More Tales from the Guilds Ch. 07

On a dark, bitter, winter's night in Ankh-Morpork when Captain Angua had nothing particular to do, she and Sergeant Littlebottom strolled into Biers, the favorite bar of the Differently Alive (AKA the Undead). The place momentarily went quiet at the sight of Watch uniforms but as soon as the clientele saw (or smelled) who the visitors were, the low-level commotion returned to normal. Normally, the pair would go to the bar, order drinks and find a table to sit and chat. Tonight, on the other hand, the door had no sooner closed behind them when Angua inhaled—and froze. Swiftly her eyes scanned the dim room until they came to rest on a tall, well-muscled, blond human figure who grinned at her and lifted a large, half-empty beer stein in salute. She stood there, gaping, her brows knotted in confusion while the man casually rose to his feet and ambled on over to her.

"Hi, sis," he drawled.

"Andrei?"

"That's me."

"Andrei? Andreeiiiiiii . . .!" The normally stern, taciturn Watch officer burst into tears and threw herself into her brother's arms. "Andrei! How? Why? What . . .?"

Cradling her in his arms, the tall man stroked her hair and murmured, "Angua, you were there when Professor Capstick figured out how to enable yennorks to become proper bimorphs. Once little Manngang could (with y0ur help) Change like his parents and siblings, Lady Margolotta made sure the word got out everywhere. No werewolf will ever again be permanently trapped in either human or lupine form and brutes like our rotten older brother won't have any excuse to bully any of us. The day Commander Vimes immolated him should be made a national holiday! Poor Elsa . . ."

Angua went from ecstatic to grim in the space of a breath. Poor Elsa, indeed. Her sister had been unimorph human, unable to become a wolf, and for that single reason her older brother Wolfgang had killed her. Andrei had been a lupine unimorph but had managed to escape, emigrating to Borogravia where he'd thrived as a champion sheepdog. Now, Wolfgang was dead, the loser in a hand-to-fang battle with Commander Sam Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork Watch. Good riddance, to him, she swore. And now, she once again had family.

"But what are you doing here?" Angua began before Cheery took both of them firmly by the wrist (and when a dwarf grasps you firmly, you are grasped) to lead them to a more private booth—and waved for the waiter. She told Rizikshrek the bogeyman to bring them another large beer, one chilled Chardonnay and a fruit juice and turned to Andrei.

"Okay, big boy, now you can finish the story!"

Andrei chuckled, "Well, I was resting in the shade after winning another trial when I heard someone whisper, 'Psst, Andrei.' It was a boogey hiding under a bench. He told me that Lady Margolotta had issued a decree to every one of the Differently Alive to spread the word about the yennork cure. There was a wizard in town who had read Professor Capstick's monograph and who had a 'friend' who would help. So a couple of days later I banged his door knocker. When he opened it he looked down, turned around and shouted, 'Hilda, it's another yennork!' and invited me in. Hilda Changed and trotted into the room and we made the appointment for the next full moon. The wizard measured me so that when I came back and Changed, they had a full set of clothes ready for me. Getting used to wearing clothing took a bit, I can tell you. Strange feeling, still, you know? Anyway, I went back to my 'handler', introduced him to my new form and let him know that since I had done all the work it was only fair that he should turn over to me half our earnings. Strangely enough, he was perfectly agreeable. It turned out that he'd taken our winnings and bought productive farms so getting a bank loan for half the amount I'd won was easy. I went to the bank, opened an account and then clacksed it to the Bank of Bonk-Überwald, got a train ticket and went home."

"Did—did you go back to . . .?"

"I did. Dad spends almost all his time in wolf form these days. I think he's getting really old. Mom was just beside herself with joy, seeing that I'm now a proper bimorph and we spend about a week catching up on family gossip. Anyway, that's when I found out that you were here so I caught another train and came for visit. I'll probably have to go back to Überwald and take over the estates in a year or so but right now I'm learning about bipedalism, opposable thumbs and color. Oh, and cooked food. It's interesting stuff and vegetables aren't half bad."

"I—I don't know what to say . . . "

Cheery rolled her eyes. "What you want to say is, 'Mr. Vimes, my younger brother just showed up unexpectedly and I'd like a couple of weeks off to show him the city', that's what you say. And then you say, 'Carrot, this is my little brother Andrei. Andrei, this is Carrot'. What else do you need to say?"

Angua had to admit that Cheery was probably right. After all, she was a dwarf and dwarfs were notoriously level-headed—when sober. So she stood up and announced in a loud voice, "Alright, everyone, this is my younger brother Andrei! He's here for a visit 'cause we haven't seen each other in years. So, in celebration, I'm buying a round for the house!"

As in any pub, an announcement like that is wildly popular and Igor the bartender was kept busy for the next quarter hour filling orders. There was the added advantage that once the cheering stopped, no one paid any attention to the three of them in the booth finishing their drinks and hardly any noticed when they left.

*****

Senior Sergeant Detritus and Corporal Menhir sat deeply engrossed over a chess board, their helmet fans turned up to 'High' ever though they sat in a foot of new snow. Neither moved for such a long time that a passerby might have thought them art works installed in Pseudopolis Yard, rather than Watchmen in good standing. Finally, Detritus sighed and knocked over his king.

"Well done, Menhir! I shall study dat gambit mos' carefully for der next time we play. While I prefers Thud, this are a most int'restin' game. I beliebe we should send a note ob thanks to der Diamond King ob Trolls for bringin' it to our attention."

He reached up and switched off the fan. The day being already plenty damned cold, as far as the human population was concerned, a troll's impure silicon brain needed no additional refrigerating except when faced with an intellectual challenge.

Menhir nodded politely and did the same. Neither commented on the steam that rose from their respective crania. Shortly, they would revert to being just-smarter-than-the-average-troll. This would be a relief. While the ability to play serious games of chess or ponder advanced mathematics was exciting, in the end it was a lot more comfortable bein' a reg'lar ol' troll.

Across town, though, Chrysoprase was sitting up on the roof of the Cavern Club with his helmet on High+. Having transferred the financial interests of the Guild of Bodyguards, Bouncers and Last Resort Lenders to 'property and financial services' intellectual acumen was no luxury. If the Guild was to maintain its position in the city, both he and his chief henchtrolls needed to be sharp all the time, not just when playing games.

He held up a dossier and flicked it idly with one finger. He'd just completed an analysis of where the money in the city was and where it went and the conclusion made him smile quietly to himself. One would expect the aristocratic families and the captains of industry and finance to be (figuratively) sitting on great piles of gold but unless there was something terribly wrong with his calculations (and he was sure there wasn't), the biggest pile in the city belonged to, of all people, the Beggars' Guild! Now there was a bunch you didn't want to be enemies with.

Chrysoprase hit a button on his desk and when the stairway door opened, he turned in his swivel chair. "Basalt, come here. I hab a task for you."

"At once, Mr. Chrysoprase. What does youse require?"

"I want you to, p'litely and respec'fully, go fine one ob der Beggars an' enquire as to der possibility ob my meetin' wif Queen Molly. I'm sure der is some way our respectif interes's can be serbed by an alliance."

Basalt was taken aback. "Der Beggars, Mr. Chrysoprase? What commonality could we possibly has wif dem?"

"Basalt, tink! By definition, der Beggars neber buy anyt'ing. So where hab all dose pennies tossed to dem over der centuries by der more respec'able members ob society gone?"

Basalt reached up and turned his fan higher. Even the depths of a Sto Plains winter wasn't enough to make this kind of a question easy to answer. After a few moments, his eyes widened. "Mr. Chrysoprase, dey couldn't possibly hab . . ."

"Oh, but dey could, Basalt, and they hab. A good portion of der city belong to dem! And dey aren't short ob liquidity, either, so I'm quite sure some arrangement dat would bennyfit us both can be reach. Now, be off. I hab think as much as I want to for der day."

*****

Having introduced her brother to both Commander Vimes and Captain Carrot, Angua started with a tour of Pseudopolis Yard from the basement up. And that, naturally required them to start in Forensics.

"Pleath to meet you, thir!" the Watch Igor enthusiastically shook hands with Andrei, "Allow me to thow you around the lab."

And with that he ushered the tall werewolf into the (rather intimidating) confines of what was supposed to be a criminology laboratory. However, since the operator was an Igor it had quickly become so much more. A skylight was excavated upwards through the Yard and glassed over. This made it an ideal environment for botanical (or at least apparently herbaceous) experiments. These were centered by a very large, very ominous looking plant with broad paddled leaves armed with huge spikes.

"Be careful of that one, thir," Igor cautioned, "It's a Venuth Cow Trap. I imported it all the way from Bang-bang Duc. Ith very rare in the wild becauth the locals are deathly afraid of it. They would like to ecthterminate the thpethies completely but ath you can thee, it ith well equipped to defend itthelf. Fortunately, it'th reproductive rate ith very low. Otherwithe, it would eat everything larger than a cat on the islandth."

Andrei took a step back. Werewolves are notoriously hard to kill but this plant looked ready to give it the old Botany Department try. "What do you feed it?"

Igor grinned. "It theems to thubsitht quite happily on the occathional haunch of deceathed cart horth. I don't feed it more than onthe every two weekth and it thriveth."

Andrei grimaced and thought about that. Everyone knew that very dangerous things came out of Überwald but few realized that the Igors, (normally thought of as the ideal minions/servants for Mad Scientists or as genius surgeons), could be just as dangerous as any of the others. He turned his head and found himself staring into a large fish tank where finned potatoes swam quietly back and forth.

Seeing his baffled facial expression, Angua explained. "Igor is quite sure that with just a little more tweaking, he can come up with a completely vegetarian version of fish and chips. His position is that these are purely plant even though they behave like animals. Personally, I have my doubts."

Her brother shook his head. "If I didn't know Igors so well, I'd be amazed and dumbfounded. However, coming from the Olde Countrye it just seems so—logical! Of course an Igor would come up with an idea like this. To be honest, I kind of think he'll make it work."

"Oh, I will," the strange looking man replied, "I already have an advanth order from All Jolthon onthe I'm thatithfied with the rethulth. He'th already dreaming up rethipeth to try on them. It'th going to be the nextht big thing. I call them fithied chipth."

"Fishied chips. You know, I like the sound of that. I imagine the two of you will do well by this. What are your plans for the Venus Cow Trap?"

Angua put her hand over her face. Andrei had just given Igor an opening to talk about his experiments for the rest of the evening. At least full moon wasn't for another week.

*****

While Angua was showing her brother the city, Captain Carrot decided to spend the evening doing what he liked best, walking the streets. He strolled the nearly empty, snowy avenues and byways, hailing the rare citizen he encountered, and quietly smiling to himself in a proprietary way. He was just rounding the corner of the Assassins' Guild when a young, black-clad woman politely hailed him.

"Ah, Captain Carrot! How provident of you to be walking by. Lord Downey had just dispatched me to Pseudopolis Yard to ask whether or not you might be available for a consultation."

"Why, of course, Miss Selachii. In what way can I be of assistance to the Guild?"

The girl's eyes darted left and right and she leaned in close to say very quietly, "I know this sounds odd, coming from us, but it's in regards to a killing—an unauthorized killing."

Carrot's face took that open, innocent look that made so many fall into the trap of thinking him simple while forgetting that simple was not always a synonym for foolish. Even those who knew him best were frequently baffled by it. What was going on behind that mask of easy-going amiability? Those very few who knew that the true king of Ankh-Morpork preferred being a police officer were even more baffled.

"Gosh," he responded, "I guess you'd better take me to Lord Downey, then. I can't imagine why anyone would risk killing an Assassin."

It wasn't, the Master of the Assassins' Guild soon explained, that someone had killed an Assassin. Assassins kill each other all the time, depending on who has taken out a contract on whom, who attempts to carry out the contract and who is victorious. No, this killing was—strange.

"It's somewhat hard to explain in any sort of simple terms, Captain," Lord Downey said, "but what may be happening is an attempt to push blame onto the Guild. Why someone would want to do so is the sticking point."

It turned out that very morning, Deviousnesse Lavish had not rung for her breakfast. This was, according to the household staff, simply unheard of. Breakfast was her favorite meal of the day and bed was her favorite place to take it. So when the customary hour passed and no demand for delivery had been sent, her lady's maid, one Minionette b'Labored, took it upon herself to carry the tray upstairs. She must have thought, Downey supposed, that the bell rope had broken or something. Opening the door to her mistress' bedroom, she found Deviousnesse lying in a pool of congealed blood with her throat slit. And pinned to her nightgown was a receipt that, to the uneducated eye, resembled the standard one issued by the Guild.

"But it wasn't?" Carrot was beginning to see where this was leading.

"It was not. It was a fair counterfeit but our receipts are all printed by Messrs. Teemer and Spools and have been for decades. They're unmistakable to the knowing eye. Additionally, a thorough search of our records shows that no contract on Ms. Lavish has ever been opened. She was such a minor part of the Lavish cartel that we couldn't even find an assessment of what her inhumation should cost."

Carrot was impressed. "I thought everyone in the city had an assessment by the Guild. After all, if even Nobby Nobbs has one . . ."

Downey frowned disapprovingly. "The Guild's position is that the contract on Corporal Nobbs is a clumsy joke of the sort most common in military barracks and boys' schools. It would not be an entry any gentleman would want on his resumé. No, the vast majority of Ankh-Morpork's citizens, especially the Morporkian ones, lack the sort of well-heeled enemies that we in the Guild service. Deviousnesse had the money but not the enemies. It is quite the puzzle."

"A Lavish without enemies? Can such a thing be?"

"Oh, I'm sure she had plenty of people who are quite satisfied that she is dead, but to the best of my knowledge she was less an active threat to other members of her family and more of a minor annoyance."

Carrot nodded thoughtfully. "And no one thought to summon the Igors?"

"Oh, they did immediately. But unfortunately the crime seems to have occurred shortly after the deceased retired for the night. According to the Igors from Lady Sybil Free Hospital, she had been dead long enough that she was suitable only for 'spare parts' as they crudely put it."

Miss Selachii had been standing quietly to one side during the explanation but at the phrase, "suitable only for spare parts" she winced. Deviousnesse, like most Lavish women, could only be called a 'society beauty' because she had enough money to require that the Times say so. The Igorinas, who were stunningly beautiful by any standard, would be unlikely to use any of the aforementioned 'parts' other than internal organs.

"So we have a hanging offense on our hands."

"Yea, Captain, we do. As Lord Vetinari has said, even if the victim can be revived, if you have to call in the Igors, it's murder. And Mr. Trooper can always find time for a murderer—and enough rope."

*****

"Bumbling?" Schwarzlache von Morecombe of Morecombe, Slant and Honeyplace wheezed out the door of his office for a very junior clerk.

"I'll be right there, sir!" came the chirped answer and in a few minutes a young man appeared, wiping his hands dry.

"Yes, Mr. Morecombe? I was just refilling Mr. Slant's water pitcher. He was looking a bit dry."

The old Vampire nodded appreciatively, "Honeyplace was commenting to me just yesterday. He said, 'That young Stupídlee has quite the eye for detail. I believe he will do well in the coming years.' And now I want you to take that sharp eye to this stack of wills. Recently, the Lavish family has been having rather a severe depletion in its ranks. The majority of them have been perfectly normal assassinations but the most recent, Lord Downey affirms, was not. It was murder."

"M—murder, Mr. Morecombe?" the junior clerk paled. Assassination was simply one of the risks of life in Ankh-Morpork, if you were rich, and suicide one of the more common causes of death. Real murder, on the other hand, was rare and completely outside the experience of the young legal clerk.

"Murder, young Bumbling, and not just in the sense that if you have to call in the Igors to revive the victim. This particular Lavish was dead long enough that even the Igors couldn't bring her back. That means that there has been a hanging offense committed."

"Murder. Oh, dear. And what do you want me to do, Mr. Morecombe?"

"In my experience," the senior partner's voice had a creak like a rusty hinge, "crime requires a motive. In the case of the Lavishes, theirs are quite easy to determine. Just follow the money. And that's what I want you to do. See if there is any pattern to the financial reorganization. Is anyone accumulating additional wealth in greater portion to the remainder of the relatives? If there is such a pattern, we will immediately advise Captain Carrot. He has taken command of the investigation, and after all, this is all about paper. Attorney/client confidentiality has no bearing on this."

Very junior clerk Stupídlee straightened his back and very nearly clicked his heels together. "Yessir, Mr. Morcombe, you can count on me! Imagine, one of our clients being so crude as to personally murder another—it's shameful!"

With that, he scooped up the stack of documents and marched off to his desk, a very determined expression on his young face.

*****

"Marko, are you positive that this was a good idea?" Capricia Lavish steepled her fingers in front of her opulent bosom and glowered at her husband.

"But of course it was, my little puella. Look, for generations the various factions of our family have all tried to increase their shares of The Money by suing other factions. And what has been the result? Our legal advisors have become as wealthy as some of us! And have we shown any net gain in the process? We have not.