More Tales From the Guilds

Surly Grumblerson lay on the gurney staring irritably at the ceiling of the Lady Sybil Free Hospital. He was still a bit dazed from the anesthetic but as the pain was creeping back an oddly misshapen face appeared looking down at him.

"Tho," the face began amicably, "jutht how did all thith happen?"

Surly's face turned red above his beard. "That slut on the Watch did it!" he screamed, "It's all the Queen's fault. If she had stayed with the true shaft and remained King . . ."

The ranting continued for several minutes until the Igor leaned down nose to nose with the dwarf and growled, "Thereth jutht the two of uth in thith room and there's nothing to prevent me from putting your leg back in the cold room for a more apprethiative pathient. For that matter, thereth nothing to prevent me from rethycling the retht of you for spare parths! Now letth thart over again and thith time keep it thivil. Tho, jutht how did all thith happen?"

*****

Cuddi Ringsmithdottir stood in Vimes' office with her head down, her hands behind her back and a woebegone expression on her face. She was sure that she was so much trouble. Fortunately for her, Senior Sergeant Detritus was giving his report of 'the incident' to the Commander. It was always easier that way for Vimes as deciphering Detritus' hand writing was—challenging.

"I were introducin' der new Lance Constable to patrollin' in der night hours, Mr. Vimes, and t'ings were goin' along normal like when der doors on dis dwarf bar be flyin' open. I guessin' dat dey had been quaffin' and singin' 'bout gold for a good while 'cause dis Surly Grumblerson dwarf come staggerin' out. He take one look at der Lance Constable, grab her by der beard and screaming 'Ha'ak!' at her."

Vimes stiffened and sat bolt upright. "He called her what?" he snarled through clenched teeth, "And all she did was whisk off one of his legs? I'd call that remarkably restrained and totally justifiable self-defense. Where is this suicidal idiot now?"

"I took him to der Lady Sybil, sir. Der Igor in charge sayin' dat puttin' der leg back on will be a good trainin' exercise for der upcomin' first year students. I tought dat it would be more 'propriate iffin dey put in on backwards!"

"You're too generous, Sergeant. I think it would be more appropriate if they recycled him for spare parts!" Vimes puffed on his cigar for a couple of minutes, thinking and scowling. Then he spun in his chair and pressed a button. When the door to the adjoining office opened he curled a lip and growled, "Inspector Pessimal, if you would be so kind as to write up an official warning to the offender. Tell him that if he ever calls any of my Watchmen a Ha'ak again, he will go back to Schmaltzberg for the Low Queen's judgement. In a cage!"

Inspector Pessimal's eyes narrowed. "He called her what? Sergeant Detritus, please do come into my office and give me the details. You, too, if you please, Lance Constable. I'm going to enjoy this!"

*****

Two weeks later, Mr. Blister, Acting Magistrate for the quarter, looked down at the documents on his desk and up at Surly. Scowling in disgust, he said, "Mr. Grumblerson, it states here that you assaulted and insulted a member in good standing of the City Watch. Is this true, sir?"

Now reassembled, sober, and becoming aware that his life was rapidly spiraling downwards the dwarf swallowed and answered, "It is, your worship, but I should like to enter the mitigating fact that I was rascally drunk, sir. I come from a very conservative family, sir, and when the demon beer is in me I am disgracefully inclined to spout reactionary nonsense. I would never have behaved so badly if I had not exceeded my limit inside the Ax and Bottle, your worship."

The Magistrate raised an eyebrow and snorted dubiously. "Then I can presume that you are prepared to apologize profusely? It is the least you can do for so egregious an offense."

"Oh yes, your worship! Here, I've already written it out. Uh, you do read runes, I hope?"

"I do not," Blister replied, "but young Oresmiter, here, does. He is both my law clerk and a Grag in training, the better to mediate between the human and the dwarfish communities. If he feels that it is properly adject, I shall forward it to Commander Vimes. If he and Lance Constable Ringsmithdottir accept it I shall close the case this time. Do not be so careless about your drinking in the future. This court will meet again in one week to render final judgement. Adjourned."

*****

Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom and Lance Constable Ringsmithdottir proceeded up the Street of Small Gods towards Short Street. Their assignment sounded quite simple but a little odd. "Go to the Temple of Offler and ask the Reverend Clem for a sub-deacon named Wylnd. Bring this Wylnd to Unseen University's Infirmary where the High Priest of Blind Io and the Archchancellor will be expecting him. Be kind, patient and soft-spoken. Apparently sub-deacon Wylnd has an extreme case of the nerves and we don't (let me emphasize don't) want him going off. Understood? Dismissed."

"What could go wrong if this sub-deacon went spare?" Cuddi was puzzled.

"After being with Mr. Vimes for as long as I have," Cheery replied, "I can tell you that what he doesn't say is at least as important as what he says. He wants us to be kind, patient and soft-spoken so kind, patient and soft-spoken we will be. Obviously, the poor fellow has had some rough times and needs handling with kid gloves. That's all I know and I'm convinced that's all I need to know. It may even be all I want to know. Strange things tend to happen when the University gets involved and mixing that in with the gods makes me imagine things suitable for nightmares."

"Okay, Sergeant, kind, patient and soft-spoken it is. And here we are."

After knocking on the doors, the pair of Watchmen were invited in and escorted to the office of the High Priest. The Deputy High Priest, one Reverend Clem, was a large, burly man dressed in robes cut to resemble a crocodile's hide and wearing a hat that simulated a crocodile's head with the High Priest's face looking out from between the jaws. Right now, he looked worried.

"Ah, Sergeant, thank Offler you are here. I've sent for sub-deacon Wylnd but it will take a bit for him to arrive. The poor chap is terribly distraught and trembles so badly that he requires assistance to walk. That's why I requested the two of you."

Sergeant Littlebottom was surprised. "Good grief, your worship, whatever happened to him?"

Reverend Clem sighed. "Offler and Seven-Handed Set got into an argument that degenerated into a scuffle. When such things happen between gods, the usual victims are human and the results are lightning strikes, burnt out houses and the occasional earthquake. This time, however, Blind Io intervened and got the two settled down again with minimal damage—except to sub-deacon Wylnd. How and why, he ended up as collateral damage is very unsure, as yet."

"He's suffered injury?" Cuddi asked.

The Deputy High Priest clenched his teeth and inhaled with a drawn out hiss. "Not physically. It's the side effects. They've unsettled him badly and aren't good for anyone standing within range—and the range is long."

Cheery wrinkled her forehead and raised an inquiring eyebrow. "The range of what?"

Reverend Clem closed his eyes and shook his head. "Lightning."

Above their luxuriant beards both dwarfs blanched.

"He throws lightning bolts?" Cheert quavered. "I understand wizards throwing fireballs but lightning? Only gods can do that, and not all of them."

The Deputy High Priest closed his eyes tighter and nodded. "That's always been canon. Humans, dwarves and the others all throw rocks, axes, spears, rotten fruit and such. Wizards throw fireballs of various sizes and the gods throw lightning bolts. Everything clearly laid out in an orderly manner. Then this happens. When Wylnd gets angry he fires off a lightning bolt. This is very upsetting, most of all to him—aa-and his target, of course. Wylnd is a very pious man and acting like an immortal has given him a case of the vapors the like of which no-one in the Council of Churches, Temples, Sacred Groves and Big Ominous Rocks has ever seen. Anyway, treat him gently, patiently and kindly and take him to the Archchancellor and the High Priest of Blind Io. They want to see if there is anything they can do for the poor lad. Ah, here he comes now."

Sub-deacon Wylnd definitely looked like someone in deep emotional distress. He shook so badly that two other sub-deacons had to hold him up by the arms from each side. His eyes were clenched shut and he whimpered softly.

"There, there, now, lad. These two members of the Watch are here to help you over to the University. His Eminence, the High Priest of Blind Io and the Archchancellor are waiting for you and will put out every effort to help you. I'm sure that in a day or two they will have tracked down the root of your—affliction, and you will be back good as new and once more doing your duties with enthusiasm."

Each dwarf pulled one of Wylnd's arms gently around their shoulders and led him off. Considering how short dwarfs are, this doubtless looked difficult to any bystander but dwarfs are remarkably strong and Wylnd was remarkable slim, now to the point of frail. Besides, the distance was not too great.

*****

Barbarian warriors come in various types. On top are ancient ones, like Ghenghiz Cohen. Decades old, thin, wiry and complaining about their aches and pains, such men have outlived their rivals, survived war and bounty hunters, accumulated and wasted riches and doubtless left rather more than their fair share of DNA scattered across the Disc. How? By being very good barbarian warriors. Swing an ax or sword at them and miraculously they aren't there. Not by much, true, but by enough. And then their swords are at your neck!

Braggart barbarians tend to show up in bars like the Mended Drum and announce that they are Disc-famous as Vincent the Invincible. In very short time it becomes obvious that Vincent isn't Invincible which is the reason his mortal remains are now floating (for a given value of 'float') down the River Ankh. And then there ones like Bullc.

Bullc had nearly the size and strength of a troll with barely as much brainpower. He had stumbled across the way to Ankh-Morpork in his search for something to steal and around noon, his eyes somehow focused on Dibbler's Select Sausage Dolly. Even through Bullc's smashed in nose, it smelled pretty good and CMOT Dibbler wasn't a formidable looking opponent so the hulking barbarian decided that sausages on a bun were worth stealing. He lumbered over to the cart, stuck his hand down inside and grabbed a couple of wursts and shoved then into his maw.

"Hey, citizen," Dibbler squawked, "those prize sausages are 10p each. You owe me half a dollar."

Bullc growled, "Bullc not pay! Bullc smash!" and lifted his double-handed war hammer over his head and was about to reduce the cart (and CMOT) to flinders when sub-deacon Wylnd looked up.

Suddenly the man's trembling stopped. He jerked to his feet, standing straight and tall, cast the two Watchmen aside and, in a voice that rang of bronze and steel, roared "No!"

Bullc looked up in confusion just in time to see the sub-deacon double in size, point his right hand to the sky and his left straight at the barbarian. Though there was no storm in sight, an enormous bolt plunged down from the sky, wrapped itself around Sub-deacon Wylnd and then fired toward Bullc, reducing him to a smear of ash on the pavement. The hammer fell next to the cart with a clunk.

Just as swiftly as he'd assumed an avatar and wielded an attribute, Wylnd shrank back to his normal self, curled up in a fetal position and began to cry. "Hammer," he whimpered pitifully, "hammer."

Whipping around to Cuddi, Sergeant Littlebottom snapped, "Get him to the Infirmary at once. I'll take charge here."

As has been noted in other tales, dwarfs aren't much for jumping but they do have acceleration. Cuddi lifted Wylnd like a child and dashed across Sator Square so fast that leaves swirled in her wake. Littlebottom pulled out a whistle and blew a blast. Within minutes Constable Swires landed his buzzard.

"Aye, Sergeant, what'llya be needin'?"

"Go to the Yard and fetch Igor. We've got a crime here that I don't understand and it needs looking into. We'll also need a few more constables to keep order before the crowd shows up. And bring some yellow tape!"

"Aye, Sergeant, it's on its way!"

With that Buggy flew off. Before a quarter hour passed, the area around the cart was taped off, Bullc's ashes had been swept up and bottled for analysis, Dibbler had been threatened with the Tanty if he didn't shut up, the investigation turned over to Igor and Cheery had left for the University—with the hammer.

In the Infirmary, Mrs. Whitlow had just tucked the sub-deacon into bed and the Archchancellor had given the poor man a double dose of dried frog pills when Sgt. Littlebottom arrived, carrying Bullc's double handed war hammer. Wylnd looked up with a dreamy smile (dried frog pills are potent and work very fast) and reached out an arm. Plaintively he cried, "Hammer?"

Mustrum looked at his brother who shrugged and whispered, "Oh, give it to 'im. He's in no state t'cause trouble. He'll be snorin' in five minutes."

Wylnd took the hammer like a toddler takes a teddy bear, cradled it in his arms and fell asleep with it tucked up against his chest.

The Archchancellor stood quietly staring at the sleeping figure, then licked the tip of his finger and held it up. Nothing. Just the usual background magic you would expect at Unseen. He glanced sideways at the High Priest of Blind Io who shrugged and fished first through the pockets of his robe and before taking off his mitre and reaching inside to pull out a small, odd-looking assemblage.

"The Council has been workin' on this. It's a Beta version of a Detector Sanctitate Veritatis. It's a bit crude as yet and will need further refinin' but after the Disc Mother showed up, ever'one got a bit on edge and wanted t'be prepared for another anthropomorphic personification or whatever she was. Now, let's tweak this and give it a . . ."

The Detector started to vibrate and twinkle. Coruscations of opalescent ight rippled up and down the strange device.

"Now that's odd. Doesn't seem like what we expected, at all. Less a Deity than—perhaps a manifestation?"

"O'what? Or should I ask, o'whom?"

"Well, we won't be findin' out tonight. Let's check back in with him in the mornin'. Per'aps he'll be in better shape to talk after breakfast."

*****

That evening the two Watchmen sat over a supper of rat en croute at Gimli's Yo Rat II brewpub.

"I've seen some serious thunderstorms back home in Copperhead," Cuddi began, "but that bolt Wylnd threw had to be the worst ever."

Sgt. Littlebottom nodded soberly. "And there's something eerie about him wanting the hammer. For us dwarfs, if we have our ax and a fire, we can build a simple forge. With a simple forge we can build simple tools then with the simple tools we can build complex tools."

"Right," Cuddi answered, "and with complex tools, we can build anything. But he's a cleric. What would a sub-deacon want with that kind of tool? I tell you, there was something about the way he asked for the hammer and the way he cradled it in bed that goes far beyond even the most devoted craftsman's. As you said, "eerie"! And just what kind of name is Wylnd, anyway? I'm beginning to understand what you said before, strange things tend to happen when the University gets involved and mixing that in with the gods makes one imagine things suitable for nightmares. Fortunately, it's in the Archchancellor's and High Priest's hands now.

Care to split a bottle of Pino Gris? Gimli just got a shipment in from Quirm and, if I say so myself, it's quite top drawer."

*****

The sub-deacon's lightning bolt had lit up the entire city for a split second and the crack of the thunder had blown out a few windows. Additionally, the concussion nearly knocked a pair of flying carpets out of the air along with their four-legged attendants. Once the Squad regained control, Li's first question was, "What it the name of Blind Io was that?"

Young Sam stood on his Cloudsplitter staring towards the city center with Rolf cowering behind his knees. "Lightning. Really big lightning. But there's no storm and no rain. Did some god just go spare on somebody?"

"We'd better get home, Sammy," Lethality said with a grimace, "If some god has decided to get grouchy I want to be home where we have the Blind Io symbol on the doorframe."

Like the majority of the Ankh upper classes, the Wiggs were nominally Blind Ionians. It wasn't that they burned with evangelical fervor but a nod to the Chief of the Gods can have a tendency to ward off errant lightning bolts, St Elmo's fire and localized earthquakes. Among the residents of Dunmanifestin, a certain professional courtesy reigns.

The Vimes family (at the Duke's insistence) didn't follow any of the Disc pantheon. That would require belief, something the Commander stoutly withheld, despite admitting that there were somewhere between two and three thousand gods active at any given moment. But there's a clear separation between acknowledgement and belief and Sam was quite firm about which on side he stood. What the other members of the household might believe is their own (unknown) business but given Willikins' robust response to any threat to the family, he might well be a devotee of Seven-Handed Sek, God of Vengeance.

Back at the Temple of Offler of the Bird-Haunted Mouth, the Reverend Clem was going through Sub-deacon Wylnd's cell and meager belongings. He was searching for anything that might point to what had happened to the poor lad with the assistance of Deacon Clop.

"Eminence," Clop murmured, "have you ever seen anything like this?" and he held up a small, burnt looking neck chain with a tiny pair of tongs hanging from it.

"I have not. Run it over to the Chief Priest of Blind Io. It may be something he can use. Where did you find it?"

"It was on the floor behind his pallet, Eminence, in a clear spot amidst the dust."

"Interesting. Yes, do hurry over to the University with it. Though I have no idea what it is, I'm sure it's significant."

*****

"Thith ith jutht about the puretht carbon I have ever theen," the Watch Igor proclaimed after doing a couple of tests in the basement lab, "That bolt mutht have not only blown the life out of that barbarian but jutht about everything elth."

He turned to CMOT Dibbler who was standing nervously behind him. "And you thay he jutht turned up out of nowhere and thtole a half dozen of your thauthageth?"

"That he did, guv'nor. Grabbed 'em, ate 'em and was gonna destroy my business when I told him what he owed. Old Cohen the Barbarian would never act that way. If'n he'd been out barbarianing, he'd pay in rubies and if he was short on cash he'd just imply it would be a really good thing if I extended him some credit until the next time he passed through."

Igor nodded. "And of courth, you would."

"Absolutely! A ruby or two could set up a line of credit that would keep him in sausages for years. Good man to do business with, old Cohen."

"Well, I'm not going to find out any more from the forenthic evidenth, at leatht until I can examine the hammer. Can't imagine what a thub-deacon would want with a tool like that. I'm thurprithed he could even pick it up."

"I doubt he could, guv'nor, and in anyway, he didn't have time. Lance Constable Cuddi scooped him up and left for UU at a run and it just lay there behind the yellow tape until Sergeant Littlebottom signed a chitty for it and took it to UU as well. You'll have to ask the Archchancellor or someone at the University if you want to look at it. May I go now? I've sausages getting cold in the cart."