More Tales from the Guilds

Fall had come to Crundells, the Ramkin Manor, and the Marquise of Quire, Samuel Vimes-Ramkin, was about to host his first major social event, a driven boar hunt. The event was chosen because the swine numbers had increased alarmingly of late and the beasts were a positive nuisance. They rooted up pastures, gobbled down crops, consumed the mast the local landowners wanted to feed their own domestic hogs, killed and ate newborn livestock and even occasionally attacked people. Guests would be coming from all over the Shires and from as far away as Ankh-Morpork and Quirm. Among them were the renowned vintner the Marquis de Aix en Pains, the Archchancellor of Unseen University and Sam's best friends, the Co-directors of the Sto Plains Agro-mancy Research Center. Naturally Crundells would have to be up to the task of entertaining and Amos Cordwinder, its butler and the Marquise's gentleman's gentleman, went about making sure that it was.

"Mr. Carpenter," he said to the head butcher, "will you be dipping and scraping the beasts before you eviscerate them or will skinning be simpler?"

Carpenter shook his head solemnly. "Skinnin' a deer is like peelin' a banana, Mr. Cordwinder. It's no trouble, at all. Skinnin' a pig, on the other hand, is like peelin' a watermelon! There will be a cart waitin' at the end of each drive to bring the game back here. I have several barrels that by then'll be heated t'the proper temperature and all th'bell scrapers are well honed. Once the pigs are hairless, we'll gut them an' hang 'em in the coolin' shed. The next mornin' we'll start on the butcherin'. But while the carcasses are chillin', we'll work on the offal. Braunschweiger, pâté, black puddin', kidneys for pies, sweetbreads and yards and yards of clean sausage casings to fill the followin' day. It will all go very smoothly, though if the guests shoot well enough, we shall be very busy."

Cordwinder pursed his lips and nodded. "Expect to be busy. His lordship is quite the excellent shot, as are his friends the Co-directors. Lady Lethality has been seen wiping down her Burleigh and Stronginthearm rather lovingly, and to top it all off, the Archchancellor has accepted his invitation. All the smokehouses 'round will be doing double duty after this month."

Carpenter brightened noticeably. Visions of pan-fried sweetbreads and smoked bratwurst in the garlicky Quirmian manner piled on a platter on his table danced through his head. This was going to be a good winter and Hogswatchnight will be joyous!

*****

Upstairs in one of the nurseries, Aranae Woodbead was playing pattycake with her very young nephew, Tristan. Each time they got to, "and throw it in the oven for baby and me" the wee mite would burst into gales of giggles. Babies, she thought, were such fun. She and Fernan would need to get married and get started on one of their own quickly. On the other hand, being an aunt instead of a mother did have its advantages. If she got tired of playing or the baby got fractious or tired, she could hand him back to Passionate. Perhaps more thought was required before she got too eager.

"Trop adorable," Fernan smiled benignly, "Sam and Li are hosting quite the most delightful crop of babies. This one, youngest Sam III, and even wee Reason Stibbons. Penny was quite surprised about that. She wasn't planning on adding to the herd of Oggs for at least a couple of years."

Aranae giggled. "No, she wasn't. But Hilta Goatfounder's Pennyroyal Preventatives are only effective, not foolproof. Unless she just got distracted and forgot to take hers. We will have to keep that in mind after the wedding, mon amour."

"Oui! In today's world children should be a choice, not a fate. But with so many little nieces, nephews and friends, we can enjoy the benefits with minimal responsibilities. After all, my brother is the one in charge of carrying on the family line. All I have to do is keep you happy and make wine."

"And of course you feel so badly about that!" Aranae shot her fiancé a skeptical look as he booped the infant's tummy to receive even more baby laughter. Making him wait for children of his own might not be the best idea.

*****

With a fine bay Selle du Quirm gelding hitched to a two seater wheeled chaise, Sam and his gamekeeper Mr. Mason drove out to survey the beat.

"The staff are quite excited about this, Lord Quire. It gives them a nice break from the day-to-day routine. The farm workers get a day away from the fields, the household staff get some fresh air and sunshine and everyone is looking forward to a share of the pork. Carpenter has been down to the Commander's Arms telling anyone who will listen about the glories of Saucisse de sanglier and Jamon du Aix en Pains."

"Well, there should certainly be plenty to go around," Sammy replied, "The swine population has gotten quite out of hand and there are some serious shots signed up for the butts. The Archchancellor has sent a clacks saying that he's bringing along a matched pair of crossbows and multiple sheaves of bolts. You'd better appoint a pair of loaders for him. I've seen him on the driven boar range and the man just doesn't miss. My Lady Lethality has been chortling over her new bow and since she's never inhumed anyone, this will be her first chance to put her skills to the test. And my friends the Co-Directors are both dead shots. I've even heard that the Marquis is no slouch on the drives either."

"Well, tell everyone that they are not to spare any sows or piglets. We want to put a serious dent in the local population. Blarsted things are a complete menace and the more we kill, the better. Now My Lord," Mason said with a gesture, "we'll line the beaters here up around the north side of this copse. Once the shooters in position, I'll blow a blast on m' horn. Presumin' the beaters hear it, Mr. Cordwinder will answer on his horn and the beaters and their hounds'll begin advancin'. They will bang on trees with sticks and pans, blow horns and whistles of their own and just make a generally unholy racket. The theory is that the game will not like this at all and try to escape--right towards your guests."

Sammy nodded. "In their position, I should as well. Will we be taking any other game, Mr. Mason?"

"This spring's fawn crop was a bit down, sir, due to the severity of the winter. Thus while stags are fair game, no hinds should be taken this year. If we get a high enough number of twin fawns in the spring we can consider cropping hinds a year from now. The same holds for fallow buck and roe. Stags only for this year. Besides, the main idea is to concentrate on swine."

"Indeed. Ruddy things are a complete menace. It's a pity we don't have more wolves to keep them down, or brown bear, even. Unfortunately the herders kill wolves and bears at every opportunity to keep them off the livestock. I've sent a request to Queen Magaret (Note Spelling) for several dogs and bitches of the Lancrestrian Mountain Dogs. The Lancrestrian ambassador has a pair and they are impressive beasts! I think we should begin with having them imprint on sheep as puppies so that by the time they get to be about two years old they will consider themselves part of the flock. Any wolf or bear that approaches will be emphatically warned off--as will any would-be stock rustlers. In time we may be able to introduce them to the cattle herds and eventually allow more predators on the estates to keep the pigs under control while still being able to raise enough livestock to feed the creamery."

"Quite so, My Lord. Buying Livestock Guard Dogs is an investment, not an expense. In time they will not only pay for themselves but turn a profit from increased production. And you might want to keep at least one as a house dog. I've read that the Lancrestrians will not allow anyone uninvited near their beloved family members and at 150 lbs., they can make it stick. And all the while your children can use them as pillows during nap time."

"Yes. My dear old, late lamented Rolf was great at keeping my feet warm but a Lancrestrian is a bit big for that. That's a good suggestion, Mr. Mason. I'm sure Little Sam will be delighted with a puppy to play with and eventually snooze on, even if it does soon grow to several times as big as he is."

Their survey of the drive completed, the Marquise and his gamekeeper returned to Crundells in time for lunch. Sam arrived in the dining room to see his son sitting in a high chair enthusiastically downing the requisite baby rations of pablum, meat puree and strained vegetation of some kind. The last was being received with considerably less enthusiasm than the cereal. In fact, most of it was ending up on his bib. Still, Sam's old nurse Purity was managing to get some of the spinach in, though the plum puree was easier.

*****

At Ramkin House in Ankh-Morpork, the Commander awoke with a start from a most unsettling dream. In his vision he'd died and found himself sitting at the game board in Dunmanifestin. This was not the afterlife he'd expected and he wasn't happy. To make it worse, Blind Io had smiled down at him and said, "Ah, Vimes. Good of you to show up. We've been wanting someone to watch Watchmen. Welcome to divinity."

Captain Vimes had not been pleased when the Patrician had promoted him to Commander and announced that the title traditionally carried the rank of knight. His wife, however, had been delighted and all the plans that (now Captain) Carrot laid out were obviously to the benefit of the Watch so he'd grudgingly accepted. It got even worse when Vetinari had bequeathed on him the title of 1st Duke of Ankh and restored the family's status of nobility that they'd lost when an ancestor (Old Stoneface) beheaded a vicious psychopath of a king. He accepted the nobility only because it gave his beloved Lady Sybil the ability to discretely swank the other highborn women in the city.

But being made a demigod was just taking things entirely too far! He'd lain there in the dark breathing heavily then gotten up to use the w.c. before getting a drink of cold water and climbing back in bed. The dream had not only been disturbing in its content but in its vividness. He was used to dreams but this one had not only been exceptionally clear, it hung around. Much as he refused to believe in any god of any sort this looked to require a consultation with the High Priest of Blind Io, Hughnon Ridcully. He was not looking forward to the interview.

In his office in Pseudopolis Yard the next morning, Vimes spent an anguished half an hour composing a letter. He was on very good terms with Unseen University's Archchancellor Ridcully, even though he had a serious distaste for Magic and wanted nothing to do with it. However, on occasion Unseen University had been of use (in a consulting manner) in solving a tortuous crime or two so their mutual respect had evolved into genuine friendship. Mustrum's brother Hughnon, on the other hand, was High Priest of Blind Io and the Commander wanted even less to do with gods of any sort than he did with Magic. Vimes' refusal to believe in any god at all was well-known and this made asking for a consultation with the most important cleric in the city a difficult proposition.

Even deciding on where to meet was challenging. If any of the city's world class gossipers1 caught sight of the Commander of the Watch entering a temple, any temple, the rumors would whirl for months. Vimes really, really didn't need that. On the other hand meeting in one of the city's multitudinous public houses had its own obstacles. What he needed, seriously needed, was a place with quiet booths where two men could talk without too many eavesdroppers. That immediately precluded The Bucket, the Watch's designated watering hole. A fair portion of the Watch these days was made up of dwarfs and they were a folk who treated gossip as a high art. So after much soul-searching and thought, he wrote to the High Priest stating his need for advice and suggesting that they meet at the Rib of Beef on Baron Street, renowned city wide for their beef sandwiches and selection of ales on draft. It had the additional benefit of being well away from the center of the city and was down by the Cattle Market near the neighborhood where Sam had grown up. He was sure the younger Ridcully would find it acceptable.

[1 Of whom there were legion!]

*****

Over a couple of large beef sandwiches and flagons of ale (for the High Priest--Vimes had tea) the Commander explained his concerns. Ridcully was sympathetic but shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but I predicted this when Captain Carrot brought th' news of th'--'resurrection' if y'will, of th'Agony Aunts.

The basic theology is quite clear. In order for gods t'exist, there must be belief. Normally what happens is some natural event takes place, someone believes that divine intervention was involved 'n' then builds a cairn or somethin' to commemorate the event 'n' tells his friends. Likely there is a minor godling inhabiting a bush or stone outcrop nearby who starts t'feed on th'belief of th'little group. As the group increases, so does th'belief and so does th'god. Get enough belief in a big enough group 'n' you end up with Blind Io or Om. Om doesn't cause earthquakes or throw lightning bolts these days but refuses t'say that he won't. This makes him verra popular and verra powerful. Strangely, th'process doesn't require a large number o' people. My brother 'n' his colleagues slipped through a Door into th' deep past 'n' encountered a single god on a single island whose belief in himself was so strong that he was able t'continue t'exist with no outside help. It was verra strange.

There is yet another poss'bility. Remember when Vetinari sent you to Borogravia durin' their war with Zlobenia? Borogravia's main god was Nuggan but he was such a psychotic idiot that th'nation began prayin' t'their duchess Annagovia, instead. She'd been dead f'r years but th' country di'n't know it 'n' their belief turned her into a goddess. Nuggan faded into nothingness 'n' she took his place in Dunmanifestin. Which brings us t'yer situation.

Over th'last decades you, as Commander, have uplifted th'Watch t' a model for civic governments. It has expanded 'n' you have trained Watchmen who then have gone on t'take positions in other states across th'Sto Plains 'n' beyond. They, in turn, train other Watchmen to share in yer verra strong belief in Law 'n' Justice. In doin' so they, it appears, have come t' believe--in you!"

Vimes set his mug down on the table with a thump.

"They what? Is there some way I can stop this? I don't want to be a god. I don't believe in gods, any gods."

"I'm not sure there is 'n' I don't think yer can. I know y' won't give up yer core belief in Justice (because it's a good part of what y'are) 'n' it's that belief that makes Watchmen believe in you. And there are so many Sammies across the Disc that I suspect that it's already too late. Now I haven't heard of any little groups of Watchmen meetin' to practice the Rites of Sam Vimes 'n' there hasn't been a temple built anywhere in yer honor. However, there doesn't need t'be. Until just r'cently there never was a temple built to Neoldian, either, but in every smithy 'n' forge across the Disc for thousands of years there is one prom'nently displayed hammer 'n' pair of tongs that never get used but are never forgotten--ritual objects, if yer will. What Watchmen have in common is their badge."

Vimes reflexively touched his. A feeling of impending Dread2 rose within in his breast. He was beginning to understand what the High Priest was telling him. This was not good news. Apparently every Watchman carried a small piece of something like a Temple of Vimes on their breastplate, just as he did. This was very definitely not good news.

[2 or imminent Doom]

"Will this new god of Watchmen really be me? Will I know it or will just a god appear who looks like me?"

"That I can't answer. Annagovia's case was somewhat unique 'n' th' theology is unclear. I may have t' dispatch a research theologian t' Borogravia t' investigate. Right now I can only suggest that y' eat yer vegetables 'n' stay well. I don't think y' can be 'uplifted' while yer still alive."

Vimes put his face in his palm and shook his head. This was unquestionably the worst news he had gotten all year. He sighed.

"Thank-you for your help, Hughnon. It wasn't what I wanted to hear but at least you have given me increased reason to stay healthy. Damn, damn, damn!"

*****

Mr. Mason introduced Archchancellor Ridcully to his loaders, Bentley and Royce. As those gentlemen tugged their forelocks respectfully, the Archchancellor beamed and gestured towards his luggage.

"Good to meet y', chaps. M'bows and ammunition are in th' cases over there so if y'd be so kind as t'look 'em over and familiarize yerselves with the workin's, we should have a fine couple o'days shootin'. Young Sam is verra intr'sted in fillin' the local smokehouses with pork so I'll be doin' m' best t' do m'duty t'cut down th' swine numbers. Yer should be takin' home quite the pile of charcuterie f'r yer efforts."

The Archchancellor's bows turned out to be Burleigh and Stronginthearm's Best Model underlevers. Ridcully had chosen them specifically for their ease and speed of cocking and reloading. From all the evidence, the following day was going to be a bad one if you were a pig.

*****

Very early the following morning, Cordwinder (in unfamiliar tweed instead of his usual immaculate butlering ensemble) walked along the line of beaters. He greeted each of them warmly, patted each hound and scratched it behind its floppy ears and once all seemed in proper array took up his position in the center of the line. He checked the sky. Yes, it should be nearly shooting light so he sat very quietly and listened intently. There it came, the faint, deep brazen tone of Mr. Mason's horn. He raised his own treble version, took a deep breath and blew an answering blast. Just as Mason had predicted the morning erupted in a cacophony of shouts, barks, baying, bangs, horns and whistles. It was, indeed, an unholy racket.

Sam, Lethality and all their guests tensed and leaned slightly forward in anticipation. As the beaters approached hoofbeats could be heard. Crossbow buttstocks met shoulders and cheeks pressed down on combs. Then--there they were! Bristly black forms came running through the woods to suddenly summersault and lay still. Some dodged and escaped but not the ones in front of the Archchancellor. Ridcully and his loaders worked in smooth, almost industrial precision and the boar began to pile up in front of his stand. This went on for about half an hour until the beaters reached the marked end of their drive and Cordwinder sounded his horn a second time. Crossbows dropped to their owners' hips, bolts went back in quivers and strings were slowly released.

Sammy looked out over the scene. Wow! He'd wanted to reduce the pig numbers and reduced they had been. Mr. Carpenter and his assistants were going to be busy the entire rest of the day and likely into the evening. There was no doubt that his suggestion to the surrounding lands that they make room in their smokehouses had been a good one. The coming Hogswatchnight looked to be one for the books. And there was still tomorrow...

*****

Returning to the Temple of Blind Io, Hughnon Ridcully sat drumming his fingers on his desk, deep in thought. The scholarly Very Reverend Kotzwinkle had been given his marching orders and was happily packing a couple of trunks for his (probably prolonged) trip to Borogravia and a deep enquiry into the nature and emergence of the goddess Duchess Annagovia. However, that was unlikely to answer the anxieties of the Commander of the Watch. The High Priest doesn't burn with much in the way of evangelical fervor any more than his co-religionists do. He does, though, hold the Commander in high regards and the man's distress was disturbing. Vimes didn't want to be a god or demigod but the Watch seemed to crave something to believe in. So just as his brother's colleagues did whenever they felt puzzled, Hughnon resorted to the library. Not the Library of Unseen University, he went to the archives of the Temple of Small Gods. Just as the Assassins' Guild Library was unmatched in its collection of volumes on the brevity of human life (and the means of bringing it about) the Library of Small Gods contained every hint or rumor of the existence of any type of divinity and was constantly being updated with new discoveries of godlings in search of human belief. Somewhere in there must be something that could be channeled into a receptacle for the belief of all the Watchmen of the Sto Plains and its surroundings.