More Tales from the Guilds Ch. 04

Vimes sucked on is cigar and exhaled forcefully. "So what you really need is old-fashioned, plodding policing. You need us to make duplicates of the photos and then send out the Watch to find the ring-leader."

Ridcully nodded through the growing pall of smoke. "And we'll need to make sure that we not only apprehend the fool but seize the original scroll, as well. That's one document that needs t'be removed from circulation as soon as possible. I'm quite sure that whoever is behind this is nowhere near as smart as he thinks he is and that he has absolutely no clue as t'how damned dangerous a game he's playin'. But if he does this again, and I'm sure he will, there's no guarantee it'll show up where we can deal with it without panickin' the populace. So here are the pictures, Sam. Best o'luck t'yer. I only hope we can get past this unscathed."

Vimes looked carefully at each image from under frowning eyebrows. After a moment he looked back up at the Archchancellor.

"I'm pretty sure we can narrow the search pretty quickly. There isn't a single image here that indicates that anyone outside the Shades is involved. I'll assemble the Peculiars and send them. The Beggars, especially, will go through that part of the city like hounds. And you say this scroll is somewhat religious?"

"Somewhat. My brother the Chief Priest went back through the temple records and there doesn't seem t'be any record of a god named C'atalpa, Elder, minor or otherwise. His guess is that some badly confused mystic somehow crossed up country magic and superstition and called down somethin'—or some Thing, probably with disastrous results. We can't let that happen again."

"Hmmm, okay then. I'll dispatch Constable Washpot, as well. Much as he despises all the other religions, he knows his way around them and if a new one has popped up, he'll find out sooner than the rest of us.

You know, Mustrum, it's a funny old world. I really, really don't like magic and won't use it in the Watch—almost never. But you've had my back when I really needed it and I'm glad to be able to return the favor."

The two men shook hands and went their separate ways.

*****

In the back room of Flach and Chriek, Iconography, Captain Angua and Sergeant Littlebottom of the Watch sat down with Otto Chriek (Chief Iconographer of the Ankh-Morpork Times) and Gunilla Goodmountain, Head Printer. There aren't many places where dwarfs and the Differently Alive can meet without causing gossip and commentary and while all parties involved would have preferred 'somewhere else' Otto's side business was really the only sensible choice.

"So you vant about a hundred copies each of these iconographs, by tomorrow?" Otto was skeptical.

"Rush jobs are expensive," Goodmountain growled.

"And preferably without DeWorde knowing it!" Angua was adamant, "This is Watch business in a matter of utmost importance to the City. Mr. Vimes doesn't care what it costs but it needs to be done accurately, surreptitiously and fast. The copies need to go out no later than noon tomorrow. Half a dozen sets to Pseudopolis Yard and the rest to Queen Molly at the Beggars' Guild. We need to find out who these people are, where they live and what in Seven Hells they're doing. And when we find out—the City will be a much safer place."

Goodmountain was impressed by her vehemence. "That bad? What have they done, or what does Vimes think they did?"

Cheery Littlebottom leaned forward, her knuckles on the table, and snarled, "Dammit, Gunilla, when this is over and done, we may decide to tell you. Right now all you need to know is that the City is in mortal peril and that if you don't get off your mailed butt and run this order, there may not be any city left!"

"Vun large, rush order of iconographs to be delivered by noon tomorrow coming up!" Otto was suddenly all about service. There was something in the air, a feeling of angry panic on the part of the Watchmen that set off warning sirens in his head. "Come on, Goodmountain, let's not keep the customers vaiting."

As they left, Angua turned and coolly said over shoulder, "And Otto, Lady Margolotta can find out what was going on when His Lordship decides to tell her, hmm?"

*****

Acting Sergeant Cumbling Michael of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, Special Branch inspected his squad. As befitted a group of members-in-good-standing of the Beggars' Guild, no two of them wore an entire piece of clothing and not a single tattered garment fit the wearer. Normal citizens would have expected it. They were Beggars. They made their living appealing to everyone else's pity, embarrassment or revulsion.

What normal citizens would not have expected was the erect posture, discipline and confident sense of purpose the squad radiated. How could this be? First one has to understand that the Beggars are the oldest Guild in the City and being Senior gives status. Secondly, anyone who gave the question any thought would have to ask, "Since by definition Beggars never buy anything, what happens to all those pennies citizens toss their way?" The answer is that the Beggars own a remarkable portion of the City. Of course, this is behind a deep façade of agents and shell corporations so that upper-class tenants in high-fashion houses have no idea just who is receiving their rent, but the Beggars know.

And being among the wealthiest Guilds in the City, they are naturally politically conservative and not attracted to Change (Except for the 'spare' kind, of course). This makes them staunch supporters of the Patrician and the agencies that support his rule—like the City Watch. Beggars are everywhere and no one ever notices them. This makes them an enormously important part of the Patrician's Intelligence System and, as today, a major link in the chain that is the Cable Street Peculiars.

"You all have your orders," Sergeant Michael barked, "and you know your assignments. Commander Vimes wants results! So by sundown tomorrow I want to be able to tell him who all these men are and where they live. Any questions? No? Dismissed!"

*****

Corporal Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets (AKA Washpot) knocked on Commander Vimes door. He wasn't sure why the Commander wanted to talk to him but he did have hopes that it might be about the state of his immortal soul. Washpot was always ready and happy to discuss the state of anyone's immortal soul, even his fellow Omnians. He'd been working on the Commander for years without any previous evidence of success but you never knew. Strange and wondrous were the ways of Om.

"Come in."

"You wanted to see me, Commander?"

More than a hint of eagerness trickled out of the Corporal's voice. Vimes sighed internally. Washpot was a good copper. He'd been promoted to Corporal on the condition that during working hours he kept his mind on the job and so far it had worked. He was going to hate to disappoint the man.

"Yes, I do, Corporal. Have a seat. I've got an assignment for you that I frankly don't think anyone else on the force can accomplish. It seems that someone out in the city, and probably the Shades, is trying to start a new religion. Wait, don't go off, this is important! We have very good reason to believe that some fool out there is trying to summon one of the Elder Gods."

"But, Commander. Who would do that? The Elder Gods used to require human sacrifice. They ate people."

"Exactly. And that's why this has to be stopped. The Wizards have come up with these iconographs of men they know have touched the copy of the scroll that describes how to summon something called C'atalpa and they think that means that some one of them has the original. Unfortunately, we don't know what their names are. I don't suppose any of them look familiar?"

He handed Washpot the images. The Corporal studied them for some time then said, "Well, this one is Quickfoot Stumbling. He's a courier so it's unlikely he did anything but take the copy from the scribe who copied it to whoever paid for it. This one looks like someone I've seen at the Printers and Engravers' Guild. He's probably the scribe. But these three . . ."

Vimes took the unlit cigar from his mouth and put down the match he was about to strike. "These three?"

"They look like minor functionaries from the Street of Small Gods, probably followers of some of the false gods that infest the bogus temples there. Should I bring them in?"

"No. We need to not only put a stop to this idiot summoning, we need to retrieve that original scroll. The Archchancellor is adamant about that part. He says once they have both copies, they'll seal them up in the Library basement. I've never heard of the University doing anything that drastic so it gives you an idea how serious this is. I just want names and locations. Once we know where their headquarters is we'll do a heavy raid and round up everyone and everything."

"The Patrician may not like it. He's overly tolerant of iniquitous cults on the excuse that once he clamps down on one, where is he to stop? The answer is quite simple. All he has to do . . ."

"But we both know he won't. However, the High Priest and the Archchancellor are both dead set on putting a stop to this so we'll just give them a hand. Here, take my DisOrganizer. When you know something, send Gooseberry back to tell me. Now, get out there and root out infidels!"

Washpot leapt to his feet and saluted. "Yes, sir, Commander. You can count on me!" And, with the iconographs stuffed inside his breastplate, he charged down the stairs and off on crusade.

"That, Mr. Vimes," Captain Angua came out of the corner of the office where she'd been sitting, "was mean."

Vimes put the cigar back into his mouth and lit it. "That, Captain, was motivation. Between our enthusiastic evangelist and the Beggars' Guild, I expect to have an answer by morning."

*****

Eldervicar Plotswell glared at the Mumbler with his begging cup held out. The streets seemed full of Beggars this evening and they made his skin crawl. Once C'atalpa was set up in a proper temple (he had his eye on Blind Io's) and the whole city under his sway, the Beggars would be the first to be sacrificed. He hurried down the street unaware that the Obnoxious Oscar had recognized him and was signaling the next Beggar down the street to keep Plotswell in sight. Then Oscar ducked into an ally.

With an intelligence network as large as the Beggars' Guild and as enthusiastic about rooting out Untruth as Corporal Washpot, no one can stay hidden long. Soon the transparent form of Gooseberry stood on Commander Vimes' desk, pencil stub in hand, drawing out the precise location of the basement 'temple' of C'atalpa.

The Commander turned to his Adjutant. "Inspector, this sortie may not require your precise skills, but I want you to go along. There is, after all, a document involved and that's your area of expertise, even if it doesn't, as far as we know, involve numbers. So while Detritus is nominally in command, I know how well you two work together and I want all possible bases covered."

A.E. Pessimal's salute was book perfect. 'A man born to the badge' Vimes had called him and though his usual position was Chief Forensic Auditor, Pessimal lived for the times when he could get out into the streets and 'prod buttock'.

"He's as good as in the bag, Your Grace," Pessimal said calmly. "We'll have him locked up in the Tanty within the hour."

Vimes indulged himself with an evil smile. "Actually, I have a better idea."

*****

Eldervicar Plotswell poured over the scroll, trying to ferret out what had gone wrong. He was beginning to get the terrible feeling that he actually had summoned C'atalpa but that the Elder God (if, in fact, that's what he was) had been misdirected and instead of arriving full of glory and power in the basement 'temple' had landed somewhere else. Now the problem was that since there had been no uproar nor chaotic upheaval in the City, wherever the being had appeared, there had been no effect. Drops of cold sweat broke out on the Eldervicar's brow just about the time a very firm knock sounded on the 'temple' door.

Fearfully, Plotswell opened it to see a small but very smartly uniformed Watchman standing in front of a very large troll Watchman.

"You," stated Pessimal coldly, "are under arrest for being in violation of the Being Bloody Stupid Act of 1873."

A huge arm reached out and grabbed Plotswell by the neck.

"Youse has der right to remain silent. Youse has der right to be pulled in half if youse resist arrest. Youse has der right to be turned over to der University."

Dangling from Sgt Detritus' fist, Plotswell saw, to his horror, Inspector Pessimal roll up the scroll, label it Exhibit A, and tuck it under his arm.

"I think that does it, Sergeant. We can go now."

*****

Deep in the basement of the Library of Unseen University, the Librarian chained down two scrolls, locked them tight and then tossed the keys into a crucible. A #4 fireball later, the keys were unrecognizable slag. No one would ever unlock those chains again. He knuckled out of the room and slammed the stone door, then turned to the group of senior wizards waiting outside.

"Ook!"

Ponder Stibbons, Vice-Chancellor and Director of High Energy Magic, nodded in response. Shooting out his cuffs (the wizardly equivalent of working a pump action shotgun) and bringing both palms together with a resonant 'Boom' he pointed his index finger at the door. A line of incandescent fire streamed out toward the door and around the edges, melting and welding the rock together, sealing the room shut for eternity.

"And Plotswell?" Senior Wrangler asked the Archchancellor.

Ridcully smiled.

*****

Eldervicar Plotswell was aware that his arms and legs were still attached but that he seemed to be much smaller and wetter. Looking up, he saw a dragonfly land on a reed above him. Oh yum! Range—mark . . .

*****

Captain Salacia (several pages of name) Von Humpeding, AKA 'Sally', sat on the edge of her chair with her back straight. It was always like this when she was called to Lady Margolotta's castle. Lady Margolotta, while unquestioned ruler of Bonk (above ground) was frequently described as looking like someone's mother. And she was—Sally's. It wasn't an easy relationship. Vampires seldom have families and the ones that do exist can hardly be called warm and affectionate. Vampires are too obsessed with power over others for that to be the case. However, given the circumstances, Sally and Margolotta got along pretty well, the Ruler of Bonk-Above-Ground and her sole offspring managing to remain cordial.

Today, however, Lady Margolotta seemed to have something particular in mind. Sally looked down at her pages of the Vampire Almanack de Gothic with trepidation as Margolotta ran her fingers down the first page.

"Vell, dahlink," Lady Margolotta said at last, smiling quietly, "it appears that you haf done qvite a good job of obscurink your origins. Congratulations."

"Thank-you, Mother. Did you see that I even changed the birth date?"

"I did. You are almost tventy years younger than this record suggests. Und you have cleverly left your father's name blank. Is there any reason to suspect that he knows?"

"I've only met him a time or two and he never gave any hint that he might."

Margolotta snorted delicately. "Vith Havelock, that means nothink. Your father could very vell have an entire dossier on you that he pulls out on occasion und chortles over. That vas one of the thinks I alvays found so attractive about him, his ability to know everythink vhile showing nothink. Such a clever man, your father."

"Did you ever tell him about me?"

"Goot grief, no. Vhen he came to Bonk as part of the traditional Grand Sneer he vas only eighteen. But efen then he vas an intellectual und I found him terribly attractive. I suppose it vas the same kind of attraction for me that an undervired nightie has for a male Vampire. In any event, it vas a goot time for him to be out of the city, vhat vith Mad Lord Snapcase being Patrician. Und by the time you came along he vas back in Ankh-Morpork, back in the Guild School und methodically plotting Snapcase's demise und his own rise to Patrician. Tellink him about you vould have been an unnecessary distraction und so I have never mentioned it.

Und now I see that you haf been equally discrete. Zis record is most competent, mine girl, und I haf no reason to belief that anyvun would efer be able to guess just whose daughter you really are. Again, vell done, dahlink."

"Except father, of course."

"Ov course. Und the most amusink part is that ve vill never know vhat he knows. He likes it that vay."

"Mother, he thinks exactly the same way you do!"

"Doesn't he though? I often vonder who influenced whom. Did I learn from him or did he learn from me or did our minds zomehow coalesce into a shared vision. Vhichefer vay it vas, I am pleased to see that you are a chip off both blocks. Zer Bonk Vatch has come together qvite vell and is renowned throughout Überwald as almost zere eqval to Ankh-Morpork's. Most satisfactory, mine dahlink. Und now, before you leaf, may I offer you a glass of vine?"

Sally brightened up. Being offered a glass of wine in Castle Von Überwald was about as high a compliment as any vampire could ask for. "Why, thank-you, Mother, I would."

When the glasses were poured, Sally raised hers. "To Father, may he live long and prosper."

Lady Margolotta chuckled. "Oh, he vill. Trust Mother on that vun."