More Tales From the Guilds Ch. 14

It took Amos a few moments to recover as he'd never before seen a duchess wearing an apron and wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "Um--um, if--if it please Your Grace, m-my name is Amos Cordwinder, late of the Shamleger Street Rude Boys? Me old gaffer, I mean grandfather, told me that come the day I began seekin' employment, I should look up his old mate, Mr. Willikins at Ramkin House?"

Sybil cocked her head to one side and smiled. "Well, do come in, then, Amos. Let me just ring the bell and let Willikins know you're here."

Too nervous to take the chair she offered him, Amos stood and fidgeted until another imposing figure entered the kitchen. Willikins was a paragon of civility, as fat as butter and as shiny as schmaltz in his immaculate butlering ensemble but when Lady Sybil introduced Amos to him, he raised an eyebrow and made quick gesture with his left hand. Amos grinned in response and made a similar one causing Willikins to point at the boy's cap and hold out his hand. Taking it, the man carefully peeled back the top over the brim to expose a row of well-sharpened pennies. Testing their edge with a fingernail, he nodded approval and gave it back.

"In most houses, young Cordwinder, I should insist that you keep that cap hung on a hook in your room. However, Ramkin House is occasionally the target of miscreants with foul intent and so it behooves us all to be ever prepared for defense. Have you brought a valise?"

"No sir, I 'aven't. I came more in 'ope than hexpectation so if you will haccept my employ I shall rush 'ome to pack and be back with two hours."

"Very well, Cordwinder, do that. I shall instruct the maids to have a room prepared for your use. Wages start at AM$3.00/week plus meals and lodging. The majority of your time will be spent assisting the gardener during fair weather and insuring the proper polish on shoes the year 'round. As we have Sir Harry King's people deal with the privies and yard waste, your duties will not include any dealing of that sort but caring for the coach horses' stalls will be your responsibility."

Amos was almost euphoric. A private room, meals and AM$3.00 each week? To the fourteen-year-old street urchin it sounded like Paradise.

"Oh, thank-you sir, thank-you so much! I shall return 's fast 's I can and take up my duties at once"

"And Cordwinder," Willikins added with a smile and a wink, "since this is the home of Commander of the Watch, you will be enrolled in the Cable Street Particulars. So keep up your contacts back on Shamleger Street. The more eyes the Watch has watching, the safer the city will be."

Amos' eyes widened. The Cable Street Particulars! He was far too young to remember the days under Lord Winder when that branch of the Watch were known by the citizens as 'The Unmentionables" and feared for their brutal and unsavory tactics in rooting out 'conspiracies'. Now they were the source of (usually apocryphal) tales of daring-do, mystery and Romance. And he was to be part of it!

"Oh, sir, do I get a proper badge and--and everything?"

"You will indeed, young Cordwinder, and the rank of Lance Constable with half pay. Now off with you. Supper is served sharply at seven and you need to be fully moved in and ready for assignments before then."

"Yes, sir!" Amos nearly clicked his heels together, "I'm gone!"

"And Cordwinder, remember that the byword of the Particulars is 'Look thrice, listen twice and only speak once'. Mum is ever the word."

*****

Rincewind, Egregious Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geology, returned from his weekly luncheon date with Madame Lotus Blossom, owner of the Counterweight Palace and (just incidentally) Director of Intelligence in Ankh-Morpork for the People's Beneficent Republic of Agatea. As usual, he'd been escorted each way by a two members of the Guild of Bouncers, Bodyguards and Last Resort Lenders to reassure the 'wizzard' that no harm would dare come to him. It was expensive, he suspected, but since Madame Lotus Blossom was paying for it, he'd stopped objecting. After all, she was very pleasant company and seemed to enjoy his. The first several times this happened, he had immediately upon return rushed to his quarters and hid under the bed. But now he began to treat these outings as something almost normal--until today.

Now he sat on his bed quivering. The conversation had started so innocently but... Thinking back on the afternoon he began to realize just how skilled an interrogator Madame Lotus Blossom was. Why she'd wanted every detail of the relationship between Unseen University and the Palace he had no clue but she did and in between charming gossip and giggles, she'd weaseled every bit of it out of him--at least as far as he knew it, that is. Now what was he to do? Telling the Archchancellor was probably a good way to get yelled at and if there was one non-magical skill the man had, it was yelling. Maybe more than that. More like roaring. Rincewind was sure that was a thoroughly bad idea. But someone needed to know and someone who could do something effective. There was only one other choice, Vice Chancellor Ponder Stibbons, DThau, HEM, Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic and the University's only genuinely sensible wizard. Standing up and giving one last earnest quiver, the Egregious Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography tightened his belt and tottered out the door and into the labyrinthine halls of Unseen University.

Vice Chancellor Stibbons was, for once, sitting in his office humming to himself and smiling as he filed away numerous recently issued memoranda, minutes from Council Meetings and correspondence from everywhere. At Rincewind's knock, he looked up in surprise and said, "Professor Rincewind! This is a surprise. What brings you here? Do pull up a chair."

Rincewind did as invited and gave an Olympic-competition class quiver. Then he began to relate the afternoon's proceedings. As he spoke, Stibbons leaned back in his swivel chair and interlaced his fingers on his lap, his facial expression growing more and more sober as the tale wound on. By the time it was done, the Vice Chancellor's brow was knit and his jaw was set. He began to wag his head disapprovingly.

"Mm-mm. Mm-mm-mm! Why the seven Hells does she want to know all of that? The University has no function in running the city and certainly no involvement in international affairs. Our job is solely to protect Ankh-Morpork from otherworldly or monstrous attacks. Did she give any indication that something like that might be in the offing?"

Rincewind shook his head. "I didn't even realize she was questioning me until I got back to my quarters and began thinking about our conversation. Something surely is bothering her, though. What it might be is a disturbing question."

"The Archchancellor has long been concerned with the vast deposits of octiron in Agatea though we don't have any evidence of the Empire doing much with magic. We do know that the Five Families really want our skilled artisans, enough that the late Lord Hong actually contemplated invasion. We'd better tell Ridcully--and p.p. His Lordship."

Just then a bell rang.

*****

Responding to the bell, Stibbons, the Archchancellor and Archchancellor Henry rushed to the Palace and climbed the stairs to the roof. There they met the Patrician who was looking over a gargoyle's shoulder at the Omniscope set to keep watch over Loko.

"You made good time, gentlemen," Vetinari remarked, "and good to see you again Archchancellor Henry. I'd heard you were in the city for a visit. Once we get this properly sorted out, you must come over and catch me up on dear old Pseudopolis."

Since all three senior wizards knew that the Patrician headed the most sophisticated intelligence network on the entire Disc and likely knew more about Pseudopolis than even the Senate that ruled it, they kept straight faces. No one did disingenuous better than Vetinari.

"So what did Constable Pediment ring th' bell for, Your Lordship?" Ridcully asked brightly. "Some would-be Sourceror in th' offin'?"

Vetinari stepped aside and pointed at the screen.

The three wizards looked down onto the image. "Oh, this is not good!"

Archchancellor Ridcully, being a past master of the Omniscope, quickly took charge of the picture. He moved it around and increased the magnification until finally the assembly looked into a cave full of baskets of spools of dark, faintly glistening thread. Agatean peasants carried the spools to weavers spread out through the clearing who worked the stuff into rugs on large looms.

"Mustrum, that's octiron spun into thread. How much magic would you say is sitting there?

"I don't know, Henry, but it's a whole damned potful--and it's in Loko!"

Stibbons eyes got very wide. "But Archchancellor, that's just asking for an invasion from the Dungeon Dimensions. Have they no clue of what they're doing?"

"They do not," Vetinari responded firmly, "My latest intelligence from the Counterweight Continent indicates that the new head of the Tang clan is young, impulsive and about as intelligent as a box of Professor Rincewind's rocks. He has evidently convinced the other clans that with a fleet of flying carpets, they can invade Ankh-Morpork. But instead of weaving them sensibly of Syrritean wool they are attempting their own solution. Octiron carpets."

"Woven in Loko..." Ridcully reached into the recesses of his robe and pulled out a large bent pipe and a tobacco pouch. He filled it silently and soberly and lit it with a #1 fireball. Archchancellor Henry and Vice Chancellor Stibbons both did the same. Richly scented tobacco smoke blew away in the breeze as three of the most powerful wizards on the Disc considered the possibilities. Enough brain power to make candles flicker in the Great Hall ran through the potential disaster unwinding in front of them and what possible countermeasures could be built and engaged. The pipes went out and were refilled while the Patrician sat watching with quiet patience.

"There's always a dangerous amount of background magic in Loko, even in the best of times," Archchancellor Henry muttered between puffs, "and now these fools are building it up."

"Quite so," Stibbons replied gloomily, "and sooner or later someone will finish a carpet, lay it out on the grass, sit down and try to take it up for a trial flight. That should be just the spark it takes to bring tentacled and clawed Things crawling out of the Dungeon Dimensions."

"And the bloody Things feed on magic," Ridcully muttered, "Which means that they just might take up residence in Loko. Normally they just fall apart whenever they manage t' break into the Disc because there isn't enough residual magic t' keep them together. But there?"

"Fire. Good old-fashioned, reliable fire," Archchancellor Henry muttered between clenched teeth, "The golem constables can get there and survive but they will need a way to send fireballs."

"No, Archchancellor Henry," Stibbons said with an ominous grin, "In the city Armory there is a Klatchian Fire Engine. According to Corporal Nobbs, the leather bellows have been kept oiled and the oil reservoir is always full. He goes down to check on it regularly--mostly out of longing, I suspect. Two golems could carry it easily. According to my calculations, they can be there in fifty-four hours. Hopefully they will be waiting in defilade when the Things break through."

The Patrician raised an eyebrow. "Make it so."

*****

In a basement of a building several doors away from the Counterweight Palace and several basements down from street level, Two Pale Weasel sat tied to a chair. He was sweating profusely. Part of the reason were the three hulking chefs who stared at him unblinking while idly slapping their palms with the flats of large cleavers. More worrisome, though, was the saturnine figure of Two Razors who kept up a fearsome, quiet twanging on the wires of a chicken wire waistcoat. Beside it sat a cheese grater.

"I personally have nothing against you, Two Pale Weasel," Two Razors purred, "though these three gentlemen are not pleased that you increased their workload by murdering One Ginger Root. We are kept quite busy enough without having to lose kitchen staff. But perhaps you had some legitimate reason for bringing his life to a close? An honest explanation would doubtless be better for your future health--or more importantly your future. I'm sure you would like to have one."

"Comrade Tang ordered it, oh blessed one!" Two Pale Weasel yelped, "He said One Ginger Root was wasting too much time keeping track of Madame Lotus Blossom. He demanded more reports on the city's defenses and less of what he said was political twaddle. He was angry that there were no plans of city walls, no analyzes of units."

Two Razors smiled in the way that Captain Angua smiled though without her long canines. "Oh, was he now? Are you telling me that he plans on somehow sailing an invasion fleet here clear from Bangbangduc? Because I know for certain that if he tried to march an army here, only a handful would live long enough to see the place."

By now Two Pale Weasel had gone from perspiration to tears. "No, no, oh blessed one. He believes he can fly here. As we speak hundreds of weavers are making carpets that are heavily inlaid with octiron thread to carry thousands of soldiers and their supplies through the air."

The twanging and the slapping stopped. All four men starred even more menacingly at the spy. Two Razors turned to the chefs. "Clap him in irons. We may have more questions and we'll need him alive. Right now I am going upstairs to inform the Dragon Lady!"

*****

Vetinari sat at his desk in the Oblong Office with his long, pianist's fingers steepled in front of his thin, aquiline nose. Across the desk from him sat Ridcully and Commander Vimes.

"I don't, gentlemen," the Patrician began, "want to leap into emergency action on this issue, but I need to know just how seriously you believe this to be."

"Well," the Archchancellor replied as he filled and lit his pipe, "it's as young Stibbons pointed out up on th' roof. Fortunately, those carpets seem t'be less than one-third done, at best, and since weavin' a rug is a long and tiresome business we still have some days before we have t'decide what t'do. However, once one of them is complete and a Agatean johnny hops on to try it out, there is th' very present danger that it will open a gate to th' Dungeon Dimensions. At that point, a heavy squad of th' Commander's golems will have t'be on th' ready to set fire t'the wretched Things."

"Or," Vimes took the cigar from his mouth, "we could dispatch the Golden Golems to tunnel under that meadow and when they hear the screams of the weavers they can emerge and just start smashing. Word has it that fearsome and horrific as Things are, they're not only susceptible to flame but break easy as well."

"No! No Golden Golems. Though the threat is dire I don't believe it dire enough that we should resort to them. I'm sure that with the Archchancellor's preliminary warning we can deal with this flashpoint using our more common resources. I don't doubt that once we quash this idiotic endeavor, Madame Butterfly will make a suitable example of Comrade Tang. That should prevent any further attempts on our sovereignty. And if it does not, then we activate the Golden Golems."

The Commander relit his cigar. "Archchancellor, couldn't you just open a Door into the meadow in Loko? That way the golems could just rush out with the Fire Engine and lay waste to the Things, the looms and anyone foolish enough to try and resist. And do it without having to anticipate when they would have to arrive and leave fifty-four hours before?"

Ridcully grimaced and wagged his head. "No, Sam, that would be far too dangerous. Opening a Door into Loko means opening a Door from Loko. Remember Professor Crustley and his messy demise, not to mention the equally messy passing of every member of his expedition. We want no direct connection with that terrible place unless we're looking for civic suicide! Our best choice is to assemble a heavy squad of golems, issue them the Fire Engine and send them to lie in wait. Who knows? We may all get lucky and they won't be needed but I wouldn't bet a pouch of tobacco on it."

Behind steepled fingers, the Patrician nodded solemnly. "I agree, Archchancellor; the expeditionary force should be assembled and dispatched as soon as possible. How soon might that be, Vimes?"

"I can have them on the road within a day, sir. The Fire Engine will need testing and possibly an extra barrel or two of oil in case it needs refilling but since golems work around the clock, they can leave tomorrow and be in position by Tuesday afternoon. They should probably stay back out of sight until all the weavers have turned in for the evening. That way they can slip closer and be ready to unleash the Fire Engine at the first sign of Things."

"Make it so."

*****

There are numerous sounds on the Disc which raise the hair on the back of a neck, at least the neck of any sensible being. There is the Troll gahanka, the pounding of clubs on the ground that tells you that with ten minutes you will be dead. Dwarfs have their own version (T'dr'duzk b'hazg t't!) which is freely translated as "It's a good day for someone else to die!" Possibly worst of all is the sound of Havelock Vetinari drumming his fingers impatiently on his desk while you report to him. But now there was a new one.

Seven Watch golem officers jogged across the landscape. Newly promoted Sgt Dorfl was at the head followed by four officers replacing the Fire Engine's wheels who, in turn, were followed by two auxiliaries with fifty gallon barrels of oil strapped to their backs. The rhythmic pounding of their feet echoed off canyon and town walls announcing their approach. An exceptionally foolish bandit or two stepped out to intercept the squad and then immediately changed their minds. Their destination was unknown but everyone they passed was quite relieved to see them continue on their way.

Two elderly veterans, sitting in front of a local pub, cocked their heads in wonder.

"Ain't that one of them Klatchian Fire Engines, Clem?" one asked.

"Be lookin' like one, Orville," the other replied. "Them things ha' bin banned by eight countries and three religions."

"That be true, but five others ha' commanded its use on heretics, agnostics and people who falls asleep during the sermon. Wonder why a bunch of golems has one."

The golems jogged on, relentlessly. Across the Sto Plains, through the forests of Skund and over the tundra of Upper Überwald, around Cori Celesti to the mysterious region of Loko they went. At last they stood on the crest of the mountains that ringed the deep, mysterious valley that was Loko.

"We Will Stay Here Until Nightfall And Then Take Up Our Positions In The Dark. That Way We Will Be In Place At Dawn Where We Can Await Developments," Sergeant Dorfl stated. The others nodded and settled down into that motionless state of golems with nothing particular to do.

*****

It was well known around Unseen University that Archchancellor Ridcully was a master of the Omniscope. What wasn't well known was just how much of a master he was. Having retired to his quarters earlier than usual on the evening the golems were due to arrive in Loko, he doffed his robes and pointy hat, bathed, put on his occultly decorated pajamas (a gift from his mother), lit a fire and settled down with pipe and tobacco pouch in front of his personal Omniscope.

Even now that Hex and Ponder Stibbons had developed thauma-rhythms to more easily control the devices, the majority of the faculty still used theirs to trim their beards because the balky things weren't easy to manage. Besides, there wasn't much fun in using them. (Holes had provided much more interest, allowing as they did access to warm, tropical climes into which they could escape from Ankh-Morpork's notorious winters.) Ridcully didn't need the current generation of applications so after lighting his pipe, he f0cused the device to overlap what the one on the Palace was watching.