More Tales From the Guilds Ch. 13

"Yeth, yeth. Be about your bithineth, Mr. Dibbler, and the Watch thankth you for your athithtenth."

*****

Hughnon Ridcully held the neck chain and its charm up to the light and turned it this way and that. Then he lowered it into one massive palm and tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again.

"Now what would an Offlerian be doin' with this?" he muttered, "It ain't in any way Pseudosuchian. Looks more like somethin' y'd see in a temple of Neoldian."

"Neoldian?" Archchancellor Mustrum wasn't familiar with the entire pantheon. He figured his brother could take care of that while he himself kept the Disc safe from scaly, tentacled Things from the Dungeon Dimensions.

"God of Ironworkin', blacksmithin' and the like," Hughnon replied, "Doesn't have an official temple like the others but every forge and smithy on the Disc sort of functions as one. Even the dwarfs who swear that they don't believe in any gods and just follow what Tak wrote all seem to have one hammer and one set of tongs that never get used in a practical sense. Inadvertent ritual objects as it were."

"Interestin'. So this set of tongs was in the chap's cell under his pallet an' when he comes here, he starts beggin' for a hammer. Yer goin' t'give him the necklace?"

"What choice to I have? It's his, accordin' t'the Reverend Clem. Can't very well go 'round confiscatin' chaps' belongin's for no obvious reason."

The Archchancellor shrugged massively. "Well, Mrs. Whitlow should be done feedin' him breakfast by now. Let's check in with 'im and see if he wants it."

*****

Feet a shoulder's width apart and fists firmly on her hips, the goddess Narrativia glared at Seven-Handed Sek and at Offler. "It's all your fault," she snarled, "If you two had just settled your differences in a calm and reasonable manner instead of starting to throw lightning bolts, he'd still be around to keep the plumbing working. Now, if we don't figure out what happened, the whole place is going to crumble. And let me tell you the rest of us don't think it's the least bit funny. I like it here and do not look forward to having to move back into Writers' and Story Tellers' Guild House. So stop whining and go search. Neoldian has to be around somewhere and it's your responsibility to find him."

"Thek thtarted it", Offler pouted.

"None of us care who started it," Blind Io growled, "What's wanted is that he's found as soon 's possible. Now get crackin', you two, I've got a window that needs replacin'."

Sek and Offler looked around trying to find the smallest hint of support from the other gods. There was none. The looked at each other.

"Well, I thuppose the betht bet ith to go back where we were fighting," Offler suggested.

Sek sighed. He was inclined to suggest that since he was the God of Vengeance, he should get a pass but was resigned to either helping to find the missing deity or getting ostracized from Dunmanifestin. "Good plan," he muttered.

The two of them trudged off—in a celestial sort of way.

*****

Wylnd finished his breakfast in much better spirits. Having the hammer may have been part of it but Mrs. Whitlow, on the Archchancellor's orders, had slipped a half dried frog pill into his porridge.

"We don't want the chap t'be comatose, yer know," Ridcully had observed, "but we do need him calm and rational enough t'talk with."

Mustrum and Hughnon drew chairs up next to Wylnd's bed, offered him a cigar and lit their pipes.

"Now, sub-deacon, I want yer t'think back and try 'n' recall everythin' that was goin' on when this—condition first started," the High Priest began.

The sub-deacon took a long draw in the cigar. It was a first class Howandan import, the sort of thing that citizens of Wylnd's status rarely, if ever, get to enjoy. He smiled contentedly and then knit his brows.

"It's kind of fuzzy, Your Holiness, but there was a thunderstorm going on outside when suddenly something like a necklace hit me on the side of the head and fell behind my bed. I yelled, 'Ouch, that hurt' and grabbed where it hit me. That's when the first lightning bolt flew out of my finger and blasted a hole in the roof of my cell. I don't recall a whole lot after that until the Watchmen came to bring me here. Then there was the incident in Sator Square when that barbarian was going to hurt poor Mr. Dibbler."

Hughnon dug into a pocket of his robes and dug out the chain and charm. "D'yer mean this necklace?"

Wylnd froze in mid-puff and starred at the charm. He pulled the mighty war hammer across his lap and held out his hand for the charm. The High Priest dropped it into the sub-deacon's hand who, in a daze, laid it on top of the head of the hammer.

Ruddy light infused the room and the distant sound of bellows beat a steady rhythm. A vast, heavily muscled and dark-bearded figure emerged from the slight sub-deacon, put on the neckless and lifted the hammer as if it was a toy.

"Much obliged, gentleman," Neoldian rumbled, "I'm much more comfortable in my usual manifestation. And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to have words with a couple of my fellows in Dunmanifestin!"

He faded.

Wylnd shook his head and stretched. "Well, that's a relief. I feel much better, now, Your Holiness, Archchancellor. If you'll excuse me I must be getting back. Or perhaps not. Neolidian is an impressive and important god, especially here in industrial Ankh-Morpork. Perhaps it's time he had a temple of his own."

"And his own High Priest, of course?" Hughnon asked wryly.

"Well, yes, of course. I need to spend some time in contemplation, devising proper rituals and the like. And, of course, I'll need money to build it. I shall set off for the Street of Cunning Artificers for some—evangelizing."

Wylnd left, trailing cigar smoke.

"How long d'yer suppose before the next thunderstorm?" Mustrum asked his brother just as the city was lit up in an impressive display of lighting jumping from cloud to cloud. Thunder boomed and echoed off the ancient walls of Unseen.

"'Bout now. Yer know, I thought he said something about 'words' but I guess lightning is a word. Let's retire to the Uncommon Room with a bottle and wait this out."

*****

"It's who? With what?" Cuddi asked, dumbfounded.

"Surly Grumblerson," Sergeant Littlebottom replied with a wink, "And he's got a giftwrapped bottle of Old Bearhugger's Classic 20-year-old. I think he must want to upgrade his apology."