The Price of Flight – part twenty-six
Aftermath
In which the story resolves itself and there are a few glimpses and after-echoes of up to a year ahead.
Also having to pay some thought as to where all this fits into the timeline of "Strandpiel 2", which continues Book One and takes place at the same time… events alluded to here, marginal to this story, will be more central in S2, when it gets going.
V0.2, awaiting more corrections and text revisions. Oh, there will be. The last chapter got up to eleven. Literally. And what do you know. Typos and clunkier bits needing revision.
Al-Khali, Sunday 9th Grune, one-thirty pm local time
Olga Romanoff looked down over the minarets, domes, and otherwise generally square architecture of Al-Khali in the approaching-noon-here midday heat. Limestone and whitewash predominated, and a heat-shimmer was beginning over the gleaming white. She tried not to breathe in too deeply: the clinical white, the overwhelming impression you got from a thousand feet up, suggested cleanliness. Al-Khali, like Ankh-Morpork, had its own signature smell. It was subtly different, but came from the same general areas for the same general reasons. In desert heat.
Olga dispassionately identified the landmarks. There, the docks, another reason for the smell. The line of the mighty River Tsort, that came to the Circle Sea here bringing the silt and detritus of a continent and pushing out the delta. Much to the surprise of those who thought Klatch was a complete desert, the Tsort Delta was mile upon mile of fertile farmland that fed the great city. As it was fertilised with what the great city gave back in return, this contributed to the smell.
She tried to ignore the heat and focus on local navigation. Wee Mad Arthur had brought her out over the city; she now had to locate the Ankh-Morporkian Embassy and land there.
That's the Grand Mosque of Offler, with the dome and the minaret roofs coated in beaten gold. Which would not last five minutes in Ankh-Morpork. The Temple of Small Gods uses brass and bronze, now discoloured dirty green, for this reason, And they keep it clean, polished and gleaming here. No doubt there are a lot of one-handed former dome-cleaners in this City who have learnt not to be sacrilegious. And over there, the Rhoxxie, the Djinn Palace, in its twice five miles of fertile ground. The centre of government. Where I will be going to have audience with Khufurah himself. And over here, the diplomatic quarter…
Klatch and Al-Khali were usually part of Irena Politek's Pegasus run, encompassing all the states of the Widdershins side of the continent right down to the Zulu Empire. Today, Irena was now off-watch after a busy night. And the Seraph of Klatch had requested Olga herself to speak for Vetinari. She had been briefed.
Olga waved an acknowledging hello to the magic carpet that had come up to shadow her. The body language of the crew suggested they were not at all happy, but they kept a respectful distance.
"Down here, Mistress." Wee Mad Arthur said. Olga acknowledged him, and steered Raduga Desh in a slow descending spiral. As the flew lower, she started to pick out white rectangles of paper that had caught on roofs or laid disregarded in remote places. She smiled. Vetinari had briefed her thoroughly on what to say and what lines of discussion to nurture.
The Ankh-Morporkian Embassy, Al-Khali
Many years before, perhaps centuries before, a former Caliph and Seraph had generously given Ankh-Morpork a minor palace, which had belonged to an equally minor prince who had come off worst in a family argument, so as to house its Embassy. Over the years the interior had been gradually modelled into a version of a stately home in Ankh, but the exterior remained typical of a noble dwelling in Klatch, with shaded collonaded walkways on all sides of a large courtyard, and of course exquisitely kept gardens.
Olga steered her Pegasus into a landing in the courtyard, beginning to feel the heat as she descended, and waited for the wings to fold back. Embassy ostlers took the reins as she dismounted, and she communicated to Raduga Desh that it was alright for him to go with them, as fodder and water awaited him. With a Pegasus, it had been discovered that patient training and acclimatisation meant that ostlers and stablehands other than the bonded pilot could manage them on the ground; but nobody else could fly them other than the bonded Witch.(1) She approved of this. New Pegasi were accustomed to this once the moment of bonding had occurred with their chosen Witch. It made their management easier. The older mounts, the first of the few, had needed long and patient retraining to accept feed and water from anyone other than their pilot.
She wasn't surprised when the Ambassador rushed out to greet her, and turned down the obligatory offer of the gold-wrapped chocolate ball. Not in this heat. She was less surprised to see two of her own Air Watch members and pleased that they became strictly formal in front of the Ambassador and his staff, especially the detached Embassy Guard, drawn from one of the smarter and more prestigious Regiments. An exchange of deliberately impeccable coming-to-attention-and-saluting later, they brought each other up to date.
"Kinda like we're running a relay race here, ma'am." Amelia Cronkhart remarked. Olga was aware Amelia was giving her a long curious look as if there was something different and strange about her, something out of the ordinary; she decided not to press this. Mystery. But a small one. Not important.
"Da." Olga agreed. "Apparently flights to and from here have been crossing each other in Feegle Space."
"Kinda interesting." Amelia replied. "You think you're pretty much all lonesome in there, and the next thing you see is Greygoose comin' at you on her way back."
Olga nodded over to the second Air Watch pilot. She bowed, rather than saluted. Olga understood this, in her multinational command. A pilot who today was affecting odango hair, with the long and short swords of her ethnicity tucked into an obi sash rather than a conventional belt. More bloody cultural weapons, Sam Vimes had said.
"Majokko-san." she said, returning the bow.
"Romanoff-sama." the pilot replied. Olga turned to Amelia.
"After the Heavies came over this morning, ma'am, Red Star wasn't sure what sort of a reception we'd get. She assigned Akuma to me as aircrew. Somebody to hold the crossbow and point it at anyone who got too close. Rules of Engagement."
Olga sighed. No wonder the Klatchians hadn't looked too happy. Pegasi with an armed aircrew escort.
"No aircrew, ma'am?" Amelia asked. "You flew alone?"
"Nyet. Didn't think I needed it." Olga replied, shortly.
"Ladies?" the Ambassador said. "My information is that the Klatchian Air Force has instructed its flyers to merely escort you in to Klatchian airspace but no maintain a respectful distance at all times. I have also been advised, informally, that there is no appetite for any sort of combat. Bad news – from their point of view – has spread. Also, the upper echelons of the Air Force are being, shall we say, reviewed. The organisation as of this morning has… well, no senior officers. For now, anyway."
"Therefore, no need for escorts or armed aircrew." Olga said.
"Ma'am, we won." Amelia said.
"To a given value of winning." the Ambassador agreed. "Local squadron commanders have been instructed to follow the agreed Rules of Engagement with regard to our Air Force. To shadow, escort, and to initiate no combat, unless we offer fight first."
"Which mirrors our own standing orders." Olga replied. "Horoscho. I believe we can accommodate this."
"You have despatches for me?" the Ambassador prompted her. Olga handed them over and considered the man. Earl Wymondham Costessey Hargarth,(2) the most senior member of one of the Old Families. Defying expectations, he actually seemed quite bright. Then again, Vetinari would be constrained by social expectations, that the Old Families, the Rusts, Selachiis, Venturis, Hargarths and Eorles, would by their mere prominence expect to get plum diplomatic postings, such as that of Ambassador to a prestigious and important foreign state. Not even Vetinari could defy that. So of course he'd make the best of it, by identifying and advancing the ones who were evolutionary throwbacks to a time where the Family actually had brains and intelligence.
As the Ambassador read the latest briefings from the City, Olga turned to Pilot Officer Majokko Wakeisei. She looked tiny and delicate. She could show a sort of wide-eyed innocence to the world. Olga tried to recall if this was called "genki" or "tarame" or "moe". Somebody into Agatean art had once tried to explain it to her. (3). Possibly she was seventeen, yes. But also a witch, first in Agatea and then in Lancre. And then the Air Watch. She was as crazy in the air as Hanna von Strafenburg, and had distinguished herself in the mock-attacks on the Fleet at Pearl Dock, pressing her attacks on the ships for longer and aiming more accurately with her cold fire. As a Watchwoman she was politely severe, and had got into trouble with Sam Vimes for favouring something called a sai rather than a Watch-issue truncheon. Until she'd used it to disarm a man three times her size who'd tried to knock her down with a crude sword.
Olga and Mr Vimes had both recognised talent. And right now, Olga reflected, her skills at air-to-air crossbowmanship (4) were most probably the reason why Irena had sent her to ride shotgun on Amelia.
"Have you everything necessary to make your return trip?" Olga asked them. "Anything to add, Mr Ambassador?"
They concluded final business and watched Zemphis Al take off. Within a few hundred feet, a Klatchian carpet fell into step, but did not approach much further than seven hundred yards. Its crew seemed to be in no mood for anything aggressive. Olga nodded with satisfaction. Back to normal, then, except for the fact they're very carefully shadowing us from twice as far away.
Earl Hargarth politely suggested they took the discussion to a place of greater privacy. Olga agreed, and they went to the Ambassador's office together. Hargarth called for coffee for two – Olga noticed this was Klatchian coffee served the Morporkian way, with milk and sugar – and waited until the servant withdrew.
"So you're Vetinari's envoy to Khufurah, then." the Ambassador said. It was matter-of-fact, with no rancour or ruffled feelings.
"Da." Olga replied, then remembered Diplomacy. "That is, yes. Apparently, an earlier Pegasus flight conveyed the Seriph's wishes to Lord Vetinari."
"Well. I have no objections, if it gets me into the Throne Room as well." Earl Hargarth said. "So far today I have made two attempts to be seen, only to be very politely and diplomatically refused."
"A diplomatic snub?" Olga asked, sympathetically. The Ambassador shook his head.
"No, I genuinely believe he had more immediate affairs of state and government to deal with. Placing the whole higher command of the Air Force under arrest, for instance, and having friendly little chats with such supporters of Prince Cadram who have not yet prostrated themselves in submission before him. That sort of thing takes precedence over mere foreign ambassadors. I rather suspect that by now, he is more firmly seated on the throne than he was this time last week."
Olga caught what was being said. Diplomats were good at spill-words. Witches were skilled at reading them.
"So. Despite appearances. He may be disposed towards expressions of gratitude to those who indirectly strengthened his position?" she asked.
The ambassador smiled slightly.
"He did express a wish to meet you. Even if the only motive is curiosity."
"Do you believe that?"
"Lady… Captain… Romanoff. No Head of State who has survived for nearly three decades ever has a single motive. For anything."
Olga thought of Lord Vetinari.
"Da. That is truth."
They discussed the morning's activity in Ankh-Morpork and Olga brought the Ambassador up to date with the meeting she had attended at the Palace.
"Aerial bombs." the Ambassador said, thoughtfully. "Weighing a hundred pounds each. And each of your Heavy Squadron might carry seven or eight of these."
He shook his head.
"These stories have a tendency to leak." he mused. "Especially if discussed at an open meeting at the Palace with the Press present. No doubt Khufurah, even now, is relieved your Heavies only dropped several thousand newspapers over this city. Regina Rust is also likely to go complaining about this, and making noise."
Ambassador Hargarth shook his head again. "Regina was never all that discreet. Or clever. I really don't think she's grasped that the world has moved on a little. Vetinari holds the Armies now. After her father took over the Palace at the time of Leshp, he made sure that could never happen again. Regina thinks she can do the same as her father. She can't. Her officers are Vetinari's men. She hasn't noticed that yet. And she also hasn't got that the nature of warfare's changing. Ground armies need to evolve. An Air Force, even the Klatchian one, could devastate a conventional Regiment."
He looked at Olga, searchingly.
"Your Air Force, especially. You're the woman who threw fireballs into a native battle line in Howondaland. That tore big holes in them even before they started charging. And there were only two of you, then."
"My friends were defending that Redoubt." Olga said. "They were vastly outnumbered. Of course I attacked the Matabele infantry, and did what I could. From the air." (5)
"And you've been training others since." Hargarth remarked. "How many fliers have you got now? Forty? Fifty?"
Olga had an uneasy feeling that despite his handicap of birth, born into one of the old rich noble families, Wymondham Hargarth was an extremely capable and intelligent man. He's Ambassador in one of the key foreign capitals, she reminded herself. Of course Vetinari would place a good man here.
A junior secretary knocked, and passed a message to the Ambassador. Hargarth scanned it and said "The Prince can see us in one hour's time, Lady Romanoff. We've time for another coffee first."
They discussed families and children for a while, to pass the time.
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork. Sunday afternoon.
The post-Kerk braai was a summer Sunday fixture for Assassins' Guild students. Johanna and Heidi Smith-Rhodes thought it was only right, after subjecting their students to the drone of Sunday morning religion, to allow them to unwind and relax in the afternoon as houseguests. Church attendance was meant to keep Rimwards Howondalandian students in touch with the social obligations and duties of Home. Johanna reckoned a braai afterwards performed the same purpose every bit as well, even better, and could actually be enjoyable.
With her immediate neighbours(6) tipped off and knowing what to expect, the dividing fences to both neighbouring houses were taken down, and the afternoon became a relaxed garden party spilling across all three gardens. Tired as she was, Johanna considered this important. It wasn't all that long before the oldest students here took the Final Exam and returned home afterwards. The next two months, with nobody explicitly saying so, would be a closing of affairs, a long goodbye. The youngest students needed to see life outside school and if their first language was Vondalaans, to hear it spoken all around them. A support system. Another eight new students would be arriving here from Home come September, who would need support and familiar voices and things around them in a strange foreign place.
She smiled slightly. Being a Boer woman had its upside. Several of the senior boys, as if drawn by some cultural imperative, had volunteered for the work of running the grill and were sorting themselves out into the hierarchy of the Braai. This meant they'd be cooking for maybe seventy people, who didn't have to. Dorothea, the family cook, knew this well enough, that this was the one part of her week where all she had to do was provide the raw ingredients, put out a slaai and dips and bread, and otherwise it was an easy Sunday, letting the white people cook for themselves. The other house servants all saw this as an easy day too; white people at a braai tended to pour their own drinks. By Rimwards Howondalandian standards, this was both exotically different and part of the nation's cultural landscape. Claude the butler understood this and made big allowances for the peculiarities of white employers, remaining discreetly in the background for when he was needed.
Deciding she'd have an early night later, Johanna focused on being a good hostess, with just enough Assassins' School teacher present in the mix to monitor around forty pupils who had been invited to an informal Sunday gathering, looking for who was thriving, who might be struggling, who might have worries and concerns, and on the small handful she had marked down for special attention. The de Vos girl, for instance.
The smells of roasting meat reached her, and she breathed in appreciatively. She reflected that the four or five senior boys who were manning the grill wanted to do it, they had competed for the honour, they would put themselves out to do it well, and they would return Home having mastered an essential rite-of-passage for a Boer man: that of running the braai. In the meantime everybody else had somebody cooking for them. She smiled. A win all round, then.
She took in her daughter Rebecka, seated in the shade of a tree next to senior student Ampie duPris. They weren't saying much but body language suggested they were perfectly happy and at ease in each other's company. Johanna noted he'd been in no hurry to help out at the braai, and smiled slightly. He's adaptable. Intelligent. Resourceful. He should get through the Final Run, he leaves the School, and then he'll be in the same country as Bekki. Good for them both.
As they held hands, Johanna gave her daughter the respect of looking away, and took in other things going on in the expanded garden. Her brother Danie, Heidi's husband, probably talking to some of the heartier young men about fifteen-a-side. The discussion was animated, with lots of expressive body language. She frowned, wondering if she needed to step in if a ball was produced. Fifteen -a-side and a well-tended garden did not mix: too much could get damaged. Heidi herself, with their nanny Lottie, several adoring girl students, and the centre of adoration, eighteen-month old Mattewis.
Over there, Emmie, friend and neighbour, in conversation with Mariella and several students. Emmie is probably asking about Mariella's life in Howondaland, catching up with an old Black Widow girl she taught. Or else they're talking about last night's little adventure. I heard Downey made a big thing of it at Assembly this morning. The students are curious.
Johanna fought down a yawn, and acknowledged Claude advising her that more guests had arrived, my Lady. She was pleased to see Eddie de Kockamainje(7) and his two children and welcomed them warmly.
"They sent Olga to Klatch." Eddie said, shaking his head wearily.
"Diplomatic immunity. She'll come back." Johanna assured him. "She'll know to find you here."
"Mamya always comes back." Vassily piped up.
"Ja. She does." Johanna agreed. "But there is a lifetime of practice in being able to come back afterwards. You will understand more as you grow up, Vassily. Especially when you come to the School where I teach."
She looked down at him, feeling fondness, wondering what it was like to be a mother of sons.
"For now, speak to people. Ask what life is like at the School. Tell people I told you to ask." she suggested.
Vassily scampered off. His sister was already elsewhere, playing with the family cats, both of whom had one eye and all nose on the cooking smells from the grill. Sunday afternoon was bonanza time for the family pets.
"Hey, Eddie! Bro!"
Eddie de Kokamainje stumbled forwards by a few paces. Danie Smith-Rhodes' usual way of greeting a friend was a big hearty backslap. He was a fifteen-a-side player; Eddie was more slightly built.
"Danie. Be gentle." she said to her brother.
She turned her attention to another daughter. Ethylene Glynnie had delivered her to Church, and afterwards they had spoken, Housemistress to concerned parent.
"This time, Famke was not the offending party." Evvie had said. "The provocation was entirely on the side of Cassandra Venturi. I considered it wise to intervene, and to take Famke away for a little pastoral chat. Which is why she was late for Church, Johanna."
"Thenk you." Johanna had replied. "I egree Cessendra hes a very unettrective side to her nature. But because Famke is my daughter, I have to step beck end refrain from intervening."
"It is a finely balanced situation." Evvie agreed. "you are a Guild teacher. A pupil is behaving unacceptably. In normal circumstances you could intervene. However, the other pupil involved in a clash of personalities is your daughter."
Johanna took a deep breath.
"I'm heppy to leave it up to you." she said. "But if we do nothing, this little problem will only get worse."
"I shall be speaking to Cassandra. As she was the offending party this morning - sternly." Ethylene Glynnie promised. And the two teachers had parted company, both suspecting this might not nearly be enough to prevent real trouble in the dorm.
Johanna stood apart from the party, watching. Famke was behaving herself, she conceded, involved with a group of girls of her own age and just being acceptably sociable. She frowned, seeing a new complication emerging….
Famke jumped as a friendly hand patted her shoulder. She really hadn't noticed the person who had come up behind her and given her a friendly shoulder embrace. It told her this person was good at approaching inobtrusively.
"We need a word, kid." Rivka ben-Divorah said, with an amiable smile. "Let's go off somewhere for a little talk. Call it an informal lesson."
Famke decided, very quickly, the best thing to do was to go along with it. This was somebody with a reputation.
"Okay." she said, noting the arm around her shoulder was giving the distinct impression it would remain there for as long as the owner of the arm wished, and any attempt to dislodge it would be terribly unwise. She let Rivka steer her away. Sometimes you had to go with the flow. No help for it.
They moved off together to a secluded corner of the garden.
The Ankh-Morporkian Embassy, Al-Khali
Ambassador Hargarth had an open-topped carriage with a minimal sunscreen roof that could be folded up over the passengers. The driver and coachmen – Olga noticed they had the look of Dark Clerks about them – came to attention as they approached.
"Next stop, the Rhoxie." Hargarth said.
"Anything I need to know about Khufurah?" Olga asked. "Usually Irena does the Klatch run, but she doesn't always get to see him. Most of the time she deals with the Grand Vizier, for routine visits."
Hargarth shrugged.
"Apparently the Grand Vizier is on gardening leave." he said, drily. "My information is that Prince Khufurah has suggested now is a good time to attend to his estates and see to his date crop. Several gardeners have been assigned to assist."
"Ah. Large gardeners with a selection of the appropriate tools?" Olga said. "The sort of tools which are kept sharp and in good order?"
"That sort of gardening assistance, yes." Hargarth replied. "The Prince said, I believe, that he should have the best and freshest possible produce available, the next time he hosts senior officers of the Air Force to lunch. Shall we go?"
Olga went carefully impassive, reflecting on the fact that whether she liked it or not, she was now embroiled in high-level Politics, a thing that left to herself she would far rather avoid. Things which had been a small part of why she had run away to Lancre, aged fourteen and otherwise seeing a stifling future as a daughter of nobility, expected to be a certain thing and to do certain things. And all I ever wanted to do was to be a working Witch and to get to fly…
The Dark Clerks suddenly went alert and into very inobtrusive watching positions. One was moving closer to the Ambassador. Hargarth raised a hand.
"What is it, Ali?" he asked, kindly. Olga added another tick to her approval of this man: he knew all the Embassy servants, even the lowliest ones, by name. Not many nobles bothered with this.
Ali, who looked like a local Klatchian recruited to work perhaps as a gardener or a groundsman, showed his hands were almost empty, and made a deep respectful salaam.
"Excuse, Offendi, gracious Sultana." he said, brandishing the newspaper. Olga recognised it as one of the freesheets the Heavies had dropped earlier.
"I used to work in Dimwell. Come back." Ali said. "Something I really miss is not being able to get the paper every morning. And, errr… we got these today. Reminds me how much I miss catchin' up on the news. Doin' the crossword. "
He turned the paper over. Sure enough, there was a games and puzzles section which had been completed, pretty much.
"Can't get three down, gracious Sultana." Ali said. "And I've been tellin' people as how the next day's paper carries the answers to the previous day's crossword and all the other games. Err.. Sultana, you're in charge of the flyin' elephants and things? Got your iconograph printed here, look. You'll be deliverin' tomorrow? Lots of people want to know, Great Begum."
Olga tried not to reply with an "Errr…" of her own. Enlightenment was beginning to dawn as to why Vetinari had authorised what looked like a needlessly expensive, pointless, provocative and possibly dangerous flight for the Heavies.
"I can certainly speak to people when I return to Ankh-Morpork." Olga said. "To explain to people in authority that great interest has been expressed in the idea of newspapers setting up to serve Al-Khali."
Ali beamed and bowed low.
"Many thanks, Sultana! And, errr… lots of us might prefer the Inquirerto the Times? Just a thought, Majestic Begum."
Olga said she would pass that on.
On the drive to the Rhoxie Palace, quite a few Klatchians were holding up copies of the free paper and asking how soon the next copy would be out. Olga noted there was suddenly a lot of interest in this strange infidel notion of a Free Press.
"I'd introduce you to my cultural attaché, if he was here." Hargarth said, cheerfully. "But Vetinari wanted to recall him to Ankh-Morpork, just for a chat about how well the newspaper was received. Chap had a lot to do with the news-gathering side of things, you see. Your Corporal Matlock flew him back as her passenger, earlier. I imagine his former employer might also want a word. Or in this case, a de Worde."
"Ah." Olga said.
As their credentials were checked by armed guards, and as she eyeballed them, daring them to object to her being in Ankh-Morporkian uniform, Olga's mind was turning over possibilities.
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork.
"Seen you a few times around the place." Rivka said, cheerfully. "But these days I'm not in Ankh-Morpork as often as I'd like, and if I drop by to see your mother you tend to be at School. If I have to visit the Guild for any reason you are, unavoidably, just another pupil. So we keep missing each other. Gevalt, that's how it is. But it doesn't mean I don't get to hear about you. And what I hear is interesting."
She motioned Famke to sit next to her, then she beckoned over a student who was possibly a couple of years older than Famke.
"Would you mind getting us both a drink?" she asked. Famke was interested to hear that she spoke good, if accented, Vondalaans. "If you get food too. Anything for Famke, but make mine beef or lamb. No pork. Got that? Important. The active word is kosher. Dankie."
She grinned at Famke as the student hurried off, very respectfully.
"Strictly speaking I should not be eating meat prepared in the same place as anything traife. And certainly not beef prepared on the same grill as pork, by gentiles. But, oi vay, you can get too hungry to care."
"You speak Vondalaans." Famke said.
Rivka shrugged, expressively.
"Your Aunt Mariella happens to be my best friend." she said. "We visited your crazy meschuggenah country together. After they let me out of prison, I liked it. Mariella made sure I knew the language. I taught her enough Cenotian to get by in my country, so fair exchange." (8)
"You were in prison?" Famke asked. Her attention picked up. This was cool.
"Briefly." Rivka shrugged. "Got out. Things improved after that."
Then she grinned at Famke and switched languages.
"Morporkian alright? As they tell you, it's the teaching language of the Guild and this is teaching. I don't have the patience for it or the vocation, so if they ever offer me a purple sash, I'm turning it down."
"Have they?" Famke asked. "Asked you to teach."
Rivka grinned and shook her head.
"What do you think?"
Then she got down to business.
"I hear things about you." she said, conversationally. "Things like Tykebomb, for instance. That you beat up Parcifal Venturi and broke his nose. And he plays fifteen-a-aide and he's four years older, a lot larger, and definitely uglier."
Rivka paused as Famke preened, trying to look modest.
"The words I am hearing most often, whenever the name of Famke Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons is mentioned, are Scary Mary."
Rivka paused.
That's apart from things like "Oh, dear Gods!" and "What's she done this time?"
Famke grinned. It was nice to have a reputation. But Rivka suddenly went very unsmiling and serious.
"And you're not even thirteen yet. Impressive. But, kid. If they're calling you a Scary Mary, that interests me. I was one."
Famke held her gaze.
"I've heard. They say you were the best." she said, with genuine respect.
"You'd better believe it, kid. I was the best. So if you want to be a Scary Mary, I am going to make it my life's work to see you do not disgrace a responsible position in the life of the School. People say you can't keep your temper and you leap in with both fists and both feet without thinking first? Well. This is where you shape up!"
Rivka grinned again. They waited for food and drink to arrive, and thanked the bringers.
"If this is pork, I will know…" Rivka said, ominously. "No, beef. Good quality, too."
She turned back to Famke.
"Teaching. Scary Mary 101. I hear you have a problem with a Cassandra Venturi? Sympathies. Mine was called Pamela Eorle, and while she turned out to be somebody I can share a room with without wanting to kill her, we were in dorms together for seven years. Want to know how I dealt with her when she got difficult? And, and this is crucial, without any teachers finding out?"
Famke nodded enthusiastically. One-to-one mentorship from an experienced graduate Assassin was not to be scorned, and if you were singled out for it, you were to consider yourself fortunate… all her teachers said that, didn't they? Well, then…
The Rhoxie, Al-Khali
Centuries ago, or even millenia ago(9) , a previous absolute ruler of Klatch had decreed that his status as Caliph deserved the establishment of a stately pleasure-dome consistent with his social rank. Just over this underground river would do fine, tributary to the Tsort, isn't it, so my mighty palace has a guaranteed water source of its own. Look. Alpha male. I'm entitled. And get those bloody geologists out of there, it doesn't bloody well need measuring, not important as long as it can provide the water. I'll take those twice five miles of fertile ground over there, so start now on the walls and towers. Just build, right.
The palace complex had survived war, famine, plague, and a rather confused time where some older people claimed it had disappeared, right, and this bloody great tower had risen up from the ground, and had started chucking fireballs long-distance at Ankh-Morpork, straight up, no word of a lie, and those bloody Ankh-Morporkians started firing right back and yes, Achmed, that figures, you can never trust those Offler-forsaken infidel bastards, and then it all went a bit confusing… (10)
The magnificent and opulent Rhoxie complex was now home to the Caliph and the centre of government of the Klatchian Empire. As the Ambassador's carriage trotted in through the main gate, Olga reflected that this was the boffo of governments and rulers, My palace is bigger than yours, or See this main gate here towering three or four times than it needs to be? We can build them even bigger if we need to!
She reflected on the nature of Kremlin Square in Blondograd(11), formerly known as Red Square, and which after several changes of name and government was now Victory Square. Forebears of hers (or at least people from other Families in the same governmental position) had insisted Kremlin Square be a big open space with monumental gates, so as to accommodate a massive military parade every year. Just to say "Look what we Rodinians can fight with. Impressive, is it not? Now come have glass of vodka, you representatives of countries with far smaller Army." (12)
Olga shook her head. That had been a long time ago. Rodinia had fractured, shrunk and disappeared. Officially it didn't exist. She was a Zlobenian. Imperial Blondograd of old on the Musckovada River(13) was now just another city in Far Überwald. She reflected that the Four Duchies were probably the last remnant of Imperial Rodinia. And all were subject to Prince Heinrich of Zlobenia. Ever since the great Politics Mess-Up…
She impatiently shook her head. Focus on now, today, Olga Anastacia. You personally are subordinate to Lord Havelock Vetinari of Ankh-Morpork. You work for him. And also to report to Sir Samuel vimes, Duke of Ankh-Morpork.
There was a necessary stop while passes and permits were examined. The Klatchian Palace Guardsmen, Jannitories by the look of them, allowed them through. Olga noted the guard captain took one look at her, then stepped back and threw up the most impeccable coming-to-attention-and-saluting she'd seen since, ooh, earlier that morning when she had marched into the palace in Ankh-Morpork.
Another day, another Palace….
She returned the salute with a cursory touching of her cap, or where her cap would have been. She frowned. She'd meant to let her hair down and reshape it to a more working hairstyle. Short on time, she'd thrown off her civilian clothes in her office at the Air Station and got into ceremonial full dress. Her hair, she reasoned, could wait…
Sitting opposite her, Earl Hargarth watched her realise, and smiled broadly, clearly amused.
"That really is an impressive hairstyling, Lady Romanoff." he remarked. "The pompadour style, I believe? According to my history books, much favoured by senior social ranks at the Imperial Rodinian court, although not one I have seen outside the illustrated history books. I really don't think your pilots had seen it before, judging by their reactions."
"Da." Olga said, as the realisation set in. Boffo. Headology. My ancestors who were Tsarinas styled their hair like this. with this hairstyle I was thinking like a Tsarina. Speculative thoughts, about Rodinia restored…
"I attended Church this morning. Looking the part as Lady Romanoff was expected of me."
"And it now crosses into your everyday life as Captain Romanoff of the Air Service." Hargarth observed. "Which may well be all for the good here, my Lady. By the way, your visiting pilot, the Acerian lady, did describe it to her co-pilot as the bun of steel. I don't think you overheard that?"
"Did her co-pilot giggle?" Olga asked, thinking of Majukko-san. Hargarth smiled.
"In a most becoming Agatean manner, my Lady. The one that involves turning away slightly and covering her mouth with her fingers. Now I believe we are coming to the Hall of Audience, where the Prince will receive us."
Olga patted the ornate satchel hanging from her belt that carried the communication from Vetinari, to be delivered from her hand into that of the Prince.
"I am ready. Let us go in." she said.
I'll get this out. I may update this chapter soon with an account of Olga's discussion with Khufurah, and Vetinari's reactions to it, or this might start off the next chapter. This is already 7500 words long and it's quite late at night/very early in the following morning, so I'll get this out anyway! To be completed.
(1) I have an idea sketched out for a situation where somebody not a Pegasus witch discovers, much to Air Watch disconcertion, that they can hijack a Pegasus. This causes a big security rethink. Watch this space.
(2) That British thing where foreigners are confounded and tripped up by pronunciation. Wymondham and Costessey are places in Norfolk. And are pronounced as Wind-ham and Cossey respectively.
(3) TvTropes has whole pages about animé and manga styles and characters. With one eye on developing my "Agatean" characters as UpToEleven Japanese, I've been doing research here – the idea of my Agateans having a definite animé/manga streak about them – and I think I'm getting the gist, but it's a hard slog. Seeing Majukko-san as an Air Force version of one of the schoolgirls in "Girls Und Panzer" – but one who has become a Witch, possibly in Lancre, and then Air Watch. Hmm. Yamauba? Kawaii?
(4) As well as with a conventional bow, a bloody hard thing to do from horseback. Think of Samurai warriors and those bloody big bows they carried – even on horses.
(5) Go to my story Bungle in the Jungle.
(6) Doctor Davinia Bellamy, principal Guild teacher in Botany, and the Comptesse Emmanuelle de Lapoignard (Swordcraft and Bladed Weapons). The dividing fences had been designed to be removeable at need.
(7) {{redundant footnote}} - see bonus extract at end.
(8) Now go to my tale Gap Year Adventures.
(9) Or according to one theory which involved a tangled tale concerning a Sourceror, History Monks and a Wizzard with a half-brick in a sock, maybe forty years before the Present in which this tale is set. Or it could have been last Thursday. Where Sourcerors, History Monks and Wizzards with tangled timelines are concerned, any Historian with a belief in causal linear time is likely to give up and go off and get drunk in the company of an understanding quantum physicist. Or knurd. Or indulge in reannually distilled Glen Livid, and bugger causality.
(10) Now go to Sourcery by Terry Pratchett.
(11) Formerly known as St PeterProcknicksburg
(12) As mentioned earlier, the Russian state TV service has put the whole of the May 2019 Victory Day Parade up on YouTube and elsewhere. It is long and extremely visually impressive.
(13) Exists in canon: the Discworld's "River Moskva" is marked on the Compleat Discworld Mapp. " Discworld Russia's" capital city – a portmanteau of Moscow, Leningrad/St Petersburg and Stalingrad/Volgograd – should be on this river. Also looking for clever word plays on the river Neva, St P'burg's river… river Nerva? River Nervosa?
Notes Dump: A place protected and guarded against commando raids taking place by night to destroy things before they can get off the ground.
Watching TV. A documentary brief about the Japanese garden which is – improbably – to be found in Scotland. (Cowden Castle, Dollar, Clackmannanshire, near Stirling and Dunfermline)
Terms from the Japanese tea ceremony:
Wa – peace, harmony
Kei – wisdom, blessing
Sei - purity
{jaku}} – the now, in the moment
Thinking; the Agatean pilot in the Air Watch could be an intent young woman called Wakeisei -san. Majokko Wakeisei. Memo: read up on Japanese witchcraft traditions.
Also
神風特別攻撃隊, "Shinpūtokubetsukōgekitai," which just has to enter the UpToEleven universe where Japanese military aviation is considered as part of the Air Watch mix.
Considering a callsign for Majokko-san… Divine Wind, possibly.
飛行中の悪魔 Hikō-chū no akuma – "flying demon, demon in flight"
飛んでいる悪魔
Tonde iru akuma - - flying devil , also tonde akuma
Transliterating something with no actual meaning in Russian into Cyrillic letters – Eddie's name. Takes a little thinking about…
De Kockamainjie – best phonetic is {{de Kockamanye}} – becomes approximately Дз Кокямяаниы, which of course as there's no absolute one-to-one between Cyrillic and Latin, could come out in two or three different ways when transliterated…
Ushukela omkholu! (Zulu) – More sweet sugar!
Thanks to reader Dr Frankenburger, who asked
Do you use 'cockamamie' to mean 'thoroughly disordered/not a good idea' in informal speech? I know I do, but not very often these days.
Yup, got it in one! Given that Discworld Wizards are prone to verbosity and what could be called academic-bollocks-speak, I deliberately used the word "cockamamie" in exactly that sense as the name for a Wizard. I was also thinking of the historical/ethnographic fact that a lot of immigrants from Europe who hopefully went to the Cape Colonies to start a new life weren't Dutch or British; South Africa got a lot of Belgians too, who might have spoken Dutch/Flemish but also managed to have French, or French-sounding, names; as well as a few French, Swiss, immigrants who soon lost French in favour of Afrikaans and English, and who added names beginning with "du" or "de" to the mix. So i just Afrikaans-ised"cockamamie" and bunged a "de" in front of it. Eddie's ultimate Central Contiment ancestors might have hailed from Sto Helit (which I see as the Discworld's Belgium) or maybe even from Quirm proper.
Switzerland comes into the canonical Discworld as one part of the Überwaldean mix; but I just can't visualise any part of Überwald speaking Quirmian, at least as a first language. Illogically, they must do, in the land of lethal triangular chocolate and cuckoo clocks... and historically, of course, there is the thing about Russian nobility getting an inferiority complex, wanting to be taken seriously by the rest of European royalty and nobility, and deciding Russian was the language to be used only when speaking to kulaks and mouzhiks. We, however, will speak French, as this is the language of genteel and exalted royalty - French became the court language in St Petersburg.
Therefore Olga Romanoff would have received extensive Quirmian lessons from a succession of private tutors as she grew up. When her commoner husband was elevated to the lower reaches of nobility by his childrens' grandfather - utterly unspeakable for olga to be married to a middle-class tradesman with no title - Eddie's name would have been rendered, as best as possible, in Quirmian.
tBonus bit – again faced with the problem of why things are only trickling when they should be flowing. Again, giving too much detail to incidental bits. Here's a bonus: from the Sunday afternoon braai.
Johanna fought down a yawn, and acknowledged Claude advising her that more guests had arrived, my Lady. She was pleased to see Eddie de Kockamainje(14) and his two children and welcomed them warmly.
"We're not intruding?" Eddie asked. Johana smiled at him. Eddie had always had a hangdog Rincewind-light aspect to him, a man whose face and demeanour indicated that the worst was yet to come, and he wouldn't be surprised when it did. Marriage to Olga Romanoff had softened this somewhat and added a competing expression of bemused surprise that just this once, the universe had compensated by giving him something way beyond his reasonable expectations. Johanna liked him. He struck her as a Vondalaander take on a theme of Ponder Stibbons, a doggedly intellectual inquiring mind from a country where intellect was generally viewed with a degree of suspicion. He wasn't in the least interested in fifteen-a-side, for one thing.
"Ag, no, you're always welcome." she reassured him, accepting loving hugs from Vassily and Valentina and complimenting them on being so well turned out.
"We had to go to church, Tannie Johanna." Vassily said. "Mamya insists on best clothes for Church."
"So she ought." Johanna replied. "Church is important. I insist my daughters dress their best for Church. You can ask any of them."
She turned back to Eddie as the children ran off to look for friends.
"Amazing, isn't it?" he said. "This morning. Rodinian. This afternoon. They're Vondalaanders. It's the way they switch languages without thinking about it."
"Ag. So do mine." Johanna said. "And I just bet they're every bit as much at home in Morporkian."
They discussed multi-national and multi-lingual families for a while, and how an association with the Pegasus Service made commuting so unbelievably easy between countries.
"We're privileged." Eddie agreed.
"Ja." Johanna said.
(14) Eddie was glad to revert to the preferred spelling of his family name now he was back among Vondalaanders. He was also pleased to become a commoner again, after a morning spent among Rodinians as the Baron de Cocquamainie. His father-in-law, when conferring the title, had decreed that his name should be Quirmianised,so it looked better on the official scrolls and paperwork. For technical notes, see Notes Dump. Johasnna Smith-Rhodes, another Vondalaander from the same Republic, who had also had a degree of unwanted nobility thrust upon her, was sympathetic. (In her case a Hogswatch gift from Lord Vetinari that had made her a Dame twice over as well as a Lady) .