The Price of Flight 41
Hanna in Love V0.08. Round eight. What do you know... at least two stubborn stealth typos...Stubborn bits of text and that FF problem where bits are randomly chopped out. Here we go again... Minor tweaks . Sure enough... there are the usual depressing crop of errors that will take six or seven revisits to fix. first run: redundancy in the Icelandic removed (thank you!) and an inconsistently applied character name (or two) corrected and standardised. Also - missed a patently bleedingly obvious in-your-face gag about the Discworld's Denmark. Rectified.
If any readers have Icelandic as a first language... please suggest corrections and rewrites? Thank you! Also.. a check in Traffic Stats shows I have Norwegian readers. I'm so sorry - skipped over your entire country in a single paragraph. I will try to do better next time, honestly.
Now I'm on a roll again… just getting on with it and progressing the story. One of several being actively written justnow. I think I've evaded Hanna coming up behind me and demanding action to be taken concerning her storyline. I think. Although I hear her voice telling me this is not efficient and requires remedial attention.
Written in moments of lucidity in between long sleeps . (Long story, awaiting hospital admission for an op. Mindfog applies).
Right here, I feel a travelogue coming on. The Discworld's Scandinavia and "Kola Peninsula" (it's an extension of Siberia, so why not) will figure.
Disclaimer: There will be cross-overs with Michael Moorcock's "Warlord of the Air" trilogy here, but minimal ones. The League of Trans-Temporal Adventurers may not be mentioned, as this would raise even more dense and complex-spin offs. But this crossover became irresistible.
Over the Turnwise Sea, on the far side of the Hub. Approximately eleven in the morning, local time.
Three thousand feet above a dark grey and distinctly unwelcoming sea, Bekki Smith-Rhodes was reminded that while it was late summer in Ankh-Morpork and edging into Autumn, on this side of the Hub and directly opposite, the opposite condition applied and it was deep Winter here. Even the sky above was uniformly grey.
For that reason, Bekki had signalled to Lexi that they should go low to get below the cloud. The two Pegasi spiralled down to about seven hundred feet, Bekki explaining over an open Comms link what they were looking at, getting Lexi used to a completely unfamiliar vista on her first visit.
Below them, visible through the wispy cloud, was the seascape. Bekki explained that the just-barely-visible distant landmasses on the Hubwards horizon, more a suggestion of land where sea met sky, and with the phenomenon of a flat darker cloud spreading out like a tabletop, were the islands of the Skaggeraks, from this height over a hundred miles away. That smear of very dark cloud, Bekki explained, was the smoke of a thousand or more chimneys in a city, rising up to find its own height in a cold sky as heat will.
Bekki frowned, thinking of Bongolfier Devices, hot air balloons. Hot air, enclosed in an envelope and pulling up a basket with people in it. When you thought about things you saw every day and viewed them in a new light, it wasn't such a stretch...
"That's probably Frivoli, the capital city. But we aren't going there yet. Our destination is this way."
The Pegasi flew on. Lexi asked why we came out of Transition over the sea, and not closer to our destination. Bekki accepted this was a good point, and explained it's because a Pegasus needs exercise. Even if you're not rostered on duty, your Pegasus still requires an exercise run every day so as to stay healthy. Just craw-stepping him between destinations isn't nearly enough. So we factor this in. Besides, don't you like the sensation of, you know, just flying? So does your Pegasus.
She explained the Run allowed for us to spend half an hour just flying, at this point.(1) We're on time, no hurry, if it needs it our Navigators can move us on quickly to pick up schedule. So – let's fly.
Twenty minutes of pure flight later, with a new landmass beginning to become visible on the horizon, the two Pegasi were at a steady cruising height of five hundred feet. Bekki looked down, glanced across at Lexi, and waited a few seconds. Just, you know, to see if she'd noticed.
"Firebird, is smoke down below. Looks like boat in trouble, on fire. Should we offer assistance?"
Bekki grinned. Lexi was alert and observing, then.
"Assistance would be wasted, Schpaga. Believe me. But as we overfly it, and fly past the larger vessel following on, the one that isn't on fire, do you see it? - we take off our flying helmets, salute, and we show respect."
She glanced over to her left. Lexi was looking puzzled. She decided to spell it out.
"That's a funeral, Schpaga. Therefore, we show respect."
They performed a salute and a flypast over the burning boat, and exchanged salutes with the members of the funeral party following on in the longship.
Lexi was still puzzled.
"But is waste of good boat?" she asked. "To set fire to it and let it drift and sink?"
Bekki smiled.
"You might as well say a coffin is a waste of good wood, if all we're going to do with it is bury it in the ground to rot." she said, practically. "Lexi, you're a witch. You must have attended a death? So you must know a funeral isn't about the dead person, it's about everyone left behind? They want to know they've done the very best they can at the end. Hence, the ship-burial. Tradition round here."
"Da." Lexi said, as she watched the smoke on the water recede away from them. A trace of the fire reflected on a bank of low-hanging cloud above. This was somehow fitting and right.
"I remember the Babayaga saying "похороны для живых". And was at her own funeral."(2)
"Funerals are for the living." Bekki agreed. "Pokhorony dlya zhivykh."
Lexi again looked puzzled.
"But is not big boat." she said. "Perhaps rowing boat, if that."
Bekki shrugged.
"Well, maybe he wasn't a particularly distinguished warrior." she said, practically. "Besides, wood's not cheap. They have to import it."
They flew on towards a landfall in Island. After a while, a town became visible. As they flew on towards the port, Bekki explained this was Wreckjavik, the principal settlement and capital of the island state.
"First stop is to deliver and collect post." Bekki said. She focused and retrieved a name. "The Pósthús og Almennar Verslanir."
They flew over the land, descending low enough to read the large name-board over what looked like a boatyard. It read "Snori Útfararstjórisson. Útfararstjóri. (Einnig, skipasmiðir.)" (3)
On the other side was a broad wide street, empty of traffic. They cantered down the street, taking in well-kept and brightly-painted buildings, aware of the appreciative people coming out to meet them. Pegasi always provoked this reaction. There was a larger crowd outside one more central building, which carried a sign painted red with a symbolic post-horn. The sign advertised the premises as Almennar Verslanir og Islandspósthús. Quite a lot of people were gathered there and waiting with purpose. They brightened with anticipation when they saw the approaching Pegasi, which were laden, behind the saddles, with mail-sacks.
"We're here." Bekki said to Lexi. She dismounted, and exchanged greetings with the waiting people.
"This is the Central Post Office and General Stores." she explained to Lexi. "Emphasis on General Stores. Not a great deal goes in and out by air mail, small country, but everybody knows it arrives on a Wednesday morning. Hence the queue."
Lexi looked around her. The current fashion trend in Island appeared to be for chain-mail, leather, and horned helmets. Even on the women. Axes seemed to be a fashion accessory. And not just on the Dwarfs. Where there wasn't an armour and axes motif going on, there was a marked preference for big colourful woollen jerseys and brightly patterned skirts.
"Hvar er ljóshærða valkyrjan í dag?" a woman asked Bekki, politely. She looked at Lexi. "Við þekkjum þig, en það er ný stelpa?"
Bekki smiled back, having got about a third of what had been said. She sensed she'd got the essential third. "Valkyrie" was the same in a lot of languages, after all, and "hvar" was a back-of-the-throat away from "waar" or even "where". "i dag", of course, was "today." As in Vondalaans.
Bekki, recognising this was a Wednesday morning regular with a son in Ankh-Morpork, hoped the essential third of her reply would be understood. She tried several languages.
"Hanna is met verlof. Dit is Alexandra. Sy is nuut." she replied, in Vondalaans. It was a long shot. Hanna could get by in Islandic. But she'd been doing this Run for a long time now. Hanna had a grasp of Hubbish languages. Bekki was new to it. But she'd grasped that common words cropped up more often than you'd think.
The woman concentrated.
"Fer-loff." she said. Then comprehension hit. "Ah. Loff. Leyfi!"
"Leyfi." Bekki agreed. "Verlof. Leave."
She smiled at Lexi.
"Noot. Hún er ný." the woman in the horned helmet said, indicating Lexi.
"Ja, sy is nuut. She is new." Bekki agreed. Errr... Hún er ný."
Understanding having been gained, they left the Pegasi with their Feegle on guard, and went into the post office with the mail sacks. Here there was another upsurge of expectation.
Lexi frowned.
"This is Post Office?" she asked, taking in the undeniable fact that the place was about ninety per cent grocery store, hardware store and ship's chandler.
Bekki grinned.
"We've got a place like this in Howondaland." she explained. "Viani's General Stores. He also does incoming and outgoing post for collection. A bakkie comes in from Caarp Town two or three times a week.(4) In here, there's a room round the back where it gets sorted, and whoever's going out from here into the Island takes whatever mail is going their way and brings back outgoing post. Anything local for Wreckyavik just gets handed out over the counter to the people who are waiting for it."
Bekki smiled again.
"Look, this is as near as it gets here to a big city. There are scattered hamlets all over the island and one or two almost-towns, and lots of remote farmsteads, and that's it."
Lexi giggled.
"Mr Groat, he would have fit." she said.
"Well, best Mr Groat doesn't get to know about it." Bekki agreed. "All we need to do here is hand this over, collect outgoing mail and get a signature on the manifest. Then next stop is the Wyrdthing."
After a while, Bekki added:
"That's the political centre. Government. We'll find our Embassy out there too. Then we're done here, and the next stop's Nothingfjord."
Lexi frowned.
"But Skaggeraks are nearer?" she asked.
"Yes, they are. But we go there after Nothingfjord. There's a reason."(5)
Bekki handed over the incoming mail, collected a sack for return to Ankh-Morpork, politely fielded inquiries about why Hanna wasn't there, got signatures on documents(6), and left the store as mail-sorting and distribution commenced.
They rode on, past a shop front with a very big window decked in black curtains. Pride of place was given over to a large and ornate boat with a quilted and padded interior in maroon-covered velvet. Brass handles were mounted along the side. A sales notice said
Miðinn til Valhallar, glæsilegasta og virðulegasta ferðin til næsta heims. Ábyrgð eldfim efni notuð í gegn. IS kronur 5,999. (7)
They rode on, to the outskirts of town. This did not take long.
Lake de Konstanz (Lake Konstanza, La Lac Constance de Coverlet) , Überwald:
Gertrude Schilling's good-natured persistence, together with the good working relationship she was building with Captain Oswald Bastable, had paid off. At least, Johanna Smith-Rhodes hoped it was, for the moment, only a good working relationship. Acting as Responsible Person to two Air Witches who had previously been completely innocent of any sort of direct intimate contact with men could be an ask too far.
And neither of them, Johanna reflected, was dense or obtuse or stupid. Anything but. No woman got to be a Witch if she didn't have a very good high-functioning brain. The Air Watch did not recruit people who were slow on the uptake, anyway.
It was just... a paradox. Hanna von Strafenburg had got almost to the age of thirty and men remained a sort of alien species to her. Gertrude Schilling was – only just twenty? - and was every bit as practically clueless. Johanna sighed. She remembered Irena Politek, a woman she had known for a long time, was in her middle thirties. Irena just hadn't really bothered either. But if the stories she was hearing were true, and they had come from good sources, there was something going on in Irena's life too that was challenging her spinster status. And that was also for the very first time.
Johanna reminded herself not to meddle. If Irena wanted to open up about whatever the Hells was going on for her in a remote corner of Far Überwald, she would. No point in forcing it. (8)
She put this firmly out of her mind, and resumed paying attention to the machinery around her, here in the Refinery. This was important and possibly profitable. This was where the Count von Bleibaloon was engaged in distilling and refining the very air around them, splitting it into its component elemental gases. It paid to pay attention what was going on around her. Especially with Gertrude Schilling nearby, who might be naïve about men but who had grasped the essential principles of what was going on in here almost immediately. Ten times faster than Johanna could.
And there was also Ruth, who was utterly fascinated and capable of asking the sort of perceptive questions that could leave their guide flummoxed.
The visiting party had been issued protective helmets, necessary in an environment where any humans were small and vulnerable in a maze of massive tanks and bewilderingly complex-looking piping, meticulously picked out in different identifying colours. The guide had explained the colour-coding was necessary so as to identify which liquid gases were going to which holding and storage tanks. Blue for Wasserstoff, red for Sauerstoff, green for Stickstoff, black for Kohlendioxid, and for the most elusive and hardest to refine of all, white for Sonnestoff, helium, which required special processing.
Johanna considered the protective helmets again. She suspected they'd been repurposed from military use, as they were the classic coalscuttle type, with a rim that flared out a little way over the shoulders and upper back. Somehow, she thought, if you wanted to sum up Überwald in a single image, and especially Prussica, you'd use this helmet.
She also considered that Hanna von Strafenberg, striding a couple of paces ahead, looked as if she had been born to wear this sort of helmet. Put an ornamental spike in the top and it would be a perfect fit. Gertrude Schilling, Borogravian rather than Prussican, just looked a little awkward and uncomfortable in hers.
She looked down. You couldn't fault Überwaldeans for organisation. Ruth had been found a helmet in her size, with the Count explaining he'd remembered there were examples in the chateau's armoury, designed for young children of her age (9), so as to get them accustomed to wearing uniform, you understand, Lady Smith-Rhodes. I hope it's lightweight and comfortable for you, Miss Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons?
Ruth did not seem to be inconvenienced in the helmet. If anything, she was in a state of excitement at being in such an interesting and fascinating place.
Johanna stepped closer to keep an eye on her daughter and if necessary to remind her that all the black-and-yellow safety notices were there for a reason, and not to stray from the walkway, sweetheart. She looked up again. There were indeed men working at height, on upper walkways and in higher paces above. The risk of falling objects was ever-present. And even if it were only a rivet or a washer coming down, it could still hurt.
Somewhere in the background, big powerful steam engines were operating. The smell of oily steam was ever-present, for instance, and the continual background noise became, well, just background noise after a while. Other things were humming at various pitches, and both Gertrude and Hanna had advised her there was magic going on too, as they could taste octarine in the air.
"That's the thaumic separation plant." the Count had advised Hanna. "We divert water from the Lake here, and a specialized staff run it through the thaumic separation chambers. If you care to look at the red tanks, this sector is where we divert the Sauerstoff after purely mechanical separation. As two separate kinds of process are involved, Sauerstoff from the atmospheric distillation process goes to its own tanks. After a while when the tanks are full, we flare most of it back into the atmosphere as it's of limited use... yes, my dear?"
Ruth was holding up a hand.
"Sir, if you're taking the oxygen, the Sauerstoff, out of the atmosphere and making it pure." she said, uncertainly. The others looked at her, interestedly. "My Daddy is a Wizard and he told me about the other sort of oxygen, the Octagen, that's mixed up with it. The isotope. Daddy explained to me how that's important to wizards because of all the things they can do with it. Daddy said it's very expensive to make and to buy."
Ruth paused, uncertainly.
"Perhaps there's a way of separating the various sorts of sauerstoff from each other?" she said. "It seems like a real waste to go to all the trouble to separate it out, only to have to let it all go again. I know from alchemy lessons at school that the different sort of oxygen will have a different weight and, errr, I was thinking about how when it's a liquid you can separate it by weight. Octagen is heavier, so you'd expect it to collect right at the bottom of the tank..."
Ruth tentatively explained how she thought this could be developed further, based on what she'd seen today. The Count von Bleibaloon was looking at her with the sort of expression on his face that adults got when listening to Ruth having an idea. Johanna thought she'd never get tired of watching that sort of face, and felt proud of her daughter.
"That's worth thinking about." Johanna said, recognising a cue. "My husband tells me the economic cost of octagen to Unseen University is several hundred dollars a canister. Their current process for making it takes time and is expensive in terms of money and magic expended. And even then it's only about eighty per cent pure."
She smiled, happily, sensing her sort of opportunity.
"Herr Count, if you can get it to over ninety five percent pure and then sell it to the universities at a reasonable price, and we can work the details out later, they'd buy. You would then recoup profits that could offset the cost of everything else going on here, exploiting the side-enterprises and additional benefits of your work."
She smiled, happily. Profits to the Count, less a facilitation fee for her. A small percentage of quite a lot. She continued reeling him in.
"I have some other observations and ideas, sir." she added, helpfully.
"Firstly, you may not be aware people in the town are saying the air is purer and cleaner, somehow, since you began the Work here. There is talk of people from the cities coming here to take the cure in the wondrous health-giving air of Lake Konstanz. This is good for the local economy, if the tourist trade picks up, as it will."
And you own two local hotels, according to the background check.
"I suspect this is down to the excess of oxygen you are releasing back into the atmosphere, and I recall that, for instance, the Lady Sybil Free Hospital in Ankh-Morpork is using the pure gas, when they can get it, as a curative agent in some cases. It could be that hospitals will buy bottled oxygen for health uses, if assured of a reliable supply?"
Johanna smiled a smile that had dollar signs in it. She decided to broach the big one, just as an aside.
"Sir, another isotope of oxygen is ozone." Ruth said. "I read that some people like to go to the seaside because they think there is more ozone near the sea, and it's good for their health."
"Health spas, perhaps, sir?" Johanna said. She moved swiftly on; she could caution later about ozone being poisonous in excess, if she had to. Maybe a little, a controlled release into the local atmosphere near the Health Spa, a luxury Health Spa with appropriate price rates, so that people can smell just enough ozone... "Also, the Stickstoff in the large green tanks, which I understand is completely a waste-product at this moment. It is separated because it has to be separated, then vented back again. However, I believe there are also useful and potentially very profitable by-products here. But we could discuss them later?"
The Count von Bleiballoon smiled back, regaining his composure. Hanna von Strafenberg, recognising Johanna had her job to do here, permitted herself a slight smile.
"We can make time to discuss your ideas, Lady Smith-Rhodes." he said. "By the way, I understand you are a descendant of Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes? The man who went penniless to Howondaland and several decades later, was a multi-millionaire?"
Johanna smiled a happy smile.
"That is exactly so, Herr Count." she confirmed. "Sir Cecil is my great-grandfather. I became Lady Smith-Rhodes as the baronetcy passed directly down the generations, from him to me."
One third of the reason, anyway. she thought. And in this case, because my father flat-out refused to take a knighthood from Ankh-Morpork and dumped it on me. Bloody Vetinari confirmed he had the right under custom and protocol to gift it to his eldest daughter. I got it. At least all the Count is seeing is "somebody from a family with good ideas about making money", so it's useful for something.
And so the tour proceeded, to a demonstration of the compressor machinery used to liquify atmospheric gases. Ruth had observations to make here, too. So did Gertrude. It was all for the good.
The Wyrdthing, Wreckyavik, Island
"Tread carefully." Bekki advised Lexi. "In fact, we'd better dismount and walk the horses. You'll see why."
The sides of the narrow road were lined with tiny houses, attractively coloured and painted. Up in the manes, Wee Archie and Wee Heinie perked with interest.
"Aye, weel." Wee Archie said. "'tis a step up frae livin' in mushrooms, ye ken."
"Be polite, Archie." Bekki rebuked him. Lexi was looking around her with interest.
"There are Feegle here?" she asked, curiously. Wee Archie and Wee Heinie snorted with irritation.
"These people are nae Feegle." Wee Heinie said. "Just so ye ken, Miss Alexandra. Yon are gnomes."
"Aye, soft hoose-dwellers." Wee Archie said.
Bekki noted some gnomes had emerged. They were wearing what looked like scaled-down chainmail and the inevitable horned helmets and were looking up and scowling at the two Feegle. It was like watching Dwarfs and Trolls meeting, although on a far smaller scale.
"Most of them will be about their jobs just now." Bekki said, cutting in. "fortunately". She smiled down at the suspicious-looking gnomes and indicated herself and Lexi.
"Norn." she said, firmly. "She. Also Norn. So. No trouble."
She glared at the two Feegle, who got the point. There was no further incident.
"There's only one road to the Wyrdthing, it comes through here." she said. "Lexi, you get four sorts of people in Island. This district is called Alfarhol. And yes, Archie, I know what that sounds like. It translates as Gnome-town."
She indicated the growing crowd in front of them.
"Wyrdthing in session." she said. "It's like a combination of parliament and law-courts. Disputes get settled and people make decisions. Any country with an Embassy here is invited to attend. So first thing is, we find the people from Ankh-Morpork."
They walked the Pegasi around the fringes of the crowd, the winged horses attracting the usual attention, until they located the Ankh-Morporkian delegation. They looked down together at the stone circle in the centre of a natural amphitheatre. People were seated or standing on the shallow slopes of the bowl, looking down on proceedings. These included the Ankh-Morporkian diplomatic contingent, who welcomed them warmly. She was politely asked why Sergeant von Strafenberg wasn't present, and she gave the usual careful reply and introduced Lexi.
"Stone circle." Lexi said, doubtfully.
Bekki patted her arm. Witches had mixed feelings about stone circles. What they were, what they did, how they could eff up a broomstick in flight, and all the other implications. It was hard-wired.
Mr Greenland, the Ambassador, smiled benevolently.
"Against all expectations, Officer Mumorovka, this is absolutely non-magical." he reassured her. "The local people insisted. The last thing they wanted to do was to open any sort of doorway or portal. The stones are made of a natural octiron-bearing ore with the metal in high concentration. That rather cancels out the magic, and makes this circle purely ornamental. It's for the look of the thing, really."
Bekki nodded. She watched the activity down in the stone circle. At what could be described as the Altar End, there were... she frowned and counted them – thirteen stone seats, a high-backed seat in the centre and six stools to either side in diminishing order of size to accommodate not just humans, but Trolls, Dwarfs and Gnomes, the four co-sentient peoples who lived here. All seats were occupied by the Aeldormen, the representatives. That was the Wyrdthing itself, the elected assembly.
The current President, occupying the central not-a-throne, raised a hand and intoned a command. The crowd hushed as two teams of six warriors trotted into the circle. It had all the air of a foot-the-ball match about to kick off. There was even a man with a tray secured round his neck trying to sell food to the spectators.
"Sir. What is happening, please?" Lexi asked the Ambassador.
"Oh, the High Court is in session." he replied, cheerfully. "Usually the Court is in recess on a Wednesday, but there's a backlog of cases on, I believe. This is a civil case, Gundarsson v Deirdresdottir. Over disputed ownership of part of a glacier and some hot springs. The chaps down there are the jury. Twelve men good and true, you see. The jury deliberation is about to proceed."
He frowned over at the man with the tray of hot food. Something about him conveyed an inevitable familiarity.
"I don't know if Officer Smith-Rhodes has mentioned it to you, Officer Mumorovka, but if Blood Eagle Dibblosson tries to sell you any hakarl, it's wise to politely refuse."
"We usually have lunch in Frivoli, sir." Bekki said, quickly.
Lexi frowned again as the battle-lines were drawn. Two shield-walls faced each other at opposite ends of the arena. Bekki looked to her right, and frowned. Figures in black. One was leaning on his scythe and watching the arena thoughtfully. A large open space had opened around him. The second was walking unhurriedly towards them. Bekki made the Witch-bow and it was returned. She nudged Lexi, who recognised another witch.
"Ah, Húsfreyja Myrkrannasdottir." the Ambassador said, genially.
She nodded to him. Bekki looked into the gaunt face of an older woman with long unbound hair, once blonde but which had gone to silvery-grey.
"Eldfugl." she said. "Firebird."
She continued, in good Morporkian
"See you brought a new girl."
The local Witch reached out a hand and touched Lexi's cheek. There was a long moment, as an older and a younger witch contemplated each other. She nodded, and withdrew her hand.
"You girls carry medical kits on them flying horses?" the Witch asked. She nodded to Lexi. "Be useful, one of you, and go and get them. We're going to be needed."
The older witch hefted her backpack, meaningfully.
"Three sets of hands is better than one." she remarked. "And you needs the experience, girl. I get Firebird does this sort of thing all the time in Howondaland."
She grinned.
"So she's standing in for Miss Smiling Happiness, is she?" she remarked to Bekki. "Don't need to ask, I get it, that the Valkyrie's dealin' with boyfriend problems. Happens to us all. But ye Gods in Asgard, she took her own sweet time about it."
Bekki watched Lexi's shoulders shake with supressed laughter as she went to get the med kits.
Myrkranna watched her go.
"Got a good one there, Firebird." she remarked. "Give her the experience, get her trained up proper and do something about her constipation problem, she'll be a good Norn."
They watched the jury deliberations begin. Bekki winced. It was like watching fifteen-a-side with weapons, as the two shield-walls closed in what she could not help but think of as a scrum. Or maybe a loose maul.
From somewhere behind them, Feegle voices were cheering the action.
"What is happening, please?" Lexi asked, as she returned with the med-kits. "Apart from big fight, that is."
"Ouch." Bekki said, feelingly. The crowd cheered.
Myrkranna Myrkrannasdottir, a woman who had spent fifteen years living and Witching in Ankh-Morpork(12), grinned at the two visitors.
"Réttarhöld með Bardaga." she explained. "Or as you might say on a Saturday evening around the docks in Dimwell, a right old barney."
Ambassador Greenland smiled serenely.
"Trial by combat." he explained. "A long-established legal principle."
"Ah." Lexi said, still frowning.
"We used to have Trial By Ordeal". Myrkranna explained. "Only that's been phased out, like, as old-fashioned and probably not conducive to a just verdict. This is newer. We bin doing it for about nine hundred years now, give or take a century."
They watched the unfolding fight together.
"'Sides, trial by ordeal allowed too much scope for nobbling the jury." the old Witch observed. "Put the right sort of sigil on your hand, and walkin' ten paces holdin' a bar of red-hot iron is a breeze. Not a mark on you after, the iron cannot burn the innocent, case dismissed."
They listened to the war-cries and the clash of weapons and the cheering of the crowd.
Lexi was still watching in perplexity. The Ambassador explained more.
"Six fighters are acting for the Plaintiff. Six more represent the Defendant." he explained. "In theory, the plaintiff and the defendant should pick up weapons and argue their respective cases directly. But the court does allow proxies."
"Specially as old Freya Deirdresdottir is ninety." Myrkranna agreed. "And Siegfreyd Gundarsson is indisposed, on account of his back playin' up."
"Indeed." the Ambassador agreed. "Officer Mumorovka, may I explain that the case is decided depending on which side has most men still standing at the end of a given time period? Cases can go a l'outrance, to the bitter end, but the Court has signalled that it will accept a majority verdict..."
There were cheers and groans from the crowd. Bekki winced.
"But people get hurt? Even killed?" Lexi asked.
"They volunteer, love." Myrkranna said. "What with the market having contracted for goin' on Viking raids in recent years. We still has lots of Viking warriors what needs to be kept occupied. You can't just sail your longship round the coast no more for a bit of raidin' and pillagin'. The world's moved on, out there. Maybe Nothingfjord now and again, by arrangement, or Chimeria, but not much else. But the lads is still trained for it. So they works for the courts, now."
Conversation stopped as a tall figure in black moved purposely past them.
"LADIES." he said, greeting them in passing. Only the three Witches appeared to notice this.
"Keeps them in practice." Myrkranna said. They silently watched Death reap a soul of one of the luckless fallen.
"I believe a majority verdict has been reached." the Ambassador observed, as the imposing figure on the President's throne raised a hand. "One death either side, but Mr Gundarsson's legal team appears to have sustained more wounds. Verdict in favour of Mrs Deirdresdottir."
Mr Greenland paused and shook his head.
"Of course, there is still the Court of Appeal..."
The President looked in the direction of Myrkranna, and nodded. She bowed back and said
"Grab your bags, girls. This is our cue."
The entry of the witches received cheers, on general principle, and Bekki was reminded of time spent ministering to the local fifteen-a-side team on Saturday. The wounded men on the field of play had the same sort of big uncompromising burly look to them, and the same polite meekness in the face of a confident determined Healthcare Practitioner. She wondered, as she cleaned, stitched and dressed wounds, if this place might benefit from a shipment of fifteen-a-side balls and a rulebook. It would make Trial By Combat marginally less lethal, for one thing.
Bekki was absently aware of the souls of the dead fighters, who just appeared to be standing there, looking expectant and not moving on. Death stood between them, also in no hurry to move on.
She shrugged and got back to work, noting the uninjured jurors had moved on to loud happy back-slapping and a promise of a horn of beer later. She shook her head. Exactly like full-time at a fifteen-a-side game, then.
She counted to ten. Yes, there he was. An older, more extravagantly bearded juror, with Team Captain hanging visibly like a great big label, had moved to Myrkranna and was anxiously asking... she focused and picked out common words, then reassembled them into what made sense in languages she was more fluent in... if Olaf Kevinsson was going to be fit for next week, ma'am. We got the big Ormsdottir v Gerjunargjafiafhakarlisdottir case coming up, and I really need him match-fit...
She shook her head again.
"Looks like I'm done." she said, then spoke in clear slow Morporkian to the patient, telling him not to even think of hefting a shield again till that arm heals, and, oh Hells, do you have Igors here? Then see one. She tried to assemble the essence of her advice in what she hoped was recognisable Islandic, using Vondalaans to give her a crack to insert the unfamiliar language into.
"Gaan sien Igor.... oh hell, how might it go? Farðu til að sjá Igor. Got it? Het dit? Verstaan?"
Her patient nodded fervently and raised the universal thumbs-up.
"Igor Igorsson. já ég skil þig núna, Norn sem ég ber virðingu fyrir!"
Bekki grinned, gathering the answer had been something like "Respected Witch, I will seek out Igor Igorsson right away!", and turned to check her assistant
"Lexi, do you need a hand?" she asked. She tried not to be blatant or obvious about checking the younger girl's work, but still nodded approval. Lexi Mumorovka could do this sort of everyday Witching well enough.
"Is what witch back home, Barbara Borodinska, called tefteli khirurgiya, surgery of meatballs. When she was training me." Lexi said. "Does not need to be pretty. Just fast and good, nothing neglected."
"You got it." Bekki approved.
Lexi, her immaculate uniform now dulled and smeared with blood, scowled down at her patient. She pointed a finger.
"You. Lie here for now. Spear wound in thigh. Do not try to stand, stupid man! Get people later to carry you away. Is not small wound."
The wounded Viking suddenly became very compliant.
Lexi noticed the expectant-looking spirits, who did not seem in a hurry to stray from their late bodies. She frowned with puzzlement.
"Why are they still here?" she asked. "Do they need to see their boat set on fire on the sea before they depart?"
"ACTUALLY, MISS ALEXANDRA VIOLOVNA MUMOROVKA. THE BOAT-BURNING IS SOMETHING THEY'LL TAKE ON TRUST, AND DO NOT NEED TO WITNESS. THEY'RE WAITING FOR SOMETHING ELSE. FOR MY RECORDS, I NEED TO WAIT WITH THEM, SO AS TO FACILITATE THE HANDOVER AND GET SIGNATURES ON THE MANIFEST."
Lexi still looked puzzled. Death appeared to have a kindly expression on his skull. And was the world... slowing? She shrugged. This was the Eternal Now. You got this when Death was near. Everything else stopped for Death. It was a fact of life. Well. Existence, anyway.
"REBECKA, SHE IS NEW TO THIS? GOOD TO MEET YOU AGAIN, BY THE WAY. AS THE MORE EXPERIENCED WITCH, YOU MIGHT WANT TO ENLIGHTEN HER?"
Bekki grinned. She saluted Death, and kindly said:
"Watch the sky, Lexi. You'll see why."
Distant singing in the sky drew closer. The souls of the dead warriors perked up with anticipation and excitement. Bekki watched them giving each other a spectral high-five.
Myrkranna grinned.
"Did well, you two. Thanks. You, young Alexandra. Watch the next bit, and learn. You don't have Valkyries in your country, then?"
Bekki reflected that Lexi was from somewhere a long way further out, possibly almost as far as you could possibly get from here. She frowned again. Valkyries were culture-specific, weren't they? Or was it down to a person's individual genetics, or both? Did Rodinians have Valkyries?
"Hi-o-to – AH!"
Two voices, singing in approximate harmony. And two more flying horses in the sky.
"No wings." Lexi said. "How do they stay up?"
"THE SAME WAY BINKY FLIES, ALEXANDRA. ARRANGEMENTS ARE MADE."
They watched the two Valkyries landing. Bekki grinned in recognition. Of course she'd do the local runs to her homeland. And it wasn't just Air Witches who had preferred wingmates. She smiled at Lexi.
"Ever wondered how Sergeant von Strafenberg got her call-sign?" she asked. "Everybody thought she looked like one, and she'd be an absolute fit in the uniform."
"Even those things, look like very uncomfortable lids to cooking pots?" Lexi said.
"Especially those." Bekki agreed.
"Buggers to wear. Must cause a Hel of a rash. You know, in between. And underneath. Normal bras is bad enough for that." Myrkranna agreed. She had folded her arms and had a benevolent smile on her face.
They watched the two Valkyries dismount. The taller one with the startlingly pale blonde hair dismounted elegantly and gracefully. She took her helmet off and shook out her long blonde hair in a way that would have drawn despairing and heartfelt groans of unfulfillable, unattainable, desire from every man present. If they hadn't been frozen, temporarily, into the Eternal Now on the border between Life and Death.
The second, shorter, and physically more muscular, Valkyrie, the one with the hair colour which is more than brunette but not quite fully-fledged blonde, leapt to the ground and swaggered. Both Valkyries bowed to Death, as professional manners dictated, then turned to face the Witches.
"Be with you in a moment." the beautiful one brusquely said to the waiting spirits. "Got friends over here to say hello to. Witches."
The Valkyrie with the dirty-blonde hair swaggered over.
"Hey, Zhar- ptitsa! Firebird!"
Tatiana Grigorenko, ex-Air Watch and now Valkyrie, engulfed Bekki in a powerful hug. Again, Bekki reflected that for a dead person, Tatiana could hug like a small bear.
Over to the left, Sigrid Helgassdottir (deceased, formerly with the Air Watch) was greeting her former teacher in Witchcraft. There was genuine affection there.
Lexi Mumorovka stood in between, trying to get what was going on. Tatiana looked across to her.
"New girl, is she?"
"First time out." Bekki agreed. She frowned. "Hanna's on leave...errr..."
Tatiana grinned, looked less substantial for a moment, then refocused herself and laughed delightedly.
"Hanna von Strafenberg? She has finally realised about men, and the kopeck has dropped for her? It's about time!"
She said something in Rodinian that Bekki guessed was best left semi-translated, wondering why it sounded strange and different to her ears. Then Tatiana turned to consider Lexi. She swaggered over.
"Гей, ти. Нова дівчина. То ти козак?" she demanded.
Lexi scowled back.
"Да, я казак" she said. "С Байкала. Ты говоришь на странном и плохом родинском языке".(14)
Tatiana shook her head and grinned. Bekki wondered why all of a sudden, something clicked in her head and she was hearing the discussion in Morporkian. Which neither of them was speaking. She put it down to the Eternal Now, which didn't operate to quite the same rules.
"Of course it's diabolical." Tatiana said, taking no offence. "Mainly because I'm not Rodinian, kid. Still a Cossack, when I was alive, but not Rodinian. Never Rodinian. Zaporozhtsi, kid. Heard of us? And you said. Baikal. Where people are really strange!"
She grinned.
"Besides, have you ever thought on that you people are the ones who speak a really bad dialect of Zaporozhtsian? Cuts both ways, kid."
Bekki, who had got the gist of this, looked across to the startlingly blonde Sigrid. She shook her head.
"Here we go again." Sigrid remarked. "It was like this all the time in the Air Watch in the old days. When we were alive. As far as I could tell, they were all Rodinians. No difference, except to the trained observer."
"Errr... will we be waiting long?" one of the deceased warriors asked. Sigrid glowered at him. Tatiana broke off from her bickering with Lexi and scowled.
"Just stand over there and be patient, will you?" Sigrid demanded. "Good grief, he's got the whole of his Afterlife to look forward to and he complains the flight's delayed. Would you credit it?"
"LADIES, I ALSO HAVE A BUSY SCHEDULE TO MEET, SO IF ONE OF YOU CAN SIGN THE MANIFEST? TO SAY TWO SOULS HANDED OVER BY DEATH, AND RECEIVED BY THE ACCREDITED AND AUTHORISED REPRESENTATIVES OF WAR? THANK YOU."
"Good point." Sigrid agreed. She rummaged for a pen. Death produced a clipboard from the recesses of his cloak. "While my wingmate and yours are arguing over who properly counts as Rodinian, and whose version of the language is just a debased dialect..."
"I UNDERSTAND THERE ARE ISSUES ON THE ROUNDWORLD AT PRESENT... WELL, EVENTS IN ONE PHASE OF ITS SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM ARE INTERSECTING WITH THIS PRESENT TIME IN THE DISCWORLD. THE WALLS OF THE WORLDS ARE WEARING THIN, AND LEAKAGE IS OCCURING. THE DISCUSSION BETWEEN MISS GRIGORENKO AND MISS MUMOROVKA IS A REFLECTION OF THIS. THE INFLUENCE IS REACHING THEM." Death remarked, accepting the clipboard back. Sigrid then prompted him with a reminder that this was her pen.
"I UNDERSTAND THE WITCHES OF THE AIR WATCH ARE ESPECIALLY AFFECTED BY THIS IN TERMS OF BAD DREAMS AND PREMONITIONS. REBECKA, YOU MAY WISH TO REPORT THAT TO OLGA ANASTACIA WHEN YOU RETURN?"
Bekki, who had learnt from her father and appreciated the value of an informal and unprompted Rite of AshKente, sincerely thanked Death, and stored the information for debriefing later.
He excused himself and went to find Binky, his job done here.
"Cossack, but no swords?" Lexi asked Tatiana. She grinned back.
"Different uniform. We get spears. Besides, Cossack unto death." Tatiana replied, taking no offence. "I died. For me, no big deal. And most of the time, it causes no issues when you die and your swords are taken up, with honour, to go back to the Ataman and get to be re-awarded to a worthy prospect. That's how you got yours, right? A Mumorov Cossack dies. The swords stay in the clan. That set in your belt's seen a few previous users. That's how it is."
She shrugged.
"There was a battle. During a lightning storm. Swords and armour are made of metal, right? Accident waiting to happen. Accident happened. I died. Olga Anastacia saw to it my swords went back to the Host. One of them was a bit twisted and scorched, but apparently it's been re-forged. They've not been re-awarded yet, but I've got a idea who those swords are going to. I'm happy with that. Really thoughtful of Nad..."
"Causality, Tatiana. Rules." Sigrid reminded her. "Limits as to what we can tell the living."
She grinned at Bekki. "You're good at languages. Being dead makes you better. Right now I'm thinking in Islandic but you're listening in..." she paused. "You're listening in mainly Morporkian. And in Vondalaans. Your head's switching between them and mixing them up. Bilingual people are a bugger to explain this to."
"Valhalla, miss?" one of the dead warriors prompted her, with a pleading note.
Sigrid and Tatiana scowled at him again.
"When we're ready, for goodness sake!"
"It's not as if you've got anywhere else to go today." Tatiana added. "Should imagine diary is a bit empty for this afternoon. So wait. We're talking to an old friend. And new girl, who is Air Watch, as we were. Important. You don't get to talk to the living very much in this job."
"Death's saddling up." Sigrid remarked. "So the fluence is going to be wearing off soon, and we're running out of almost-time."
"Not got long." Tatiana agreed. "Any gossip, Firebird?"
Bekki brought them up to speed on current matters of importance in the Air Watch. They listened, appreciatively.
Tatiana nodded to Lexi.
"I can see where you came from and some of the things you've already done just to get here." (15) she remarked. "Impressive. You do know Olga Anastacia's got you marked down for fast-track promotion? Provided you don't screw it up or get into a crash you can't walk away from, give it twenty years and you'll be running things. Captain Mumorovka. You're Olga's retirement plan. Her long-term investment, sort of."
Lexi tried to give the impression she already knew this. Tatiana ignored Sigrid hissing "Causality! Rules!" at her and added "But right now, you're fourteen. Ground yourself. Spend time with that crazy red-haired kid you know, and for goodness sake let her help you break a few rules, because if you can't do it now, you never will. It'll cure the constipation, for one thing..."
Sigrid nudged her, urgently. Tatiana delivered another crushing hug to Lexi. The two Valkyries returned to their horses and mounted.
"Right. Stop complaining and get aboard. Thank you."
A little after that, the two part harmony of "Hi-Yo-Tah!" resumed from somewhere overhead.
Normal space time reasserted itself, and the world speeded up.
Mr Greenland, the Ankh-Morporkian Ambassador, advised them that in a moment or two, they would be called to the President, to convey Lord Vetinari's greetings from Head Of Government to Head Of Government. May I just brief you first concerning Fishery Protection and Cod Quotas?
Bekki patted the despatch satchel at her hip and sought to remember if there was any Word of Mouth. This was, after all, what they'd come for.
Lake de Konstanz, Überwald:
The visitors had been escorted to a research lab, a clinical and white place away from the background noise, where they witnessed demonstrations of how the Wasserstoff was separated from water. This was overseen by obvious Wizards in white lab-coats and sterile pointy hats.
A controlled demonstration of what might happen if free hydrogen was allowed to catastrophically react with oxygen and recombine back into water was met with noises of appreciation. Johanna took careful mental notes of this. She wondered, idly, as to what might happen if you flooded the client's room with gaseous hydrogen just before dusk and then waited for them to obligingly light a lamp. She tried to estimate how much hydrogen this would need and whether this could be detected.
She noted Ruth, who had been scribbling onto a pad, raise a hand. She smiled as the young Wizard, who wore an Unseen University alumnus badge, went "Errr...". Ruth was asking about the exothermic yield of the explosion, and I've been scaling the calculation up, Mr Wizard, but my Daddy advises me it's stoichiometric and I have to take variable factors into account..."
She shyly showed her workings to the Wizard. He did a double-take at a page clearly in childish handwriting but which was largely composed of numbers and abstract symbols, and went "Errr..." again. Johanna tried not to grin too obviously.
"Oh, I know." Gertrude Schilling said, brightly. She looked down at Ruth's workings on paper and made an appreciative little whistle. "You have to vary the equation for P where P stands for gas pressure, so you get P1, and P2, and P3, and P to the N. The proportions of the two gases in the mix matter too. Then there's temperature variant where if it goes past four hundred degrees it's still not a given there'll be an explosion, but the trigger point T-Delta is when it goes above six hundred degrees, especially if you go past P3 and there's a catalyst present like a plate of very hot steel..."
She smiled at the wizard again.
"By the way, didn't I see you in the High Energy Magic Building a few months ago when we were working out the omniscope thing? You and a few others were wondering about what to do next after you graduated."
"Errr... you're Doctor Schilling." the wizard half-mumbled. He looked down a little. "And, sorry, miss. You're Miss Stibbons. I can place you now. Professor Stibbons' little girl."
"And have you met my Mummy yet?" Ruth said, politely. Johanna looked over and smiled in a friendly way. She indicated that it was okay to talk to strange men if they were Wizards trained by her daddy, nothing dangerous was happening, and if one of her parents or a trusted responsible guardian, like Gertrude, was present. Johanna could convey this to a daughter in a single nod and smile. She also reflected that she hadn't yet worked out how to convey But Ruth, here we are talking about things that explode. I know you're sensible enough not to try this at home, but I'd be really assured if you do not discuss this sort of thing with your sister Famke. Who WILL try this at home.
She watched, as Ruth, with shy diffidence, explained an idea that had just come to her, about how you might be able to propel a rocket, perhaps, if it was fuelled with the two liquid gases which were allowed to mix, in a controlled and regulated way, err, obviously, in some sort of reaction tank, with the expelled water vapour pushing the rocket forwards. After a while, Gertrude started contributing ideas. Johanna noted the listening Wizards and Alchemists seemed too stunned to bother taking notes. If they try this out, she thought, there really will be an enormous bang... She considered intervening at this point. Fortunately, Hanna von Strafenberg got in first, and made a request to view how the theory worked out in practice. Do you have schematics or working models of the way it all works aboard the Luftschiff? After a while, the tour got on schedule again.
Frivoli, in the Skaggeraks. Mid-day by local time.
Bekki stretched her legs underneath the table. Lexi settled herself comfortably on the other side. Bekki reflected that some things made the day, and lunch was one of them. And she'd been understudying Hanna for long enough to realise that you could make time in the course of a Pegasus run. Their next destination would be Hubsvensska, and the people there were understanding, provided you weren't too outrageously late.
And the Skaggeraks was a country worth visiting, no question. It was like Island, one of the parent countries from which people had sailed to colonise the remote island. It had the same social set-up, humans predominating here, but with settled populations of Trolls, the next numerous species, and less Dwarfs than you'd expect. That was, she reflected, probably because this country was fairly flat, with no mountains and barely any hills. Hanna had also said this region was metal-poor. Therefore, no mining of any sort. Nothing to attract Dwarfs. Looking for ore resources to exploit had been one reason why people had gone out to the previously uninhabited Island, in fact. In older days, to everywhere, on the longboats, to go on Viking expeditions. Bekki had gathered, from their audience with the President of Island, that Lord Vetinari politely asked about these things, and trusted that the old days of freelance Viking commercial expeditions were now largely a thing of the past, except by invitation.(16). The biggest issue between Ankh-Morpork and Island, she gathered, was fishing rights, with the President insisting on a two hundred mile exclusion zone in Islandic waters and Ankh-Morpork refusing to accept this. Arguments were still going on. Sometimes, physical arguments.
Still, Bekki reflected, the Skaggeraks were like a more modern version of Island. They spoke a related but different language, they had Frivoli, a far bigger and more modern capital city, and above all, Frivoli had evolved an eating-out culture with lots of attractive cafés and eating places. Which, halfway through the working day on a Pegasus Service run, suited Bekki just fine. Hanna had said that to maintain peak efficiency, we must stop to nourish ourselves. We stop here, where there is det koldebord. Do not make the error of calling it Smörgåsbord in this country. That is the Hubsvensskan word for it and they will notice. They will not spit in the food, but they will contrive to make you eat the lutefisk. "And although, so they claim, they probably have the best beer in the world, we should refrain from alcohol."(17)
Bekki had been pleased to see Lexi had grasped the essential point about lutefisk, and had politely refused the waiter's offer to try some.
"Is like the thing with hakarl in Island." she said. "Do I wish to try local delicacy, shark meat fermented by burying in soft peaty ground for six months and then smoked for another three. At least here, is only herring. But buried in tin until tin is in danger of exploding."
She smiled.
"Is like Klatchians and sheep's eyes. I understand now that every country has its sheep's eyes."
"You got it." Bekki said. "This is one of the first things Hanna wanted me to know about too, the first time I came out here."
Lexi nodded.
"And in your country, when I visit, what is Howondalandian sheep's eye? I hear there are things called mopane worms."
"Famke told you that? Mopane worms are actually legitimate as food. What else did my sister tell you, with a completely straight face, that you must eat when you visit?"
Lexi frowned, then grinned.
"What is "walky-talky", please?"
Bekki explained that walky-talky are chicken feet deep-fried in batter. Lexi nodded, sagely. "Ah. A crunchy sheep's eye. I see."
Lexi looked thoughtful.
"Must return favour to her. I will assure her sakhadzibe and holodets is much sought-after food. Is also made of feet. Also, we have urme, in the Baikal country. Is traditional, but acquired taste."(18)
They set to the cold buffet and open sandwiches. Bekki requested a selection be sent to the two Feegle who were out in the stables, guarding the Pegasi. If they could have a small beer each? When they advise you how small they'd like it, give them half the amount. Thank you. Err. Tak skal du have."
Frivoli." Lexi said. "Could get to like it here."
"This is Frivoli Gardens." Bekki said. "They say you can get any experience you like here."
"Can get any experience?"
Bekki hesitated.
"Well... that sort of thing is at the other end. On the Vesterbro. That's pretty much the after-dark-in-the-Shades Frivoli. And if you want the local Shades, that's Christiana."
Lexi nodded understanding. They set about their koldebord. Bekki tallied the remaining destinations. Hubsvensska, Swommi and the Vortex Plains. And home by late afternoon, Ankh-Morpork time. Kiff.
Lake de Konstanz, Überwald:
Much later in the day, Johanna, Gertrude and Ruth, after dinner, compared notes on the day. All flying had been suspended after a massive thunder and lightning storm started late in the afternoon, and the guests had returned to the chateau.
Gertrude pulled a face.
"Apparently very common round here." she said. "Ossie says it's the price they pay for the location."
"At least it charges the batteries for thaumic splitting." Johanna remarked. "The Igors seemed happy about the weather forecast."
"Swings and roundabouts." Gertrude agreed. "No flying, but they can fill the tanks up with hydrogen. Johanna, you mentioned ideas about what they can use the nitrogen for?"
Johanna grinned.
"Ja." she said. "I clacksed Ponder to see if he can send some technical notes out with our visitor tonight. Hopefully he's getting it together for me, and he'll have the brains to go and see Olga and explain it fits in with the reason why I'm here."
She smiled another happy smile.
"Listen. Ever heard about the nitrogen cycle? And the Malthus theory that human growth can only get so far because the world will run out of basic resources to grow crops, for instance, when you run up against maximum land yield and finite supply of fertiliser? Well, some clever wizards had a theoretical idea..."
She explained this for a while. Gertrude and Ruth asked intelligent questions. Notepads and pens were produced and ideas were sketched out. Gertrude and Ruth asked about some not-quite-chemical-equations that were appearing on the page.
"Still only theoretical." Johanna explained. "But if we can fix the nitrogen and make artificial fertilisers. Get it into a form the land can use. Enrich the earth. Grow more things. Feed more meat animals."
"Wow". Gertrude said.
"Make millions." Johanna said. She paused, feeling more should be said here. "And feed more people." And Ankh-Morpork gets a 51% controlling interest. Not the Prussicans. Who will also get rich without needing to go to war with anyone anywhere.
Gertrude frowned.
"I hope Hanna's okay." she said.
Johanna shrugged.
"They're respecting the rules." she said. "Hanna is with the other ladies who have withdrawn after dinner for a few social hands of cards. That's allowed. She's finding out more about them, about their husbands, and they have yet to discover they're playing a witch at cards. Emmanuelle said Hanna's good. And that it reminded her why magic-users are barred from joining the Gamblers' Guild."
"So she'll make a bonus on her mission pay." Gertrude reflected.
They discussed aspects of the mission for a while longer. Johanna noticed her daughter's shoulders beginning to slump forwards and her eyelids drooping lower.
"Ruth, sweetheart. When you need to go to bed, Mummy and the others have to stay up for a while. Get yourself ready, and you can use the big four-poster bed, the one you can close off with the curtains, and we'll try to be quiet. You do know other people are stopping by for a while. They'll know to be quiet too" Johanna said.
They awaited Hanna's return together. Johanna saw Ruth into bed and did the usual, normal, mother to daughter things. Gertrude wondered, given who Johanna's three daughters were, if that sort of thing, for Johanna, reflected a rare intrusion of everyday normality in her life. Then she switched her communicator on, anticipating a mission update.
Got to end here, so as to get a chapter out. The "travelogue" aspects intruded too much, but I hope this is true to the spirit of the Discworld. The meaningful night will continue in the next chapter, and there will be flashbacks to a typical Pegasus Service mission in the Hubland States. The Discworld Iceland, as you'll probably have gathered, was fun to write and took too much space in a 13,000 word chapter... I just didn't have the heart to trim it. I really couldn't think of too much to say about its "Norway" - Nothingfjord – so I skipped that bit (EDIT - for now?), but Bekki and Lexi did actually go there. Maybe their Pegasi were mobbed by hardy brilliant blue parrots in flight, or something, and Lexi politely declined the offer of rollmop herring. The Eorle of Nothingfjord will of course have noticed the bloodstains (the girls did seek to clean up before their onward flight, but Witch work can get messy). This will have got them Viking-Cred - Vetinari's envoys being obvious sword-maidens arriving on flying white horses, marked with the blood of recent combat. Bekki might have wondered about explaining the recent combat had actually been sombody else's and they'd just been Court-Appointed Expert Witnesses afterwards.
Sweden, Finland and Nearer Siberia are yet to come, I know. As well as a definitive answer to "Do Russian Warriors Get Valkyries?", to which the answer is historically and pleasingly logical.
Ruth and Gertrude having spontaneously come up with the concept of the V1 and V2 rocket missiles is probably not something I'll take further. Hopefully the research Wizards, who took no notes, will forget the possibility was raised and it will remain a bit of mere speculation. (Hanna might wonder about air-to-air missiles, however, and her friend Gertrude might come up with a few tentative sketches.).
South African foodstuffs Famke can bullshit Lexi with: that which is variably called podile (Sepedi); thongolifha (Venda); harurwa (Shona); tsonônô (Sepulana); xipembele (Xitsonga). Basically, the humble stinkbug, dried or deep-fried. (the stinky bit has to be removed first). Afrikaans appears to be "die stinkbesie" or "die stinkgogga". No doubt Lexi will think of a few interesting Rodinian counterparts.
Also noted on re-reading the 40 preceding chapters, looking to get continuity and consistency right: : Noted Sigrid, Air Watch (deceased) and now Valkyrie, gets variable surnames in three different places as if she is the dottir of three different mothers. This will not do as even History Monks would be hard put to manage this - going back to the original "Helgasdottir" and trying to make this invariable!
More coming soon!
(1) Fudging things a little here. Even if there were Pegasi on Roundworld, a flight from Denmark to Iceland will take a lot longer than half an hour. (I've not thought about this too much, I'm just assuming a Pegasus in flight, moving through the air and meeting less resistance, and using its wings rather than its hooves, will move a lot faster even at a "canter" than a galloping horse on land. Three or four times the speed?) It's three hours and twenty minutes, on a typical jet plane, between Copenhagen and Reykjavik. Even allowing for the fact Bekki and Lexi came out of Transition over the sea somewhere between their Discworld equivalents, half an hour to cover that equivalent distance suggests a Pegasus can move faster than an airliner in normal space. This doesn't somehow feel right. Geographically, I'm beginning from the Skaggeraks, Discworld's canonical Denmark, being a peninsular on the Central Continent surrounded by a group of islands (as Denmark is on our world). The furthest and remotest of these islands, isolated and a long way away from the rest... well, it's simply called Island. Discworld's literal-mindedness again. I'm putting "Iceland", on the Discworld, a lot nearer to "Denmark" and even to "Norway" than it is on earth.
(2) For the Babayaga Natalya, go toStrandpiel 2. Although she makes a cameo in this story arc, way back in Chapter One. The relevant bits of Strandpiel 2 just expand that first chapter into a multi-chapter arc all of its own – I had to read the Baba Yaga mythological cycle to realise what a gift all this material offered to expanding "Russian" witchcraft on the Discworld.
(3) Disclaimer: any use of Icelandic comes from Google Translate, general intuition, and a VERY brief introduction to the language at university (many years ago) in a course module about Roots of English, which also covered, equally briefly, things like Old Norse, Old German, Anglo-Saxon and Frisian. (French and Latin were dismissed in about twenty minutes flat, as they merely added vocabulary, and expressly not grammar) Errors may be manifold. Icelandic readers, if any, will see the sense of what I'm writing. If not exactitude.
The Icelandic here is an attempt at Snorri Funeraldirectorsson, Undertakers. (Also, ships built).
(4) For more about Viani's General Stores, that hub of commerce, gossip and occasional mail in the Bitterfontein rurality of Rimwards Howondaland, see Strandpiel 2.
(5) Even Hanna von Strafenburg rigged the Run so that they'd arrive in the Skaggeraks at lunchtime. As she had pointed out to Bekki, lunch in Nothingfjord? There are only so many rollmop herrings a person can eat. Lunch in Hubsvensska? Meatballs lose their savour after about the fifth visit. Whereas, in the Skaggeraks, we have Frivoli. Especially the Frivoli Gardens. Order what you like from the menu, Captain Romanoff is understanding about expenses.
(6) H. Gunnar Umsjónarmaðurpóstsendingasson, the Proprietor and Postmaster, wrote some very neat and precise runes in the appropriate box on the manifest and added the official stamp, to make it legal and demonstrate the mail handover was in accordance with Regulations.
(7) Note disclaimer about possibly appalling Icelandic. This should read "The Ticket to Valhalla! We offer the most respectful and dignified voyage to the next world. Guaranteed only inflammable materials used throughout. 5,999 krona." I haven't yet figured out if Island has vampires. Clearly, a Central Continent vampire would have practical difficulties here, if only because of the thing about running water.
(8) Having necessarily to be vague here. I know the chronology for this period is that several months earlier, Irena will have met a pleasant jobbing artisan in the Pskov Oblast, called Vitali. Things will have begun happening and she will be contriving lots of plausible reasons to fly out there more often than Service needs will call for. It's just that Vitali has only appeared in one story so far (set three or four months further down the line from this one). At this point in real time I haven't even written about how they met - yet. So this is just being hinted at as side-mentions, to get it firmly placed into the chronology and details will follow. Patience!
(9) Designated the Stahlhelm M36, variante vier, für Kinder unter zehn Jahren (kleine). According to specialised military historians (S. Bull, and B.L. Leigh, who wrote definitive and brick-thick tomes on the subject) the classic German helmet of WW2 was indeed also produced in child sizes – extra small for Hitler Youth auxiliaries conscripted to flak gunnery duties where there was a risk of overhead debris coming down, and the child-soldier was too young to wear a regular size, or too young and female for the adult male version. There were also lightweight parade-dress versions – strictly non-functional, as they were just plastic shells painted to look like the real thing – worn by Nazi party dignitaries with uniform, but without the weight or inconvenience of an actual metal helmet. Some were done in child-sizes so that the children of Nazi dignitaries would look suitably cute and photogenic in scaled-down uniforms.
(10) For the tale of Johanna's reluctant Ladyship, go to Strandpiel 1. In which she gets, all at the same time, the family baronetcy; a second Ladyship as the wife of a Knight, Sir Ponder Stibbons; and a Damehood in her own right for services to academia (zoology) and to commerce (applying academic zoology to animal husbandry, in the form of a revolutionary idea called Artificial Insemination Of Livestock). Informed opinion is that Vetinari was just making sure. He did remark to Sir Ponder Stibbons, at a Palace Ball, that the title of a song to which he had just inexpertly waltzed Lady Stibbons was "You are once, twice, three times a Lady..." and left the remark hanging for Ponder to catch up with it later.
(11) The appointment is entirely in keeping with the Ankh-Morpork Diplomatic Service having a tendency to send people out to postings, in places where they find they have unfortunate names in the local language. To Islanders, Grænland meant This place that some stupid buggers keep sailing out and looking for, despite the fact that if they ever find it, assuming they don't go straight over the Edge of the Disc, it's likely to be some Gods-forsaken frozen Hel populated by walruses and surly natives with sharp barbed harpoons, where if you survive, you end up living on bloody hakarl and Dwarf-bread.
(12) Myrkranna had arrived as deck-crew on a fishing boat, the Islanders having no superstitions concerning women at sea and considering a Ship's Norn was lucky to have on board. Electing to stay on for the experience, she had worked two or three days a week on Verity Pushpram's fish-gutting and packing lines, and being a Steading Witch in Dimwell. She had even brought a pupil Witch over from the Homeland, who had also elected to stay longer, had learnt to fly, and had joined the Air Watch for the adventure. (and as it turned out, death in combat over the skies in Lancre(13)).
(13) Not that this particular Witch was inclined to let a trivial thing like dying stop her from pursuing a career in the Afterlife.
(14) Aware this interaction will need to be handled with sensitivity and diplomacy. (Again: Google Translate mixed with what I hope is improving language knowledge and intuition). Tatiana has said, in Ukrainian rather than Russian, "So you're a Cossack, kid?" to which Lexi has replied in the affirmative, adding "Your Rodinian is diabolical", or similar words. This is Retcon: readers have advised me "Tatiana Grigorenko" is a Ukrainian and not a "Russian" name. However, Ukrainia has its own Cossack tradition too. Having set the scene, the discourse will now be in "Morporkian".
(15) Now go to my story Alexandra: The Making Of An Air Witch.
(16) It's complicated. The Compleat Discworld Atlas states that old-time Vikings still exist in the more "Scandinavian" parts of the Disc, but as with the world getting too small for Heroes, there's less and less scope for Viking raiders descending on peaceful coastal areas in fearsome dragon-prowed longships. Viking raids are now becoming more a sort of "home and away" match between those nations that still take pride in old trade skills, where they descend on each other's lands for a token bit of pillage according to agreed rules. It has apparently also become an exercise in selling flat-pack self-assembly furniture from door to door and forcibly making the luckless victim actually eat the surstrommung.
(17) Heisenberg Lager, brewed in the Skaggeraks aat the Disc-famous Elefant Brewery in Frivoli. In accordance with the famous Uncertainty Principle, Heisenberg is only probably the best lager in the Discworld. The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle also applies when you have drunk enough lager. After quaffing fourteen pints you can know where you are, or what direction you are staggering in, but not both at once.
(18) The first is shreds of meat in jelly created by boiling down animal feet for the gelatine. The second is accumulated milk curds allowed to rot, deep-frozen over winter, thawed out and then smoked. Local cuisine and food preparation methods in Russian history and tradition is, I have discovered, an interesting area to mine for "sheep's eyes" of various sorts.
Notes Dump
The Discworld Iceland: background cultural notes.
Herra skar út blóðörn á eigin baki Dibbloson - Google translate for "That's Carving The Blood Eagle On Me Own Back Dibbler"
Hakarl – fermented shark meat, usually buried for up to six months and then completed by hanging it to dry for a further period. Apparently if the ammonia/urine smell is ignored, it doesn't taste so bad.
The custom of "Elf-Houses", built by Icelanders to welcome and placate the unseen Elves they know they share a country with. Even in the Discworld's "Iceland", I can't see a way of making them real Elves. That's a hack too far. So gnomes will have to stand in.
Engen 1 Stop: a chain of roadside garages/petrol stations in South Africa, that from available images seem to range from locations barely touched since around 1930, right up to modern European-style filling stations. Another background note to Bitterfontein: Mijnheer Engen's Livery Stables, all your equine needs served. Mnr. Engen se Livery Stalls. Al jou perdebehoeftes word hier bedien!
I see Bekki looking at a shabby dusty stables and asking if Mr Engen makes a living at it. Mariella will turn, grin and say "He's got a chain these days. A place in Uniondale and another in Kirstensboch."
Ikejime: A Japanese method of humanely killing fish which depends on humanely directing a needle into its brain. Memo: use this as the name of an Agatean Assassin.
Meanwhile, sports news (Crockett): a big controversy in the England-Australia test match (June-July 2023). I'll spare a detailed explanation as it will run on for 10,000 words with frequent reference to the Laws And Ordinances Of The Game Of Cricket. (MCC Rules). I'm not sure if I – or my readers - have enough lifetimes for that. In essence: Australia got an England batsman out by the absolutely precise, on-point, to the very last subclause, application of a rarely used Law, which depended on a unique combination of circumstances in the game combined with a very quick-witted wicket-keeper sensing the opportunity. (Think of the 155 break in snooker – theoretically possible by the Rules, but rare as hen's teeth in practice) The umpires agreed and this turned out to be the match-winning wicket. England fans are indignant at those devious Aussies and claiming foul play and Gamesmanship. Even though the Australians showed a magnificent knowledge and application of The Rules. If it could be explained in less than 10,000 words – this is Discworld Crockett.
African history, worth referencing:
As well as the notorious Queen Ranavalona of Madagascar, there was a slightly less crazy but definitively sadistic Queen Nnzinga of Angola (around 1600) who ruled over an Empire with the mandatory iron fist, and a fondness for witnessing violent death. Worth referencing in the context of Discworld Zulus who feel their history might repeat itself with a Queen Ruth (her brother is not entirely stupid and will exploit these fears; his advisors will take care to remind the people of what happened the last time we had a Paramount Queen) . Historically, Ranavalona destabilised her country so much that the French said "Regrettably, a European power must step in to restore order. This is humanitarian, mes amis". Nzinga found herself with the Portuguese acting out of similar understandable motives that were in no way at all motivated by the ambition to erstablish an African colonial empire.
Simbothwe will point out the Ankh-Morporkians are backing his sister for devious reasons of their own. And so the story unfolds.
Trigger Warning:
Gets political here. You may care to skip this bit. Back at the end of Strandpiel 1/53, way back in 2019, I endnoted with
Current reading: Peter Conradi's "Who Lost Russia", a history and analysis of Russia since the end of the USSR. Very enlightening: some of the conclusions are suspect, but sympathetic to the idea that when viewed from Moscow and not Washington or London, and with Russian history in mind, the world is very, very, different. The idea we don't see in Western media very much: that Vladimir Putin is not a monster, a psycho, or a new Stalin. A rational and realist politician seeking to keep his country strong and stable and doing what he thinks is right for Russia: looking at the unfolding story and the issues from the Russian point of view is something we don't do, and when you ask the right questions, a lot of things become clearer. The imperative for Putin is "What's good for Russia and how can I achieve that?" Still leaves a few questions unanswered and some of the logic is puzzling, but it's a good start for understanding modern Russia, its political leadership, its preoccupations, and some of its decisions. Recommended.
The business over the Ukraine suddenly becomes a lot less clear-cut, for one thing: not simply, as we are led to believe in the West, a matter of "Ukraine = victim; Russia = aggressor." It's far more nuanced than that. Putin may have a little bit more right on his side than Americans and Brits are led to think.
I still think Putin had a little more right on his side than we are led to believe. The Ukraine should have shelved any hope to join NATO and expressed neutrality – Russia's greatest fear, viscerally and understandably so, is invasion from the West (even if the West has no intention to do so). For a massive American-led coalition of states to be right up against Russia's western border with no buffer zone in between can only be seen as a massive threat-in-being. More attention should have been paid to this.
In return, absolute, non-negotiable and binding guarantees should have been put in place to respect and safeguard Ukraine's territorial integrity. (We have seen, however, Russia did not act in good faith. Countries like Finland have seen that neutrality is not a guarantee of safety and have joined NATO anyway – Russian aggression has boomeranged back on them here.)
What happens next? The Russian front inside Ukraine will inevitably collapse. Ukraine pushes back to its 2021 border. They may even get the Crimea back (not necessarily a good idea). Assuming it doesn't go nuclear, there'll be a change of regime inside Russia. Hopefully the next leadership is more pragmatic. Belorussia is likely to fall too – sooner rather than later if the bombastic and not very bright Mussolini in charge joins the war.
Ukraine has suffered greater losses than we know about. The country will be in no fit shape and will need a long time to rebuild. There'll be an armistice and a "hot frontier" rather than a peace treaty. A lot of anger, hostility and resentment. A Continuation War of some sort is inevitable. The seeds have been sown.
Greatest dangers? Russia seething with humiliation and resentment starts to prepare for the next time, like Germany in 1919. (We do not need a "Versailles Treaty" here at the end of this war. Important!)
People in the West who see Russia in disarray and think – now's our chance! Like Hitler in 1940, who witnessed the piss-poor performance of the Red Army in Poland and Finland and the Baltic States, and reasoned all it would take would be one good hard kick at the front door and the whole house would collapse.
This falters on
Historically, nothing unites the Russian people more effectively than the threat of invading foreigners coming out of the West.
Invading Russia from the west is doomed. Nobody has ever succeeded and within a few years, the Russian Army is setting up camp in the ruins of your capital city.
What Hitler didn't see was that the Russian Army always has, somewhere, pockets of excellence. An obscure General called Zhukov, for instance, was in the barren and remote Far East, fighting a brief war with Imperial Japan. And despite the fact the Japanese Army was formidable – he wiped the floor with them. A few years later, he and other excellent Generals who had all been in obscure lower-level postings during the Purges were doing exactly the same to the Germans. The obvious question is. In 2023, who is the Russian Army's Georgi Zhukov, what lessons is he drawing from the Ukrainian business, and how will he apply this to reforming the Russian Army? Because – there is a Zhukov out there. Guaranteed. The West should not get a fit of hubris.
Retrieved from the old Guardian talkboards:
In Britain we call them "tankies". The old-time British Communists who applauded tanks going in to Budapest in 1956 and into Prague in 1968, a sign that traitors, revisionists and Western contamination were being rooted out by the once and forever Soviet state. Only by enforcing ideological purity, their argument went, could the Revolution succeed. The Tankies, of course, believed themselves to be so ideologically pure that it could never happen to them and that Enemies of the Revolution deserved all they got. The Tankie mentality lives on: there are actually members of and supporters of Kim Jong-Il's party in Britain, who despite all freely available evidence to the contrary, believe that North Korea is the inheritor of the Great Tradition and that those who wickedly oppose The Great Leader and slander his name deserve all they get. I'd say that Tankie streak is your reason why - "It can never happen to us, we're faithful to the Revolution and those wicked dissidents and traitors deserve all they get."