The Price of Flight – part twenty-eight
Afterwards
V0.5 -More tweaking and revision of typos and clunky bits. Red face: I am a native English-speaker, whose command of the language is being (diplomatically) corrected from inside the Dutch-speaking world. Thanks to reader a.t. schipperijn. I honestly thought, glancing at the name, this might be a raised eyebrow at the (deliberately) bad Afrikaans I put into Olga's mouth. I worried about that bit: I was wondering how exactly a native Russian-speaker might mangle things in trying to speak her husband's first language, building in a few quirks. But no: European Dutch, not African-Dutch. And, Saffies, I know a braai is not quite the same thing as a barbecue. Forgive the simplification.
Points raised:-
Notified little typos, spelling mistakes and missed capitalisations - thank you for spotting them. All found and fixed, plus "bocks" corrected to "blocks".
Olga's landing at Spa Lane: rewritten to address concerns re flaky English - you were right, it did not read back convincingly and needed more polishing. Asseblief. Verskonings. Dankie. Or even: Alstublieft. Mijn fout. Dank je wel.
The thing with Joan Sanderson-Reeves escribing the Klatchians as "devious beggars" - no, not a misprint. The secret is in a cetain sort of English-ness that feeds back into the Discworld -in a place where so many of its countries are reflections of Roundworld peoples and lands, with all their quirks and peculairities taken Up To Eleven, then Ankh-Morpork, the Shires and Lancre are regions of England with all the knobs turned up. Joan Sanderson-Reeves is a particular sort of Englishwoman with all the knobs pushed up to eleven. I see her as "mittlestadt". English doesn't have a precise term for this sort of middle-classness, but she would be from somewhere towards its upper band. Well-to-do, privately educated, one who has only just, in this chronology, got onto the lower slopes of nobility as a Dame. (in Britain, this is a knighthood conferred on a deserving woman - entry-level nobility, its lowest tier, which is conferred by the monarch, or in this case by Vetinari). Joan would come from a social strata which is constrained by taboos, requirements, unspoken rules and Standards. Standards matter. If you don't meet the Standards, the world will collapse and the Riders of the English Upper Middle-Class Apocalypse will ride out. ( Shame, Guilt, Not In Front of The Servant Classes, and Fitting In.) And one of those taboos involves avoiding swearing and blasphemy. A woman like Joan would have had it drummed into her since birth. in my fics, the closest she gets to a swear is "damn" or "dem". Here, the word "Klatchian Beggars" is completely correct. She really means "Klatchian buggers" but her conditioning is too strong. She's using euphemism - the nearest possible word that has an echo of "buggers", but is not the word itself. You still hear this a lot in well-brought-up Englishwomen of a certain social class.
My Witch Sophie Rawlinson, despite being a Witch who works with horses, uncomplainingly shovels up "horse-apples" in the stables, puts up with the smell of horses "staling", and watches stallions serving mares... then says "Golly-gosh!" a lot. She's like this too. A young woman of a certain, instantly recognisable, "English" social class, in this case the daughter of land-owning gentry in the Shires.
Teeth still being fixed, depressing time at work, lots of reviews and PM's to be dealt with (Mr War, I have not forgotten you. Honestly. And again many thanks to reader "Guest" to whom I cannot reply directly: you remarked about Chapter One (written a long time ago now…)
Is the name "Natasha Vasilisa" correct? In the rest of this story, that person is called "Vasilisa Budonova".
Well… Chapter One was intended to be a standalone, inspired by reading into Russian folklore and witchcraft traditions, for Hogswatch 2018. (OK. It grew).
I'd read the Russian stories about the Baba Yaga, the great and terrible elderly witch who lives reclusively in the deep forest. And how a common theme runs through them: of her being challenged by, or her help is sought by, or else she is outwitted by, the very young maiden Vasilisa. The archetype: the Crone and the Maiden, the Waning Moon and the New Moon. Damn, Terry uses it too: his Baba Yaga, Granny Weatherwax, is subtly challenged by the Vasilisa, Tiffany Aching.
Given that the elderly Witch who gave the first lessons to Olga and Irena has had her Advance Warning and is dying… well, Natalia Svetlanavichniya, the Baba Yaga of Krapovits Oblast, could only be replaced by a Vasilisa. (Olga fills the Mother role in between Crone and Maiden and makes it happen).
You will notice she only appears as a one-line reference in that first story. That was all it needed to make the reference. And as I say I only intended it to be a one-off tale. So the character was not realised at all – she had to be called Vasilisa, as first or second name, and be a young Witch. Didn't expect her to be much more than that.
But tales grow in the telling and "Price of Flight" got longer. This character reappeared. Some time after her original one-line introduction.
I've been getting into Russian naming conventions to try to get it as accurate as possible (great article on tv tropes, that sums up the main points) and it is dawning on me that I may have oversimplified. But anyway. In chapter 13, Vasilisa says of herself, to Semyon:
I am Natasha Vasilisa Danutavichniya Budonava. Vasilisa Danutavichniya will suffice.
Stating her full name begins with Natasha, but pointing out she prefers to be Vasilisa. She is also named as Natasha Vasilisa in Chapter One, as I recall. This is a witch I shall return to…
But, on with the current tale!
In which the story resolves itself.
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.
The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork, Sunday, 5:30pm local time
Lord Vetinari took his time reading the written report from his Ambassador in Al-Khali. After this he perused the latest diplomatic protest. A very small smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.
He raised his head and contemplated Captain Olga Romanoff, who stood at the other side of the desk, one of several people who had been invited to participate in the discussion, drawn from the pool of informal City Council members who had been asked to otherwise wait in the ante-room to the Oblong Office to be called at need. Rufus Drumknott, the effective doorkeeper, stood in his habitual place behind and to the right of the Patrician.
Vetinari took his time in speaking.
"Just littering?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir." Olga confirmed. She kept her face impassive.
Vetinari shook his head.
"Then perhaps the emergency really is almost over." he remarked. "Khufurah's sense of humour is reasserting itself. He can afford to relax and make some inscrutable Klatchian jokes. This is pleasing."
"Sir, we did intrude on their air space." Commander Sir Samuel Vimes said. In moments like this he felt like a normal person in a room full of mathematicians, who were patently waiting for him to keep up while he was frantically counting on his fingers. "I'm told in this new day and age, that's as bad as sending a flotilla of warships into their harbour, or else landing an Army on their coast."
Vimes looked over at Olga, who tried to ignore his searching gaze.
"Indeed, Vimes." Vetinari said, in a level voice. "in this day and age, it may well become commonplace for an Air Force commander to carry the same weight as a General or an Admiral."
He gave Olga an equally frank searching look. Standing between them, she tried not to let any discomfort show, and wondered if this was how a walnut felt when in the jaws of the nutcracker.
"Well, I would not necessarily object to that." remarked Field Marshal Mountjoy-Standish. He gave Olga a nod and a smile that said, without words, I may well end up regarding you as an equal. That idea interests me.
"She certainly thought like a General in that business yesterday." General Tom Wrangle added. "If that had been on the ground, it would just have been a skirmish, with less than a hundred people involved. Just a paragraph in a Regimental Diary. Somehow…." and he paused, as if sorting out his thoughts, "…somehow, that was as significant as if there were ten thousand men on each side. As if you have to scale up. Every ma… woman… you had in the air was worth a thousand on the ground."
He shook his head.
"Fifteen minutes of fighting decided a war. In the old-fashioned way, that would have lasted for months, even years. With thousands killed and wounded. Millions of dollars spent."
"Exactly, General." Vetinari said, with a note of emphasis in his voice.
"Hardly any casualties. A handful of deaths on the Klatchian side." Wrangle said, as if this was a footnote in a Regimental Diary.
Olga looked at him, sharply.
"My information is that twelve men were killed in flying carpet crashes." Vetinari informed her. "Possibly as many again injured in crash-landings."
Olga considered this. The witch in her said you were responsible for deaths. There will be a reckoning. Prepare yourself for this.
"I sincerely regret those deaths, sir." Olga said. "There will be families in Klatch who will grieve."
Vetinari's look was almost sympathetic. Vimes said nothing, but his expression softened a little.
"I understand, Captain Romanoff." he replied. "But you have said yourself, more than once, that flying is a dangerous business and has its price. Sooner or later the bill arrives. And when all is else is said and done, those men were under orders to seek to kill you and your own airwomen."
Olga remembered a new detail.
"And airmen, now." she reminded him.
"Indeed. The Flight Auxiliaries. Who I hear acquitted themselves creditably in active service. You brought everybody home safely. And your wounded pilot is recovering, I trust, and is now going to move to ground duties until she is properly healed?"
Olga sighed. She realised this was an order. The emphatic nod from Sam Vimes made it one.
"Yes, sir. When she reports for duty tomorrow, having assured her husband and children she is safe, she will fly a desk."
"I'd give her time off." Vimes grated. "Except for the fact that right now, I can't spare her."
"Well, I'm sure there will be administrative duties she can perform." Vetinari remarked, equitably.
He turned to Olga again.
"By the way, Captain Romanoff. You found time to restyle your hair, I see?"
"Yes, sir." she replied. "The pompadour styling is uncomfortable. It involves my hair being tightly rolled and bound. Very tightly, so that it also pulls on the scalp beneath. I rather prefer being able to open and close my eyelids, without having to use excessive force."
Olga had managed to let her hair down, had sighed with great relief, and rearranged things in her usual informally bound style. For one thing, it made her feel like Olga Romanoff, Air Watch officer and working Witch, again. And all those intrusive alien-feeling thoughts about Her Serene And Illustrious Imperial Majesty, Tsarina Olga the XXIII, the {{descriptive term, yet to be determined}}, of the House of Romanoff, Little Mother Of All The Rus And Rodinian Peoples, had gone too. (1) It was deeply unsettling. Olga wondered if her father and uncles all thought this way all the time, about what they'd do when they became Tsar. No wonder they were all a little bit embittered and disappointed.
"And I look my age again. Not as if I am prematurely fifty-five years old." she added. She nodded to several semi-understanding men. "Perhaps it is also a weapon. Something to use sparingly, and to bring out of the armoury only at great need."
Vetinari smiled slightly and nodded.
"Oh, yes. The Bun of Steel. I understand from speaking to Witches that there is a belief that form dictates function. The style of one's headwear, perhaps being so close to the centre of mind and being, can shape and influence perceptions. Even a hairstyle, on an appropriately receptive head. I believe the word is headology."
"Shaped like a bloody crown." Sam Vimes grated. Olga tried not to wince. She knew his views on monarchy. And concerning the heads upon which crowns resided. (2)
"Indeed, Sir Samuel." Vetinari said. "It certainly exerted a pleasing effect on the perceptions of those who witnessed it."
He turned to Olga again.
"Captain Romanoff, on your way back to the city, rather than come directly here, I understand you detoured via Spa Lane, and remained there for possibly twenty minutes?"
Olga heard the unspoken question, with its hint of rebuke, and sighed inwardly. This was Vetinari all over. And, damn it, she should have come straight here…
"Da. That is correct." she replied. "Numbers fourteen to eighteen Spa Lane, to be strictly precise. Several reasons. Firstly, Doctor Smith-Rhodes hosts a Sunday afternoon barbecue for her Guild students and other invited guests. My husband and children were present. I wished to reassure him I am unharmed, as I know he worries. Also, my children, who I do like to see occasionally. Prince Khufurah in his kindness asked about them, and sent small gifts to my family. Thirdly, I knew one of my pilots would be there, and I wished to speak to her briefly. Finally, Prince Khufurah made a gift to the people of Ankh-Morpork, in the hope this would usher in a new time of understanding and co-operation between our peoples. As this was delicate and fragile, I wished to pass it into the hands of exactly the right person, who would know best how to deal with it."
Olga paused and added, meaningfully
"Also, on a day of long activity and flying, I was hungry. Johanna runs a good braai. I was able to eat a sandwich, quickly, before resuming my journey here."
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork, possibly an hour earlier.
The afternoon braai was winding down and people, having eaten, were now considering returning home. Conversational groups were still lingering over drinks, and the boys running the barbecue were considering closing it down and performing the obligatory clean-up. Doctor Smith-Rhodes insisted, pointing out that this was not to be left to her domestic staff. We've eaten. We cooked for ourselves, we fended for ourselves, we poured our own drinks. Therefore we clear up after ourselves. I will require three volunteers to do the washing up, and you boys can scrub and wire-brush the grills. Thank you for cooking for us, that was appreciated. But those who run the braai clean the braai afterwards. Essential maintenance. Care of equipment. Dankie.
"Excuse me, Ampie." Rebecka Smith-Rhodes said, uncoupling from him and standing up. "I may be needed."
Pegasi were a common sight over the City these days. But they still had the power to enthral people watching them. A white horse with wings was still something you didn't really get to see at close quarters; they were usually seen from a distance, several hundred feet away, landing only at the Air Station or the Palace. This one was approaching and descending over Nap Hill, drawing lower and closer all the time. Becki had recognised the horse and most crucially the pilot, saw it was coming into a landing circuit, and had made the deduction, after a moment's thought, that it was going to land here. She was, after all, another Service pilot. And if it wasn't for her, it was likely for one of her parents, or at a pinch one of their immediate neighbours.
"Message for you?" Ampie asked.
"Could be." Bekki said, looking up. She noted Vassily and Valla were practically skipping for joy and their father was looking relieved.
"Or it could just be for family." she conceded.
"Mamya's here!" Vassily declared, looking upwards excitedly.
Bekki wondered how long all four of Olga's family could fit onto one Pegasus. Usually Eddie got the pillion seat and one child sat in front of each parent. It worked, for short rides. But the twins were getting bigger.
And now the Pegasus was making its approach run from the top of Spa Lane. She winced, reflecting she'd left her Omnicon upstairs in her room with her service uniform. Ah well, she knew what was needed…
Bekki ran down the garden gesturing and calling to people to stand well back and leave a long clear space for landing. Fortunately they were student Assassins, mainly, who could quickly work out a situation and who knew what was needed.
"Move back. Further!" she called, in Vondalaans and Morporkian, adding "You over there! Yes, you! Move another five yards to your right. Or you could get a hoof in the head! You're in the landing path! Move!"
Then she took her position and hoped she could remember the hand signals. These were to be used when Omnicons were not available between ground and air and a ground controller had to communicate with a pilot, if the landing area threatened hazard. It explained the complicated ballet with the coloured ping-pong bats, which had confused her, until a Tek Dwarf had explained one day what it was for.
"Approach route clear." (Both arms raised and swept wide)
"You are clear to land" (beckoning gesture with both arms raised.)
And then the Pegasus, a big imposing mature stallion, was coming in a few yards above the ground, hooves at head-height, just where somebody standing underneath might have been seriously inconvenienced. What you didn't want was a lot of people standing underneath and not looking up. And those wings were trouble too. Even if the pegasus was mainly gliding in, beating its wings only slowly, they were still big long wings, perhaps ten feet long either side, maybe twelve, with a lot of muscle power behind them. A passing slap from one of those wings would not just hurt. For this reason, the pilot was holding back, waiting for her landing run to be cleared. But she would soon have to land: a Pegasus was capable of many things, but so far nobody had ever been able to make one hover.
As a good landing run cleared and people stood back to admire the spectacle at close quarters, the flying horse landed, cantering to a halt. As the wings folded in, Bekki walked unhurriedly to the pilot.
"Welcome back, Syren." she said. "Good trip?"
Olga Romanoff smiled down.
"Good job, Firebird." she replied, swinging her legs over and dropping down, to where she was engulfed by her excited children.
"Bekki? See the large covered box strapped to the pillion? See if you can get it down, would you, but carefully. Keep it level and upright! Да, Васька, мама пришла домой. Important, Firebird! Да, Валла, твоя мама говорила с важным человеком. Он даже присылал подарки. Hi, Johanna. Is Davinia Bellamy anywhere nearby? Salut, Emmie, chere amie! Can't stay for too long, I need to be on the move again as soon as I can. Eddie? Geliefde. Ek is nog steeds baie lief vir jou, maar Vetinari, hy wag. Huis toe sal jy kinders neem? Praat met mense hier wat ek nodig het. Dan gaan ek weer. Dan huis toe gaan ek. Dankie."
Bekki saw her mother wince. Olga saw this too.
"I know, Johanna." Olga said, hugging children and husband. "Usually I ask you to correct me if it's wrong. And I know my Vondalaans isn't great."
"Getting better." Johanna said, drily. She was helping Bekki to undo straps and knots that were securing a load.
"You said you cennot stay long because you still need to go and see Vetinari. So when I'm ready to go, cen I get the kids home, you'll see me there?" Eddie said, loyally. "Oh, also thet you love me lots. Thenk you."
They kissed quickly.
"Big box." Johanna said. "I take one end, you take the other, we'll lift and take it backwards over Raduga Desh's rump and tail. Ready?"
"Looks like plants of some sort." Bekki observed. "Cacti, some sort of desert plant?"
"Da." Olga said. She smiled to Davinia Bellamy, who was coming over.
"Vinnie? Your department."
The Guild School's botany mistress was frowning down at the box of plants, her curiosity piqued.
"From Klatch?" she asked.
"Da. Personal request from Prince Khufurah. I thought of you. That's why I'm here."
"Helianthus." Davinia said. "Might be an asteriscus, but not one I've seen before. Rosinweed group, possibly…"
Olga smiled.
"Does the word silphium ring any bells?" she asked
Davinia straightened up abruptly.
"You're kidding." She said. "Silphium went extinct nearly fifteen hundred years ago. Desertification, climate change, too many people, and of course goats. You only see references to it in old manuscripts…"
Then she pulled herself up and looked merely astonished.
"Would you be interested in knowing it thrives in Prince Khufurah's palace herbariums?" Olga asked. "One of many things we discussed was that he's interested in commercialising this plant. For it to begin thriving again in something like its native habitat. So I mentioned you're the best horticulturist I know. You and Professor Pennysmart at the university."
Olga patted Davinia on the shoulder.
"We agreed it's time for Klatch and Ankh-Morpork to start co-operating and working together more." she said. "You now have one of the rarest plants in the world in that box."
After a moment, she added a prompt. Davinia was still enthralled by the contents of the large crate and, Olga reckoned, needed a nudge.
"You probably also have a greenhouse to put it in."
Davinia looked stunned.
"There are also bags of seeds in there with the cuttings and the young plants." Olga prompted her. "Just don't let any goats anywhere near. And every so often, the Klatchians are going to politely ask how you're getting on."
"I'd better get these in a greenhouse." Doctor Davinia Bellamy said, beckoning a couple of students to do the carrying.
"Horoscho." Olga said. "International co-operation and understanding. Always better than war."
She turned to Johanna.
"Something I need to ask you. You're a professional Assassin, yes? So you know people who know about poisons? Something I need to check…"
Later, Valla and Johanna helped Olga let her hair down and restyled it to everyday functional. While they did this, she reflected on the afternoon and ate a boerwors-inna-bun. A good one that had absolutely no Dibbler about it in any way, shape, or form.(3) She reflected her husband's people were good at this sort of thing.
The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork
"I see." Vetinari said. Prince Khufurah gifted you several boxes of Klatchian Delight, for yourself and for your children, assuring you it is far, far, superior to the inferior stuff sold in Ankh-Morpork, which he likened to chewing rubber dipped in cheap icing sugar."
"Yes, sir."
"So you took the precaution of asking an Assassin you know and trust to make absolutely sure all that is in there as a flavouring ingredient is sugar and rose water. But to do so discreetly, so as not to give offence."
"Yes, sir." Olga said. "I like Prince Khufurah. I almost trust him."
"Almost." Vetinari repeated. A flicker of a smile played at the corners of his mouth.
"And it passed through the hands of others on the way from the Prince to me." Olga continued. "I know it is a gift sincerely given and is on the balance of probability not likely to be tainted. But I would still like to be sure. Especially before either of my children eat any."
Vetinari nodded.
"A wise precaution, Captain Romanoff. Now, shall we discuss the afternoon as you saw it? This business of co-operation and joint cultural, academic and trading ventures between our nations, for instance."
"Yes, sir. Khufurah explained the many uses in antiquity of the silphium plant and its extracts, and said he suspects many of them have validity still. He proposed, if we can sustain the plant to a point where it can be commercially grown, a joint holding company in which Klatch and Ankh-Morpork each hold fifty per cent of the equity. We have the expertise, he said. They have the silphium."
Vetinari considered this. He nodded.
"I would propose forty-nine percent is vested in each nation." he said. "Two percent should be a controlling vote, held by a third party acceptable to each. As a safeguard. Perhaps a third country with no ties to either. The Kingdom of Lancre, possibly. King Verence is thought of as scrupulously honest and impartial. To such an extent that it is sometimes painful to watch. But we can work out the details later."
He looked down again at the Ambassador's report. Olga suspected this was just for show. Vetinari would have absorbed all the main points and committed them to memory. She thought again; she would not have been surprised if he'd already worked out what the main points were going to be and he didn't even need to look at the report, except perhaps for confirmation. He spoke once, to ask Drumknott to bring in several named people from the waiting room. Then he waited, silently.
"Ah, Mr de Worde. Miss Cripslock. Master Buddony. And Master… Glod, I believe? I have to thank you for so promptly preparing the Klatchian edition of the Times for distribution this morning. An impressive achievement."
"Thank you, sir." Budonny replied. "The big technical problem was designing the typeface, like. Then casting it in the amounts what we needed. But young Glod here did all that. You got him to thank."
The younger Dwarf beamed and blushed from behind his full beard. He was dressed in mail, as befitted a Dwarf. But this was different mail, composed of overlapping crescent scales, looking like the outside of a shark-conscious fish. His helmet was slightly pointier with a single spike on the top, and had an aventail of the same sort of scales, more than chain-mail, less than plate armour, hanging behind. The clothing underneath was less leather and more billowy, appearing to be made of silk. And the boots, whilst iron-shod, had a certain pointiness and curliness about the toes….
Olga remembered something she'd been told about the ethnicity of Dwarfs called Glod. It was unique. It had to do with magic and a dyslexic former Caliph of Klatch who one day was obliged by a God with a supposed sense of humour, who had granted his prayer. To the very letter. (4)
"Indeed, Offendi." Glod ibnGlod said, bowing. "Although the most common form of the Klatchian script has but twenty-eight letters, you still have to take superscript and subscript dots into account. Indeed, some forms of written Klatchian, depending on the local ethnicity, have up to sixty-four. And of course when carving the master forms to make the letters for use in a printing press, you have to take into account they need to be mirror-images of the original Abjad or Abujida letter-forms, which by the way in Klatchian means "true alphabet"…. (5)
"Thank you, Mr Glod." Vetinari said, smoothly. "I'm sure this is a more rewarding occupation than mining sand, which I believe is then exported to Ankh-Morpork for use in cement and concrete."
"You just can't get the tunnels to stay dug, sir." Glod said. "And surface strip-mining is no occupation for a Dwarf."
"Nevertheless, Klatchian dwarfs have discovered how to turn sand into gold. An impressive achievement."
He turned to Budonny.
"Perhaps just as impressive, in its way, than turning lead into gold. Thank you all, gentlemen, Miss Cripslock, for turning out the Klatchian edition so swiftly."
William de Worde nodded thanks.
"We had the downtime on the presses, sir. Mr Glod provided the typesetting. Mr Asif got the human interest stories out of Al-Khali and he wrote them up for us. All we needed to do was to add the big story, and, well, I'm told the free copies are circulating still? Everybody in al-Khali wants to see one?"
"Indeed, Mr de Worde. How soon can you print a second edition?"
"How soon can the city pay for the first edition?" Buddony asked, pointedly. "Five thousand copies. Distributed for free."
Vetinari smoothly ignored this.
"Mr Asif is already on his way back to Al-Khali to resume his duties as Cultural Attaché at the Embassy."
He nodded to Olga.
"One of the Pegasus Service pilots is even as we speak ferrying him over. He may well have arrived by now. Mr Asif has been tasked with speaking to people in Al-Khali who know other people and who can set up a distribution and sales network. Thirty piastres a copy should cover costs, I fancy, and generate a small profit."
He nodded to William and Sacharissa.
"Mr Asif will no doubt be informed when he arrives that Prince Khufurah desires this to be so, and he will find assistance will be offered. Which will, in the fullness of time, include setting up a local printing press."
Vetinari steepled his fingers.
"You can assist and facilitate there. Export the technology. Provide training and expertise, in the spirit of Khufurah's earnest desire for greater mutual co-operation between our nations."
He paused, and looked grave.
"I rather fancy Dwarfs of an entrepreneurial turn of mind could make a profit there. Training costs. Consultancy fees. Sale of technology. Ample to cover the costs of an initial print-run of five thousand free copies, which might be seen as clever marketing, and as promotion of what in the fullness of time would become a lucrative venture for the Times Group of publications. Who would of course own a significant share in a daughter publication in a new country."
He let this sink in. Olga saw Budonny go very quiet, as if considering possibilities. Vetinari now gave the impression of a patient fisherman reeling in a catch.
"Until then, I require the paper to be printed here. Please ensure the answers to today's crossword and other puzzles are included? Khufurah made it clear he could not get the answer to five down. The poor man is vexed by this."
Sacharissa raised an eyebrow to Olga. Olga nodded.
"I'll speak to Lieutenant Popova." she said. "The Heavies, after all, require regular exercise. And Khufurah said he would make an air base available for us to land."
"And what can you tell readers of the Times about your interview with Prince Khufurah, the ruler of Klatch?" Sacharissa said, excitedly. "The Heroine of the Air, victor in the Battle of Syrrit, meets the despot of Klatch and lives to tell the tale! This has got to be front-page news in big type!"
"We'll prepare something suitable for you to print." Vetinari said, quickly. "But may I remind you that Captain Romanoff is yet to completely report to me?"
"That's alright, sir. I can take notes while you talk." Sacharissa said, helpfully.
There was a long silence.
William de Worde filled it.
"The City edition of the Times takes precedence. Obviously." he said.
"Obviously." Vetinari agreed.
"But while it's printing, Mr Glod can be typesetting the Al-Khali Times." William mused. "Then when our print run is done. We can go to print on the Klatchian edition."
"Reckon we can have five thousand copies out by eleven. Maybe midnight." Buddony said.
They both turned to look at Olga. She shrugged.
"I will get the order out to Lieutenant Popova." she said. "All available Heavies to be ready for a night flight to Klatch. Khufurah assured me that he will have an airbase ready to receive us."
"El-Qahira, I believe." Vetinari said. "Capital." (6)
Another knock on the door, answered by Drumknott, heralded Officer Jennifer Johnson of the Pegasus Service. She walked briskly to the desk, stood the regulation six feet away, and saluted.
"Latest despatches from Klatch, sir." she said. "Report that Mr Asif was returned safely, and he is now in conference with several officials from the trade ministry and from the Al-Khali Guild of Merchants. They're all asking how soon the next edition can be in town and they're figuring out ways of distributing it and safeguarding the revenue from sales. Apparently, Prince Khufurah wants it. They are commanded to make it happen."
She handed over the despatches.
"Thank you, Officer Johnson." Vetinari said. "If you would like to go to the staff canteen, I'm sure refreshments can be provided. I'll call for you when a diplomatic bag is prepared for you to take back on your next flight."
"Sir." she said, saluting again. She noted William and Sacharissa, reached into her satchel, and pulled out a fat brown envelope.
"Mr de Worde? The people at the Embassy collated a few more human interest stories for you to put into the next overseas edition. I was asked to return them to you."
"Olga, just how many people have you got right now shuttling between here and Klatch?" Sam Vimes asked.
Olga thought for a moment.
"Including me, possibly eight, either in the air, here, or in Klatch." she said. "Over half the available strength of the Service."
A new thought struck her.
"And I still have two taxi-fares to allocate. One to Cenotia, one to Rimwards Howondaland. Firebird is taking one, but I need a Pegasus for the other."
"Send somebody else." Vimes said. "Don't make me have to pull rank and say you're grounded."
"Maximum effort." Vetinari said. "An extraordinary effort, Captain Romanoff. Still, you should be able to start standing people down soon."
"Thank you, sir." she said. She turned to Jennifer.
"Jayjay. Make this next flight your last mission for today. I know you have been on call for ten hours. Fill in your payslip and leave it on my desk for approval."
"That's regular pay, overtime, flight pay and Pegasus Service premium." Vimes said. He looked at Vetinari. "Together with whatever bonus the Palace approves, naturally."
"All in good time, Commander." Vetinari remarked. He smiled slightly at the Press party.
"I'm sure you have a lot of work ahead in planning the logistics of the next editions of both papers." he said, genially. "Do not let me detain any of you."
The Times party left, Sacharissa still pressing for interviews.
"Later." Olga said. "For now you can go with Jayjay, perhaps. Have a cup of tea. She can give you a human interest story, from the point of view of a Pegasus pilot. Later, perhaps, with me."
They waited for the door to close. Vetinari read the latest short despatches, and smiled. Olga sensed, perhaps, relief there.
"Drumknott? Fetch Professor Stibbons, would you? Thank you."
He turned to Olga again.
Prince Khufurah seems keen on fostering co-operation." he remarked. "In all areas of peaceful endeavour… ah, Professor Stibbons! I apologise for keeping you away from the Sunday afternoon braai and your family. I do require you to speak for the University concerning current affairs."
"Not to worry, sir." Ponder said. "I had an hour or so before I got the call. And there's only so much braaivleiss a man can eat."
Vetinari smiled.
"Ah, not a typical Wizard, then. I understand Arch-Chancellor Ridcully is not of that opinion concerning your wife's Sunday afternoon social barbecues?"
Ponder looked thoughtful for a moment. Mustrum Ridcully was de facto grandfather to his three daughters.(7) It was a role he took seriously, especially where it involved lots of grilled meat produce. Ridcully was a dedicated convert to Vondalaander cuisine. If Johanna knew he was turning up, she requested Dorothea the family cook to seriously scale up the meat order.
"He wasn't able to join us this afternoon, sir. I believe he took the train to Pseudopolis to commiserate with Dean Henry, concerning the government research contracts he lost recently."
Vetinari shook his head.
"Regrettable. Anyway, research is what I'd like to talk to you about. Drumknott? Prepare a clacks to Braseneck University, would you? Requesting Arch-Chancellor Henry to hand over all relevant research, equipment, files and notes, to Unseen University, as discussed, with no great rush, so that continuity of work may be assured. Time its delivery for when both Arch-Chancellors are likely to be in discussion together, if you can? Thank you."
He looked up at Ponder. "By the way, your remarkable middle daughter, such a stellar prospect as an Assassin."
"Sir?" Ponder asked. He was aware Vetinari liked to throw in curve balls like this, what crockett players called googlies, just so he could observe how people reacted, or else just to unsettle them and derail carefully assembled trains of thought.
"I understand a full Assassin with a reputation has taken a shine to her, as the saying goes, and has offered her services as a professional mentor." Vetinari said, genially. "Not every student gets this attention, and to get this offer of professional mentorship at the age of almost-thirteen. Almost unheard of. Mrs Rivka ben-Divorah Herschowitz of Black Widow House, I believe. Remarkable. Perhaps she recognised a kindred spirit? Still, Famke will be one to observe and take notes on, as she matures."
Ponder winced, and caught the looks of sympathy from both Olga and Sam Vimes.
"But, no matter. Captain Romanoff spoke to Prince Khufurah of Klatch earlier today. One of the propositions she brought back was his suggestion that the University of Al-Khali should enter into closer and abiding mutual exchanges of personnel and academic information with Unseen University. Al-Khali's magical faculty does have a reputation for being closed and secretive, led by old set-in-their ways mages who are deeply paranoid, suspicious, somewhat out of touch with emerging trends in magic, personally eccentric, and reluctant to trade information and skills."
Vetinari paused. Ponder could not help himself.
"Sir, you are reading from the correct set of notes there?"
Olga Romanoff supressed a laugh. Ponder could see her shoulders shaking slightly.
"Indeed, Professor. Indeed. Khufurah wishes this to change. He is asking for an exchange programme between the two great Universities. The management of Al-Khali will be instructed to pay heed to his desires. Change is coming. Are you in your turn willing to facilitate greater open-ness on your side?"
Ponder thought back to the events of the last week. His genuine astonishment that the Klatchians also had omniscopes. His realisation that there was so much he didn't know about Klatchian magic. His intellectual curiosity to find out. his desire not to be caught out as they had so recently been caught out. Over omniscopes and Omnicons. We need to know.
"Yes, sir." he said. "Very definitely."
"Khufurah also assured me that greater care will be taken in the selection and vetting of suitable exchange students and research fellows." Olga Romanoff said. "I interpret that as meaning there will be no Barakh-ibn-Cadrams among them. Only, perhaps, people loyal to the current administration."
"A current administration we would rather like to see remaining in place." Vetinari said. "Last week we saw what the alternative would be, and where a Caliph Cadram would have led his nation. Khufurah is infinitely preferable."
"I will do what I can, sir." Ponder said. He remembered just how close he had come to losing a daughter. That focused his mind.
"Capital." Vetinari said. "For the consideration of Arch-Chancellor Ridcully, suggest to him that lucrative government contracts for research and development may well be extended, especially after regrettable security failings at Braseneck led to the termination of certain sensitive projects. These have to go somewhere, so they may as well go to Unseen. One of my responsibilities is to sustain the local economy, after all."
He steepled his fingers again.
Professor, brief me on the progress of what you are calling Project al-Mhiraj? It sounds fascinating."
Ponder relaxed. He was on solid ground here.
"Well, sir, we've been having some truly exciting results. And can I say the insights Technical Sergeant Schilling brought to the team have been a breakthrough? Olga, can we keep her?"
"You mean, on attachment to the University? Da, that can be arranged. But only after her duties to the Air Watch are satisfied. She is valuable to me too, and her Air Watch role takes precedence. But I have no objection to the University rounding out her professional skills."
They discussed Project al-Mhiraj for a while, and Ponder was dismissed, inwardly resolving to grab hold of Famke for a while, if she hadn't already gone back to the School, to ask about this new exciting professional mentor she'd attracted. Gloomily, he thought back to Rivka ben-Divorah, aged thirteen and a regular house-guest at Spa Lane. And some of the Hell she'd raised at the School and elsewhere. Johanna would know… Vetinari raised this. He is saying, in as many words, to keep an eye on this and to stop it getting out of hand.
The last person Vetinari spoke to, at length, was Olga Romanoff. She left the palace to finally go off shift, reflecting on some of the things that had been said during the inquest into the Syrrit Emergency.
She sighed and put some of the uggh stuff out of her mind. At least they were getting the promised new dartboard out of this. So to speak. And tomorrow was a new day. She could still see Vaska and Valla to bed and have a quiet evening with Eddie.
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork. Evening.
Johanna Smith-Rhodes had waved her daughter and sister off on the flight back to Bitterfontein. She had sighed. It was always a wrench to part. Bekki was back for a couple of days every week for her Air Police duties, yes. Parting with Mariella was always a sorrow, as these days they saw each other so rarely. Johanna didn't fully realise how much she missed her sister until they got to spend a couple of days together and had to part. Another Pegasus had arrived for Rivka; with the service stretched so tightly today, it had been Irena Politek, coming back on shift after a few hours sleep, who had arrived to do what they called a taxi-run to Cenotia.
"Don't be a stranger." Johanna said to Rivka. "You're always welcome here. Bring Aaron, I'll put you up."
Johanna had wondered how to approach the other thing; the idea of Rivka giving Famke specialised mentorship hadn't exactly overjoyed her. She reminded herself to tip off Ethylene Glynnie about this new development. We'll know when the bodies start piling up, she decided. And Scary Maries are expressly not School Bullies. Rivka knows that. It's probably like the Heroes' Code of the Barbarians, or something. Strict rules. And they very carefully hide the rulebook and do not allow their teachers access to it. That's probably also a Rule.
She turned her mind to the other thing and returned to her study, where her friend and Guild superior Joan Sanderson-Reeves had turned up with testing kits for common poisons. Johanna then got a mistress-class in testing and detecting for poisons in foodstuffs, from a woman who taught Domestic Science at the Guild School and could safely be said to have written the book on this. Poisons had not been Johanna's specialism: she was a fighter. Joan was the total opposite.
"Olga was right to be cautious." Joan said, carefully drawing on fresh latex gloves. "I'm betting Khufurah was sincere and wishing her well with this stuff. Probably. But as she says, lots of other people handled the boxes, and there are going to be ones who want her dead. And Klatchians are devious beggars. You just never know."
She turned the box of Klatchian Delight over in her hands.
"Still sealed. No puncture marks on the outside where something could have been injected. Always look closely for signs of tampering, m'dear. Any small holes in the box that can't have got there in the normal course of things. You know. Saves a lot of time afterwards. And even if you open it… well, this is where your skills come in. What if it isn't Klatchian Delight in there but two or three annoyed scorpions? Or, given your personal skills and inclinations, a Device? You have to cover all the angles."
Johanna considered a sealed box. She weighed it very carefully in her hands. No pressure switch,no motion or air-pressure sensitive fuse. Or it would have exploded aboard her Pegasus. Which reopens a war. She shook her head.
"The weight would be wrong. Distribution of weight would be wrong. It would weigh heavier on one side, end be off belence."
"So let's open one."
They very carefully unsealed a box. Just cubes of pink gelatinous Klatchian Delight, dusted with the white of confectioner's sugar. They tested this for common poisons. Just sugar. They tested randomly sampled blocks of Klatchian Delight. Just sweets.
Then Joan laughed, delightedly.
"Oh, Khufurah, you old beggar!"
Underneath the sweets, in every box, was a note. It read, in Morporkian;
"My dear Lady Captain. I am not offended or affronted that you checked for poisons. I assure you there is no poison, and everything is safe to eat. I would, however, have thought less of your abilities if the thought had not occurred to you to check first. Havelock is truly lucky to have you in his service. With great respect, Khufurah, Prince and Caliph."
"Double bluff?" Johanna asked.
Joan shook her head.
"Not after he personally signed what the Watch would take to be a confession. That's his personal seal there, look." she said. "Besides, Olga also works for Sam Vimes. Khufurah knows that too. Poison one of his, the Prince is a dead man walking. And, should he threaten Olga's kiddies - well, the Rhoxxie is going to be molten rubble. With Khufurah somewhere underneath it."
They burst into laughter together.
"Haliflax House, isn't it? Runecaster Way? I'll drop this off at Olga's on the way home. Now. What does an old lady have to do round here to get a big glass of gin?"
Johanna called for Claude the butler.
To be continued: including more on why Olga is mightily pissed off with Vetinari. This bit is to be written and expanded as the reward the Patrician gives to the Air Watch.
Notes Dump: A place protected and guarded against commando raids taking place by night to destroy things before they can get off the ground.
Nothing this time – I've put it all at the other end, in the foreword…
(1) If Olga wanted to be a Little Mother of anything at all, it was the multi-national, multi-ethnic and multi-species Air Watch. Even here, she reckoned that Nadezhda "Mother Hen" Popova was far better at the maternal caring pastoral stuff than she was. Nichevo. She had Vassily and Valentina to be a really good mother to. Right now this was all she wanted. Olga The Capable Mother would do, if History wanted a descriptor.
(2) Lady Sybil knew all about this. She had once confided to Olga, in an amused and just between you and me sort of way, that Sam could get grumpy about the City Watch having among its ranks the Crown Princess of Lancre, a girl who one day would be Queen; it had once had as a Special the woman tipped to become the next Paramount Empress of the Zulu Empire; it of course has you, Olga; and did I ever tell you the thing about Carrot? The rumours are quite true, but I warn you he doesn't like to be reminded. "Then we've got Angua and Sally, and of course young Hanna, who are all titled people. Poor Sam. He grumbles that these days he's getting more nobly-born people than the Assassins' Guild, and he thinks he's already got enough court-cards for a hand of Cripple Mr Onion."
(3) There was indeed a Klassie van Djibbler who purveyed street food in Pratoria. His culinary bill of faire included bunny-chow that could hop away of its own accord; suspiciously damp droewors; sweetmeats considered to be not so much koeksisters as ugly sisters; mute and paralysed walky-talkies; bobotie with a bubbling crust; and boerwors that was suspected to be made out of the actual Boer. Klassie was known as Sell-Me-Own-Vrou-To-The-Zulus van Djibbler.
(4) It's in canon. Caliph Creosote, or one of them, wished for the ability to turn everything he touched into gold. He just wasn't good at spelling. To this day the Klatchian city of Al-Ybi has its population of descendants of out-of-place Dwarfs who are faced with having to somehow shore off five hundred feet of bloody sand before they can get down to good honest bedrock. Klatchian Dwarfs are therefore bloody annoyed at having to deal with the technical difficulties of mining in sand.
(5) Really true. I looked up the Arabic alphabet, or alphabets, for this bit. Maybe I have an odd mind but I found it fascinating.
(6) I know. Bonus pun.
(7) go to Strandpiel to see how this came to be.