them to build experience, for instance to collect and return you and Kiiki. And I would love to have you back. I don't have enough Controllers, and you are good at it."
They embraced again.
"So it's settled." Marina said.
"Da." Olga agreed. My disciplinary problem, Kiiki. Could it be solved by promoting her to Corporal? Forcing responsibility on her, even if she doesn't want it? She is nearer thirty than twenty. This might force some maturity on her. Mr Vimes, however, might go spare, but let's deal with that when it happens…
Olga looked across. She hadn't seen him arrive. The dapper little man in black, with the black bowler hat, who had just addressed her as "Captain Olga Romanoff?"
"Da." Olga replied.
"Lord Vetinari sends his compliments, and asks if you could attend on him at the Palace? He apologises for interrupting your religious devotions, and stresses there is no great rush."
Olga sighed. Marina gave her a sympathetic look.
"I'm going on shift at the Air Station when the service is over." Marina said. "Irena and Nottie have been up all night, Nadezhda is busy with her other duties, and Hanna is covering Control for the moment. I'm fresh, and can take over Control."
"Spassibo." Olga said. She turned to the Dark Clerk.
"Give me a moment to advise my husband I have to go. Then I am ready." she said.
Die Kerrigische Gereformeerde Kerk van die Groet Gode Io en Offler van Strandvoerts Hovondalaand, Fairfowl Lane, off Gods Street.
"Ons word geroep om sout te wees, ons deel die smaak..."
Ethylene Glynnie found the congregation standing and in mid-hymn as she escorted Famke into the packed Kirk. Standing at the doorway, she quickly located the block of pews that were occupied by the Smith-Rhodes family and the Guild School students, smilingly shook her head at Famke's sincerely and very innocently voiced offer that "I can find my way from here, miss.", and made a point of escorting her to the appropriate pew.
She watched Famke finding her way to a seat among the students, and saying something that made vibrations in the air suggesting the phrasing had been "skuif oor, fet gat!"(6), and tried to disregard the extraordinarily dreary and uninspiring nature of the hymn being sung around her. She also noted her colleague Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, projecting the air of a put-upon mother who got to bed far too late the previous night, a mother who is not pleased that her daughter had yet again attracted the attention of the School authorities and had been kept back for a disciplinary word, thus making the said daughter late for Church.
Johanna gave Ethylene Glynnie an acknowledging nod. Then Miss Glynnie noted the younger woman using sign-language at her. She also looked tired, but was signalling "Why not stay? I'm her aunt, by the way. We could talk?"
She smiled. Miss Glynnie realised she had to go to some sort of Church on a Sunday and the rest of Raven House were in Chapel by now. So today, it might as well be here. She smiled her thanks and settled into a pew next to her colleague Heidi Smith-Rhodes, and the aunt who introduced herself as Mariella Smith-Rhodes-Lensen. Mariella and Heidi kept up a sign-language interpretation throughout the service, Mariella speaking only once to tell a Kerk verger, drawn to the hand-movement and silent vocalisation
"Sy is doof. Ons vertolk die diens vir haar."(7)
The verger apologised and moved away.
Afterwards, there was a braai.
The Oblong Office, the Patrician's Palace.
Olga Romanoff made her way to the waiting room outside the Oblong Office, wondering what the specifics of the discussion would be and rehearsing a few likely scenarios in her mind. She knew the way: it was a well-trodden path for her. She half-registered Palace flunkeys, who seemed to want either to escort her or else to ask her business, thinking better of it and falling back. Some even bowed. Uniformed palace Guard soldiers snapped to attention and presented arms. Olga remembered to acknowledge the courtesy with nods, and walked purposely on, frowning with concentration as she got her thoughts together, trying not to wince as the clothing she was wearing pressed on and constricted her injury underneath its wound dressing.
People she passed, ones who did not recognise her instantly or who did not recognise her at all in the unfamiliar civilian clothes rather than working uniform, saw only a Very Important Person, must be some sort of nobility, look at the way she's dressed and ye Gods, that hairstyle… must be a Duchess or something… she's moving as if she has every right to be here, and that's nobility. Not one of ours. Some sort of foreign?
She spared nods for the other people crowded into the waiting room and tried to ignore the clock and its bloody annoying tick. She had once considered just a little damage to the clock, just enough… but she restrained her fingers and thought, studying and identifying some of the faces around her,
"Second-division people, if they've not been invited into the Office… how do I phrase "What the Hells do you think you're up to with my Heavy Squadron?" and make it sound deferential? Also, are we anywhere nearer some sort of peace, or at least a ceasefire, with the Klatchians?"
Rufus Drumknott found her quickly.
"Captain Romanoff, please come with me?" he invited. "His lordship is waiting."
She preceded Drumknott into the Office, noted that while it wasn't full, there were a lot of people in there, and walked to the desk, remembering she wasn't in uniform, restraining the automatic urge to come to attention and salute. Olga noted, first, the large photomosaic pictures, the before-and-after aerial iconographs, mounted on boards behind the desk where everyone could see them. For Olga, this was the first time and it took a while for her to realise what she was looking at. Then she got it, and smiled inwardly. Especially at the "after" pictures, illuminated by blooms of light and flame.
Vetinari made no acknowledgement at first. Olga noticed he was in deep conversation with Gertrude Schilling, poring over some technical diagrams. She was pointing out features of the design for him and he was listening intently.
"I propose the elongated teardrop shape, sir, as this means air resistance is lessened as they fall. The fins at the narrow end help to stabilise the Device and cause it to spin as it drops towards the target…."
"And the spin facilitates accurate placement of the Device, I take it. Capital. Technical Sergeant Schilling, what is the maximum weight of such a Device?"
Gertrude suddenly noticed Olga and her eyes widened slightly. Olga nodded at her in a way that said "Don't mind me. Carry on, Sergeant." She noted a dozen other people in the room were quietly watching and listening, and at least two were quivering with supressed rage. Grace, engrossed in discussing Tech with the man who controlled the purse-strings for research funding, seemed blisfully oblivious to this, and Vetinari was perhaps affecting not to notice. Olga braced herself to the need to fly wing-mate to Gertrude and to defend her from a flank attack.
"Sir, the standard ME-109 broom can take a pillion passenger as well as a pilot. Therefore it could carry its pilot as well as, perhaps, a single Device, a weight equivalent to that of a pillion passenger, or ideally, given the different weight distribution, a little less. It might be better to carry two smaller fifty pound Devices. Like a pillion passenger, these would of course affect the maximum airspeed and manoevrability of the broom in flight, until they are dropped…"
"A flight of perhaps six pilots, each dropping a hundred pounds of exothermic alchemical potential inside a hollow cast iron shell, which bursts and explodes on impact, shedding metal fragments over a wide radius." Vetinari mused. "A weapon upon which we might have to reflect long and hard, about before choosing to deploy it. It certainly could not be dropped on a mere whim."
"This is outrageous!"
Olga sighed and assessed the threat. The outburst had come from a woman with a long lean frame, immaculately coiffed hair and expensive clothing that shouted her social status at the world. She was in her late forties, with blonde-red hair beginning to fade to grey, and her long lean face suggested a racehorse with a pedigree, with all that implied in terms of good breeding and intelligence. You might want to offer a sugar lump to such a face, then on second thoughts reflect that you preferred your fingers to remain attached to your hand.
"Lady Rust?" Vetinari said, mildly. This was a tacit invitation for her to speak out and to use her tongue to dig a hole that was going to be hard to climb out of. Olga, aware Sacharissa Cripslock had somehow insinuated herself into the room, smiled. In one respect this was going to be fun to watch.
"This is barbaric! This is against all the accepted rules of warfare!"
Vetinari's facial expression did not alter at all.
"More or less barbaric than two heavily armed bodies of men seeking to cause the maximum amount of damage to each other with crossbows, swords, spears, pikes and halberds?" he inquired. "The accepted rules of warfare clearly state that any means of killing the other side's soldiers, be it lopping off of limbs with an axe or evisceration with a pike followed by a horrible lingering death, are perfectly acceptible. As is the crushing agonising death of being on the receiving end of a projectile fired from a siege catapult. Which a moment's reflection will remind you is dropped from the air."
"There are Rules!" Lady Rust objected. "There are Customs! Time-honoured Customs for the practice of warfare. As agreed and codified between gentlemen! Between people of Quality!"
"And these days, between Ladies of Quality." Vetinari agreed. "I recall that on your father's death, Lady Rust, you inherited his Regiments and are now their Colonel-In-Chief. Therefore being a gentleman is now an equal-opportunity social situation, open to all. "
Lady Rust harrumphed. Olga shared a sympathetic look with Lord Downey of the Assassins, who she reflected had attempted to Educate Regina Rust's younger sisters. Regina had not gone to the Assassins' School. And the practice of harrumphing ran in the family.
"And again I must protest that you took my family regiments out of Rust family control, and placed them under the command of that commoner you made into a Field-Marshal!"
Field-Marshal Clive Mountjoy-Standish smiled slightly, but correctly interpreted the slightest glance in his direction and shake of the head from Vetinari. He remained silent.
"The Regiments remain yours, my Lady." Vetinari said, smoothly. "Yours to recruit, save for key officer positions. Yours to fund, equip, uniform and arm. Yours to carry out guard and ceremonial duties at Rust family properties." Vetinari steepled his fingers. "It is true I persuaded your father, when he knew he was dying and wished to make peace with the world, to amend his will in a couple of minor clauses and codicils. After the previous misunderstanding with Klatch, the structure of our Armed Forces required scrutiny. Overhaul. Streamlining. A Secretariat of Defence, headed by Mr Drumknott, was created to oversee bringing Regiments and Corps under centralised authority."
He nodded to Admiral Harrap.
"The Navy was always subject to the properly authorised ruler of this City. Bringing the Army under the same umbrella was a logical next step."
He smiled benevolently at Regina Rust.
"I understand that the raising of Regiments is a Rust family hobby going back for generations." he said. "You take pleasure, great pleasure, in choosing the uniforms, the equipment, the horses, and soforth, and in the same way other nobles take pleasure in breeding pedigree livestock, you breed Regiments. I'm not unreasonable. You still have that pleasure, and I would not take that away from you. Their ultimate management, if needed for the purposes an Army is meant to serve, is now in the hands of the City."
"The rules, the Code of War, was devised by gentlemen for gentlemen!" Regina Rust insisted, doggedly. "War is conducted according to rules! Everybody knew where they stood! Rules govern the conduct of war! You have taken this away from us and put it into the hands of commoners who know no rules!"
"The rule that says both general toss a coin beforehand, and the winner takes the first shot?" Vetinari said. "Into the loser's tightly packed ranks? And that losses on your own side are of no consequence so long as you can say - We have reserves?"
Lady Rust ignored this.
"Now you really want this abomination against the Rules of War?" she proclaimed. "Common, lowly-borne women, mere peasant witches, raining destruction down from above on our armies? Raining death from the air, these aerial bombs, is not sporting!"
There was a pause in the room. It incorporated the sort of collective sucked-in indraft of breath normally heard when, for instance, the word "monkey" is spoken in front of the Librarian, with the consequent "Please tell me you never meant to say that" left hanging and unsaid. Olga sensed Sacharissa's pencil poised expectantly above the notebook. Just as she was about to say We can do fireballs too. Tell me which you'd like?, Vetinari looked up and chose to acknowledge Olga.
"Ah, Lady Romanoff." he said, amicably. "I apologise for having to drag you away from your religious devotions. But as I have remarked to High Priest Ridcully, any religion that cannot encapsulate its essential pastoral wisdom within, perhaps, a maximum of ninety minutes, is a religion whose liturgy requires extensive sub-editing."
Olga nodded to Regina Rust.
"I apologise for not attending in uniform." she said. "Today would have been a rostered day off from my position as Commanding Officer of the Air Service. However, I was recalled at short notice."
Olga relished the stony look on the face of Regina Rust. She added, with apparently transparent sincerity,
"Lady Regina, perhaps we are not so different. I selected, raised and trained the Air Watch. I steer its direction and seek to plan ahead. Their welfare is my responsibility. I ensure the way they conduct themselves and present themselves in public is a credit to the Service.I am responsible for procuring the best equipment and the best weapons. I even chose their uniforms. The full dress uniforms, anyway. And, do you know. I did all that while being of the nobility myself. Have I mentioned, by the way, that as oldest daughter of a Grand Duke and of a family line that were once kings and rulers, it is possible that according to the rules governing these things, I socially out-rank you?"
Olga allowed this barb to sink in, then added
"I have fought in one war, which I understand is not just a prerogative, but an active duty, of noblity. My command succeeded in all its objectives, and I brought the vast majority back alive, with what are objectively and statistically described as minimum casualties."
She reached over and patted Regina's hand.
"As I am sure you strive to do with your Regiments."
She nodded to Lady Rust, and turned to Vetinari, aware of quite a few appreciative smiles and nods.
Vetinari nodded to Gertrude.
"Thank you for your contribution, Technical Sergeant Schilling. No doubt I will be speaking to you again soon."
He returned to Olga.
"Lady Romanoff, I wonder if you might look over some technical drawings with me? Your expertise and opinion would be useful at this point."
Olga tried to assemble her thoughts on the whole topic area of bombs and bombing, with reference to Hanna von Strafenburg's creatively applied aggression, and the potential bomb-load that could be released from a Heavy.
Then she realised the sketches Vetinari was offering for her attention were not of bombs. They were of… coins?
"A medal issue to your command would be an appropriate gesture of recognition at this point." He said, smoothly. "I asked the Master of the Royal Mint if the Men From The Sheds were especially busy at the moment. I reminded him that one of the reasons he argued for their retention was that they could be employed to make the necessary dies to strike commemorative medals in, say, the event of a victory by this city's armed forces."
Vetinari steepled his fingers.
"Perhaps you could select one and advise on what colour the medal ribbon should be?" he said. "Reports are coming in from Klatch. Lieutenant Politek has seen to it that the ladies of the Pegasus Service have been doing a lot of flying. In fact, Pegasus flights to and from Klatch have been meeting each other in the dimension you describe as Feegle Space, which is utterly unprecedented."
"Da. It has happened perhaps once or twice in nearly eighteen years." Olga said. "It is a very rare thing. nobody has charted or measured Feegle Space."
Vetinari held her gaze.
"Three completed flights this morning alone. And it is not even midday. So far I have learned from our diplomatic mission, and from others, that Prince Cadram has been relieved of his command and placed under an armed escort. Arrested, in other words. He is now being flown back to Al-Khali on the fastest carpet to face Prince Khufurah, who is keen to ask his former Air Force commander for his expert opinion as to why the Air Force is so much smaller this morning. I also understand the Walidh, Mr Seventy-One Hours Ahmed, has also been summoned to the Palace and is currently on an equally fast carpet. The Walidh has been instructed to ensure he brings his sword, and that the blade is sharp."
Vetinari looked up at her.
"It is also understood that the Army in Syrrit and Laotan is begging to be allowed to withdraw into Klatch as their supply lines are now non-existant. Any possibility of resupply by air is now gone. Such carpet pilots as remain are reluctant to take to the skies because they are wary of the terrible Witches who strike from nowhere. Attempts to resupply the stranded army overland are being hit by the D'Reg, in force. Which is out of the usual, because up until now the D'Reg have never bothered with the Syrritan frontier, deeming it too poor to bother with."
Vetinari ticked off the points, forensically.
"By tonight, that Army will be withdrawing into Klatch. The emergency is nearly over. Thank you, Lady Romanoff."
There was a round of applause in the room. Olga allowed herself a moment of pride in herself, and more than that, in her Air Arm.
She met Vetinari's eyes.
"Sir, is it too early to ask about the possibility of dartboards?"
Vetinari smiled slightly.
"Dartboards are a possibility, yes." He replied. "But first. Your injured pilot did have her wound attended to, and is fit to fly?"
He gave her a long questioning look.
"Matron Igorina said not, and that in her professional opinion, that pilot should fly a desk for up to a fortnight. The pilot in question, however, disagrees."
"Capital." Vetinari said. Give her my best regards and personal congratulations. I require you, Lady Romanoff, to make one last flight for the city today. To Klatch. I am asked to send a personal emissary to speak to Prince Khufurah himself. And did you know, he asked if it could be you."
Vetinari gave her a benevolent smile.
"From tomorrow, you may sit behind your desk again, or in the control and command position at the Air Station. For up to a fortnight, perhaps. Today, you will be attending on a Prince. No lesser person in the Pegasus Service will do."
"Sir." Olga said.
To be completed. One last chapter should wrap up this part of the tale.
(1) A good referent is Captain Janeway's "Bun of Steel" hairstyle in "Star Trek – Voyager" which according to Word of God was deliberate, to evoke a Russian noblewoman whose word was law. Damn, Kathryn Janeway might be a good visual image for an older Olga Romanoff! The Bun of Steel - think of a cottage loaf, or a sort of torus of immaculately rolled hair like a sort of doughnut wrapped round the top of the head, with a tight bun rising out of the centre. Although Janeway never had golden ribbon woven into the doughnut to advertise her status as a senior daughter of the Romanoff dynasty. Got the word for it - Pompadour. Not Russian, but French... popular with Russian royalty and nobility, anyway.
(2) Provided you were white. And even in a Republic, some people get the same sort of informal respect, like Mr Charles Smith-Rhodes, whilst a really good fifteen-a-side player might get the reverence. It's complicated.
(3) Research can get interesting. Apparently with the service lasting so long, this can be the accepted thing at Russian Orthodox churches: members of the congregation drop in and out of the active service and can be more informal at the back of the Church, within limits. And... the ornately decorated and painted screen separating priest from laity in a Russian Orthodox church is another word I was searching for, and the word is Iconostasis.
(4) There were a lot of icons to proceed around. The climax of the service came at the icon representing the Resurrection of Epidity after his martyrdom, re-emerging from the ground as the raw material for a plate of blinis and a bottle of vodka, the food and drink that sustain life for His people.
(5) The first RAF Bomber Command raids over Germany, in 1939, dropped only propaganda leaflets. Three or four years later, however…
(6) Ok then. "Budge over, fat-arse!" The introductory quoted line is from the Dutch Reformed Church of South Africa's hymnal; it means something like "we are the salt of the earth, and glad of it", ie the necessary Godliness spread into an otherwise Godless country, so that South Africa may savour the taste.
(7) Afrikaans: "She's deaf. We are her interpreters."
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, and guarded against stealthy midnight commando attacks seeking their deletion
Orphaned fragment:
Православная Церковь Картофеля - Pravoslavnaya Tserkov' Kartofelya
Olga had taken scrupulous care with her own clothing and hair, as she did every Sunday morning where she had to present herself at Church. Over the years, the Rodinian ethnic community in Ankh-Morpork had grown to the point where it could sustain its own religious premises. They now sustained their own ornately decorated church that was even on Gods Street, not in the myriad side-streets leading off it. It had even had the spire of the original religious premises remodelled, from the impossibly foreign elongated pyramid with four flat triangular sides meeting at a point. Everybody had agreed that had to go. There was now a familiar and reassuring onion dome atop the spire, a visual reminder of Home. (8)
This was the Orthodox Potato Church, the spiritual heart of Rodinia on the Disc.
(8) "Bloody foreigners, coming over here with their stinking foreign food and thinking our alphabet isn't good enough for them, and rebuilding a falling-apart crumbling wreck of a church and what's more, paying for it out of their own pockets so it don't cost the city a penny, somebody should put a stop to it! They're treating the place like it's their own bloody country!" (Letter published in the Ankh-Morpork Inquirer)