Tales from the Guilds Ch. 11

Archchancellor Ridcully held up the small simulacrum to the light and scowled darkly. He'd never seen one before but he knew what it was and he didn't like it.

"Where'd this come from, Sam?"

Commander Vimes tapped the ash off his cigar and grimaced. "Constable Brick, our youngest troll officer, was just coming off shift when another troll approached him with a box and an envelope. He was told that if I didn't have it in my hands within the hour Chrysoprase would be very upset."

The Archchancellor raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Expedited deliv'ry, then. I didn't know that the Guild of Bodyguards, Bouncers and Last Resort Lenders was on speakin' terms with the Watch."

"Well, generally we aren't. As far as I'm concerned, despite Vetinari's official blessing they're still the Breccia and they're still a collection of thugs and mobsters. However, this isn't the first time old Chrysoprase has slipped me a tip about something that he considers 'bad for bidness'. They've pretty much gotten out of the drug trade these days because of what it's doing to young trolls up in the mountains and he's got enough moral core, if you can call it that, to not want to see his own kind destroyed. He also doesn't like civil unrest, especially unrest that can be blamed on the trolls. It gets in the way of making money. So whatever this is, it worries him and anything that worries him, worries me."

"Y'don't know what it is?"

"It looks like a doll wearing a robe and cap like the Patrician's. I've heard of voodoo but doubt that Vetinari believes in it so it shouldn't affect him, should it?"

Ridcully shook his head somberly. "No, Sam. This is old magic, from the dawn o' time as t'were. Prop'ly set up these things give you enormous power over the subject. If any magic can be called Black, this is as Black as it gets. Fortun'tly, this one is blank, empty. But if it had so much as an eyebrow of his it could make him sick, drive him mad with pain or kill him. It could even do all three. Someone is out t' overthrow the City."

"What, again? This gets really old after a while. First it was some rogue wizards with a dragon. Then a couple of different cabals of aristocrats. Reacher Gilt thought he would have a go at it with the clacks monopoly and so did a bunch of crazed Deep Downer dwarves. Hell, Angua tells me that the werewolf speciesists had dreams of using the city as a private hunting preserve. About the only major group that hasn't tried is the trolls but if Chrysoprase is tipping me off about this I doubt it's them. Who in all the nine hells is it this time?"

"Well, I know you don't like magic, Sam, but in a case like this the University is probably your best friend. Voodoo magic isn't the sort that is likely to cause another invasion from the Dungeon Dimensions so a little thaumaturgical snooping around might be a good idea?"

Vimes shook his head. He hated magic. It was untrustworthy and dangerous. He knew from experience that wizards could do amazing things with it but even when they did it always turned out to be unsettling or downright frightening. No, the Watch would solve this the old-fashioned way with plodding and dumb luck. It had always worked in the past but just in case it wasn't working this time, it was good to know that Ridcully had his back. That was the other thing about magic. Sometimes the very threat of it was better than the real thing.

"I'll keep the offer in mind, Archchancellor, but for now we'll do this my way. At least I understand it. Will you keep the wretched thing for me? I don't want anyone to even know it can exist let alone really does."

Ridcully nodded. "I'll have the Librarian put it with the highest security books. No one will get to it there and if they do, they'll wish they hadn't!"

*****

When the Archchancellor dropped the simulacrum into the Librarian's open hands, the ape looked up with his fangs bared in rage. "OOK? Ook-ook EEK?

Professor Bengo Macarena looked down, at the cupped hands and their potentially lethal contents with narrowed eyes. "What in the nine Hells is that doing in Ankh-Morpork? Back home in Genua we had to deal with this crap on a regular basis but I've never heard of the plague spreading to the Sto Plains. Where'd y'all get it, Mustrum?"

Ridcully leaned back, his thumbs under the lapels of his waistcoat. "It was brought t' the attention of the Watch and Commander Vimes brought it t' me. A good thing, too, as he didn't realize how serious the threat is. Given his distrust and dislike of magic I'm surprised that he did but fortun'tely he and I have a cordial relationship and even have worked together despite his feelin's. He wasn't sure what it was but thought the University was the best place to find out. Now he knows. Librarian, can you put this thing down in the basement? Under lock and key? And wards? Until it's destroyed?"

With effort the orang resisted the impulse to crush the little figure with his hands. Growling deep in his throat he nodded and set off at once to the basement. Once it was down in the High Security shelves it would be safe. No one but the most experienced wizards ever went there and survived—and not always them.

"Bengo, old chap, would anyone not from Genua be likely to have made it—or even know about it?"

Professor Macarena shook his head. "Not likely. Possible, of course, but not likely. Voodoo is a folk magic from the swamps. The common folk of the city treat it more like a religion than an actual magical practice. It's had significant effect at times in the past. Queen Ella is thought to be a follower though she doesn't make an issue of it. Rumor has it that it runs in her family."

"A religion? Interestin'. I think I might have t' pay a family visit."

*****

It was always a special occasion when great-uncle Mustrum came to the Temple of Blind Io for a visit. The official conflict between the Head of All Wizardry and the High Priest of Blind Io, Chief of the gods, was an ongoing family joke. Besides, for Hughnon's eldest grandson, who would eventually inherit the family estates, it was a chance to schmooze with the current heir. Though his father was now in residence and managing quite well, (according to all reports), Uncle Mustrum was still the official lord of the manors. Besides, you never knew when he might do some really fun magic!

Dinner over, grandchildren entertained and sent to bed, the High Priest and the Archchancellor retired to what had once been a private chapel but was now a drawing room. Pipes packed and lit, brandy poured, the men settled into comfortable club chairs in front of a hearth full of glowing coals.

"Got yer note, Mustrum. This ain't a promisin' development. The other religions won't like it one bit. Voodoo isn't somethin' yer can organize prop'ly, bein' more like witchcraft than wizardry. Every practitioner is a law unto himself—or herself as th' case may be."

"Herself? Hughnon, what d'yer think th' chances are that our mysterious person is a woman?"

"'Bout fifty-fifty. It's a mysterious business, voodoo is. I'd hardly even call it a proper religion, m'self. It's more like witchcraft with some homemade gods thrown in. But it is a religion in that all it takes to make it work is enough believers, and Genua has plenty of those. Here? I can't say."

Mustrum puffed and nodded. He took a sip of fine Quirmian brandy, rolled it around in his mouth while he considered his brother's words. "And naturally Havelock knows."

Hughnon snorted. "Of course he knows. That's why he's still Patrician after all these years. Whether he cares, now, is a different question."

The Archchancellor nodded again. "But Vimes cares. You can be sure o' that. Considerin' how many times he's had Vetinari's back or gotten him out o' trouble? My suspicion is that a serious investigation started the minute he got back to Pseudopolis Yard."

*****

Vimes was in his office with the door closed and locked and Sergeant Detritus standing guard outside. A pot of fresh tea sat in his desk with three mugs and Captains Carrot and Angua sat around it. "Naturally," the Commander began, "everything said here is absolutely confidential. This morning Constable Brick was approached by one of Chrysoprase's underlings and handed a box and an envelope. I gave the contents of the box to the Archchancellor for safe keeping. Here's the letter from the envelope."

Mr. Vimes,

Two ob my associates was payin' a call on a client ob ours whose payments was unfortunately in a-rears. After knockin' politely on der door, dey entered der premises an' found der client and a bunch of foreign lookin' humans sittin' 'roun' a table. Der foreigners jump up and attempt' to attack my associates wif swords. Dis were a serious tact-ical er-ror and so unfortunately youse will not be able to interrogate dem. Der client grabbed dis box and ran out der back of der buildin' where my associate Menhir were standin'. Menhir confiscated dis box as good faith payment for der client's loan. Sadly, I haf to report dat der client escaped but we know wot he look like an' will bring him to der Watch should we have der good luck to en-coun-ter him again. Dis last is especially true now dat I hab look in der box an' see der contents! I don't know wot is up but I hearin' rumors. Hopefully dis will assist youse in your investergation.

Respeckfully,

Chrysoprase,

Chairtroll (Guild of Bouncers, Bodyguards and Last Resort Lenders)

"And the contents were?" Captain Carrot asked.

"A voodoo doll of His Lordship," Vimes replied sourly.

"Gosh!"

Captain Angua's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Vimes, this has nasty possibilities. We don't know what causes spontaneous zombies but voodoo can make deliberate ones, zombies that are slaves to the practitioner. The Differently Alive community won't like this one bit. It looks like we have someone who not only wants to take Vetinari out of commission but who has no problem with attempting to divide up the various kinds of D.A. citizens. How is anyone supposed to know who is a free zombie and who is a slave, who you can trust and who you don't dare?"

"Well," Vimes answered while lighting a cigar, "you're our liaison with the community. See what you can find out. And take Constable Shoe with you. He's one zombie we know we can trust."

*****

If the bar had any name at all it was called Biers. But if you knew it was there you didn't need the name. And if you didn't know it was there, it probably just as well. Years ago it was called the Crown and Axe and one of the patrons, ancient Mrs. Gammage, thinks it still is. But she's very old, deaf and practically blind. The rest of the clientele vary but all have one trait in common. They are Undead—or, to be polite, Differently Alive. Werewoves, vampires, boogiemen, ghouls and zombies find a place here where they can relax without always looking over their shoulders for a mob with torches and pitchforks. And they are all very protective of Mrs. Gammage!

When the two officers entered the bar, the conversation paused but as soon as the crowd recognized Angua and Reg, it took back up again. While the Differently Alive didn't have much affection for the Watch in general, the captain and the constable were members of the community. They were Watchmen the Undead could trust.

"The usual?" Igor the barman asked.

"Yes, Igor, one fruit juice and a Winkle's Old Peculiar." Angua dropped coins on the bar top and when the drinks arrive leaned casually against it. "Igor, you get all the local gossip. Have you heard about anyone messing around with voodoo dolls?"

The bar went dead silent. All eyes turned towards Angua and Reg.

Igor gripped the back side of the bar so tightly Reg thought he would leave fingerprints. The strange man's eyes narrowed. "No, Captain, I haven't. And I hope I never do. An' if someone is an' I find out about it, they'll wish they hadn't! That's nasty stuff, that is makin' slaves out of The People." He raised his eyes to the patrons and his voice to everyone. "Anyone out there hearin' anythin' about voodoo in Ankh-Morpork? The Watch wants to know—now!"

All the starring eyes narrowed and the room filled with a multitude of growls on the theme of, "No, but if we do the Watch won't need to get involved!"

"Y'gotta understand, Captain," Igor continued, "there's Genua voodoo and then there's the other kind. Folks in Genua play by the rules. Nobody gets zombied unless they want to, but here? We don't want no part of it. We've all heard the stories and we don't like 'em one bit. You tell Commander Vimes the community heard what you said. The Watch has night vision, now."

*****

Bastién du Bourbier sat at a corner table in Le Foie Gras irritably nursing a glass of Quirmian vintage red. The wine was the one good thing in this rotten, self-centered city, he thought, and it was an import. Everything else about the place stuck in his craw. Mor-Porkians seemed to spend twenty-four hours a day in the frantic pursuit of money. It was their strength in that the city was now the richest on the Disc and their weakness because you could always find someone, somewhere who would do anything to get some. Unfortunately, the one you found wasn't always up to the job you needed.

Worse yet, the multi-species makeup of the place made it hard to deal. Last night's run-in with Chrysoprase's hench-trolls had cost him several underlings and, worst of all, the carefully constructed doll he was going to use to gain control over the Big Wahooni. The minions could be replaced and so could the doll, but it would take time and money. Money he had. Time? That was uncertain. What he really needed was a physical artifact, something that had been part of the Patrician. Hopefully tonight would satisfy that requirement.

*****

Vice Chancellor Stibbons sat down in front of the console of the device called Hex. Most of the faculty thought it was a weird sort of magical thinking engine but to Ponder, it had become a friend.

"Crytofer," he said, using the name they'd given to the mind that had melded with the machine, "the trolls have brought a voodoo doll to the Watch and Commander Vimes brought it here. The Librarian has put it down in the High Security Shelves."

"I know. I saw the entire thing since they met in a public area. That was a good call on the Archchancellor's part. Since it hasn't been destroyed, it can be turned against its maker."

Stibbons started in surprise. "It can? I thought it had to have some physical connection with the victim, like hair or fingernails. How can it be turned against the maker."

Hex gave an unearthly chuckle. "It already has connections with anyone who touched it. The very oil of his hands, the sweat that dripped down on it during manufacture, spittle if they laughed evilly over their plot. It will take you senior wizards some careful scrying to separate out the chief plotter but you have the skills. And once you've figured out who he is, a surgical fireball should bring the whole sorry business to a halt."

Ponder removed his glasses and cleaned them thoughtfully. He would need a team, a team of really skilled wizards. Professor Hix came immediately to mind. The Professor of Postmortem Communications would be furious if left out of a chance to be nasty (within University regulations) and the man knew his spells. The Archchancellor, of course, would have to be there. Difficult, bull-headed and given to ignoring anything people said to him unless they were still shouting after five minutes, he nevertheless had an awesome intelligence and a great command of magic. Since this was a voodoo issue, Professor Macarena's Genuese roots would be useful—and Archchancellor Henry. The former Dean had moved back to Unseen as a Visiting Professor while Brazeneck University was being rebuilt. If there was anyone on campus whose skill with fireballs matched the Archchancellor, it was Henry. He needed three more to make up the magic number eight. The Librarian would find the right spells. Somewhere in the infinity of shelving in the university Library was a reference to anything. And the Reader in Invisible Runes. One more. He dismissed the idea of the Senior Wrangler. Right now the wizard was so madly in love he would be useless. On the other hand, if the task was presented as a defense of Mrs. Whitlow? The image of Horace in vengeful fury brought a smile to the Vice Chancellor's lips. Yes, that would do.

*****

"The City is a bit on edge, Your Lordship," Drumknott laid a pile of dossiers on the Patrician's desk.

"So it is. I find it rather gratifying that so many important people have come to the conclusion that they would rather deal with what they know, that is to say me, than take the risk of having to figure out a new ruler."

"It's as you say, sir. What people really want is that tomorrow should closely resemble today."

"Indeed, Drumknott. I have long believed that a Tyrant's best friend is stability. So many of my predecessors never seemed to catch onto that. Capriciousness is an invitation to replacement. Besides, it's bad for business."

The Patrician opened a file on the Council of Priests, Clerics and Ecclesiastical Ladies. High Priest Hughnon had been right. The idea of voodoo insinuating itself into the Big Smoke had had about the same effect as throwing a rock at a hornets' nest. He looked out the window. Just as he expected, storm clouds were gathering on the horizon. Vetinari did hope they got their facts right before the lightning bolts started to fly.

*****

Deep in the Library basement, down a far corridor of the Maximum Security Shelves, eight of the most power wizards on the Disc gathered in an empty, stone-doored vault. Normally the stone, the iron bars and the powerful warding spells were designed to keep the most dangerous books in. Tonight, the aim was to keep them out! In the rooms on either side were kept books of such power that they demanded at least a whole shelf to themselves and, in the worst cases, a whole room. These were cannibal books, books that could, and had, read unwary students and even senior wizards. Let your attention wander while doing research down here and the next morning the book would be found in a new, expanded and smug edition with your pointy-toes shoes smoking on the floor.

As the Senior Wrangler closed the door, threw the bolts and turned the keys with his jaw set in a hard, determined straight line, the Librarian opened several volumes and fastened their pages down with iron chain. The reader in Invisible Runes laid a large bowl of water on the floor and poured ink into it. Professor Macarena set eight candles around it and Professor Hix carefully drew a precise octagram between them. As Stibbons held the voodoo doll over the bowl until the levitation spell took hold, Ridcully turned to Archchancellor Henry (Visiting Professor of Thaumaturgical Studies) and said quietly, " 'm actually glad to have you back for this Henry. It's good to be working together once again."

"Thank-you, Mustrum. After all our years of bickering I never expected to feel like this but, you're right. It is good to be working together again. Once Brazeneck is rebuilt, we're going to have to come to a more harmonious relationship between the campuses. We actually can complement each other, you know. My faculty's enthusiasm for new things balanced by the centuries of experience and prudence that is Unseen? In our role as the Disc's protectors from demons, monsters and tentacled Things from the Dungeon Dimensions we need to spend less time fighting each other and more keeping to the duty at hand."

"Indeed. This isn't going to stand in the way of playing foot-the-ball for the Hat, of course."