The Price of Flight – part twenty-seven
Diplomacy
In which the story resolves itself and there are a few glimpses and after-echoes of up to a year chapter - wanted to get this right!
V0.6 Finally incorporating typos and slips noted in beta-reading by reader a.t.m. schipperijn - many thanks for your diligence!
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.
Got to finish this – it's been on the back burner for a week or three now. The episodes are plotted, it's just getting them down on the screen.
Tough day today... dental emergency. Lost a front tooth at work (a crown fell out) and as it's a front tooth the net result is to make my voice sound like Elmer Fudd with a skinful. Or would, if I could pronounce "Fudd". Leaving work early, as a slurring speech impediment (hopefully temporary) is a drawback when dealing with customers on the phone, and with no dentist who can book me in till tomorrow, cheered myself up with a book-buying binge in Waterstones. (since you ask: Bernard Cornwell's "The War Lord", the final book in the Uhtred saga of Dark Age England – I fear Uhtred dies in this one – and Lindsey Davis' latest book about the Falco family, "Grove of the Caesars", in which private eye Flavia Alba faces another challenge in Ancient Rome.)
Also reading "Down Under", Bill Bryson's travelogue about Australia, in which an Anglophile American tells us everything we need to know about Fourecks. There's a wonderful long discourse about all the things that can kill you on the beach – including apparently dead-looking but very pretty seashells. Never collect seashells on an Australian beach. Important. Oh, and lots of wonderful Aussie swearing, some of which I will unashamedly steal for Darleen "Drop Bear" O'Hagan.
V0.6, still niggling at the inevitable corrections and text revisions. And spot rewrites and expansions. The more you look, the more you see.
Al-Khali, Sunday 9th Grune, two-forty-five pm local time
"The Imperial Gate." Wymondham Hargarth said, laconically. Olga looked up at the towering edifice as they passed through the gateway, a gate built to a far greater scale than it strictly needed. She also noted that the vast doors were in very good order. No flaked paint, no rusty hinges that creaked, not hanging at a slant on their mounting points. They even opened smoothly at a touch, each needing only two guardsmen to swing them open, without exerting undue strain. She compared this to a typical city gate in Ankh-Morpork, where as lowly Lance-Constables, she and Irena had once done their turn as Gate Guards. They hadn't even attempted to open or close the old, rotting, rusting gates.
The Klatchian guards recognised the coach with diplomatic plates and the twin hippopotami on the doors, then stepped back and saluted them through.
A wide-open space stood before them, almost a massive open courtyard, the inevitable collonaded and covered walkways following the walls to either side, with the occasional guard-tower breaking the skyline. Such an open space was surprisingly empty of people: Olga had the feeling of passing through a newly-abandoned city. She took in another gateway at the opposite side.
"Gateways all the way, Lady Romanoff." Hargarth remarked. "In Ankh-Morporkian terms, we are still only in the lobby, the space immediately behind the front door to the street."
"So I see."
The next gate opened onto a vista of buildings, minaret towers, and attractively rounded domes. The walls of the Rhoxie and their evenly spaced towers soon fell away to either side, disregarded and dwarfed by the sheer size of what they encompassed.
"Something of a folly and a vanity project." Hargarth remarked. "It takes a rather large slice of the national budget every year to maintain this place."
With the minarets and domes of a temple looming up over there to the right, the massive open courtyard, hard-paved this time, the walls and structures bordering the square being monumental and seemingly designed to dwarf the humans at ground level, Olga again thought of Kremlin Square in Blondograd. She wasn't surprised to pick out what looked like a viewing balcony, a podium, high up on the side of what looked like a palace wall. Some things, she thought, crossed cultures.
"Military parades?" she asked.
"Big ones." Hargarth replied. "Also a strain on national resources."
"Da." Olga said, reflecting on one of many reasons why Rodinia had collapsed, maintaining an Army so large that the nation could not sustain it. The military had thrived, the nation had withered.
Hargarth smiled slightly, as if guessing her thoughts.
Next time, when there is an uncontested Tsar or Tsarina, we do it differently, and we do it better…
Olga pulled herself up, realising that this was the hairstyle talking. Again. Her Third Thoughts tapped her on the metaphorical shoulder.
Irena Politek says that too, only from a different perspective. "We're pretty much sure what went wrong last time. Next time the People and their representative Union of Socialist Soviets will learn from those mistakes, and do it right. The inexorable dialectic of Revolution commands that. "
Again, Olga forced herself to return to the present and not to let herself be intimidated by the scale, the size, the monumental looming structures, of the great palace complex of Klatch. More gates and courtyards followed on each other and became progressively more populated with people. She mentally compared this to the relatively homely and definitely more compact Patrician's Palace in Ankh-Morpork.
"A city within a city." she said, thoughtfully. "Put the Patrician's Palace in here, and it would not even be noticed."
"Indeed, Lady Romanoff." Hargarth agreed. "But this is an argument for small government. Or at least, compact government. When all the decision-making departments are at least in the same building, and not spread out over perhaps twenty-five square miles. This rather tend to hinder swift and efficient decision-making."
Olga worked out the maths.
"Ah. That twice five miles of fertile ground, again."
"Indeed."
They passed on through what was now impeccably kept parkland. If Klatch had ever had its Bloody Stupid Johnson, or perhaps a Brains-Of-A-Donkey ibn-John, he'd had nothing to do with designing or building this. There was a sort of beauty here, everything in proportion, everything well-trimmed, even manicured, everything in its place…. The Witch inside Olga sighed at how it all came over as sterile, at the same time. Even managed nature needed a bit of wilderness.
She noted parties of gardeners. Lots of them. There were deer in the distance. But no obvious deer-droppings on the grass.
Not just an army of gardeners to maintain the estate. Deer, cultivated shrubbery, and foliage do not mix. You need men to keep the deer from the plants you wish to have live. Other men with buckets and spades to promptly tidy up the deer-droppings so that the eye of the Caliph not be offended. Unless they are all slaves – and slaves require feeding, housing and clothing, which it is the owner's responsibility to provide – how big is the wages bill?
And, looming in the distance, what looked like the biggest, most imposing, most ornate, palace of all. Spires, domes and minarets dominated the skyline and the largest dome of all glowed gold in reflected sunlight.
"The Topkapi." Hargarth said. "The Summer Palace, the residence of Prince Khufurah."
Olga noted the patrol of soldiers running out to greet them. They carried the stylised long spear of the Jannitory Guard, with its gleaming spearpoint balanced by the mass of ornate tendrilled plumes at the opposite end. (1) They looked somewhat scary in their determination and demeanour.
"Our escort." he said, unconcerned. "They know we're coming and have been invited. Just…. Remember to wipe your feet on the doormat as you go in?"
Ankh-Morpork, Sunday.
Sam Vimes liked to get out on foot patrols. It was important for him. This was policing, away from managing, guiding, leading, and doing what his Air Watch officers described as "flying a desk". He was at one with Olga and Irena on this. If you had to do it, you had to do it. But better out there doing the job that was in front of you.
And the new girl. It's a hard leap from Sergeant to full officer rank. Fred Colon couldn't do it. It nearly destroyed the Watch. Still, there are enough captains, lieutenants and Inspectors now. Fred's never going to be asked to cover the command desk again, and he's mightily happy not to.
As he proceeded down the Maul towards Sator Square, Vimes considered the commissioned officers available to him.
Carrot. Angua. Pessimal. André. His mind considered their strengths and weaknesses. On the whole, there were more strengths than weaknesses. Vimes felt gruntled about this.(2)
In a few weeks' time, Sybil gets her way and we go on what she tells me is a long-delayed holiday that's going to do you the world of good, Sam. Or so she tells me.
Vimes sighed. Sybil had booked tickets for them both on the new train. The trans-continent express, the one Lipwig and Harry King wants to end up going the whole way across the Disc. Currently it only goes as far Widdershins as this Blondograd place. They want it to go three times as far again and take it to Genua and Californicatia. Too many problems, for now. After Blondograd, the bloody train turns Hubwards and skirts round Cori Celesti, passes through the Hub, and does the grand tour of all those gloomy places with a suicide disposition out on the Widdershins Ocean. The, what do the locals call it, the Balsamic. Swommi. The place that maniac pilot with a screw loose comes from. Any country that calls its capitasl city "Hell's Sink" is one to avoid, to my mind. Hubthingsker. Flat-pack furniture, raw salmon with dill, bloody hot steam baths. Nothingfjord. What's there? Pickled raw herring and very tough parrots. And the Scatterguts. At least the beer's probably pretty good there. Or so they tell me…
Vimes considered a fortnight on board a train. Admittedly a luxury train. The Railway Police on board were probably going to hate him for being there. He saw their point of view. Having the Watch Commander on board as a passenger was from their point of view not going to be fun at all. Vimes winced again. The Widdershins Ocean was the last stop before – if you wanted it – a sea voyage to Agatea. Therefore the train was called The Aurient Express. He hoped a crime would happen on board and break the bloody monotony. Preferably, multiple crimes. A working holiday on the Aurient Express. Perfection.
He turned into Sator Square and saw the crowd. Vimes sighed, and placed the undesired holiday out of his mind. Earlier that day, Vetinari had supported Sybil, and remarked that a holiday away from the city would do him a world of good. And it wasn't as if there were not able subordinates who could command the whole City Watch in his absence. Sergeant Colon, for instance, can rest secure in the knowledge that he will not be asked to step up.
That was in the future. Right now there was policing. Vimes proceeded forwards, unhurriedly, and lit a cigar.
"Get you lovely t-shirts here! Get your hats here! Got Make Ankh-Morpork Great Again! Show you patriotism by buying a hat! Only a dollar each and that's cuttin' me own throat!"
The stall was doing brisk business, Vimes noted, as he shouldered his way forward. Quite a lot of people – well, mainly trolls – had bought the hats. The larger sizes were selling very briskly, in fact. Even so, some trolls were walking around in hats that were several sizes too small for them, but were walking with pride, shoulders held high, so that their knuckles barely dragged on the ground as they walked.
As the crowd cleared around him, leaving more of a space, Vimes read the message on the t-shirts and on the hats – especially the hats – and frowned.
"Available in the good old red white and blue, and also in the official green, grey and black! Dollar-fifty for the t-shirts! And that's cuttin' me own throat… oh, hello, Mr Vimes."
"Throat." Vimes said. He nodded acknowledgement. "What the Hells are you up to now?"
Dibbler beamed, the happy smile of a man who is, at least for now, discovering the dollars are coming his way.
"Patriotic hats and t-shirts, Mr Vimes." Dibbler said, indicating his stock with a long wave of his arm.
"Can I interest you in These Hippos Do Not Run?"
"What, in tissue-thin fabric that dissolves the first time you put it in the wash?" Vimes responded.
Throat Dibbler looked alarmed for an instant. His ratlike face twitched and his eyes darted.
"Not so loud! Anyway, this is quality make!"
Vimes eyeballed Dibbler.
"Got your street vendor's licence yet?" he asked, pleasantly.
"Put the application in, Mr Vimes. Not my fault if the pen-pushers at the Palace have lost the paperwork… that'll be three dollars for the hats, friend, and thank you for shopping at Dibbler's Transient Emporium, come back soon!"
The huge troll moved off grinning in pleasure, proudly donning one of the absurd peaked hats with the minimal forward-facing brims, and handing two more to his older pebbles who had clamoured for them.
"Bright red, I see." Vimes said, wondering how soon the colours would run and what sort of dirty orange, or brown, or pink, the cheap dye would fade to. "With letters on the front. In gold."
"Yes indeed, Mr Vimes!" Dibbler said, triumphantly. "On account of not being able to fit the whole phrase on, see. Make Ankh-Morpork Great Again. The initial letters, see."
"Make Ankh-Morpork Great Again." Vimes repeated, slowly. He studied a hat.
"M.A.G.M.A." he spelt out. "Throat, do you see anything wrong here? Some tiny little detail that's slightly out? I'll let you work it out, shall I? No hurry."
Dibbler turned a hat over in his hands. His lips moved slightly as he did the necessary computation.
"Oh." he said, eventually. "I thought something was wrong when Catterail's sweatshop said they was able to turn them out so quick. They got a dyslexic foreman, ain't they?"
Vimes grinned and patted him on the shoulder.
"Enjoy good business while it lasts." He advised. "Word from the Palace is that the Syrrit emergency's nearly over. The Klatchians are pulling out and going back home. So. No war."
Dibbler pulled a face.
"Bloody diplomacy." he said. "Sometimes it bloody works. But no consideration, diplomats. A decent war's really good for business."
Dibbler looked into Vimes' stony unsmiling face.
"Your ladies of the Air Watch did good, too. Reckon His Lordship is going to deny that air battle never happened?"
"Throat." Vimes said. "It's true there was a little disagreement in the air over Syrrit. And the Klatchians came off worst. Which has made them think twice about invading a neighbour. But that's politics. I'm just glad all my Air Watch made it back."
He thought of Olga Romanoff, currently in Klatch on bloody bloody Vetinari's diplomatic business. At least he, Sam Vimes, had been able to eyeball the Klatchian Ambassador and to point out to him that he expected to see Captain Olga Romanoff back in Ankh-Morpork in good time, with no unpleasantnesses having happened. Because while she may do odd bits of diplomatic work for Lord Vetinati, she is also my Air Watch commanding officer and that makes her a Watchman, are you understanding me?
Vimes felt the woman who had delivered a roundhouse defeat to the Klatchian Air force might not be the most popular person in Al-Khali right now. And what had Vetinari done? Sent her to Al-Khali to talk to the Klatchians on his behalf. Almost as if bloody Vetinari was rubbing it in.
He noted Dibbler selling some more of the hats. To trolls.
"A fine choice of headwear, sir!" Dibbler approved.
The troll grinned, adjusted the set of a smaller cap on his oldest pebble's head, then delivered an affectionate fatherly flick round der ear.
"Now you is educated boy. You go to school with der human children. What dat word spell?" his father asked.
"It spells MAGMA, daddy!"
"Dat der bunny. Der Great God, and also primordial ooze of molten rock what give life to Trolls. It is a good word. You wear dat word wit' pride."
Vimes shook his head disbelievingly.
Bloody Dibbler had somehow managed to come out on top. No wonder the bloody things were selling like hot cakes. Like molten lava, anyway. And lots of humans were buying into commercialised patriotism, too. Which was not illegal. There was nothing to take exception to. Nothing anti-Klatchian, nothing designed to stir up civic unrest. Being patriotic was not illegal. Stupid, yes, but not illegal. Vimes shook his head.
"Enjoy it while it lasts, Throat. By this time tomorrow it's all going to be over." he said, nodded dismissal, and proceeded on. Looking up, he took in an Air Witch patrol about three hundred feet up. And he wondered how Olga was getting on in Klatch.
Ah well. I'll know when she comes back.
Vimes proceeded on across Sator Square.
Al-Khali, Sunday 9th Grune, three-fifteen pm local time
The Janittory Guardsmen formed into rank and file as Hargarth and Olga got out of the coach. Olga stole a glance at the coachman and team, who did not appear unduly perturbed. She also noted the guardsmen were all displaying faces of absolute Klatchian unreadability. She returned a completely poker-faced expression of Rodinian inscrutability, and wondered who might crack first.
She was surprised when the Jannitory officer called his men to attention and then saluted her.
"This one's for you, Lady Romanoff." Hargarth prompted her. "You are in uniform, after all."
Olga returned the Klatchian officer's salute. Honour was satisfied.
Suddenly a fat, fussy little man was running towards them. His face looked anxious, or as much of it as could be seen between beard and turban looked anxious. Olga recognised major-domo in his expression and bearing.
The out-of-breath fat little Klatchian paused, and bowed expressively.
"Please come this way, Offendi, Exalted Sultana." he said. "follow me, if you please. His Serene Excellency is awaiting you. Captain al-Mahdi will escort."
The Jannitory officer stepped forward and saluted again. Olga noted his attitude was one of wary respect, and that he was not-so-discreetly staring at her, as if trying to work her out. She returned his salute, respecting a man who looked like a seasoned fighting officer.
"Horoscho." Olga replied. Just for a second she saw a flicker of understanding on the Klatchian officer's otherwise impassive face. She smiled slightly and said
"У этого солдата ремень не прямой. Это скручено."
Captain Al-Mahdi could not help himself. He looked across to the honour guard provided for Olga and the Ambassador, and noted one of the men was indeed wearing a slightly twisted waist sash.
She smiled again, very slightly.
"But no matter." Olga continued, in Rodinian. "Nichevo. Normal movement and activity can cause a belt to slip. And where did you learn to speak my language, Captain?"
Captain Al-Mahdi bowed his head slightly.
"I served with the Klatchian mission in Blondograd, Lady Romanoff. Learning something of your language, while resident there, made my job a little easier. It was also something to do on those long cold winter nights."
"And so you were detailed to escort me, no doubt as a courtesy. Horoscho. Well, please escort."
Al-Mahdi bowed his head slightly and snapped commands to his men.
"Bravo." Ambassador Hargarth said, as they passed through large and ornate double doors, the Klatchian officer and several soldiers leading, the rest falling into files on either side. "I might have missed that."
"You must pay attention to the small details." Olga replied, as they stepped out into a wide high hall of stunning beauty, testimony to an architect who had got everything absolutely spot-on right. Except, she considered, the little matter of proportion. It all looked as if it had been designed for people twelve feet tall.
"And what small details are here to pay attention to, Lady Romanoff?" Hargarth asked, in a low voice.
"The acoustics, perhaps." Olga said. She looked around, taking in other small details, little flaws in the beauty and harmony that suggested people responsible for these things were letting minor maintenance slip. Here, a couple of missing tiles in a wall mosaic that had not been replaced. There, a crack in the plasterwork, quite high up, that really needed attention. Cobwebs, small, but once seen, impossible to unsee, in harder-to-reach crannies of the building. Olga supposed that the sheer scale of the place meant you couldn't just detail a maid with a feather duster to attend to it. Not when the ceiling corner with the cobwebs on the ornate architrave was twenty feet up. But then, which architect had ever, ever, considered the cleaning staff when designing a building, especially a grandiose vanity project? The sheer size of the place was, she supposed, its own downfall.
"Anything we say here, in however low a voice, must carry." Olga mused, in a normal speaking voice. "Those walkways and galleries and mezzanines, the ones with the extravagant indoor houseplants, would be the ideal place to conceal listeners."
"Indeed, my Lady." Hargarth said. "And of course, other things."
He paused.
"May I draw your attention to the shrubs over there? The Silphium (3) bush. Out in the wild, it's practically extinct, mainly because of goats. In here, it thrives. Used as a spice, a herb, a fragrant resin, and, I am given to understand, a contraceptive, if prepared in the right way. I'm still trying to get the Prince to consent to sending cuttings and seeds to Ankh-Morpork so our experts can join in the conservation effort for a threatened plant species. No luck, alas."
"This place must require a lot of water." Olga said, thoughtfully. Everything outside, for instance, is green. But al-Khali is set in a semi-desert?"
"Underneath us is a hidden underground river." Hargarth replied. "The Seraph who ordered the building of this place capitalised on its presence. Water is diverted and pumped up to feed the needs of the Rhoxxie."
"It must be a mighty underground river." Olga remarked, as they passed a fountain and an indoor pool of the sort that could have comfortably hosted a synchronised swimming competition. Huge lazy carp, looking in this setting like normal goldfish, stirred in among more greenery.
"Truly mighty. Apparently. In caverns measureless to man."
Olga, aware the subject had been changed, joined in the game.
"Has anyone tried to measure them?" Olga asked. "Geologists, geographers? This is the sort of thing the University is trying to work out. How water falls off the side of the Disc all the time, but we never seem to run out."
"The theory that hidden and unknown under-Disc rivers and seas siphon it back through underground channels?" Hargarth replied. "The idea is terricially exciting to the universities, who are seeking concrete proof of such a water system hidden underneath our feet, Unseen University calls this one the Alpha - the first known, linking the river Tsort on the surface with a potential underground sea, many miles below us. Unfortunately, that first Seraph decreed the hidden river remained measureless to man, and decreed anyone going down there with clipboards and measuring instruments was to be put to death as an offence against poetic metaphor. Therefore how long the River Alpha is and where its ultimate source resides are still mysteries. … ah, we have arrived."
Olga estimated perhaps three quarters of an hour had now elapsed since they had left the Embassy. Only now were they arriving at the grandest set of doors of all. Which had a Prince on the other side. Olga took a few deep breaths and replayed her earlier discussion with Vetinari, what to say, how to respond, what avenues to try to steer discussion down, and the limits concerning how far she could negotiate on behalf of Ankh-Morpork. She resolved to leave this last to the Ambassador, as far as she could. At least he'd also been briefed.
Captain al-Mahdi approached her, with wary respect, but also with some authority.
"Esteemed Sultana, we now stand on the threshold of the presence of the Caliph and Seraph." he said. "It is law and custom that none, save his personal guard, go armed in his presence. I must now request that you surrender your personal weapons. They will, of course, be returned to you when you leave."
"So His Serene Highness is to permit me to leave." Olga said. "I did wonder."
She sighed as the remark passed the Captain by.
"But of course, Esteemed Sultana." al-Mahdi replied. "You are a diplomat, here, and diplomats are inviolable."
"And by convention, diplomats do not carry weapons." she agreed, unbuckling her sword belt and handing it over. "These are my personal weapons as a Cossack, of the conferred rank of hetman. You have in your keeping my shashka long sword, and the kijndal short sword. Both swords have a heritage and a history and have been bloodied in battle. Several times. Look after them, Captain al-Mahdi."
Al-Mahdi took the sword belt and, incredibly, bowed.
"It will be as you desire, hetman." he said, in Rodinian. "I do not seek a fight with Cossacks."
"Horoscho." Olga said. She glanced up. The discreet crossbow-armed guards on the mezzanines and walkways were a consideration, too.
"There is one last thing, Esteemed Lady."
Al-Mahdi beckoned a civilian over. He carried a pen and a notebook and had an expectant look on his face.
"Allow us to write you a receipt, first."
A few minutes later, the great doors opened.
Olga tried not to blink. She'd expected another over-scale reception room, a long walk down a pillared aisle leading her to a throne, a mighty ceiling vaulting overhead, light pouring in from high tall arched windows set high in the walls.
She had not expected to go outdoors again and to find a garden. A small one, but perfectly arranged, exquisitely landscaped, no plant failing, and nothing out of place. The scent of a dozen different flowers in bloom came to her. And there were people in it. One was a large, wide, casually dressed Klatchian in his possible late fifties, hair and beard greying and impeccably cut, a man who would have been lean and powerful in his youth but whose body now advertised the after-effects of lots of good meals. If it wasn't for the aura of power and presence around him, of focused intelligence, Olga might have taken him for a wizard. He certainly had the approved build.
"Ah, my Lord Why-mond-Ham Coss-Tessy!" he called, as Hargarth bowed. "Welcome to my humble home! And to your colleague. Pardon me, but do I address you as Mistress, as befits a Witch, or as Captain, which befits your City Watch rank, or as My Lady, befitting your noble status as a daughter of the House of Romanoff, one in direct descent from the last of the Tsars?"
Olga found herself making the witch bow. It seemed most appropriate.
She also glimpsed slight movement in the greenery, not in keeping with the natural movement of plants in a slight breeze, the colours slightly out. Hidden guards.
"Your Serenity." Olga said, not sure of the correct form of address, but deciding to be definite. "In this context, Captain Romanoff, as I am here at the direction of Lord Vetinari, and I carry his despatches and his personal regards to you?"
She patted the ornate messenger satchel at her hip.
Prince Khufurah smiled genially. Olga watched his eyes. Shrewd, assessing, the suspicion of hidden depths. She reminded herself this man had ruled Klatch for a long time and had survived several attempts at assassination and deposition. This was only the latest one.
"In good time, My Lady Captain." he said. He gestured welcome.
"Please come and be seated. Take your ease."
The seats were surprisingly comfortable. Olga found herself appreciating their design, and irrelevantly wondered if she could buy something similar in Ankh-Morpork. For the garden. In the family house she and Eddie were now committed to buy. Which should have a garden. For the children. We can between us stretch to a deposit. Then there is the mortgage…
Drinks were called for. There was giggling from the others present in the garden, who had been told to move to a distance to allow their Lord to deal with affairs of state. Olga tried to work out which were wives and which were merely concubines, although the fat man with the high voice and no beard or moustache had a role which took very little working out. She concluded the older and more ornately dressed ones were wives, and the younger ones wearing various degrees of less – although the less was no less rich and expensive-looking – would be the concubines. And several of them were regarding Olga with great interest.
"Why-mond-ham, old friend." Khufurah said. They shook hands, informally. Olga reflected that long-standing Ambassadors became more than that to their host countries, especially when they were of the same age and generation. It made international understanding easier.
"How long is it now that we've known each other?"
"Forty years, possibly." the Ambassador replied, drily. "And you still haven't got the hang of how to pronounce Windham."
Khufurah shrugged.
"Ankh-Morporkian names." he said. "Especially from your Shires. I rather suspect that like many other things, you do this purely to confuse foreigners."
He grinned again. Olga tried to read him with Witch-senses; she got the impression of a man who could act the part of a genial outgoing host full of bonhomie, a man with no cares or worries. Which, her Second Thoughts reminded her, was partially true. She read recent great worry, stress, uncertainty. But that load was receding into the past now, replaced with relief, with…. regret?
She wondered about the regret. And tried to shut out the way the chattering women were treating her as an object of interest, pointing to her, discussing her, patting their hair…
"Anyway, Why-mond-ham. I regret having had to delay our meeting today. Matters of state, important business."
He smiled again.
"Among other things, I had to re-organise the upper echelons of the Air Force, which has somewhat underperformed in the last few days."
He nodded to Olga. She looked back, impassively.
"Ah. Am I allowed to inquire into how many senior officers were sent on gardening leave, or else retired?" Hargarth asked. "This is superlative sherbert, by the way."
"Retired with what might be described as a Klatchian Handshake(4)?" Khufurah responded. He glanced down to a heavy-looking small sack at his feet, a leather sack tied at the neck. There were what looked like bloodstains on the material. Olga noted that the nearby earth appeared to have been disturbed, raked over, and covered with fresh dry soil.
"As for gardening leave, a certain amount of digging, followed by fertilisation of the soil, was a key part of several interviews, certainly."
Khufurah idly kicked the sack. It clinked.
"This creates a problem, in that the most senior officer in the Air Force at present is a Wing-Commander, who I am satisfied was blameless in the recent coup attempt."
He looked at Olga, searchingly.
"My Lady Captain. You created an Air Force out of nothing, where previously none existed. I bow to your ability and competence. Especially over the last two days and the substantial reduction of my nation's air assets, brought about by your command."
He gave her another searching look.
"What would your advice be for reforming my Air Force? I have to confess I am new to this sort of question."
Olga tried not to blink. Especially since the large fat eunuch and at least two of the women were shyly drawing closer, clearly fascinated with her. Khufurah seemed to be completely oblivious.
"Sir? Most of the destruction was carried out by operatives from the Guild of Assassins. For every carpet we forced to the ground in bat.. confrontation… yesterday, they destroyed four on the ground."
Khufurah flashed his friendly engaging smile again.
"Yes. I understand the Assassins concerned have returned to Ankh-Morpork amazingly quickly after a successful mission. Almost as if they had wings, and could fly."
Khufurah gave Olga another appraising look. She responded with Rodinian impassivity. He looked away.
"Which reminds me, Why-mond-ham. Please communicate to the Guild that we have decided to adjust the price on the heads of Mrs Lensen and Mrs Herschowitz by a factor of four? It has been a long time since we set the price, after all, and I consider we should adjust for inflation.(5) I'll give you a copy of the official decree to send back."
"Have you prepared wanted posters?" Olga could not resist saying. "I understand Mariella and Rivka make a hobby of collecting them."
Khufurah gave her a long searching look, and then burst out laughing.
"Increasing the price does not, of course, mean there is a greater possibility of actually taking their heads." he remarked. "And frankly I'd be sorry to. By all accounts they are engaging and pleasant young ladies. I just wish they'd work off their natural aggression somewhere else than in Klatch."
He became serious again.
"How would you reform my Air Force, Lady Captain? Are there any general ideas you might furnish?"
Olga considered.
"Promote your best squadron leaders to the next highest level." she advised him. "Then take the most promising pilot officers and flight-commanders, ones with experience, and make them into squadron leaders. This then allows you to form new squadrons around a cadre of skilled and experienced leaders who can guide, lead and set expectations to the new fliers. How good is your wing-commander? I read that he is loyal to you. But would he be competent at the higher level? If he is, make him at least a junior general. If he is not, still make him a general, but take care to surround him with staff who can think. Plan. Organise. Draw them in from elsewhere in your Army is you have to, but give him good and talented staff officers. People who understand the importance of logistics. If those staff officers have never flown before, give them air experience, as passengers and aircrew, so they know the life and duties of a pilot and what is expected of pilots…."
Olga found herself coming to a necessary halt.
Khufurah nodded, expectantly.
"Mustafa, what are you doing?" he asked, tolerantly.
The fat eunuch was patting and stroking Olga's hair; one of the senior court ladies was openly admiring and stroking the Bun of Steel from the other side. Others were clustered around, shyly observing from a distance.
The eunuch bowed and spoke in fast, quick, high-pitched Klatchian. Khufurah replied, indulgently.
"Lady Olga, my lady Sorchaya is very taken with the way you have your hair styled." He explained. "She is my senior wife, by the way. She is asking if she can have her hair styled like yours, as she considers it impressive and regal. Would you consent? Mustafa is a skilled maker-of-hairstyles, by the way, One of his duties in the seraglio."
Olga looked into the face of Lady Sorchaya, smiled, and nodded. Sorchaya smiled back in happy thanks. Then she found herself in the middle of an impromptu seraglio hairstyling session, as the ladies crowded around her. And she still had to talk to Khufurah.
"I find that hairstyle impressive and regal." Khufurah remarked. "No wonder Havelock sent you. That style will look good on Sorchaya, when she sits in state beside me. I believe that is the pompadour style favoured by titled and noble ladies of Far Überwald?(6)"
"Da. It goes back for generations in my family."
Khufurah smiled again.
"Tsar Catherine the Irritable wore her hair like that. A great leader, who brought the Rimwards border of the Rodinian Empire to meet the Hubwards border of the Klatchian Empire. Do you know, in her portraits she even looks a little like you?"
Olga tried not to look uncomfortable.
"Da, Seraph. She is an ancestor. It would be surprising if there were no resemblance. And I understand there were misunderstandings in the time of Tsarina Ekatarinya."
Khufurah grinned.
"Oh, Klatch and Rodinia fully understood each other. Tsar Catherine left a legacy behind when she populated the new territory, Kazakhstan, with horse-tribes loyal to her. They were given the land as their own, on the understanding they defended Rodinia from Klatch in one direction and Muntab in the other." (7) Khufurah remarked. "And Rodinia in that form is long gone, but the Cossacks remain. In Khazakhstan."
Ollga smiled a satisfied smile. Khazakhstan was, in its way, strategic. Once Klatch and Muntab had been a coherent whole, part of the same Klatchian Empire. When her ancestor had captured this territory and given it to the Cossacks as theirs forever, it had split greater Klatch in two. Muntab had then decided on independence and its own minor Theocratic Empire. Cossacks had then been a thorn in the side of both Empires simultaneously and happily fought both, even today. The threat of Cossacks was another reason why the on-paper-massive Klatchian Army had to be split across several land borders. Keeping the Klatchian Army too big to afford and for it to be split up around the borders of its Empire, covering multiple threats, constituted an Ankh-Morporkian foreign policy objective. Vetinari considered this cheaper, and more cost-effective, than keeping massive armies of his own. (8)
"Da. After our witch-training in Lancre ended, Irena and myself went to the Vulga host, who trained us and accepted us as Cossacks while we served them as Witches. I still carry the swords they gave me."
"And thus your Air Force has not only a Rodinian but a Cossack fighting streak." Khufurah remarked. He looked faraway and reflective for a moment.
"How many separate nationalities are there in your command, Lady Captain?"
Olga relaxed. This was not secret or sensitive.
"Fourteen, at the last count. Rodinians are the largest grouping. My trusted senior sergeants are from Überwald and Lancre. There are pilots from Fourecks, the Foggy Islands, the Swommi country, Lower Aceria and very recently from Rimwards Howondaland and Agatea. My Technical Sergeant, one of my very best people on the ground, was born in Borogravia. I do also like to stress that we do also have native Ankh-Morporkians."
She carefully omitted her own Klatchians. This was diplomacy, after all. Olga permitted herself a glance at the way the tall and stately Lady Sorchaya was becoming a mirror of herself, as the other court ladies, bored by political talk, were ooh'ing and ahh'ing. That eunuch Mustafa really was a born hairstylist…
Then she turned from the distraction, wondering how many of the fluffy-brained concubines had been here earlier to witness at least one execution, and how they'd responded to that. She sighed, suspecting they'd been cheering.
"So many nationalities." Khufurah said, thoughtfully. "And so many species, lady Captain? You have Dwarfs, Goblins and the pixie people working for you?"
"Nac mac Feegle." she corrected him. "Sir, the word "pixie" should perhaps be pronounced "pictsie"?"
Khufurah smiled. There was a hint of tired sadness there.
"Ah. Another why-mond-ham. Pict-see." Then he became serious again.
"So many species and nationalities. And you make it work. Formidably so. Perhaps this is a smaller picture of Ankh-Morpork. Everybody is welcomed. Everybody finds a place. Everybody brings a skill, a talent, a way of thinking. Innovation happens and is encouraged."
He sighed.
"Why-mond-ham, did I tell you that out in the Circle Sea this morning, way outside our territorial waters, a flotilla of our ships encountered a squadron of your ships? Oh, no naval battle ensued. Thankfully. But our warships have sails. Some are slave-rowed galleys. These are designs which have served our people well for centuries, perhaps millenia, and we have seen no reason to change and had no incentive to design better, no reason to improve. Your ships, on the other hand. Smaller in number, but powered by steam, like your Rail Ways but adapted to the ocean. Therefore faster. Armour-clad, as the power of steam enavbles them to carry greater weight. And fitted with artillery. Like Barking Dogs, only reliable and better. My admiral was clever and cautious. He saluted them, and gave way, but watched from a distance, sending carpet flights with the intelligence of their presence. I believe that flotilla is, very carefully, staying well outside Klatchian territorial waters, and was out there to be seen."
He sighed.
"Our technology and technomancy were once the most advanced in the world and were for hundreds, thousands, of years. In a mere three decades, since Leshp, you have outstripped us. You are far in excess of us. We have stagnated. This country remains what it has been for centuries. Inward-looking. Insular. We have been living on past glories and, like a spendthrift who refuses to face reality, we now find the bank account is empty and the bank manager, so to speak, is calling in the overdraft."
They use their Air Force on board ships to scout and fly messages, Olga thought. Harrap wants this in principle, but he is bound to the old superstition that women at sea are bad luck. Here we lag behind them. Perhaps this is a job to assign to our Auxiliaries, who are men. Admiral Harrap cannot object to male pilots aboard his ships. I will speak to Mr Vimes and to Sunray.
"What can we offer?" Hargarth said, quietly. "You are saying any outright war would be ruinous for Klatch. Lord Vetinari believes it would also damage Ankh-Morpork. Therefore sensible men – and women – should avoid this. Where possible, we should seek to work together."
Khufurah sighed again.
"I believe you." he said. "The Lady Captain has given full and honest advice as to how to rebuild my Air Force, even though keeping it weak and ineffectual would serve her interests more. I would seek greater understanding, Why-mond-ham. However, look at things from my position. Cadram was frightened enough of Ankh-Morpork – for those very reasons - to make a bid to depose me and take the throne. He wished for an all-out war to hit you now, before your nation gets so strong it cannot realistically be defeated. The invasion of Syrrit and Laotan was his pretext. He reasoned that full control of the Rug Road would be economically advantageous to Klatch. At the same time, he identified the Air Watch as a threat. Weakening and destroying you, Lady Captain, was an objective. He sent his younger brother, now deceased, to your city to work on this. He used his high rank in the Air Force to suborn other officers to his scheme, and for them to assist in his coup. Victory would weaken me and the nobles of the Court would acclaim him as Caliph."
Khufurah called for more sherbert.
"His ambitions led to humiliation for Klatch, ignominious retreat from Laotan and Syrrit, and the public rout of our Air Force in what is even now very carefully not being called a battle, followed by the destruction of a not inconsiderable part of its strength on the ground.
"He has caused great damage to Klatch for very little gain. Which reminds me."
Khufurah clapped his hands and called his guard Captain. Al-Madhi listened carefully to instructions and went away.
"Watch carefully." he instructed Olga and Hargarth. "Mustafa, you and the ladies may not wish to see this? You have the same option as before. I will have you called back. No? Very well."
Olga Romanoff had never before met the small, dishevelled-looking, wiry man who swaggered into the audience garden. His skin seemed to be made out of scar tissue, he had a villainous smile that gleamed gold, and the massive sword hanging off his back seemed ludicrously large.
But as he made a token bow to Prince Khufurah, she knew him, instantly, from descriptions and stories.
"My Walidh." Khufurah said. "He serves the same role to me as Sam Vimes does to Havelock, and for the same reasons. One of the very few people who may come armed into my presence."
He turned to the Walidh.
"Is it completed?" he asked.
Seventy-One Hours Ahmed grinned, and lifted the sack. Something about the same size as a football or a large swede was weighting the canvas. Something inside was leaking and staining the burlap.
"It is done, Mighty Offendi." he said. "In accordance with your wishes, I counted seventy-one minutes. Symbolic, sort of. Time was pressing."
Olga noticed the voice was pure Ankh-Morpork.
"Bring out the proof." Khufurah said, in a flat emotionless voice. Seventy-one hours Ahmed reached into the sack. Then he brought out the head. Olga steeled herself to look as the court ladies shrieked in horror.
"Lady Captain, I apologise for this distasteful thing." he said. "But do you recognise this person?"
Olga Romanoff looked into the dead eyes of Prince Cadram ibn-Cadram, the man who the previous day had tried to kill her. As if on cue, the burning pain rose in her left breast and shoulder.
"Da. That is Prince Cadram." she said, wondering why she felt a little compassion. Then she realised this was also Khufurah's nephew, a man who on at least one other occasion, his uncle had spared because he couldn't bring himself to kill a member of his own family. And she felt more compassion for him.
"Will you attest this to Havelock?" Khufurah asked. "And also to Sir Samuel?"
"Da. I will.. That the emergency is over and its prime mover is no more."
Khufurah nodded.
"Return the head to the body, Walidh. And release all for a respectful funeral. Thank you."
Seventy-One Hours Ahmed grinned gold and returned the head to the sack.
He looked at Olga and grinned. His free thumb went up.
"Hey, Air Watch. Air Force Number One! Bloody good fighting, Olga Romanoff!"
Olga grinned back, liking him.
After he left, there was more general discussion.
Olga was asked if she could take a diplomatic protest back. Khufurah read it with a very straight face.
"Just littering?" Olga asked, for clarification. She'd expected there to have been at least one mention of the Heavy Squadron intruding over the Klatchian capital.
"Well. It's going to take a long time to clear up all those newspapers you dropped." Khufurah said. "Assure Havelock I have to be disapproving about the inconvenience and the lack of consideration. And – what do you feed those elephants? Several people were standing directly underneath, and were quite inconvenienced."
"Sir, ask them to send us their laundry bills?" Olga offered.
Khufurah burst out laughing.
"And tell Havelock it's perhaps about time Al-Khali had its own newspaper." he said. "Offler damn the man, he's made it difficult now for me to ban them in this city. Everybody wants one."
As Olga realised she was being dismissed, Khufurah added
"Besides, I just couldn't get five down. It would be good if there was an edition tomorrow, or soon. But this time, get your Heavies to actually land and unload them for sale in the conventional way, could you? Less litter. I understand the airbase at El Qāhira El Dawly is big enough to take them. I'll instruct the base commander there to make all the necessary arrangements and to be hospitable. So Lieutenant Popova will have all the facilities available after a long flight. And congratulations on her promotion, by the way, I'm sure it was fully deserved."
"Perhaps an Al-Khali office of the Times and a local printing business could be established, sir?" Ambassador Hargarth said, smoothly, as Olga reflected on Klatchian intelligence being that good.
A couple of hours later, she was back in Ankh-Morpork, reporting back to Vetinari and passing on despatches from Klatch.
"Welcome back, Olga." Sam Vimes said, very seriously. "Now are you going to take some bloody time to yourself, and come off shift?"
To be completed.
I will come back to this and expand the ending. I just wanted to get something out as it's been far too long – finally got the mojo back. One more chapter should end this story arc….
(1) Recruited from domestic slaves by a past Caliph, who had been impressed by the way they had used their mops to rout an attack by a hand-picked crack commando squad sent by a princely rival to assassinate him. His domestic cleaners had been incensed by the careless way the soldiery had tracked mud into the palace from the garden from which they'd been making a stealthy approach. The Palace Janitors had been having a hard day, and watching some thick bloody squaddies heedlessly rushing in over a Palace floor they'd just spent hours mopping and polishing, can't you bastards change your bloody boots first… well, everybody has a snapping point. The Jannitory Guard had been formed shortly afterwards.
(2) Another of those Discworld opposite-and-equals, like drunk – knurd. Sam Vimes could become less disgruntled by considering the competences of his subordinate officers and Heads of divisions, reflecting hat he'd taught them most of what they knew about policing, that they'd all started as probationary lance-constables and then worked their way up to become Lieutenants and Inspectors and Captains. Sam Vimes was never completely gruntled. But sometimes he could see gruntlement looming on the horizon as a theoretical possibility. Just sometimes. Meanwhile Fred Colon, the Senior Sergeant, could become very gruntled indeed that at some point people like Angua von Überwald, AE Pessimal, André Loudweather and Olga Romanoff had all been Sergeants. Fred argued – not without justification – that their getting that far and thriving with three stripes was all down to him.
(3) silphium is one of the great herbs and spices of antiquity; thought to have gone extinct in North Africa around the last century BC due to overharvesting, desertification, population explosion and of course goats. Wikipedia says: "…an unidentified plant that was used in classical antiquity as a seasoning, perfume, aphrodisiac, and medicine. It also was used as a contraceptive by ancient Greeks and Romans.[3] It was the essential item of trade from the ancient North African city of Cyrene, and was so critical to the Cyrenian economy that most of their coins bore a picture of the plant. The valuable product was the plant's resin (laser, laserpicium, or lasarpicium)."
(4) Some explanation. This is rather like a golden handshake on our world, where an underperforming senior colleague or executive is allowed to retire without fuss or drama on receipt of a large amount of severance pay. Chaps do this for other chaps. It's understood. The Klatchian version involves, perhaps, Prince Khufurah speaking genially and unconfrontationally to, say, an Air Force General who has just allowed a quarter of his fighting strength to be destroyed in a needless battle, and inviting him to relinquish a command to which he might just conceivably have been over-promoted. If you can take this sack of gold dinars and lift it in your hand, it is of course your retirement pension. The catch being that the hand in question has just been severed at the wrist, another Klatchian custom for poor performance in a senior command role. This might be followed up with a genial remark about your getting a long retirement. Precisely fifteen seconds long, just after a final prayer to Offler. Captain al-Mahdi, you have your sword? Insh'Offler.
(5) to my tale Gap Year Adventures, where Mariella and Rivka made their first vist to Klatch and Syrrit.
(6) Olga's hair is based on the court style of the Romanoff dynasty, the last Russian Tsars. Look at photos of Imperial Russian ladies. Or even Captain Kathryn Janeway from Star Trek:Voyager.
(7) As in Russian history on our world – Cossacks defended Imperial Russia's fringe territories and saved the expense of too many permanent garrisons.
(8) Vetinari preferred quality over quantity, in all military matters. A smaller number of soldiers, ships and now an Air Force with the best possible leadership and equipment, he considered, was worth surrendering any numerical superiority for.
Notes Dump: A place protected and guarded against commando raids taking place by night to destroy things before they can get off the ground.
Well, you live and learn. I used to go to a rather good Turkish restaurant on Deansgate, Manchester, called the Topkapi Palace. I wondered about the name in a vague sort of way but never stopped to follow it through. And research for this chapter tells me… it was the palace of the Ottoman Sultans in Istanbul.
Okay, so in my Discworld, Muntab is coming out as the referent for the Turkey/Persia of the Discworld, whereas Klatch is more the Arabian end of the continuum. So "Topkapi" more pedantically belongs there. On the other hand, checking out and researching the Topkapi gives me the inspiration for Khufurah's modest home. (Sultan, four wives and a seraglio).
Disappointingly, the Topkapi, while vast, still only occupies between a quarter and a half of a square mile. So much for "twice five miles of fertile ground", either that or Coleridge couldn't count. Points deducted from his poetic licence, for that.
Also….
In my long family saga "Strandpiel" I have a member of the Zulu Royal Family doing something no Zulu military leader has seriously considered before, so as to give her own Army a bit of punch – cavalry. She supplements her recruitment of a Howondalandian tribe of mounted warriors by bringing in mercenaries to train her own cavalry and to fight for her, the best fighting cavalry on the Disc – Rodinian Cossacks.
I wondered if I was pushing it a bit.
Today I read about Sagallo, also known as Novi Moskva and then Russian Somaliland – Russia's short-lived Imperial adventure to try to establish at least one Russian colony in Africa. This is the sort of history they don't teach you in school.
I now feel better about Cossacks in Africa, knowing there is a historical precedent. (Russia's imperial adventure in Africa failed because of logistic problems – too far from home and the sea route was problematical with the Turks and the British/French capable of blocking the route out of any Russian seaport – the classic warm-water port problem for Russia. Also, it was too soon after the Crimean War and the great Western powers did not welcome Russia into the African country club. Sagallo was soon relinquished and absorbed into French jurisdiction.)
Therefore – my Cossacks will settle in Howondaland at Zulu invitation. Fits the vibe of the Russians sponsoring the Zulu Empire in the 1850's and on, just to piss off the British, and takes the incredible historical sidenote of Russia's African Empire into a Discworld context. Some stories are just made for the Discworld.