More Tales From the Guilds Ch. 12

"Archchancellor?"

"Yes, Stibbons, what is it?"

"It's an iron-bound box, Archchancellor, addressed to you personally. It's from Nutt and it's marked 'Most Urgent'."

"Is it, now? Let m'see." The Archchancellor took the small, heavy chest and pushed aside a couple of piles of papers (and the remains of a beef sandwich or two) out of the way before setting it on his desk/pool table, "Intrestin'. Now what would make Mr. Nutt label a box like that?"

"Well," the Vice-chancellor hemmed dubiously, "when Nutt and Miss Sugarbean left to go find his people and set them on the road to civilization, it was presumed that they would go to Loko. That is, you know, where everyone thought the last of the orcs lived."

Ridculy nodded soberly. "And it seems that, in fact, they did. However, by the time o' the Überwolfen war, they had relocated to a more s'lubrious area of Überwald. I wonder . . . Here, give m' a hand openin' this box but have a #2 fireball at th' ready. I've a bad feelin' 'bout this."

The box was strong beyond sturdy and opening it without magical aid proved to be a chore. However, the Archchancellor's intuition dictated that the use of magic was, as Stibbons would have said, 'contra-indicated'. When all the nails had been removed and the lid slightly loosened, Ridcully slipped a small crowbar under the edge and nodded to his Vice Chancellor. Stibbons stepped back and shot out his cuffs.

"Ready, Archchancellor."

Even with Ridcully's considerable mass and muscle bearing down on the lever, the lid came away reluctantly, with an almost sullen creaking and groaning. When, at last, it did pop off, the Archchancellor quickly stepped back and shot out his own cuffs in preparation for whatever 'worst' might transpire. Nothing did—beyond a strange green glow that lit up the ceiling.

At once Stibbons jumped forward and clapped the lid back on the box and started hammering the nails back in with the crowbar.

Ridcully pulled a hammer out of a drawer in his pool table/desk and helped finish the job.

Once the mysterious box was resealed, both wizards slumped down in chairs with relief and mopped their brows.

"Y' recognized what that was, didjer Stibbons?"

"I'm not absolutely certain, Archchancellor, but I've heard rumors. And from our research in the Higher Energy Magic Building—I had a suspicion."

"As d'I! Positively polarized octiron, if 'm not mistaken. Now where and how the seven hells did Nutt acquire that?"

Positively polarized octiron. For centuries negatively polarized octiron, that mysterious black, magic-bearing metal, had been used as containers for the most dangerous spells when wizards wanted to dispose of them. The spells would be sealed into the beaker and then dropped into the depths of the sea. While this did keep them out of the hands of those dreaming of Disc conquest, it resulted in the abyss being populated by strangely shaped, supposedly extinct and whiskery fish.

Stibbons shuddered. "Loko is notorious for the strength of its magical field, Archchancellor. When Professor Crustley returned from there he told stories of all manner of strange magical creatures as well bringing back the Scrolls of Loko. This was all before he died of planets, of course."

"Along with ev'ry other member of the expedition. 'S why verra few have tried to go there again—except for Nutt, o' course, and he had t'. Now, 's far as I've ever heard, positively polarized octiron is a purely theoretical substance. No one has ever tried t'make it before and probably for good reason. That someone has is disturbin' in the extreme. Let's get the Librarian to put this in the basement and lock it up tight—at least until we get the whole story from Mr. Nutt. What would make anyone want t'do this?"

"Well, Archchancellor, Loko was the center of the Evil Empire."

"I wish y' hadn't reminded me o' that, Stibbons, I really do."

* * * * *

"Milord?"

"Yes, Drumknott, what is it?"

"It's a clacks, milord, from Lady Margolotta. It was sent uncoded and it's marked 'Immediate'."

Vetinari arched an ominous eyebrow. "Then I should look at it immediately. She's never sent anything that way before."

The Patrician extended one long-fingered pianist's hand, took the envelope and slit it across the top with an alarmingly sharp letter opener. As he read the text, his brow knit and the corners of his mouth turned down.

"She is coming on the train, via express, and bringing Nutt and the Lady Saxifrage with her. Additionally she has sent messages to the Low Queen, the Diamond King of Trolls and every ruler in the Sto Plains. She's calling for a meeting—an urgent meeting. Hmmm. Drumknott, have the Rats Chamber prepared and send for the Commander, the Archchancellor and the High Priest of Blind Io. And tell the Guilds Council that there may be an additional meeting afterwards. Oh! And she notes that—raising the regiments may be necessary? Dear me. Make sure my Clerks are in attendance. I don't like the look of this . . ."

* * * * *

Back at Pseud0polis Yard, Sergeant Haddock was at the duty desk that day when the door opened and a dwarf entered. Obviously a dwarf. Had to be. Short stature—check. Iron helmet—check. Very serious mining ax—check. Beard—check. Armor—check. All in all, the very image of a proper dwarf—except that the helmet had gold wire-inlaid flowers, the ax was beautifully chased, patinated and engraved, the beard was braided in two plaits (and tied off with pastel ribbon) and the breastplate of the armor had been beaten out in much the same way as Captain Angua's. Most probably it was for the same reason. And while the dwarf was short, her (very obviously her) leather kilt was even shorter. It almost came up to (gasp!) mid-knee. So most likely a very rebellious dwarf!

"May I help you, uh—Miss?"

"Is this Watch headquarters?" she asked with a suspicious note in her voice.

"That it is," Haddock was trying to be extra agreeable. It seemed like a good idea and probably one likely to extend his lifespan.

The dwarf visibly relaxed and gave a relieved sigh. "I'm here to sign up. My late uncle was a Watchdwarf and wrote some letters home telling about it. Reading them made me want to be one."

Haddock raised on eyebrow. "Your late uncle? Uh, what was his name?"

"The same as mine," she replied, "Cuddy. Only I spell it with an 'i'."

The room's underlying mutter of conversations, scratching pencils, watchmen scratching and shuffling suddenly stopped. Utter silence reigned until, from an office in the back, large footsteps accompanied by a mechanical whirr, approached.

"Did youse say 'Cuddy'?" Senior Sergeant Detritus emerged from a doorway.

"Yes, sergeant. And might you be Detritus?"

"You da niece of me ol' mate Cuddy?" A unusual note of longing came over the most senior troll in the command. His voice breaking slightly, he stuck out his immense hand, palm up. "You wantin' to join der Watch? Dis are wonnerful. Kipper, gettin' out der paperwork for signin' up dis new Watchdwarf while I takin'—her upstairs and introducin' her to Mister Vimes."

As the pair climbed the steps to the second floor, Haddock turned to his fellow sergeant Cheri Littlebottom. "Good grief. Does she have the slightest idea how much she just shouldered? I mean, Detritus almost has a shrine to Cuddy in his office. He believes that everything he has become in the Watch, he owes to Cuddy teaching him to count and building that cooling helmet for him. Can anyone, I mean anyone live up to that?"

"I think you have it backwards, Kipper," Littlebottom twirled one end of her mustache, "Because Detritus believes that, he feels an obligation to her because she's Cuddy's family. Look how he mentored Brick. Deep down inside that igneous body is a heart I swear is pure gold—metaphorically speaking, of course. I just hope her natural cantankerousness doesn't make her fall over her own feet."

"Good point," Haddock allowed, "and cantankerous? I believe that, too. I mean, just look at her. Considering the row you caused wearing just a hint of lipstick and a long leather skirt, that outfit she has on—I just don't know. Though Madame Sharm would approve, I suppose."

"Pepe would throw up his hands and shriek with delight. Now that's one strange dwarf!"

Haddock leaned down and whispered, "He's adopted, like Carrot. I knew him when we were running the streets back in Lobbin Clout. Pepe is—different—and godsdamned dangerous! He didn't belong to any gang and some of the gangs tried to bully him because he's so small? The Small Gods' Cemetery has a whole section devoted to those fool buggers! He may be short and slight, but he's made of rawhide and steel wire. And smart? Ask Trev Likely about that micromail Pepe invented. He calls it Retribushium. It's going to make him and Madame very rich."

"Ooo, I've heard of that! And they say it doesn't chafe."

Haddock snorted. "It also sends back every bit of the energy directed against it towards the fool who hit it in the first place. Best armor ever made and right now it's being forged right here in Ankh-Morpork. But you are right, if Pepe saw Cuddi just now, he'd squeal in delight and probably bemoan her joining the Watch. He'll probably want to get her moonlighting as a model for Shatta."

Cheri thought about that. "It would probably be more fun than being night guard at the Royal Bank."

"Hmpf. Don't tell her or Detritus. He'd be crushed if she left."

As they climbed the (newly reinforced) stairs to the second floor Detritus coached Cuddi on the proper way to deal with Vimes.

"When youse is talkin' to Mr. Vimes, youse call him Commander. Dere's only a few ob us who gets to call him 'Mr.' It are a mark of honor! It mean he consider you a true Watchman and dat he trust you—at least as much as he trust anybody. You work hard and gettin' to be good on der street and maybe in a year or so he tellin' you to call him Mister. Sergeant Colon sometime call him 'Sam' but dat because dey been togedder so long. An' Inspector Pessimal call him "Your Grace" because he feel dat the way he should address a Duke. Eberyone else callin' him Commander."

Vimes at his desk puzzling over the previous day's reports (and trying to adjust the eccentric spelling to something resembling genuine language) when he heard a familiar knock on the door. There was a particular tone that differentiated between flesh and blood knuckles and ones that were living rock. He looked over towards the door. Yep, the telltale board that always stuck up when someone stood on the other end was sticking up high enough to show that no one but a half ton troll could be standing outside knocking.

"Come in Sergeant!" he called out.

"Good mornin', Mr. Vimes," Detritus began, "I wantin' to introduce you do dis new recruit. Her name is Cuddi an' she are der niece of me ol' mate Cuddy. I already got Haddock startin' der paperworks."

Having lived in Ankh-Morpork his entire life, most of which he had spent in the Watch, Vimes had seen many strange things. Exactly where Wanting-to-be-Lance-Constable Cuddi fitted into the hierarchy of strangeness was uncertain, but it well up on the ladder. Traditional dwarves denied that there was any differentiation between males and females and often spent months of careful courtship negotiating what relationship they might have to the object of their affections. Change had begun right here in his own command when Cheery Littlebottom had decided that being 'one of the lads' was not her life's goal. The shock had been profound to the dwarven population. However, that shock was nothing compared to what happened when the Low King announced that 'he' was, in fact, the Low Queen and expecting an heir. Bonk, Copperhead and Ankh-Morpork were adjusting, grudgingly, but the figure before him was "one for the books".

"Welcome to the Watch," the Commander said with a perfectly straight face, "So you're Constable Cuddy's niece? Would that be through your father or mother's side?"

"Mother's, Commander," came the answer, "our family is from Copperhead."

"Any unusual talents or skills?"

"Well, sir, I was trained as a goldsmith. That's how I got sent to Ankh-Morpork. I was supposed to get a job on the Street of Cunning Artificers but since I was in town and had just about memorized all of Uncle Cuddy's letters home, I thought I'd become a Watchdwarf instead. It gets me out of the family's hair either way and that was the main idea."

Vimes nodded in a way that he hoped indicated sympathetic understanding. "A goldsmith, eh? Well, that kind of attention to detail is very good for advancing through the ranks. Welcome to the Watch, Lance-Constable Cuddi, you're in very good hands with Sergeant Detritus. Take her down and kit her out, Sergeant, and see that she has lodgings and meals."

When the pair was gone, Vimes lay his forehead on the desk and sighed. Sometimes he wished he believed in at least one god so he'd have something blame (or credit) when situations like this arose. First it had been having to hire a dwarf, a troll and a werewolf as part of His Lordship's 'affirmative action' program. Vimes thought that was designed to destroy the Watch but instead, he'd gotten Eventually-Captain Angua and Eventually-Senior Sergeant Detritus, two of the most valuable members of the force. Occasionally he wondered what Constable Cuddy would have become if he hadn't been killed in action.

Next came Cheery Littlebottom. She'd been taken on as a forensics specialist and she turned out to be a good one. But then, after making friends with Angua, she'd taken to wearing earrings, lipstick and a long leather skirt to the outrage of the more traditional dwarfs. None of this had stopped her from being a damned good Watchdwarf and now she was Sergeant Littlebottom, among the highest ranking dwarfs on the Watch. Would Cuddi continue the trend? The Commander could but hope so because he thought very highly of Cheery!

* * * * *

Two weeks later the citizens of Ankh-Morpork, in their eternal search for entertainment, watched one posh coach after another pull up before the Palace. Word spread at once that 'something' was happening and a crowd gathered. But it was a peaceful crowd so the only members of the Watch on hand to keep order were a few older constables led by Sgt. Colon who wondered through the crowd of street-theatre patrons nodding amiably and greeting acquaintances. Then Fred heard an only-too-familiar voice.

"Sausage onna bun! Getcher sausage-onna-bun right here, fresh and hot!"

"Throat?" Colon exclaimed, "I thought you had retired and gone into real estate and property development. What are you doin' here?"

"Well, Fred, it's like this," Cut-My-Own-Throat Dibbler sighed happily as he reached into the cart's top to pull out a sausage and drop it into a bun to hand to his friend, "Things has been goin' well and I've got meself a nice place and all. And the sellin' of advertisin' for the Times makes money, too—so you're right. I don't really need to do this. But whenever I sees a crowd gatherin' I just can't help meself. There's something about heating up the sausages and buns and rollin' out into the public an' tryin' a bit of a hustle I just can't resist. Sellin' sausages calls to me, Fred. It's in me very marrow and soul. Sometimes I think this is what I was really born to do. How do you like my new cart? Quite the upgrade from my tray back in the day, i'n't it?"

Fred gingerly took a bite off the end of the sausage. He was mostly being polite while all the time worrying if perhaps he was violating the Being Bloody Stupid Act of 1581. To his great surprise, it wasn't bad. As he chewed (with great relief) he replied, "It really is, Throat, and so is this sausage. You're coming up in the world."

"It makes a difference, usin' meat with a name, it does. 'Course it reduces my need to really sell. I haven't decided whether that's a good thing or maybe I'm handicappin' myself over the long run.

Sausage onna bun! Getcher sausage onna bun here, fresh and hot."

Sgt Colon left Dibbler to his purveying and wandered closer to the palace gate. He saw a short, slender man leaning up against the palace wall watching the crowd and the incoming nobs through half-closed eyes. Seeing the sergeant approach, the spectator turned his head sightly and said, out of the corner of his mouth, "Something's coming down, Fred. The last time this many toffs showed up in Ankh-Morpork was at the foot-the-ball game Trev Likely won. And nobody's said a thing about it. Know anything?"

Colon stopped in his tracks then looked both ways and stepped closer.

"Pepe?" he whispered.

"Yeah."

"But where's the . . ." Fred fluttered his hands.

"I'm off duty, Fred. I only do fashionista at Shatta. Right now there's something blowing in the wind and writing on the walls that bothers me. Growing up in Lobbin Clout, I had to develop instincts and right now, they're telling me to watch out."

"Lobbin Clout? I thought you were a dwarf!"

The mouth beneath the slitted eyes twisted into a wry smile. "By adoption, Fred, just like Captain Carrot, but later in life. Now, have you heard any reason for all this excitement?"

Fred took off his helmet and wiped his brow. What had started off as a merely interesting matinée in the streets was suddenly taking a strange turn. CMOT Dibbler hadn't been out selling sausage-onna-bun since the railroad connected Ankh-Morpork with Quirm and Pepe, who as far as Fred knew was a giggly, fluttery fashion designer was suddenly as ominous as one of the Patrician's Dark Clerks. With the expansion of the Watch under the Duke of Ankh's command and the 'legitimization' of the Breccia into the Guild of Bodyguards, Bouncers and Last Resort Lenders, the city had become a much calmer place. It was now possible to go about one's business (with your annual receipt from the Thieves' Guild in your pocket) pretty confident that mugging and riot were unlikely. Now? Fred could feel the tension rising again and the old street monster wasn't happy about it.

"No, I don't. This all blew up sudden-like and there hasn't been time for the rumor mill to get hold o' it. What do you know?"

"Nothing—yet!"

* * * * *

As befitted their status as Archchancellor of Unseen University and High Priest of Blind Io, the Ridcully brothers moved majestically through the crowd. Unlike the majority of citizens, they were not jostled. For one thing, they were large imposing men who took after their prizefighter grandfather. And for another, one doesn't want to end up in the pond behind the University catching bugs with one's tongue or (worse yet) burned to a crisp by a lightning bolt. Om may have decided to refrain from smiting (at least most of the time) but Blind Io was not so inhibited. So when the pair reached the gates of the Palace, the Watchmen on duty snapped to attention and saluted with rather more precision than they showed to the Sto Plains aristocracy. After all, all the Duke of Quirm could do was complain to the Patrician.

Nodding in appreciation the pair allowed themselves to be escorted to the Rats Chamber and seated at the central table. They twanged the imbedded ax (don't ask how it got there) and smiled. It was interesting to ponder why the Patrician had not had it removed. He'd said something about it being an interesting conversation piece but that was far too easy an answer from such a complex man. Doubtless his true motives were more subtle.

Across the table from them, a stout man of middle years in wizard's robes rose to his feet and bowed respectfully. "Good day to you, Archchancellor. Doubtless you don't remember me, but I'm Igneous Cutwell, Royal Astrologer to the Court of Sto Lat. I'm here to represent my Queen Kelirehenna I, Lord of Sto Lat, Protector of the Eight Protectorates and Empress of the Long Thin Debated Piece Hubwards of Sto Kerrig."