THE NEW DISCWORLD HOROSCOPE
by Lady Anaemia Asterisk
A GLASS OF WINE, A BAR OF SOAP, AND STARS
Well now, it's good to be back! After spending several days of last month locked in a cupboard by an esbat of young witches, the sight of my charts and sextant and orrery were welcome indeed. I should have paid more attention to my own horoscope and taken that holiday in Quirm...mind you, what's done is done, and it's best to be philosophical about it. And by coincidence, this month's Horoscope is all about philosophy. What path of wisdom is the best for you to follow when you're born under a wandering star: the wisdom of the Ancients, or the fresh newly-minted-and-sometimes-suspect wisdom of the Moderns? What is philosophy, anyway? What is the meaning of life? What is the airspeed of an unladen Pointless Albatross? Will there be custard? Only the heavens know.
The Adamant Hedgehog 21 Mar - 20 Apr
Your most suitable philosophies: Ibidism; Ridiculism
The Ephebian philosopher Ibid derived the belief that the universe is simple, basic and follows fundamental rules, and from this given comes Ibidism. He also believed in a lot of shouting, especially at other philosophers, so Ibidism is the perfect philosophy for Hoggers; you do love your shouting, don't you... The precepts of Ibidism are: remain rational, learn by observation, trust in the principle of cause and effect, and always get someone else to do your work for you, preferably a rival philosopher.
There are two schools of Ridiculism. One was founded by Ly Tin Wheedle of the Agatean Empire, an aged and rather smelly sage (more garlic than onion, and definitely a strong hint of ginger) who believed that all questions should be answered in the longest, most complex and obfuscatory manner and that a simple yes or no should never be given when a convoluted and nonsensical aphorism will do (especially when you're the sort of sage who charges by the hour); this school of philosophy is wildly popular, particularly among university students, helpdesk operators, medical practitioners and elected civic officials.
The other school of Ridiculism, which is perennially engaged in a legal battle for rights to the name, was set forth by Piotr Sodov Zupnatzi of Uberwald; according to Herr Zupnatzi, true enlightenment can only be achieved through the humility one feels after being thoroughly, vituperatively and undeservedly insulted, and he carried out a tireless one-man campaign to bring enlightenment to all until his mission was sadly cut short by the pointed end of a pitchfork wielded by a large and irate civic official. Strangely enough, this other school of philosophy is also wildly popular, particularly among middle management, sergeants, and the street traders of Ankh-Morpork.
Gahoolie, the Vase of Tulips 21 Apr - 21 May
Your most suitable philosophies: the Way of Mrs Cosmopilite; Call of the Wiled
One of the most modern schools of philosophy, the Way of Mrs Cosmopilite nonetheless resonates with ancient wisdom: this is because, as the Mrs herself would say, it's as plain as the nose on your face. Her homely sayings echo the deep thoughts of Wen the Eternally Surprised, and despite her never having travelled beyond the gates of Ankh-Morpork (well, once, but that was just for business purposes), her canny exhortations cover all eventualities and are proof that homegrown wisdom does sometimes come from far away. If you remember that Seeing is Believing, but Don't Believe Everything you Hear; if you remember that We're All Pretty Much the Same, and that the Leopard Does Not Change his Shorts; if you remember that Tomorrow is Another Day, and that the Grass is Always Greener Over the Hill; and especially if you remember that you're No Better than you Should Be, following the Way of Mrs Cosmopilite will bring you true peace and enlightenment.
The Call of the Wiled is a rather specialist discipline of philosophy. A combination of psychological torture techniques, martial arts (in the rather all-encompassing sense of the term that involves things red in tooth and claw rather than white in gi and dojo), self-motivation and supposedly clever strategy, most often cited as the "only true path to strength and purity", the Call first came to Wolf von Uberwald and his followers in the mountain fastnesses of his home country but has spread across the Disc into all manner of unfortunate places. The Call of the Wiled teaches that life is a game (and the game is War), that the strongest and most merciless will become the Master Race, and that the victor always takes the spoils and spoils the rest. Very popular with non-enlightened dictators, corporate executives and competition ice skaters.
Herne the Hunted 22 May - 21 Jun
Your most suitable philosophies: Xenoism; the Path of the Sweeper
Xeno of Ephebe believed that the world is complex, random and impossible to understand or predict, no matter what Ibid thinks. Taking their cue from the Great Thinker, Xenoists believe that true enlightenment comes only from being attuned to the basic nature of the Cosmic All, and since the Cosmic All is chaotic and whimsical, practising Xenoists dedicate themselves to irresponsibility, mood swings and never remembering to take out the rubbish. Xenoists claim that there is no good and no evil in the universe, only a series of unreliable impulses and meaningless but sometimes amusing accidents, so there's no point in trying to make sense of anything; they rarely show up on time for appointments, but they do make surprisingly good pinball players.
The Path of the Sweeper, as created by Lu-Tze of the History Monks, is a deep and complex school of thought that is nevertheless accessible to all (so long as you remember both Rule One and Rule Nineteen). Lu-Tze holds that every seeker of wisdom must first find a teacher and then find a Way. The general principles of the Path of the Sweeper (and a very clean path it is) require no special equipment and can be summed up by: never reveal the full extent of your knowledge or abilities; always obey the spirit of the law, because the letter of the law is usually laid down by people who aren't thinking ahead; always recognise the difference between an opportunity to show off and a genuine emergency; never forget to appreciate the little details; and always use short firm strokes, letting your broom do the work for you. This last precept can be applied in all sorts of surprising places, especially by little smiling wrinkly bald men who are obviously unarmed.
The Wizard's Staff and Knob 22 Jun - 22 Jul
Your most suitable philosophies: Realist Magicalism; Scienceology
The philosophy of Realist Magicalism, first developed by the research wizard Nils Gammon (who is not a dwarf, although often mistaken for one), posits that the true inner nature of things is far more important than their outer appearance. In other words, you don't need incense, ceremonial masks and dribbly candles; all you need is to learn to spell properly, as it were. Realist Magicalism recognises that magic is a fundamental natural resource and though, like any other resource, it needs to go through a sort of refining process, wrapping it up in overblown packaging with extra tinsel is both wasteful and tasteless. RMs (as they call themselves) believe in practical approaches to life -- simplicity, honesty and efficiency -- and their motto is "Do what thou will with whatever thou happen to hath handy." Realist Magicalism champions the triumph of substance over style; it is notably unpopular with tradition-bound wizards and manufacturers of incense, ceremonial masks and dribbly candles, but is considered the bee's knees by most practising rural witches.
Scienceology, sometimes known as Dementics, is perhaps the most curious school of philosophy on the Disc. The creation of one Huw Bron Allard of Pseudopolis, mad scientist and purported writer of the surrealistic Grime's Fairy Tales, Scienceology postulates that there is a logical, rational and above all non-magical explanation for the universe and everything in it. According to Allard, there is no such thing as magic: Great A'Tuin the World Turtle came into existence by a natural process of evolution, the Hub is made of common iron, the colour octarine is a fiction and doesn't exist in the spectrum, and we were all descended from an ancient race of short-lived, ordinary, non-shining terrestrial beings with no mystical agenda and no unearthly powers whatsoever. He and his followers developed a process they call "editing", which involves reprogramming the non-believer into a solid belief in science and rationality (thus becoming more like our ordinary ancestors); a reprogrammed person is known as a Muddy. Allard has not been seen for many years now; while some say he still lives, in an unknown place and by means of no potions or "magic" at all, the truth is that the Faculty of Unseen University got tired of his nonsense and turned him into a set of croquet hoops on the lawn of Wizards' Pleasaunce.
Bilious, God of Hangovers 23 Jul - 23 Aug
Your most suitable philosophies: Inebriism; Didactylic Cynicism
Inebriists never waste time worrying whether the proverbial bottle is half-full or half-empty; they believe that the world only makes sense from the bottom of the bottle, and only after its contents are firmly settled into the believer. As the great sage Ethan Aule, founder of Inebriism, declared, "The only discipline of this discipline is no discipline." A practising Inebriist knows that the answers to all questions of existence and meaning can be found at the Hour After Opening Time, and that no journeys to faraway lands or years of drinking yak-butter tea at the feet of of a wizened monk can ever bring the clarity of perception that follows the ingestion of a good claret. Re-inebriists, a specialised subset of this school of philosophy, believe higher states of enlightenment can only be attained through the consumption of reannual vintages; an astute Re-inebriist can see the meaning of life in the colours of last year's chunder, and a true Master Inebriist can infer the path of his or her life simply by browsing a reannual wine-seller's catalogue. When you get down to it, the only question that truly matters to the Inebriist is "what's yours?"
Didactylos was quite possibly the wisest of all the Ephebian philosophers and is certainly the most popular among the drinking fraternity. According to Didactylos, the world is funny and old and re-creates itself constantly ("There'll be another one along in a minute"), so there's no point in worrying about past mistakes and you might as well just go get drunk. Didactylic Cynics tend to atheism and, well, cynicism. They traditionally carry lanterns, but this is merely so they can find their way home after closing time.
Mubbo the Hyena 24 Aug - 23 Sept
Your most suitable philosophies: Luddism; Feeglosity
Luddism is not about hatred of machinery, not at all -- it's about the love of clockwork. Named in honour of Lobsang Ludd, who famously makes time for everything, the philosophy of Luddism encompasses a belief that an understanding of the true nature of Time leads to understanding -- and control -- of all things. Luddites tend to be quietly arrogant (their favourite aphorism is Tempus non fugit nisi sic dico, "Time doesn't fly unless I say it does"); they move very slowly (except when they move so fast that you can't see them at all), and they always seem to have time for long holidays, afternoon siestas and that extra round down the pub. They believe that Time reveals all secrets, heals all wounds, explains all mysteries and makes all possibilities possible. The ability to manipulate Time means that while everyone else is slaving away in the fields or at the forge, your Luddite is lazing on the front lawn in a deckchair, cool drink in hand, enjoying a perfect summer afternoon (oddly enough, in the middle of a winter snowstorm; even more oddly, at what other people think is three o'clock of a dark and moonless night). For an advanced Luddite, one man's minute is another's gap-year backpacking holiday. Luddites would make brilliant office managers and civic planners, but for some reason, none of them ever find the time for jobs like those...
Crivens! What we have here is another plain and simple philosophy, taken from the lifestyle and beliefs of the Nac mac Feegle clans. It's what you might call the non-thinking man's philosophy; the emphasis is on action, on acting rather than reacting, and on looking at Big Questions such as "why are we here?" and "what's it all about, anyway?" and giving them a clean miss in favour of drinkin', stealin', fightin', and generally having a good time without disturbing those pesky higher brain functions. Feegles believe that they are already dead and that this is the afterlife, so from the Feegle point of view it's one big non-stop party. Of course, there is also a tradition of dreeing one's weird, which in ordinary language means facing up to your (possibly horrible) fate, but as you're already dead your fate has happened anyway, and there's no point in worrying about how it turned, would have turned, or was meant to have turned out, because that would only distract you from your next round of drinkin', stealin' and fightin'.
The Small Boring Group of Faint Stars 24 Sept - 23 Oct
Your most suitable philosophies: Code of the Igors; Noworis
The Code of the Igors may be the personal family philosophy of that Uberwaldean tribe, but you Boring'uns can learn much from it. The Igors learned long ago that the world is indeed full of uncertainty, stormy weather, mad doctors, insane noblemen, loopy scientists and angry villagers with sharp pitchforks, and to deal with these vagaries they developed the Code. Its main precepts are: Never Contradict; Never Complain; Never Make Personal Remarks; and never, ever Ask Big Questions. Also, the lesser but equally important points: be loyal, dependable, and discreet (although, with Igors, there is also a basic precept of being...discrete), smile often in a harmless way, never oil doors, always have a bag of personal possessions packed and ready where it can be grabbed at short notice, and always know where the back door is. All in all, a very sensible philosophy for Boring'uns to live by!
From the faraway land of Fourecks comes the philosophical discipline of Noworis, as propounded by Ecksians of all walks of life. The ideals of Noworis are egalitarianism ("You can spit on the mat and call the cat a galah"), optimism ("She'll be right, mate"), reverence for Nature ("It's a beaut arvo, so let's knock off work and hit the pub and she'll be right, mate"), appreciation of the nuances of language ("Garn mate, you don't half pong like a dingo's armpit"), and the seeking of the simplest and most harmonious solutions to all problems ("Giss'another tinnie and throw some more snags on the barbie and she'll be right, mate"). Masters of the higher intricacies of Noworis are always called Bruce, as a term of respect and to avoid confusion.
Androgyna Majestis 24 Oct - 22 Nov
Your most suitable philosophies: the Wisdom of Cohen; Chil-mon-chil
The Wisdom of Cohen is one of the simpler philosophies. It teaches us that life is nasty, brutish and short but also contains wine, women, song and rare jewels just begging to be stolen, and can be summed up by "want, take, get distracted by the next shiny thing". The Wisdom of Cohen also shows us that the best things in life are minor pleasures -- in the words of the Master himself, "Hot water, good dentishtry and shoft lavatory paper" -- and that most really difficult questions can be answered with the swing of a good broadsword. A simple philosophy indeed, yet strangely tricksome to master as it requires good reflexes, mighty thews, the morals of a randy tomcat and a sense of self-confidence you could plate a siege engine with.
Chil-mon-chil, the venerable and almost inexpressibly uber-fashionable philosophy of the Monks of Cool (as delineated by Ben Zodi-Asa P'aam, who was seriously relaxed, and Zanax, who was too cool to have more than one name), assures its disciples that the meaning of everything lies in whatever cool people decide it means and that the only state of enlightenment worth striving for is the one that looks flashiest and most effortlessly nonchalant. Advanced Chil-mon-chilists, also known as Dudes, might consider the lesser known sect of Neo Chil-mon, which involves kung fu, dark glasses and a really stylish leather coat.
Great T'Phon's Foot 23 Nov - 21 Dec
Your most suitable philosophies: Objectionalism; Lex Subterranis
Objectionableism, the strictly individualist, anti-collectivist philosophy created by Anya Moribunda Cisterna Avaricia Randova (from Uberwald, obviously), teaches that everything Randova says is the epitome of excellence and anything everybody else says is objectionable -- especially governments, trade guilds, churches and other collectivist groups who disagree with her. Nevertheless, Randova believes that government has an essential role in safeguarding the ability of Objectionableists to make as much money as they are capable of making in as short a period as possible. Objectionalism is not open to debate (for more information, consult her best-selling books We the Unliving, The Showerhead, and Berilia Shook).
Lex Subterranis, also known as the Precepts of Mining, has been handed down from Dwarf to Dwarf on the pointy end of a pick and shovel. It shares some concepts with Ibidism, but the Dwarfs believe that the world is simple, basic and ordered not due to any fundamental nature of things but because Laws make it so. There's a course of action for everything, and a Law to answer every question (for example, the answer to "Why am I on tailings duty while Bors Cleverdiksson gets to play with the nuggets?" is "Book of Mining, Volume 239, page 627: the King always knows what duty best suits each worker."), and this teaches us to accept our lot in life and function well within our society. The Lex Subterranis also reveres the power of the written word. This philosophy makes for a simple and satisfying life, as all those difficult questions are covered: it's easy to sleep well at night when, for example, the answer to "Why are we here?" is "To tease the last bits of good ore out of Seam 22 while the price of gold is up thruppence in the dollar."
Hoki the Jokester 22 Dec - 20 Jan
Your most suitable philosophies: Commercialism; the Way of Ogg
Commercialism, as propounded by the great sage (and onion) C.M.O.T. Dibbler, informs us that life is all about seizing opportunity and offering it to others at a discount. This philosophy, based on one of lifekind's oldest activities, can be deeply humanistic and altruistic if properly practised in the manner of its founder; his understanding of the fundamentally intertwined nature of both sausage and sizzle promotes uncrushable optimism and the realisation that, even if contents are disappointing compared to their packaging and sales pitch, there is always another package and always a chance that the Great Pie of Life will eventually contain Named Meat. Practising Commercialists may appear to be selling shoddy goods in a dishonest manner, but their modest profits facilitate a subtextual payback of bringing the community closer together -- strangers and even enemies commiserating over the wobbly green bits -- and helping people count their blessings -- "thank gods my wife/mother/apprentice can cook better than that". And Commercialist Masters can always get it for you wholesale, which certainly beats the sound of one hand clapping.
The Way of Ogg is the oldest philosophy known to Mankind, yet it is the only one ever to address the questions and practices of Womankind and provide specific answers. A practising Oggist, or Oggess, knows that what the world is really all about is a vast appetite for living and loving (especially the latter), a vast capacity for good food and drink (especially the latter), a vast openness of mind, and the power of a low-cut bodice. The wisdom of Ogg teaches us that all creatures great and small (especially men) are open to suggestion, and that suggestive suggestion is the quickest path to getting all sorts of things open (especially low-cut bodices). Oggists believe in family values (especially the value of having a large family, as that guarantees an eventual army of interchangeable nameless daughters-in-law to take care of your housework) and forgiveness (as long as it doesn't involve family squabbles), and firmly believe that when faced with any of life's Big Questions, the best position to take is always the horizontal.
The Rather Large Gazunda 21 Jan - 18 Feb
Your most suitable philosophies: the Word of Wen; Sumtin Zen
The Word of Wen was first brought into the world by Wen the Eternally Surprised after a very interesting one-night stand with Time (the anthropomorphic personification, that is, and since they produced offspring, it must have been Mother Time, which just goes to show that some stories do get the details awfully skewed). The Word itself is probably "quantum", but what his message means is that the universe is re-created in every instant, that memory is the only Past, and that if you get the hang of mutable realities you can change history, save the world and do some seriously nifty moves on the karate mat. Followers of Wen seek enlightenment through seeing things as they really are but testing the probable truth of all information, remembering that there is more sameness than contrast in the history of the sentient races, cherishing the constant newness of everything around them, recognising that appearances can deceive, and respecting those who have a greater and longer store of memories -- in other words, just like the Way of Mrs Cosmopilite but offering more dojo mojo.
The philosophy of Sumtin is existentialist, surrealist, perceptionist, transcendentalist, postmodernist, absurdist, nontheist, ultra-humanist, pre-prescriptivist and quite possibly plain daft, and its sub-school of Sumtin Zen is all that with extra added funny mushrooms. A famous schism, during the battle (or debate, or probably debattle) to determine whether Sumtin Zen was a philosophy or a religion, caused three major subsects to split off into separate disciplines: the Tea'ites believe that all the profound secrets of the universe can be found by staring into a good hot cuppa; the Goofis believe staunchly in the transcendental power of funny-looking desert fungi; and the Munni, who are pretty much indistinguishable from Yen Buddhists, believe that the only way to satisfy the long night of the soul is to count coins. Lots of coins. And then keep them in your bank account.
Lesser Umbrage 19 Feb - 20 Mar
Your most suitable philosophies: Postvitalism; Pedantophilism
Postvitalism is perhaps the most fervent and proactive of all philosophies and stems from the First Principle, "that which does kill us makes us stronger." As first taught by Reg Shoe at the Fresh Start Club, 668 Elm Street, Ankh-Morpork, Postvitalism posits that the confusing nature of life is caused by overexcited (that is to say, living) glands, and that therefore life can be truly understood and lived to its fullest (so to speak) only by the Undead. Adherents of Postvitalism tend to be strangely excitable for the glandless, but they are nonviolent and love nothing more than a good debate. However, there are not many followers, and none who deliberately died to find such enlightenment; this is one philosophy that only successfully preaches to those already in the choir.
Pedantophilism, which does not mean what you think it means, is the school of philosophy that seeks enlightenment in, well, enlightenment. Pedantophiles, also known as Bibliophiles (which also does not mean what you think it means) and Didacts (sometimes Peripatetic Didacts), believe that a little learning is a dangerous thing but a lot of learning leads to enlightenment (and, sometimes, tenure). The followers of Pedantophilism lead a life of simplicity, penury and assiduous work (though with no heavy lifting, except when a consignment of textbooks has to be hoicked into the cart). Their motto is "Libertis via Logos", which means "browse through the contents of a library and you'll end up much smarter than a short plank", and the ultimate goal of a Pedantophile is to achieve wisdom through memorising at least one complete edition of the Uncyclopaedia Morporkia.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Clog post 7 with Tsort's the Place
THE CLACKS LOG OF WEIRD ALICE LANCREVIC
Post 7. TSORTED!
First Clog: "You Cloggers are all alike..."
I hadn't realised it was so long since my last Clogpost! Will try to be more conscientious, because I want to remember all these journeys when I'm too old to remember them without special equipment. I've been told about "Clog ennui" -- that's what happens to about fifty-five per cent of Cloggers -- at first it's all enthusiasm and long, rambling posts, and then after a few months their posts get shorter and they post less often, and then they find themselves going "Ooh, I must make a post about that because it's so interesting" and really mean to but seem to keep forgetting, and then a few more months go by and they realise they haven't posted anything at all and they've forgotten whatever was so interesting that they wanted to post about. So I'll do my best. I've told Gimpy to give me a bingly-bingly-beep reminder every two or three days. He offered to just make a note of everything I do so I can "edit it later", but I'm quite sure that some of the things I've been doing do NOT want to be noted, and imps aren't exactly strong in the "a certain discretion" department...
We had a fantastic time in Djelibeybi, weeks and weeks of it. Great gigs out under the desert moon! I had a number of interesting chats with the Queen, and she introduced me to her friend Chidder of Chidders Merchant Venturers U'ltd who sold me a new non-sapient pearwood fretboard for my lute at less than cost price. He also gave me a Recording Device, which is a sort of box with a sort of wire in it that remembers sounds better than Gimpy doe-, um, better than one would think possible (he tapped his nose and said I have to keep it to myself because they've been banned in Ankh-Morpork and are considered contraband; I'd say they're pro-band, myself). And as I mentioned in my song DJEL STAR'S PYRAMID, Queen Ptraci has moved her country kicking and screaming into the Century of the Anchovy and has turned most of the old pyramids into hotels; room service is still a bit heavy on the honeyed locusts, but the best thing about sleeping in a pyramid is that you wake up a little younger every morning. I know where I'm going to spend my retirement.
But all good things end eventually, and it was time to move on before we wore out our welcome. I booked passage on a camel train, and none of the camels broke down (though camel travel is rather like a series of mobile breakdowns; take it from me, camels do not give a smooth ride).
And now here we are in Tsort, having a less fantastic time.
Tsort has never been the same since the Siege of Ago -- the Ephebian conquerors put their retsina-flavoured stamp on the place so thoroughly that it's pretty much been a sort of Turnwise Ephebe ever since. Everything is quiet and dusty and bucolic, relentlessly picturesque locals dozing in the relentlessly picturesque sunshine, flies buzzing quietly around the street markets...until opening time, that is. Whatever glorious history Tsort had back in the days when History was glorious, what it mostly is these days is a tourist trap. Of course, the place is still full of Ephebians, but they don't come here with pointy spears and siege engines now; they come here for their holidays because the architecture is familiar and the food is familiar and the music is familiar but they can walk down the street without tripping over philosophers.
So instead of not being able to move for all the drunken philosophers, you can't move for all the drunken holidaymakers. It's all pubs and hotels and cafes and restaurants and retsina bars and markets and more pubs and, most of all, nightclubs -- which makes it one of the most popular destinations for all the Clubbe Circlesea thirtysomethings. They say they come for the ambience and the mind-broadening aspects of travel, but what they really come for is the boozeries. There's the Fair Elenor, the Inferno (supposedly built on the supposed spot of the supposed Fire of Tsort), the Wooden Horse, the Lavaeolus, the King Mausoleum's Head and Artichoke, the Uninvolved Civilian, the Siege of Tsort, the Sea God's Revenge, the Legged Box (which lists itself as "Tsort's Oldest Inne", although curiously enough no-one seems to know where its name came from), the Soldier's Break...you get the idea. And then there are the nightclubs. Oh gods, the nightclubs. The ceaseless wailing of bouzoukis, the ceaseless barking of Bourzoukis, the ceaseless single-entendre lyrics, the unavoidable Plate Breaking Dance, the ubiquitous sleazily-named cocktails (not to be confused with the Ephebian philosopher Ubiquitus, although it's said that he invented a few sleazily-named cocktails in his day)...I feel like I need a holiday to recover from my holiday...
The twentysomethings from Clubbe 18-29-and-3/4, on the other hand, stop in Tsort for a few cocktails and then go straight to Heliodeliphilodelphiboschromenos. It's popularly known as Heliodeli, but what it should really be called is Heliodeliphilodelphishaggarama! Why this crowd chose a sleepy, past-it city in the middle of nowhere for their rampant, um, mating rituals is a mystery; maybe it's because Heliodeli is a sleepy, past-it city in the middle of nowhere? At any rate, not much sleeping goes on there. We decided, Cert and I, to pass on that particular tourist attraction. When one's (or two's) already been At It like Oggs over half the Disc, including on a flying carpet, having a designated spot for At It hasn't much appeal. We opted instead for doing touristy things. We saw the River Tsort -- very muddy and big on crocodiles -- and the Silent Marshes -- very silent and big on mosquitoes -- and the Siege Market -- big on leather wine bottles and garlic and souvenirs of the Top(ple)less Towers -- and spent the rest of the time getting drunk with the Ephebian tourists.
Well, most of the rest of the time. Speaking of being At It Like Oggs, things have reached the point where Cert can barely raise a damp spark from his fingers [magic-wise, that is]. I think we may have ruined his entire career future! Which is a shame because, while he's a nice lad and I'm fond of him, I can't quite picture him staying home and doing the washing-up while I goo off on concert tours. Still, I won't be going home for a while yet...
Oh, we also visited the Great Pyramid of Tsort. After seeing what Queen Ptraci did with the pyramids in Djelibeybi and after what Tsort has done with alcoholic tourism, I was expecting something slick and modern with hot and cold running kebabs. But it was not to be. The great Pyramid is what you might call a working pyramid -- very, you know, industrial, with scaffolding everywhere because it's so old and they don't want bits falling on the sightseers. There was some very interesting ancient graffiti, though. Very colourful graffiti. I don't know much Old Tsortean, just enough to translate a few simple phrases, but these were definitely simple. And simply definite. The most repeated graffito translates as THYS JOBBE SUXX, and there were other popular ones that I oughtn't repeat. Looks as if the lot of the working man, or working slave, never changes.
It's opening time! Here endeth this post.
Second Clog: "Do a little dance, buy a little round, get drunk tonight..."
About things musical, and things...less musical: I haven't written any new songs since I've been here. This is mostly to do with someone else's song that's insanely popular here -- it's got into my head and I can't get it out. Cert says it's a "wyrm of the ear", and that's pretty accurate since it seems to be chewing its way through my brain. I'm reproducing it here so you can share my pain! It goes like this:
...and repeat ad chunderam. See? Brain-eating. Whatever it was we just barely escaped from in the Lost City of Ee couldn't have been as soul-destroying as that!
On the other hand, they have some interesting musical instruments here. There's the cythara, which is rather like a lyre; the forminx, which is rather like a lyre that's been left out in the rain for 500 years and isn't as saucy as its name suggests; and the barbito, which is a sort of bass-pitched sort-of lute completely lacking in barbs. The latter, I'm told, was the favourite instrument of the poet and philosopher Anachronistes, who was summoned by the then-Tyrant Hipphoppus to compose drinking songs for his household. Anachronistes was noted for his long life as well as his Bardic skills; unfortunately, he choked to death on a grape at the age of 105, and none of his songs survive today, more's the pity as I'm sure they had to be better than the Tsort song. But I bought a barbito in the market, to send home. It sounds good with drums, and I think I might even be able to start a new style of accompaniment that way. Wish me luck.
Time to feed the imp, and then I have a gig tonight. I wonder how my former travelling companions are getting on.
Third Clog: "Untitled"
I'm sure I heard Cert say the M word in his sleep last night. Not the one you can't say in the UU library, the other M word. Oh dear. I know he's tall and dark and nice and we...um. I hope he doesn't remember his dreams.
Fourth Clog: "Home is where the harp is"
I got a clacks from home! It was waiting at the Genuan clacks office for weeks, and then someone noticed that I'd clacksed from Djelibeybi and sent it on and it ended up somehow at the Clacks Restante office in Tsort, how excellent is that? It's from Mr Kakhand at The Sore Loser: he says that the harp I ordered from Llamedos by post seven years ago has finally arrived. Huzzah! I've replied asking him to store it in the back room, not too close to the scumble barrels, until I get back. He also says he reads all my Clogs out to the regular customers -- I hope he leaves out the really personal parts -- and that they're very well received, and that I can have a pay rise when I come back if I'm still willing to sing in a sleepy little local tavern. Oh, and Semolina is working full-time now at the Lost Wages branch of the Seamstresses' Guild and doing very well, and no-one interesting has died in the town recently. It's good to get news from home.
Cert and I have decided that we're all Tsorted out now and ready to move on to somewhere else. There's a Chidders ship leaving for the Ell Kinte coast and points Rimwards tomorrow night, so we'll take passage and see what turns up next. But we can't leave Tsort without seeing the Labyrinth yet, even if it's completely touristy now and all the death-traps have been replaced with papier mache models, so we're joining the early tour first thing tomorrow morning.
The night is young. Time to get drunk and look for earplugs.
This should be an interesting morning. Everyone has a hangover, even
the six tour guides. At least we'll be underground...
***
Note to Gimpy in shortmouth: Split off from main tour party. Found mysterious door in unmarked tunnel. Very old door. Curious. Trying to open -- open now, going to see where it goes --
It seems we've ended up in Ankh-Morpork. In Empirical Crescent. Number 17, according to the front door. Amazing! Going out to explore now...
It seems the front door leads to Howondaland.
Got back through the front door just ahead of a tiger. Trying the back door now.
It seems the back door leads to Cori Celesti. Leaving RIGHT NOW before the Gods notice they have unauthorised visitors!
Dark now. Getting hungry and thirsty. Decided to try the front door again, just in case it's changed. Fingers crossed...
We're in Bes Pelargic!
And you'll never guess who else is here...
-- Alice.
Note for Roundworlders: the original lyrics for That's the Way (I Like It), by KC & the Sunshine Band, can be found at the band's official website: http://www.kcsbonline.com/
Be warned, it's no less brain-melting in Roundworldese. Fun song, though!
Post 7. TSORTED!
First Clog: "You Cloggers are all alike..."
I hadn't realised it was so long since my last Clogpost! Will try to be more conscientious, because I want to remember all these journeys when I'm too old to remember them without special equipment. I've been told about "Clog ennui" -- that's what happens to about fifty-five per cent of Cloggers -- at first it's all enthusiasm and long, rambling posts, and then after a few months their posts get shorter and they post less often, and then they find themselves going "Ooh, I must make a post about that because it's so interesting" and really mean to but seem to keep forgetting, and then a few more months go by and they realise they haven't posted anything at all and they've forgotten whatever was so interesting that they wanted to post about. So I'll do my best. I've told Gimpy to give me a bingly-bingly-beep reminder every two or three days. He offered to just make a note of everything I do so I can "edit it later", but I'm quite sure that some of the things I've been doing do NOT want to be noted, and imps aren't exactly strong in the "a certain discretion" department...
We had a fantastic time in Djelibeybi, weeks and weeks of it. Great gigs out under the desert moon! I had a number of interesting chats with the Queen, and she introduced me to her friend Chidder of Chidders Merchant Venturers U'ltd who sold me a new non-sapient pearwood fretboard for my lute at less than cost price. He also gave me a Recording Device, which is a sort of box with a sort of wire in it that remembers sounds better than Gimpy doe-, um, better than one would think possible (he tapped his nose and said I have to keep it to myself because they've been banned in Ankh-Morpork and are considered contraband; I'd say they're pro-band, myself). And as I mentioned in my song DJEL STAR'S PYRAMID, Queen Ptraci has moved her country kicking and screaming into the Century of the Anchovy and has turned most of the old pyramids into hotels; room service is still a bit heavy on the honeyed locusts, but the best thing about sleeping in a pyramid is that you wake up a little younger every morning. I know where I'm going to spend my retirement.
But all good things end eventually, and it was time to move on before we wore out our welcome. I booked passage on a camel train, and none of the camels broke down (though camel travel is rather like a series of mobile breakdowns; take it from me, camels do not give a smooth ride).
And now here we are in Tsort, having a less fantastic time.
Tsort has never been the same since the Siege of Ago -- the Ephebian conquerors put their retsina-flavoured stamp on the place so thoroughly that it's pretty much been a sort of Turnwise Ephebe ever since. Everything is quiet and dusty and bucolic, relentlessly picturesque locals dozing in the relentlessly picturesque sunshine, flies buzzing quietly around the street markets...until opening time, that is. Whatever glorious history Tsort had back in the days when History was glorious, what it mostly is these days is a tourist trap. Of course, the place is still full of Ephebians, but they don't come here with pointy spears and siege engines now; they come here for their holidays because the architecture is familiar and the food is familiar and the music is familiar but they can walk down the street without tripping over philosophers.
So instead of not being able to move for all the drunken philosophers, you can't move for all the drunken holidaymakers. It's all pubs and hotels and cafes and restaurants and retsina bars and markets and more pubs and, most of all, nightclubs -- which makes it one of the most popular destinations for all the Clubbe Circlesea thirtysomethings. They say they come for the ambience and the mind-broadening aspects of travel, but what they really come for is the boozeries. There's the Fair Elenor, the Inferno (supposedly built on the supposed spot of the supposed Fire of Tsort), the Wooden Horse, the Lavaeolus, the King Mausoleum's Head and Artichoke, the Uninvolved Civilian, the Siege of Tsort, the Sea God's Revenge, the Legged Box (which lists itself as "Tsort's Oldest Inne", although curiously enough no-one seems to know where its name came from), the Soldier's Break...you get the idea. And then there are the nightclubs. Oh gods, the nightclubs. The ceaseless wailing of bouzoukis, the ceaseless barking of Bourzoukis, the ceaseless single-entendre lyrics, the unavoidable Plate Breaking Dance, the ubiquitous sleazily-named cocktails (not to be confused with the Ephebian philosopher Ubiquitus, although it's said that he invented a few sleazily-named cocktails in his day)...I feel like I need a holiday to recover from my holiday...
The twentysomethings from Clubbe 18-29-and-3/4, on the other hand, stop in Tsort for a few cocktails and then go straight to Heliodeliphilodelphiboschromenos. It's popularly known as Heliodeli, but what it should really be called is Heliodeliphilodelphishaggarama! Why this crowd chose a sleepy, past-it city in the middle of nowhere for their rampant, um, mating rituals is a mystery; maybe it's because Heliodeli is a sleepy, past-it city in the middle of nowhere? At any rate, not much sleeping goes on there. We decided, Cert and I, to pass on that particular tourist attraction. When one's (or two's) already been At It like Oggs over half the Disc, including on a flying carpet, having a designated spot for At It hasn't much appeal. We opted instead for doing touristy things. We saw the River Tsort -- very muddy and big on crocodiles -- and the Silent Marshes -- very silent and big on mosquitoes -- and the Siege Market -- big on leather wine bottles and garlic and souvenirs of the Top(ple)less Towers -- and spent the rest of the time getting drunk with the Ephebian tourists.
Well, most of the rest of the time. Speaking of being At It Like Oggs, things have reached the point where Cert can barely raise a damp spark from his fingers [magic-wise, that is]. I think we may have ruined his entire career future! Which is a shame because, while he's a nice lad and I'm fond of him, I can't quite picture him staying home and doing the washing-up while I goo off on concert tours. Still, I won't be going home for a while yet...
Oh, we also visited the Great Pyramid of Tsort. After seeing what Queen Ptraci did with the pyramids in Djelibeybi and after what Tsort has done with alcoholic tourism, I was expecting something slick and modern with hot and cold running kebabs. But it was not to be. The great Pyramid is what you might call a working pyramid -- very, you know, industrial, with scaffolding everywhere because it's so old and they don't want bits falling on the sightseers. There was some very interesting ancient graffiti, though. Very colourful graffiti. I don't know much Old Tsortean, just enough to translate a few simple phrases, but these were definitely simple. And simply definite. The most repeated graffito translates as THYS JOBBE SUXX, and there were other popular ones that I oughtn't repeat. Looks as if the lot of the working man, or working slave, never changes.
It's opening time! Here endeth this post.
* * *
Second Clog: "Do a little dance, buy a little round, get drunk tonight..."
About things musical, and things...less musical: I haven't written any new songs since I've been here. This is mostly to do with someone else's song that's insanely popular here -- it's got into my head and I can't get it out. Cert says it's a "wyrm of the ear", and that's pretty accurate since it seems to be chewing its way through my brain. I'm reproducing it here so you can share my pain! It goes like this:
- Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh
Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh
Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh
Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh
When you take me to the pub
Tell me I'm a round ahead
When you give me all your change
And booze away, until we're nearly dead
Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh
Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh
Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh
Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh
When we get to dance on the floor
And when we're all close in pairs
When you're dripping sweat in my ear
Widdershins, Turn-, who cares?
Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh
Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh
Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh
Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh
Booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze
Booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze, booze
Tsort's the place, uh huh, uh huh
I like it, uh huh, uh huh...
...and repeat ad chunderam. See? Brain-eating. Whatever it was we just barely escaped from in the Lost City of Ee couldn't have been as soul-destroying as that!
On the other hand, they have some interesting musical instruments here. There's the cythara, which is rather like a lyre; the forminx, which is rather like a lyre that's been left out in the rain for 500 years and isn't as saucy as its name suggests; and the barbito, which is a sort of bass-pitched sort-of lute completely lacking in barbs. The latter, I'm told, was the favourite instrument of the poet and philosopher Anachronistes, who was summoned by the then-Tyrant Hipphoppus to compose drinking songs for his household. Anachronistes was noted for his long life as well as his Bardic skills; unfortunately, he choked to death on a grape at the age of 105, and none of his songs survive today, more's the pity as I'm sure they had to be better than the Tsort song. But I bought a barbito in the market, to send home. It sounds good with drums, and I think I might even be able to start a new style of accompaniment that way. Wish me luck.
Time to feed the imp, and then I have a gig tonight. I wonder how my former travelling companions are getting on.
* * *
Third Clog: "Untitled"
I'm sure I heard Cert say the M word in his sleep last night. Not the one you can't say in the UU library, the other M word. Oh dear. I know he's tall and dark and nice and we...um. I hope he doesn't remember his dreams.
* * *
Fourth Clog: "Home is where the harp is"
I got a clacks from home! It was waiting at the Genuan clacks office for weeks, and then someone noticed that I'd clacksed from Djelibeybi and sent it on and it ended up somehow at the Clacks Restante office in Tsort, how excellent is that? It's from Mr Kakhand at The Sore Loser: he says that the harp I ordered from Llamedos by post seven years ago has finally arrived. Huzzah! I've replied asking him to store it in the back room, not too close to the scumble barrels, until I get back. He also says he reads all my Clogs out to the regular customers -- I hope he leaves out the really personal parts -- and that they're very well received, and that I can have a pay rise when I come back if I'm still willing to sing in a sleepy little local tavern. Oh, and Semolina is working full-time now at the Lost Wages branch of the Seamstresses' Guild and doing very well, and no-one interesting has died in the town recently. It's good to get news from home.
Cert and I have decided that we're all Tsorted out now and ready to move on to somewhere else. There's a Chidders ship leaving for the Ell Kinte coast and points Rimwards tomorrow night, so we'll take passage and see what turns up next. But we can't leave Tsort without seeing the Labyrinth yet, even if it's completely touristy now and all the death-traps have been replaced with papier mache models, so we're joining the early tour first thing tomorrow morning.
The night is young. Time to get drunk and look for earplugs.
* * *
This should be an interesting morning. Everyone has a hangover, even
the six tour guides. At least we'll be underground...
***
Note to Gimpy in shortmouth: Split off from main tour party. Found mysterious door in unmarked tunnel. Very old door. Curious. Trying to open -- open now, going to see where it goes --
* * *
It seems we've ended up in Ankh-Morpork. In Empirical Crescent. Number 17, according to the front door. Amazing! Going out to explore now...
* * *
It seems the front door leads to Howondaland.
* * *
Got back through the front door just ahead of a tiger. Trying the back door now.
* * *
It seems the back door leads to Cori Celesti. Leaving RIGHT NOW before the Gods notice they have unauthorised visitors!
* * *
Dark now. Getting hungry and thirsty. Decided to try the front door again, just in case it's changed. Fingers crossed...
* * *
We're in Bes Pelargic!
And you'll never guess who else is here...
-- Alice.
Note for Roundworlders: the original lyrics for That's the Way (I Like It), by KC & the Sunshine Band, can be found at the band's official website: http://www.kcsbonline.com/
Be warned, it's no less brain-melting in Roundworldese. Fun song, though!
Sunday, September 30, 2007
September 2007 Witchstrology
WITCHSTROLOGY: YOUR NEW DISCWORLD HOROSCOPE
by Lucy Tockley
with assistance from Various Wytches
ASK NOT WHAT YOUR LOCAL WITCH CAN DO FOR YOU...
...ask what you can do for your local witch! Hello, Lucy Tockley here, Diamanda as was. As you probably know, Mistress Weatherwax banned me from witching after the Royal Wedding, and now that we have our own Witch Queen in Lancre and the biggest coven in generations and even young witches coming to visit from foreign places like the Chalk, I suppose things are getting too crowded for the elder witches to keep an eye on me. So I've been banned from witching and from going up on the moors and especially from dancing (especially dancing in the altogether, although I have to say that I still have the figure for it), and these days I have to do what Her Highness -- Queen Magrat, I mean, not Mistress Weatherwax -- calls "community service" and that witchfinder Miss Tick from foreign parts calls "sublimation of unseemly impulses". So here I am, having to collect horoscopes from the coven and, you know, edit them. And I'm not even allowed to wear special clothing or occult jewellery until I'm at least 30. I think that's especially unfair because I have learnt a few things, you know, but Mrs Ogg says that Mistress Weatherwax has learnt rather a few more things than I have and knows what's best and that if I'd known what was best I wouldn't have caused all that trouble in the first place.
But that's all water through the Gorge now. Anyway, I've been studying the history of witching in the Ramtops and compared to Olde Tymes we have a very viable and admirable crop of young witches now. Valuable enough to be considered as a national resource (some of us here do have enough education to know what a national resource is). So I urge you to consider the value of your local witch, and how you can repay her for her services. In goods, of course. Witches don't do money, unless they're Mrs Earwig.
Enjoy your horoscope. By witches, for witches. Blessed be.
The Adamant Hedgehog 21 Mar - 20 Apr
by Lucy Warbeck
As the Adamant Hedgehog approaches the cusp of Ramjambalam again, this is a good month for, like, practising your swimming whilst fully clothed. Octedays are an auspicious time for working on escaping from those tricky knots, the ones tied by villagers who haven't, like, read their Magavenatio. The stars also favour attempts to achieve a personal best at holding one's breath underwater.
Recommended gifts: good quality string, unspoilt feathers, old buttons, assorted cheap trinkets, and eggs, for, like, shamble-making; dried field rations; small scissors; waterproof boots.
Gahoolie, the Vase of Tulips 21 Apr - 21 May
by Dimity Hubbub
At mid-month any experimental cure mixtures are unlikely to explode. Tuesdays favour Wow-Wow Sauce making, but be very careful of the amount of sulphur you use and employ only silver tongs during the second quarter of the moon. When Euno Hu, major star of Gahoolie, is brightest (around the 21st), use clear days for rock collecting. Avoid salad greens when the moon is dark. If romance is in the air, be sure to ask for diamonds, as they have many practical uses around the home and are good for grinding things for pastes. The 11th is a good day for hat maintenance, but avoid fires.
Recommended gifts: interesting minerals; silver tongs; family herbal recipes (for testing); turnips; hatpins, because a good strong hatpin can avert so many embarrassing pyrotic accidents.
Herne the Hunted 22 May - 21 Jun
by Tiffany Aching
This is a good month for making difficult cheeses, especially during the new moon. Herne's Horns shine favourably on clotted cream, though you should be sure to save your best cream for a limited run of Sto Lat Runny. The third week of the month is a good time to pointedly avoid romantic entanglements, although really there is never any good time for romantic entanglements if you want to get things done. On the 13th, 27th and all Octedays, learn a new word. The stars actually neither know nor care about new words, but these days are best for stimulating the memory. Practise balance in all things this month; you never know when it might come in handy.
Recommended gifts: felt, calico and willow branches, for hatmaking; sheep shears; turpentine.
The Wizard's Staff and Knob 22 Jun - 22 Jul
by Petulia Gristle
A good month for trotter and hoof cures. Medicinal pig-scrubbing should take place only at moonset to avoid unfavourable influences. The 10th, 14th, 19th, 22nd and 25th are good for tail examinations. Reserve mid-month for porcine contraceptive activities. To avoid Spavined Knuckle, Ear Wriggle, Ruddy Farrow and Rumpstiff, do not dose your pigs in the last week of the month. The Knob shines favourably on udders during the three-quarter moon. The 21st is good for romance, but only if you've tagged your piglets first.
Recommended gifts: ointment and jollop bases; old leather trousers, the thicker the better; carbolic soap; old chain mail vests.
Bilious, God of Hangovers 23 Jul - 23 Aug
by Agnes Nitt, with interruptions
No matter how many foolish people claim the stars govern your love life, romance is in the heart, not in the skies. "So says the girl who has a bedroom full of fluffy soft toys and always casts apple-peeling spells to find the name of her potential boyfriend, as if." Use your horoscopes to plan practical chores, for example, the second Thursday of this month is best for preparing pain-relieving medicines. "Practical chores are boring. Deep down, you haven't a practical bone in your body! Mind you, one would have to dig really deep to find your bones." Three-quarter moon is the best time for broom repairs. "We all know what's going through your mind when you get a bit of wind up your skirts." Midwives should prepare birth-encouraging charms between the 12th and 20th, and you can just shut up, Perdita, thank you very much.
Recommended gifts: preserving jars, especially if they're full of preserves; throat pastilles; knicker elastic; chocolate, no matter what Perdita says about the calories.
Mubbo the Hyena 24 Aug - 23 Sept
by Gertruder Tiring
Cookery magic is in your stars this month! Genuan witches favour gumbo magic, but I always say you can see the future best in a good rabbit and onion pie. For learning of possible future romance, try a thick root vegetable stew at quarter-moon. To learn the best time for early planting, make turnip and broad bean soup on the 15th or 30th. A lightly fried egg at new moon can tell you when money will cross your path. Avoid reading tea leaves until Mubbo is on the cusp of Boring, but rose-hip tea gives good results all month. On the 9th, try eels. It's amazing what you can learn from examining a bowl of boiled eels.
Recommended gifts: small cauldrons; casserole dishes; ramekins; egg whisks; seeds, particularly savoury potherb seeds.
The Small Boring Group of Faint Stars 24 Sept - 23 Oct
by Caramella Bottlethwaite
The stars shine on lettuce this month for all Boring'uns. Lettuce will bring you luck, but most importantly for those born under this meek Sign, lettuce asks nothing of those who eat it. It's easy to chew, unthreatening in flavour, and never ever attacks you when you try to pick it, unlike the Herbs of a certain elder witch I could mention but won't. If you feel adventurous at mid-month, try a mild vinegar dressing on your lettuce. Avoid peas. That's all I have time for because I have to plant my winter lettuces now.
Recommended gifts: shovels and other garden implements; thick woolly socks; boots. With hobnails, for preference.
Androgyna Majestis 24 Oct - 22 Nov
by Amanita de Vice
Woe, oh woe! Your stars are terrible this month! All is blackness and despair, and not only should you not get out of bed, you should paint everything black and wear extra mascara and eyeliner and hang your head and wail and moan because life is so awful and nobody understands the inner pain you feel because you're so sensitive and artistic and not like anyone else at all, no, really. Yours is a life of anguish and misunderstoodness and even the very stars conspire to make your existence an endless desert of misery. I know how you feel. Blessed be.
Recommended gifts: black ink; long black underwear; black nail polish; black mascara; washable black tattoo patterns.
Great T'Phon's Foot 23 Nov - 21 Dec
by Harrieta Bilk
D'Jum-Boh, the Grand Trunk star of Great T'Phon's Foot, exerts a favourable influence this month on clothing and personal adornment. This is the best time to try out those bold new fashion statements you were always afraid to make. The second week of the month, and also the 18th and 22nd, look kindly on puce and carmine. After all, there's only so much you can do with black, and puce is this month's black, at least until the 23rd. Decorate your boots at half-moon, in fact, half-moon decorations would be a good idea. In the second quarter of the moon, try bat-shaped buttons and unusual hatpins. It's up to witches to set trends now!
Recommended gifts: dresses, secondhand, in wearable condition. Remember, it's always a good idea to size your local witch (by comparison with an approachable non-witch), as garments too large or too small could result in your being convinced you've become a frog.
Hoki the Jokester 22 Dec - 20 Jan
by Annagramma Hawkin
Fortunate stars shine upon you this month! The Sign of Hoki is particularly empowering, and if you cast your runes in local ruins you will become as empowered as the leopard, and I'm telling you that leopards are very empowered. The stars are very emphatic about the proper Opening of the Circle at esbat time. The Turnwise winds carry secrets, and learning secrets is essential for all young witches; some say witching is best learnt from books, but a witch who seeks true wisdom will find it in the simple ways of simple peasant folk, who have plenty of simple peasant wisdom so long as they have a witch to tell them which bits of their wisdom is wise. Pay more attention than usual this month to the advice of your local witch, and don't make her angry. You wouldn't like her when she's angry. Warts happen.
Recommended gifts: cloaks. Any good spare cloaks in excellent condition. A Zakzak Stronginthearm Zephyr Billow, for preference.
The Rather Large Gazunda 21 Jan - 18 Feb
by Magenta Frottidge
The Gazunda is back in the House of Hedbangur until the 16th and moves to the House of Hoose on the 20th, and what better time to practise your potions? Well, no better time, as it happens. Early moonlight favours the making of jollops. The second night of the full moon is good for lotions this month. Charms will work best on alternate Wednesdays and the third Octeday. Collect herbs and plants of the woodland during three-quarter moon. Do not make any curatives that require scumble; best to wait until next month. Avoid ylang-ylang; replace with Klatchian Migratory Bog Truffle essence or distillate of suckrose and akwa.
Recommended gifts: candles; dried flowers; essential oils; denatured alcohol; rare essences of the Aurient.
Lesser Umbrage 19 Feb - 20 Mar
by Lulu Darling
This is an excellent month for magnetism. The special sort of magnetism that women can practise best and witches don't practise often enough: forget octiron, we're talking about the magnetism of romance. Check your stars closely for the best dates for dates - let's see, this month that would be the 2nd through the 17th and the 24th through the 30th. Hitch your skirts up higher than usual at new moon, and with luck you'll be able to hitch them higher still. And never underestimate the power of a low-cut bodice, especially if your parents gave you the kind of name that just reeks of low-cut bodices anyway. After all "witch" is fifty per cent of the word "bewitching", so make the most of what you've got.
Recommended gifts: china and crockery; interesting ornaments; oysters; red boots; Sonky preventatives.
by Lucy Tockley
with assistance from Various Wytches
ASK NOT WHAT YOUR LOCAL WITCH CAN DO FOR YOU...
...ask what you can do for your local witch! Hello, Lucy Tockley here, Diamanda as was. As you probably know, Mistress Weatherwax banned me from witching after the Royal Wedding, and now that we have our own Witch Queen in Lancre and the biggest coven in generations and even young witches coming to visit from foreign places like the Chalk, I suppose things are getting too crowded for the elder witches to keep an eye on me. So I've been banned from witching and from going up on the moors and especially from dancing (especially dancing in the altogether, although I have to say that I still have the figure for it), and these days I have to do what Her Highness -- Queen Magrat, I mean, not Mistress Weatherwax -- calls "community service" and that witchfinder Miss Tick from foreign parts calls "sublimation of unseemly impulses". So here I am, having to collect horoscopes from the coven and, you know, edit them. And I'm not even allowed to wear special clothing or occult jewellery until I'm at least 30. I think that's especially unfair because I have learnt a few things, you know, but Mrs Ogg says that Mistress Weatherwax has learnt rather a few more things than I have and knows what's best and that if I'd known what was best I wouldn't have caused all that trouble in the first place.
But that's all water through the Gorge now. Anyway, I've been studying the history of witching in the Ramtops and compared to Olde Tymes we have a very viable and admirable crop of young witches now. Valuable enough to be considered as a national resource (some of us here do have enough education to know what a national resource is). So I urge you to consider the value of your local witch, and how you can repay her for her services. In goods, of course. Witches don't do money, unless they're Mrs Earwig.
Enjoy your horoscope. By witches, for witches. Blessed be.
The Adamant Hedgehog 21 Mar - 20 Apr
by Lucy Warbeck
As the Adamant Hedgehog approaches the cusp of Ramjambalam again, this is a good month for, like, practising your swimming whilst fully clothed. Octedays are an auspicious time for working on escaping from those tricky knots, the ones tied by villagers who haven't, like, read their Magavenatio. The stars also favour attempts to achieve a personal best at holding one's breath underwater.
Recommended gifts: good quality string, unspoilt feathers, old buttons, assorted cheap trinkets, and eggs, for, like, shamble-making; dried field rations; small scissors; waterproof boots.
Gahoolie, the Vase of Tulips 21 Apr - 21 May
by Dimity Hubbub
At mid-month any experimental cure mixtures are unlikely to explode. Tuesdays favour Wow-Wow Sauce making, but be very careful of the amount of sulphur you use and employ only silver tongs during the second quarter of the moon. When Euno Hu, major star of Gahoolie, is brightest (around the 21st), use clear days for rock collecting. Avoid salad greens when the moon is dark. If romance is in the air, be sure to ask for diamonds, as they have many practical uses around the home and are good for grinding things for pastes. The 11th is a good day for hat maintenance, but avoid fires.
Recommended gifts: interesting minerals; silver tongs; family herbal recipes (for testing); turnips; hatpins, because a good strong hatpin can avert so many embarrassing pyrotic accidents.
Herne the Hunted 22 May - 21 Jun
by Tiffany Aching
This is a good month for making difficult cheeses, especially during the new moon. Herne's Horns shine favourably on clotted cream, though you should be sure to save your best cream for a limited run of Sto Lat Runny. The third week of the month is a good time to pointedly avoid romantic entanglements, although really there is never any good time for romantic entanglements if you want to get things done. On the 13th, 27th and all Octedays, learn a new word. The stars actually neither know nor care about new words, but these days are best for stimulating the memory. Practise balance in all things this month; you never know when it might come in handy.
Recommended gifts: felt, calico and willow branches, for hatmaking; sheep shears; turpentine.
The Wizard's Staff and Knob 22 Jun - 22 Jul
by Petulia Gristle
A good month for trotter and hoof cures. Medicinal pig-scrubbing should take place only at moonset to avoid unfavourable influences. The 10th, 14th, 19th, 22nd and 25th are good for tail examinations. Reserve mid-month for porcine contraceptive activities. To avoid Spavined Knuckle, Ear Wriggle, Ruddy Farrow and Rumpstiff, do not dose your pigs in the last week of the month. The Knob shines favourably on udders during the three-quarter moon. The 21st is good for romance, but only if you've tagged your piglets first.
Recommended gifts: ointment and jollop bases; old leather trousers, the thicker the better; carbolic soap; old chain mail vests.
Bilious, God of Hangovers 23 Jul - 23 Aug
by Agnes Nitt, with interruptions
No matter how many foolish people claim the stars govern your love life, romance is in the heart, not in the skies. "So says the girl who has a bedroom full of fluffy soft toys and always casts apple-peeling spells to find the name of her potential boyfriend, as if." Use your horoscopes to plan practical chores, for example, the second Thursday of this month is best for preparing pain-relieving medicines. "Practical chores are boring. Deep down, you haven't a practical bone in your body! Mind you, one would have to dig really deep to find your bones." Three-quarter moon is the best time for broom repairs. "We all know what's going through your mind when you get a bit of wind up your skirts." Midwives should prepare birth-encouraging charms between the 12th and 20th, and you can just shut up, Perdita, thank you very much.
Recommended gifts: preserving jars, especially if they're full of preserves; throat pastilles; knicker elastic; chocolate, no matter what Perdita says about the calories.
Mubbo the Hyena 24 Aug - 23 Sept
by Gertruder Tiring
Cookery magic is in your stars this month! Genuan witches favour gumbo magic, but I always say you can see the future best in a good rabbit and onion pie. For learning of possible future romance, try a thick root vegetable stew at quarter-moon. To learn the best time for early planting, make turnip and broad bean soup on the 15th or 30th. A lightly fried egg at new moon can tell you when money will cross your path. Avoid reading tea leaves until Mubbo is on the cusp of Boring, but rose-hip tea gives good results all month. On the 9th, try eels. It's amazing what you can learn from examining a bowl of boiled eels.
Recommended gifts: small cauldrons; casserole dishes; ramekins; egg whisks; seeds, particularly savoury potherb seeds.
The Small Boring Group of Faint Stars 24 Sept - 23 Oct
by Caramella Bottlethwaite
The stars shine on lettuce this month for all Boring'uns. Lettuce will bring you luck, but most importantly for those born under this meek Sign, lettuce asks nothing of those who eat it. It's easy to chew, unthreatening in flavour, and never ever attacks you when you try to pick it, unlike the Herbs of a certain elder witch I could mention but won't. If you feel adventurous at mid-month, try a mild vinegar dressing on your lettuce. Avoid peas. That's all I have time for because I have to plant my winter lettuces now.
Recommended gifts: shovels and other garden implements; thick woolly socks; boots. With hobnails, for preference.
Androgyna Majestis 24 Oct - 22 Nov
by Amanita de Vice
Woe, oh woe! Your stars are terrible this month! All is blackness and despair, and not only should you not get out of bed, you should paint everything black and wear extra mascara and eyeliner and hang your head and wail and moan because life is so awful and nobody understands the inner pain you feel because you're so sensitive and artistic and not like anyone else at all, no, really. Yours is a life of anguish and misunderstoodness and even the very stars conspire to make your existence an endless desert of misery. I know how you feel. Blessed be.
Recommended gifts: black ink; long black underwear; black nail polish; black mascara; washable black tattoo patterns.
Great T'Phon's Foot 23 Nov - 21 Dec
by Harrieta Bilk
D'Jum-Boh, the Grand Trunk star of Great T'Phon's Foot, exerts a favourable influence this month on clothing and personal adornment. This is the best time to try out those bold new fashion statements you were always afraid to make. The second week of the month, and also the 18th and 22nd, look kindly on puce and carmine. After all, there's only so much you can do with black, and puce is this month's black, at least until the 23rd. Decorate your boots at half-moon, in fact, half-moon decorations would be a good idea. In the second quarter of the moon, try bat-shaped buttons and unusual hatpins. It's up to witches to set trends now!
Recommended gifts: dresses, secondhand, in wearable condition. Remember, it's always a good idea to size your local witch (by comparison with an approachable non-witch), as garments too large or too small could result in your being convinced you've become a frog.
Hoki the Jokester 22 Dec - 20 Jan
by Annagramma Hawkin
Fortunate stars shine upon you this month! The Sign of Hoki is particularly empowering, and if you cast your runes in local ruins you will become as empowered as the leopard, and I'm telling you that leopards are very empowered. The stars are very emphatic about the proper Opening of the Circle at esbat time. The Turnwise winds carry secrets, and learning secrets is essential for all young witches; some say witching is best learnt from books, but a witch who seeks true wisdom will find it in the simple ways of simple peasant folk, who have plenty of simple peasant wisdom so long as they have a witch to tell them which bits of their wisdom is wise. Pay more attention than usual this month to the advice of your local witch, and don't make her angry. You wouldn't like her when she's angry. Warts happen.
Recommended gifts: cloaks. Any good spare cloaks in excellent condition. A Zakzak Stronginthearm Zephyr Billow, for preference.
The Rather Large Gazunda 21 Jan - 18 Feb
by Magenta Frottidge
The Gazunda is back in the House of Hedbangur until the 16th and moves to the House of Hoose on the 20th, and what better time to practise your potions? Well, no better time, as it happens. Early moonlight favours the making of jollops. The second night of the full moon is good for lotions this month. Charms will work best on alternate Wednesdays and the third Octeday. Collect herbs and plants of the woodland during three-quarter moon. Do not make any curatives that require scumble; best to wait until next month. Avoid ylang-ylang; replace with Klatchian Migratory Bog Truffle essence or distillate of suckrose and akwa.
Recommended gifts: candles; dried flowers; essential oils; denatured alcohol; rare essences of the Aurient.
Lesser Umbrage 19 Feb - 20 Mar
by Lulu Darling
This is an excellent month for magnetism. The special sort of magnetism that women can practise best and witches don't practise often enough: forget octiron, we're talking about the magnetism of romance. Check your stars closely for the best dates for dates - let's see, this month that would be the 2nd through the 17th and the 24th through the 30th. Hitch your skirts up higher than usual at new moon, and with luck you'll be able to hitch them higher still. And never underestimate the power of a low-cut bodice, especially if your parents gave you the kind of name that just reeks of low-cut bodices anyway. After all "witch" is fifty per cent of the word "bewitching", so make the most of what you've got.
Recommended gifts: china and crockery; interesting ornaments; oysters; red boots; Sonky preventatives.
Djel Star's Paradise
Editor's note: This month's WOSSNAME was hijacked by the young witches of Lancre, who decided to strip out Alice's clog and publish only one of her songs. If you think I'm going to argue with a bunch of half-trained witches going through puberty, you're crazier than they are Achmed the I Just Get These Headaches.
-- The Editor.
DJEL STAR'S PARADISE
by Weird Alice Lancrevic
As I walk through the valley of the Source of the Djel
I'm looking back on my trip and realise I've done well
Cause now I've put Djelibeybi on the map
Stars of the Djel have become a tourist trap
These people never crossed a Pharaoh although most deserved it
They were treated with contempt, you know they were servants
They were too priest-watched for free thought
And scared down to their socks
But now there's Queen Ptraci, and the lady rocks
Old Dios' pyramids pauperised too well
Once religious artefacts - now they're just hotels...Djel!
I'm the kinda Bard Ankh-Morpork poets want to be like
All my songs come out right, ending verses with a near-rhyme
Hey, my hieroglyphic Id's
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
Capstone nightly blows its lid
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
I do like the Pharaohs did
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
Only costs me twenty quid
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
I've got this situation, heat makes me brazen
I can't be a normal wife, I'm too crazed for the gigs
So I gotta get down from the D'regs scene
Too much sand and camel watching desiccates my dreams
I'm an educated Bard with career on my mind
Got a pen in my hand and an imp standing by
I'm a lost Lancrastian, Disc-trekking hasty 'un
And my carpet's broke down, it's sitting in the hangar - Djel!
Death is watching but my lifetimer's fine
I'm living large on the Djel, this Grand Sneer's mine
Just Cert and me, it's as magical as seven plus one
As strange as it's turning, we'll have fun
Tell me why are we
In Djelibeybi
When the action's on
The Circle Sea?
Hey, my hieroglyphic Id's
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
Working for the highest bids
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
I will never hit the skids
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
Signing autographs for kids
In my penthouse Djel star's pyramid
Flowers of the desert, dessert made of flour
Hanging out with Ptraci, paradise is ours
Got a massive fanbase though half of them are mummies
What can you do in the desert but witty songs for dummies?
I'm learning ancient Djeli, Ashk-ur-men-tep has taught me
I can read old inscriptions - some bits, quite naughty
We'll go to Tsort
We'll go to Leshp
Hit every port
That's how we'll find those pleasures of the flesh - Djel!
Hey, my hieroglyphic Id's
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
Capstone nightly blows its lid
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
We do like the Pharaohs did
In a mod-cons Djel star's pyramid
Only costs us twenty quid
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
Tell me why are we
In Djelibeybi
When the action's on
The Circle Sea?
Tell me why are we
In Djelibeybi
When in Hersheba there's
Gigs for me?
Note for Roundworlders: the lyrics for Gangsta's Paradise can be found at: http://tinyurl.com/3224rr
-- The Editor.
- WEIRD ALICE, IN BRIEF
Assistant editor's note: although Weird Alice is technically not a witch, she is the resident Bard of this publication and possessed of -- and some might say by -- strange powers, so we are including her Clacks Log. However, only in abbreviated form. Or as Annagramma put it, 'All right, she can have her bit, but it's not to be as long as the important parts.' So I've edited this Log down to the lyrics of one of Alice's tales of her current holiday location. -- T.A.
DJEL STAR'S PARADISE
by Weird Alice Lancrevic
As I walk through the valley of the Source of the Djel
I'm looking back on my trip and realise I've done well
Cause now I've put Djelibeybi on the map
Stars of the Djel have become a tourist trap
These people never crossed a Pharaoh although most deserved it
They were treated with contempt, you know they were servants
They were too priest-watched for free thought
And scared down to their socks
But now there's Queen Ptraci, and the lady rocks
Old Dios' pyramids pauperised too well
Once religious artefacts - now they're just hotels...Djel!
I'm the kinda Bard Ankh-Morpork poets want to be like
All my songs come out right, ending verses with a near-rhyme
Hey, my hieroglyphic Id's
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
Capstone nightly blows its lid
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
I do like the Pharaohs did
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
Only costs me twenty quid
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
I've got this situation, heat makes me brazen
I can't be a normal wife, I'm too crazed for the gigs
So I gotta get down from the D'regs scene
Too much sand and camel watching desiccates my dreams
I'm an educated Bard with career on my mind
Got a pen in my hand and an imp standing by
I'm a lost Lancrastian, Disc-trekking hasty 'un
And my carpet's broke down, it's sitting in the hangar - Djel!
Death is watching but my lifetimer's fine
I'm living large on the Djel, this Grand Sneer's mine
Just Cert and me, it's as magical as seven plus one
As strange as it's turning, we'll have fun
Tell me why are we
In Djelibeybi
When the action's on
The Circle Sea?
Hey, my hieroglyphic Id's
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
Working for the highest bids
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
I will never hit the skids
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
Signing autographs for kids
In my penthouse Djel star's pyramid
Flowers of the desert, dessert made of flour
Hanging out with Ptraci, paradise is ours
Got a massive fanbase though half of them are mummies
What can you do in the desert but witty songs for dummies?
I'm learning ancient Djeli, Ashk-ur-men-tep has taught me
I can read old inscriptions - some bits, quite naughty
We'll go to Tsort
We'll go to Leshp
Hit every port
That's how we'll find those pleasures of the flesh - Djel!
Hey, my hieroglyphic Id's
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
Capstone nightly blows its lid
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
We do like the Pharaohs did
In a mod-cons Djel star's pyramid
Only costs us twenty quid
Living in a Djel star's pyramid
Tell me why are we
In Djelibeybi
When the action's on
The Circle Sea?
Tell me why are we
In Djelibeybi
When in Hersheba there's
Gigs for me?
Note for Roundworlders: the lyrics for Gangsta's Paradise can be found at: http://tinyurl.com/3224rr
Friday, August 31, 2007
August 2007
YOUR NEW - OR OLDE - DISCWORLD HOROSCOPE
by Lady Anaemia Asterisk
THOSE WERE THE DAYES
I recently attended an Astrologers' convention, and one of the prizes I brought home with me is an actual horoscope from the days - or dayes - of Ago. And what a fascinating document it do be, my dear Astropossums! These are the times of Signs and Portents, and so, apparently, were those. According to my calculations, the Turtle was well and truly moving, no doubt toward the Red Star as it does every more-than-a-few centuries, so the people were more at unrest than usual and more than ever in need of advice from the Stars. I find this strangely comforting...and strangely lucrative, for those of us in certain professions. Or Profeffions. The following Horoscope, which I have faithfully reproduced here, is of course written in lower middle Middle Morporkian, but if you wade your way through the extra vowels and the creative spelling and the random permutations of the letter S, you'll find that people of Ago and their zodiacal concerns are pretty much the same as those of Now. The more things change, eh? It is also rather A-M centric, but this is unsurprising, as in the days of Ago your average Astrologer knew on which side her profit sheet was buttered, and few Forn customers were likely to pay well. Enjoy.
Ye Celestial Parsnippe 21 Mar - 20 Apr
Thys will bee a good Monthe for Diverf actyvities around ye Home. Forget not ye bowle of poisoned Milke for ye Faerys every Octeday. An handsome Tradefman will call upon thee on ye 18th; an you would avoid severe Illneff, buye notte his Saufages inna Bunne.
Gahoolie, ye Vase of Tulipf 21 Apr - 21 May
For ye Keepers of Innes, ye thirde Weeke be a good tyme to change that Troll's head on ye pubbe Sign. An awefull Fyre in Morporke art predicted for ye 9th; save tyme by knocking downe ye Ankh bridges now. Gahoolie favourf any Betrothal made in the dark of thys Monthe's Moon, but promife not marriage to wall-eyed Dames lest they bee borne under Wezen.
Ye Two Fatte Coufins 22 May - 21 Jun
A goode Monthe for War with Klatch. Beware ye Poxe; stocke uppe on powdered Duck, Leeches and Quickfilver. Husband welle thy Houfekeepinge, for difficult Tymes threaten when thee Beard of Io neareth ye Cusp of Mubboe. Avoid Bleedinges until ye 27th.
Ye Knotted Stringe 22 Jun - 22 Jul
Plague doth continue, efpecially in Short Street and its surroundes; place all blame upon thatte Hublandish famylie and avoid ye Companie of thofe Urchins which playeth dead rat Conkers. At fulle Moon, sacrifice with generositye to Seffifet. Wear not aught of ye colour Blewe until ye nexte new Moon.
Ye Perhapf Gayte 23 Jul - 23 Aug
A goode Monthe for War upon Sto Lat. Beware exploding Alchemystes and pine-applef. Weeke of 7th art auspicious for baking of ye early Hogfwatch caykes. Thirde Octeday bringeth wellcome relief from ye Poxe, but alfo bringeth unwanted Relatives; freshen thy door Lockes and inveft in repellynt Potions.
Mubbo, ye Hyaena 24 Aug - 23 Sept
A goode Monthe for War upon Llamedos. Change Newtes in ye Welle. Ye seconde Weeke bee a good Tyme for ye Practife of Morris dancef. An Wyzard attempting Promotion goeth badly wronge; avoid ye Landes near ye College of Wyzards lest ye be turned into a Bowl of sour Cherrys. Butter will notte churn upon ye 20th; blame thatte Hublandish famylie.
Ye Small Boringe Group of ye Fainte Starres 24 Sept - 23 Oct
Bad tymes ahead, also behind and to Widdershins. Ye King's menne will tax thee Unfairley thys Monthe; blame Klatchians in Dollye Syfters. Romance doth beckon upon ye quarter-Moone. Bee efpecially kind to Green-grocers and avoide ye colour Puce.
Okjock, ye Salefman 24 Oct - 22 Nov
A goode Monthe for War upon Muntab, if it bee Found. Okjock favoureth Finance when ye Moon enterf an Gibbous tyme; search ye Houfe for mislayed Coppers behinde thy Pallett, and avoid Beggar menne. An Turnip caft upon ye Hearthe will appease unkind Spirytes. Thatch neither Cott nor Dunnye until ye 30th.
Ye Cowe de Heaven 23 Nov - 21 Dec
A good Monthe for War upon thy neighbourf. In all Thynges dysastrouf, blame thatte Hublandish famylie. A goode Monthe for kippered Herringe. Beware one-eyed Doggs and all priefts of Om. Sacrifyse to Goddes of thy choice ere Dawn on Moone-dark.
Wezen, ye Twice-headed Kangaroo 22 Dec - 20 Jan
A goode Monthe for War upon Istanzia. Plague of Gnomes; engage ye thee Service of ane Ratte Pyper on 5th or 25th. Wezen favoureth Weavinge and Dyeinge of Cloutf thys Monthe. Buye noe Potionf until ye Ides. A chance Meetynge with Thievef can bring unexpected Opportunitye, but avoid Fooles, for they art Dangerouf until ye next fulle Moon.
Ye Ashtraye of Anoia 21 Jan - 18 Feb
A badde Monthe for War upon Ephebe; wait until next Monthe. Plague of Dwarfef; block ye Cellar stoutley. Get ye notte out of Bedde on 11th, 17th, 19th and 23rd, but rise early on even-number'd Dayes. Goates giveth no Milke in fourth Weeke; blame thatte Hublandish famylie.
Ye Flyinge Moofe 19 Feb - 20 Mar
A goode Monthe for dodging ye Drafte. For ane smalle Pryce, ye merchante Dybbler can arrange Passyge to Ephebe; but be certeaine to move elfewhere before War breaketh oute next Monthe. Avoide Mymes and Urchin chyldren, and drinke no Ankh water; trust me on thys, for bee I notte ane Aftrologer?
by Lady Anaemia Asterisk
THOSE WERE THE DAYES
I recently attended an Astrologers' convention, and one of the prizes I brought home with me is an actual horoscope from the days - or dayes - of Ago. And what a fascinating document it do be, my dear Astropossums! These are the times of Signs and Portents, and so, apparently, were those. According to my calculations, the Turtle was well and truly moving, no doubt toward the Red Star as it does every more-than-a-few centuries, so the people were more at unrest than usual and more than ever in need of advice from the Stars. I find this strangely comforting...and strangely lucrative, for those of us in certain professions. Or Profeffions. The following Horoscope, which I have faithfully reproduced here, is of course written in lower middle Middle Morporkian, but if you wade your way through the extra vowels and the creative spelling and the random permutations of the letter S, you'll find that people of Ago and their zodiacal concerns are pretty much the same as those of Now. The more things change, eh? It is also rather A-M centric, but this is unsurprising, as in the days of Ago your average Astrologer knew on which side her profit sheet was buttered, and few Forn customers were likely to pay well. Enjoy.
Ye Celestial Parsnippe 21 Mar - 20 Apr
Thys will bee a good Monthe for Diverf actyvities around ye Home. Forget not ye bowle of poisoned Milke for ye Faerys every Octeday. An handsome Tradefman will call upon thee on ye 18th; an you would avoid severe Illneff, buye notte his Saufages inna Bunne.
Gahoolie, ye Vase of Tulipf 21 Apr - 21 May
For ye Keepers of Innes, ye thirde Weeke be a good tyme to change that Troll's head on ye pubbe Sign. An awefull Fyre in Morporke art predicted for ye 9th; save tyme by knocking downe ye Ankh bridges now. Gahoolie favourf any Betrothal made in the dark of thys Monthe's Moon, but promife not marriage to wall-eyed Dames lest they bee borne under Wezen.
Ye Two Fatte Coufins 22 May - 21 Jun
A goode Monthe for War with Klatch. Beware ye Poxe; stocke uppe on powdered Duck, Leeches and Quickfilver. Husband welle thy Houfekeepinge, for difficult Tymes threaten when thee Beard of Io neareth ye Cusp of Mubboe. Avoid Bleedinges until ye 27th.
Ye Knotted Stringe 22 Jun - 22 Jul
Plague doth continue, efpecially in Short Street and its surroundes; place all blame upon thatte Hublandish famylie and avoid ye Companie of thofe Urchins which playeth dead rat Conkers. At fulle Moon, sacrifice with generositye to Seffifet. Wear not aught of ye colour Blewe until ye nexte new Moon.
Ye Perhapf Gayte 23 Jul - 23 Aug
A goode Monthe for War upon Sto Lat. Beware exploding Alchemystes and pine-applef. Weeke of 7th art auspicious for baking of ye early Hogfwatch caykes. Thirde Octeday bringeth wellcome relief from ye Poxe, but alfo bringeth unwanted Relatives; freshen thy door Lockes and inveft in repellynt Potions.
Mubbo, ye Hyaena 24 Aug - 23 Sept
A goode Monthe for War upon Llamedos. Change Newtes in ye Welle. Ye seconde Weeke bee a good Tyme for ye Practife of Morris dancef. An Wyzard attempting Promotion goeth badly wronge; avoid ye Landes near ye College of Wyzards lest ye be turned into a Bowl of sour Cherrys. Butter will notte churn upon ye 20th; blame thatte Hublandish famylie.
Ye Small Boringe Group of ye Fainte Starres 24 Sept - 23 Oct
Bad tymes ahead, also behind and to Widdershins. Ye King's menne will tax thee Unfairley thys Monthe; blame Klatchians in Dollye Syfters. Romance doth beckon upon ye quarter-Moone. Bee efpecially kind to Green-grocers and avoide ye colour Puce.
Okjock, ye Salefman 24 Oct - 22 Nov
A goode Monthe for War upon Muntab, if it bee Found. Okjock favoureth Finance when ye Moon enterf an Gibbous tyme; search ye Houfe for mislayed Coppers behinde thy Pallett, and avoid Beggar menne. An Turnip caft upon ye Hearthe will appease unkind Spirytes. Thatch neither Cott nor Dunnye until ye 30th.
Ye Cowe de Heaven 23 Nov - 21 Dec
A good Monthe for War upon thy neighbourf. In all Thynges dysastrouf, blame thatte Hublandish famylie. A goode Monthe for kippered Herringe. Beware one-eyed Doggs and all priefts of Om. Sacrifyse to Goddes of thy choice ere Dawn on Moone-dark.
Wezen, ye Twice-headed Kangaroo 22 Dec - 20 Jan
A goode Monthe for War upon Istanzia. Plague of Gnomes; engage ye thee Service of ane Ratte Pyper on 5th or 25th. Wezen favoureth Weavinge and Dyeinge of Cloutf thys Monthe. Buye noe Potionf until ye Ides. A chance Meetynge with Thievef can bring unexpected Opportunitye, but avoid Fooles, for they art Dangerouf until ye next fulle Moon.
Ye Ashtraye of Anoia 21 Jan - 18 Feb
A badde Monthe for War upon Ephebe; wait until next Monthe. Plague of Dwarfef; block ye Cellar stoutley. Get ye notte out of Bedde on 11th, 17th, 19th and 23rd, but rise early on even-number'd Dayes. Goates giveth no Milke in fourth Weeke; blame thatte Hublandish famylie.
Ye Flyinge Moofe 19 Feb - 20 Mar
A goode Monthe for dodging ye Drafte. For ane smalle Pryce, ye merchante Dybbler can arrange Passyge to Ephebe; but be certeaine to move elfewhere before War breaketh oute next Monthe. Avoide Mymes and Urchin chyldren, and drinke no Ankh water; trust me on thys, for bee I notte ane Aftrologer?
Clog Post 6 with Down Under
THE CLACKS LOG OF WEIRD ALICE LANCREVIC
Post 6. THIS GREAT SOUTHERN SAND
First Clog: "When you came in here, didn't you have a plan for getting out?"
So we crashed. In the desert. I imagine that counts as a breakdown.
But first we got blown off course going over the Hublands by a random storm of raw magic somewhere on the Circle Sea side, which meant we didn't make it as far as Al-Khali, or even anywhere near Al-Khali. I suppose this is partly my fault, but hey, it takes two to horizontally tango (and I have to say that you haven't lived until you've horizontally tango'd on a flying carpet; just make sure you have somewhere safe to land), and how was I to know it was really true about wizards and the not tangoing thing? Or that when a wizard loses his magic it sucks out all the other magic in the immediate area? So we crashed. The effect is only temporary (luckily for us), but this explains why wizards get their oats as students, and why wizards daren't marry. Cert says you can always tell the students who aren't getting their oats; apart from doing better on exams, they're the ones with hairy palms and a permanent aura of maddened frustration.
Klatch is big. Really big. You just wouldn't believe how vastly hugely mindbogglingly big it is. And sandy. So much sand. And dry. Big and sandy and dry and so very, very empty, except for us and a patch of less sandy-coloured sand that may have been a lizard...oh, and D'regs. According to my guidebook, the D'regs are a noble desert tribe, a "warlike, fierce and honourable" people who take pride in their ancient traditions. Since my time in Uberwald taught me that "noble" is often as not another word for "arrogant, unsympathetic and bloodthirsty, sometimes literally", you can imagine my dread when they rose up out of the sand around us like lizard-coloured patches. But our luck was in that day, because they neither killed us nor treated us badly. All right, we were captured, but once again my lute got us out of serious trouble. Instead of killing us out of hand, they invited us to a party! The chieftain, whose name is al-Rhaiva, spoke a little trade patois, and with my smatterings of Year 6 Klatchian, we were able to communicate well enough. They loaded us onto a spare camel in exchange for our carpet (I am so very not getting up in one of those again, ever), gave us a good long drink of stale water (best drink I ever tasted in my life), and off we went to...well...another stretch of featureless sand, but they seemed to know where they were going...
Our destination was the oasis of Phati D'oun. It's well known among the D'regs as the Place of Herbs; here can be found the powerful stimulant qat and the powerful hallucinogen qit. Mixed together, they're known as qat-qit, and their effect can keep you up for days while making you see enough strange visions that you won't even think of the sleep you're losing. Once you've tried qat-qit it's hard to quit -- one of the common cries of D'reg hunter-gatherer groups translates as "Have a qat-qit, have a break!" -- and there was plenty of qat-qit use in evidence at Phati D'oun. As the sun set redly over the dunes and the baking hot desert day turned to bloody freezing desert night, we joined in the festivities. Oh boy, did we join in the festivities. I was designated Other Special Guest (since there was already a Special Guest, namely the Alchemical Brothers, from the valley of Great Sand); the masters of ceremonies were the handsome twins Fahim and Faher, and they accompanied me on camelskin drums with some pulse-pounding percussion as I played Loose in the Burnoose, Smells Like Tent Spirit, Camel Chameleon, You Dry Up My Life, an all-rocking rendition of Deeper and Dune, and an ode to Seven-Handed Sek, patron god of the Dehydrated Ocean, that I called Bringing Sek's Sea Back. Cert had got his mojo back by then and used his Technomancer training to put on a light show; the camels calculated trajectories and spat out their cuds at high speed, and Cert turned each cud missile into a ball of sparkling flame that landed harmlessly on the far side of the oasis. We partied and drank and watched the dancing houris and ate dates and no, I didn't try the sheep's eyes. And as the slow desert dawnlight rolled slowly across the dawn desert, we staggered off to our tents with a slurred chorus of "I'm going to Great Sand, Great Sand, down in Elharib, I'm going to Great Sand...proud D'regs our patrons in desert breeze, and we are going to Great Sand..."
On the following day, we, that is to say the D'regs, were attacked by the Misplaced Tribe of Unreal. I'd believed they were only a legend, and when they first crested the dunes I thought they were a leftover hallucination from my qat-qit hangover, but no. The Misplaced Tribe are descendants of a lost cadre of Klatchian Foreign Legionnaires who joined the KFL to forget and then forgot they were in it; now they wander the trackless desert, pillaging passing caravans and plundering pilgrims on the paths. They were no match for al-Rhaiva's D'regs though, and the survivors willingly joined our lads (though not in as, um, unfettered a capacity as ours). They were led by a pale-skinned, pale-eyed young man called Sojar ibn Sheri, aka the Lyon of the Dessert (fierce wanderers aren't so good with the spelling), who thinks he came originally from Ankh-Morpork, or possibly Muntab, but has long since forgotten. He's quite good with camels though. The Misplaced Tribe will no doubt continue to exist -- they can't remember if they were the whole Tribe or if there were others who forgot to come along.
We pitched our tents on yet another featureless expanse of sand which, I was told, was near the Djelibeybian border. It seems we can get transport down the Djel to the Circle Sea. I always did want to visit Djelibeybi; any nation that lists garlic as one of its primary exports gets my vote. Remember, my mother's side of the family were Nugganites...
The story so far, in song:
Second Clog: "Not lost, just cartographically variable"
The Lost City of Ee materialised next to our tent during the night.
This is not as unusual as it sounds. According to the history books I've read, the Lost City of Ee is a brigadoon, a magickal node of placeness that disappears and reappears at various places on the Disc (or sometimes elsewhere in the multiverse). My Mapp placed it well rimwards of Elharib, but it was published in the Century of the Fruitbat and is obviously out of date. We were also obviously out of dates, and thirsty again, so we packed up and set off inside the strangely carved walls in search of breakfast; we couldn't ask the D'regs, because every one of them, man, woman camel and prisoner, had mysteriously disappeared without a trace. So had the inhabitants of Ee, by the look of it. Everything was covered by a fine layer of dust -- not all of it desert dust by any means -- and the streets were paved with very old-looking mud, but the fountains in city centre were still running and the water was cool and delicious. And there were fruit trees! With fruit on them! Cert insisted on muttering a few poison-detecting spells over our "found meal" before we ate, but they came up clean. I thought I noticed a funny shadow at the edge of the market square when he was spell-saying, but it was probably just a heat hallucination, or the last effects of the qat-qit.
When we were well fruited, I decided to have a bath in the fountain while Cert explored...after all, there's been a lot of geography between here and the last bath I had in Genua...and after bath came nap. By the time I woke up, it was late afternoon and Cert was back. He'd found some old grimoires (he was well chuffed about that, since if you remember he'd thrown his own ones overboard just before Captain Aie's pirates captured us) and some fresh clothes (for a "probably centuries old, but at least they look like no-one's died in them" value of "fresh") and a couple of fine-looking ceremonial daggers (in case anything new and exciting attacks us), but no people and no food, so we've had some more fruit. He's also found what he thinks is a collection of sapient pearwood figurines, but said it was getting dark fast in that part of the city and he'd rather rest and go back in the morning. We gathered some old furniture and made a fire because the temperature was dropping again. I swear the shadows look funny around the edges of the square. Must be the firelight. But in the end we decided to go back outside the walls and pitch our tent in the open desert, in case the city decided to leave with us in it while we were asleep.
We've made a pact to sleep on separate sides of the tent until we get back to someplace less, well, lost.
On a side note, Gimpy has been acting funny. I've been getting him to read back my posts before he sends them, and I keep having to make corrections to the spelling and grammar and sometimes ask him to delete whole passages he's copied down twice. He says his processor spell needs a flush. I don't even want to think about what that entails. Cert says he can fix Gimpy but he needs some specialist supplies including something I think he called a daemon-magnitiser and something about a hard drive. But I don't drive my Imp too hard! Hopefully, the next time we're near someplace vaguely civilised, we can sort this out.
Tired now. Here endeth this post.
Third clog: "Necessity is one mean mother"
We went back into the Lost City the following morning, since it was still there. It's really quite beautiful in a ruined lost city kind of way, and while I can't say I've been too happy with all the unexpected changes in my travel itinerary I'm glad I got to see Ee. The buildings, those that haven't fallen down from extreme age, are very attractive, with lots of weird carvings that wander behind corners when you try to look at them, and a number of arch-balconied courtyards in the Al-Khali style I've seen in travel books. I do wonder what became of the people though. We examined a number of buildings, including one that looks like it used to be a library, but the room with the carved figurines was empty this time; the only thing left in there was a large statue of what looked like petrified wood. It was carved or sculpted or whatever in the shape of some sort of many-armed goddess, not one either of us recognised, with knives in her hands rather like the knives we were now carrying, and a huge jewel in the centre of her forehead. Just sitting there. Huge. Possibly a yellow diamond or an octarine -- although if it was an octarine, it had to be the largest one ever cut. Huge, and just sitting there. I climbed up onto the plinth (the wood or stone or whatever was very warm, considering that the room was dim and not ever likely to see direct sunlight) and took out my dagger and started to prise it out of the statue's forehead. As one does. I had it loose and almost ready to come out when Cert looked up from reading a grimoire and shouted at me to stop.
"Why? This must be worth a fortune. Or will be, when we get back to someplace with people and jewellers."
"No! That's some sort of holy statue. You know something horrible will happen if you remove the jewel! It's a law of narrative causality!"
"Don't be silly. Cohen the Barbarian does this sort of thing all the time, they say."
"But you know about the sort of things They say! Something horrible will happen!"
Huge jewel. Fortune. I decided to ignore him and listen to my inner avarice. The stone came out very easily after that. It was very warm. Blood-warm.
Something horrible happened.
On run from something horrible. Don't know what, but large and angry. Dictating on run. City crumbling. Shadows moving. The walls. The walls. The -- Gimpy! Stop stammering, godsdamn you! Everything starting to tilt, sort of. Lights ahead -- ah, the desert! About to dive through gates, shutting up now!
I'm now dictating in midair. Here's what happened: we made it through the gates just in time, because immediately afterwards the whole city started shimmering and wavering and faded out so completely that it looked as if nothing had ever been there...except for the shadows. We still had our daggers and Cert still had a couple of grimoires, but our tent was nowhere to be found and there was still this feeling of forebodingness in the air. We walked on for a while, but soon the sun and the heat wore us right out. "Anything in there that could get us out of this desert? There must be some way out of here...maybe there's a foldaway broomstick inside one of the covers..."
"Don't be such a joker," says the man who'd just stolen some precious ancient books of magick.
There were an awful lot of shadows on the horizon, considering it was not long past noon.
After a time, during which the shadows kept creeping closer, he did find a promising spell, which he translated as Fingerpull Eccluniastes' Instantaneous Troublefree Transporter, and read out the runes from the ruins in a hurry. There was a flash of light, a peal of thunder (for effect), a cloud of octarine smoke, and...
"A carpet? A carpet?! I'm not getting on that." "Suit yourself, if you'd rather be lunch for that." I turned in the direction Cert was pointing, took one look, and here we are on a flying carpet again. At least it's not too far to Djelibeybi, and we're both older and wiser.
Over and out.
Shortmouth time: Djelibeybi! Safety! Civilisation! Beds! Indoor plumbing! Food! Markets! Audience tomorrow with Queen Ptraci!
Shopping now. More later. I'm off to buy socks in the souk.
-- Alice.
Note for Roundworlders: the original lyrics for Down Under can be found at: http://www.lyricsdomain.com/13/men_at_work/down_under.html (although this is not a totally correct version - but every other lyrics page for this song on the anternet seems to make the same mistakes)
Post 6. THIS GREAT SOUTHERN SAND
First Clog: "When you came in here, didn't you have a plan for getting out?"
So we crashed. In the desert. I imagine that counts as a breakdown.
But first we got blown off course going over the Hublands by a random storm of raw magic somewhere on the Circle Sea side, which meant we didn't make it as far as Al-Khali, or even anywhere near Al-Khali. I suppose this is partly my fault, but hey, it takes two to horizontally tango (and I have to say that you haven't lived until you've horizontally tango'd on a flying carpet; just make sure you have somewhere safe to land), and how was I to know it was really true about wizards and the not tangoing thing? Or that when a wizard loses his magic it sucks out all the other magic in the immediate area? So we crashed. The effect is only temporary (luckily for us), but this explains why wizards get their oats as students, and why wizards daren't marry. Cert says you can always tell the students who aren't getting their oats; apart from doing better on exams, they're the ones with hairy palms and a permanent aura of maddened frustration.
Klatch is big. Really big. You just wouldn't believe how vastly hugely mindbogglingly big it is. And sandy. So much sand. And dry. Big and sandy and dry and so very, very empty, except for us and a patch of less sandy-coloured sand that may have been a lizard...oh, and D'regs. According to my guidebook, the D'regs are a noble desert tribe, a "warlike, fierce and honourable" people who take pride in their ancient traditions. Since my time in Uberwald taught me that "noble" is often as not another word for "arrogant, unsympathetic and bloodthirsty, sometimes literally", you can imagine my dread when they rose up out of the sand around us like lizard-coloured patches. But our luck was in that day, because they neither killed us nor treated us badly. All right, we were captured, but once again my lute got us out of serious trouble. Instead of killing us out of hand, they invited us to a party! The chieftain, whose name is al-Rhaiva, spoke a little trade patois, and with my smatterings of Year 6 Klatchian, we were able to communicate well enough. They loaded us onto a spare camel in exchange for our carpet (I am so very not getting up in one of those again, ever), gave us a good long drink of stale water (best drink I ever tasted in my life), and off we went to...well...another stretch of featureless sand, but they seemed to know where they were going...
Our destination was the oasis of Phati D'oun. It's well known among the D'regs as the Place of Herbs; here can be found the powerful stimulant qat and the powerful hallucinogen qit. Mixed together, they're known as qat-qit, and their effect can keep you up for days while making you see enough strange visions that you won't even think of the sleep you're losing. Once you've tried qat-qit it's hard to quit -- one of the common cries of D'reg hunter-gatherer groups translates as "Have a qat-qit, have a break!" -- and there was plenty of qat-qit use in evidence at Phati D'oun. As the sun set redly over the dunes and the baking hot desert day turned to bloody freezing desert night, we joined in the festivities. Oh boy, did we join in the festivities. I was designated Other Special Guest (since there was already a Special Guest, namely the Alchemical Brothers, from the valley of Great Sand); the masters of ceremonies were the handsome twins Fahim and Faher, and they accompanied me on camelskin drums with some pulse-pounding percussion as I played Loose in the Burnoose, Smells Like Tent Spirit, Camel Chameleon, You Dry Up My Life, an all-rocking rendition of Deeper and Dune, and an ode to Seven-Handed Sek, patron god of the Dehydrated Ocean, that I called Bringing Sek's Sea Back. Cert had got his mojo back by then and used his Technomancer training to put on a light show; the camels calculated trajectories and spat out their cuds at high speed, and Cert turned each cud missile into a ball of sparkling flame that landed harmlessly on the far side of the oasis. We partied and drank and watched the dancing houris and ate dates and no, I didn't try the sheep's eyes. And as the slow desert dawnlight rolled slowly across the dawn desert, we staggered off to our tents with a slurred chorus of "I'm going to Great Sand, Great Sand, down in Elharib, I'm going to Great Sand...proud D'regs our patrons in desert breeze, and we are going to Great Sand..."
* * *
On the following day, we, that is to say the D'regs, were attacked by the Misplaced Tribe of Unreal. I'd believed they were only a legend, and when they first crested the dunes I thought they were a leftover hallucination from my qat-qit hangover, but no. The Misplaced Tribe are descendants of a lost cadre of Klatchian Foreign Legionnaires who joined the KFL to forget and then forgot they were in it; now they wander the trackless desert, pillaging passing caravans and plundering pilgrims on the paths. They were no match for al-Rhaiva's D'regs though, and the survivors willingly joined our lads (though not in as, um, unfettered a capacity as ours). They were led by a pale-skinned, pale-eyed young man called Sojar ibn Sheri, aka the Lyon of the Dessert (fierce wanderers aren't so good with the spelling), who thinks he came originally from Ankh-Morpork, or possibly Muntab, but has long since forgotten. He's quite good with camels though. The Misplaced Tribe will no doubt continue to exist -- they can't remember if they were the whole Tribe or if there were others who forgot to come along.
We pitched our tents on yet another featureless expanse of sand which, I was told, was near the Djelibeybian border. It seems we can get transport down the Djel to the Circle Sea. I always did want to visit Djelibeybi; any nation that lists garlic as one of its primary exports gets my vote. Remember, my mother's side of the family were Nugganites...
The story so far, in song:
- Travellin' on a flyblown carpet
With a whiffy smell, like Nobby's armpit
I met a D'reg houri in Klatch's service
She mixed me up like a whirling dervish
And she said,
Do you burn from the sand down under?
Hot rash below? - well, no wonder
Do you feel, do you feel quite sundered?
Your tender bum you better keep covered!
Half-dead in a D'regs-filled place is
Even worse by far with no oasis
I said, "Is the coastline that way?"
They just grinned and gave me some scorpion sorbet
And they said,
We run with the sand down under
Where thirst can kill if you blunder
Do you feel, do you feel encumbered?
Beware the sun - you better keep covered!
Flying in a windblown quand'ry
With a sick Imp and no clean laundry
I said to the D'regs, "Let us leave this country
"Because I long for a land that's tent-free!"
And we said,
Sinkin' in the sand down yonder
Where camels plod and D'regs wander
Do you feel like you're bleaching blonder?
You're turning brown, you better seek cover!
* * *
Second Clog: "Not lost, just cartographically variable"
The Lost City of Ee materialised next to our tent during the night.
This is not as unusual as it sounds. According to the history books I've read, the Lost City of Ee is a brigadoon, a magickal node of placeness that disappears and reappears at various places on the Disc (or sometimes elsewhere in the multiverse). My Mapp placed it well rimwards of Elharib, but it was published in the Century of the Fruitbat and is obviously out of date. We were also obviously out of dates, and thirsty again, so we packed up and set off inside the strangely carved walls in search of breakfast; we couldn't ask the D'regs, because every one of them, man, woman camel and prisoner, had mysteriously disappeared without a trace. So had the inhabitants of Ee, by the look of it. Everything was covered by a fine layer of dust -- not all of it desert dust by any means -- and the streets were paved with very old-looking mud, but the fountains in city centre were still running and the water was cool and delicious. And there were fruit trees! With fruit on them! Cert insisted on muttering a few poison-detecting spells over our "found meal" before we ate, but they came up clean. I thought I noticed a funny shadow at the edge of the market square when he was spell-saying, but it was probably just a heat hallucination, or the last effects of the qat-qit.
When we were well fruited, I decided to have a bath in the fountain while Cert explored...after all, there's been a lot of geography between here and the last bath I had in Genua...and after bath came nap. By the time I woke up, it was late afternoon and Cert was back. He'd found some old grimoires (he was well chuffed about that, since if you remember he'd thrown his own ones overboard just before Captain Aie's pirates captured us) and some fresh clothes (for a "probably centuries old, but at least they look like no-one's died in them" value of "fresh") and a couple of fine-looking ceremonial daggers (in case anything new and exciting attacks us), but no people and no food, so we've had some more fruit. He's also found what he thinks is a collection of sapient pearwood figurines, but said it was getting dark fast in that part of the city and he'd rather rest and go back in the morning. We gathered some old furniture and made a fire because the temperature was dropping again. I swear the shadows look funny around the edges of the square. Must be the firelight. But in the end we decided to go back outside the walls and pitch our tent in the open desert, in case the city decided to leave with us in it while we were asleep.
We've made a pact to sleep on separate sides of the tent until we get back to someplace less, well, lost.
On a side note, Gimpy has been acting funny. I've been getting him to read back my posts before he sends them, and I keep having to make corrections to the spelling and grammar and sometimes ask him to delete whole passages he's copied down twice. He says his processor spell needs a flush. I don't even want to think about what that entails. Cert says he can fix Gimpy but he needs some specialist supplies including something I think he called a daemon-magnitiser and something about a hard drive. But I don't drive my Imp too hard! Hopefully, the next time we're near someplace vaguely civilised, we can sort this out.
Tired now. Here endeth this post.
* * *
Third clog: "Necessity is one mean mother"
We went back into the Lost City the following morning, since it was still there. It's really quite beautiful in a ruined lost city kind of way, and while I can't say I've been too happy with all the unexpected changes in my travel itinerary I'm glad I got to see Ee. The buildings, those that haven't fallen down from extreme age, are very attractive, with lots of weird carvings that wander behind corners when you try to look at them, and a number of arch-balconied courtyards in the Al-Khali style I've seen in travel books. I do wonder what became of the people though. We examined a number of buildings, including one that looks like it used to be a library, but the room with the carved figurines was empty this time; the only thing left in there was a large statue of what looked like petrified wood. It was carved or sculpted or whatever in the shape of some sort of many-armed goddess, not one either of us recognised, with knives in her hands rather like the knives we were now carrying, and a huge jewel in the centre of her forehead. Just sitting there. Huge. Possibly a yellow diamond or an octarine -- although if it was an octarine, it had to be the largest one ever cut. Huge, and just sitting there. I climbed up onto the plinth (the wood or stone or whatever was very warm, considering that the room was dim and not ever likely to see direct sunlight) and took out my dagger and started to prise it out of the statue's forehead. As one does. I had it loose and almost ready to come out when Cert looked up from reading a grimoire and shouted at me to stop.
"Why? This must be worth a fortune. Or will be, when we get back to someplace with people and jewellers."
"No! That's some sort of holy statue. You know something horrible will happen if you remove the jewel! It's a law of narrative causality!"
"Don't be silly. Cohen the Barbarian does this sort of thing all the time, they say."
"But you know about the sort of things They say! Something horrible will happen!"
Huge jewel. Fortune. I decided to ignore him and listen to my inner avarice. The stone came out very easily after that. It was very warm. Blood-warm.
Something horrible happened.
* * *
On run from something horrible. Don't know what, but large and angry. Dictating on run. City crumbling. Shadows moving. The walls. The walls. The -- Gimpy! Stop stammering, godsdamn you! Everything starting to tilt, sort of. Lights ahead -- ah, the desert! About to dive through gates, shutting up now!
* * *
I'm now dictating in midair. Here's what happened: we made it through the gates just in time, because immediately afterwards the whole city started shimmering and wavering and faded out so completely that it looked as if nothing had ever been there...except for the shadows. We still had our daggers and Cert still had a couple of grimoires, but our tent was nowhere to be found and there was still this feeling of forebodingness in the air. We walked on for a while, but soon the sun and the heat wore us right out. "Anything in there that could get us out of this desert? There must be some way out of here...maybe there's a foldaway broomstick inside one of the covers..."
"Don't be such a joker," says the man who'd just stolen some precious ancient books of magick.
There were an awful lot of shadows on the horizon, considering it was not long past noon.
After a time, during which the shadows kept creeping closer, he did find a promising spell, which he translated as Fingerpull Eccluniastes' Instantaneous Troublefree Transporter, and read out the runes from the ruins in a hurry. There was a flash of light, a peal of thunder (for effect), a cloud of octarine smoke, and...
"A carpet? A carpet?! I'm not getting on that." "Suit yourself, if you'd rather be lunch for that." I turned in the direction Cert was pointing, took one look, and here we are on a flying carpet again. At least it's not too far to Djelibeybi, and we're both older and wiser.
Over and out.
* * *
Shortmouth time: Djelibeybi! Safety! Civilisation! Beds! Indoor plumbing! Food! Markets! Audience tomorrow with Queen Ptraci!
Shopping now. More later. I'm off to buy socks in the souk.
-- Alice.
Note for Roundworlders: the original lyrics for Down Under can be found at: http://www.lyricsdomain.com/13/men_at_work/down_under.html (although this is not a totally correct version - but every other lyrics page for this song on the anternet seems to make the same mistakes)
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Clog post 5 with Wizard with you
Post 5. CHAINED MELODY
First Clog: "I'm sure this wasn't in the travel brochure..."
Well, we finally left Genua and our transport didn't break down for once!
Instead, we got captured by pirates. Oh, and got free eventually, or else I wouldn't be dictating this. It was just the two of us, myself and Cert... the only two remaining travellers out of our original party of nine. Hard to believe after all this time that we'll never see some of them again! - though Listeria was adamant that she'd catch us up later in the journey; she was having such a good time learning (and teaching) about exotic poisons that she decided to stay on for a few extra days. Mr Num was so horrified by the "open debauchery" in Genua that he took his bags and tracts and Books of Om and went off into the swamps to convert the locals... no great loss there, but it would be too much to hope that a bad fate befalls him, since he's exactly the sort of intense personality who'd be likely to come back as a Zombie. The thought of a 24/8 Omnian door-knocker is too horrible to contemplate!
As for the Verdants, Lothar and Tessica were so taken with the Genuan lifestyle that they immigrated on the spot and sent a Clacks arranging for their haberdashery shop to be packed up and sent down posthaste. The last I saw of young Athelred, he was chatting up the Baroness and checking for any other unattached posh women with posh fortunes, and it will come as no surprise to anyone that Rumbustia applied to join the local Seamstresses' Guild. She'll go far, that girl. Quite possibly beyond the bounds of the Seamstresses' own guidelines, to the delight of the Genuan consumers; when it comes to negotiable affection, she can negotiate with the best of Dibblers...
... so yes, just Cert and me. I'm quite getting to like him, apart from his useful wizarding skills. He's actually not as obnoxious as I thought at first when he joined us, he's got over much of his go-faster obsession (since coming to Genua, at any rate. No-one in Genua ever does anything fast. It's the weather, I think), and he isn't bad-looking at all, when he's not covered in road muck or stains from potions that didn't work out the way he hoped they would. He's kind of tall and kind of dark and has rather a nice smile and erm, delete that last line - what do you mean, you've forgotten how to delete? Wretched imp! No more rum for you.
Anyway, pirates. Captured by. Not on my To Do list for that day.
We'd had a fantastic, phantasmagorical week that ended with a two-day leaving party. On the morning we were set to sail I woke up to find myself face down on a quaint needlework sampler that read BEE IT EVYR SO HUMBL THERES NOE PLAYCE LIKE RUM, with a headache worthy of Bilious himself. Staggered to my feet, went to our inn, threw everything I could find that looked like mine into my bags (note to self: remember to post back that warming pan), found Cert (better state than me, but much the worse for wear than usual and wearing a little paper drinks umbrella stuck behind his left ear), found a Zombie porter, and made it to the docks only five minutes before the Sea Donkey set sail for Krull the long way (see route description below). Thankfully, I had an outside cabin with a porthole big enough to stick my head and shoulders through. Not that we had rough sailing, but I was already seasick before I boarded! By the time we'd made our way down through the Swamp Sea and through the Strait of Narrows, I was feeling considerably less undead and ready to come up on deck and enjoy the beauty of the Gulf of Brindisi as it blends into the gorgeous lambent purple of the Kythian Sea. N.B. no-one seems to know exactly why the Kythian Sea is purple. Some say it's because of an outpouring of Hub magic through an undersea vent; some say it's algae; and a few people have suggested that the famous Kythian dye factories haven't yet got the hang of filtering their toxic waste. All I know is that it's amazingly pretty by night.
The route we were meant to take after reaching the Kythian Sea was this: around the Orohai Peninsula, past the Bay of Mantle, provisioning at the Rehigreed port of Direr Ghee, skimming through the Ghat Islands, a stop at the Isle of Sumtri for bird-watching and then on around Cape Terror, passing the Rimmost tip of Howondaland, and finally via the Bellicose Islands to the kingdom of Krull for a spot of Rim-gazing. The route we actually took was this: captured on the Kythian Sea and taken straight to NoThingfjord to be sold as slaves. A much simpler route altogether, though I can't say much for the food or the scenery...
It was a dark and moonless night - handy for pirates, that - when we were attacked and boarded by the infamous crew of the not-so-good ship Lalip-Ap, under the command of Captain Jimbo "Aye-aye" Aie. I happened to be up in the foredeck being seasick over the rails when they came alongside; sheer terror is probably the best seasickness cure there is, and it certainly gave wings to my deck-splintered heels as I ran below, grabbed my lute case, woke Gimpy, and told him to go wake Cert and, brilliant piece of inspiration here if I do say so myself, to tell him we were about to be boarded by pirates and to for gods' sake throw his grimoires out the porthole and pose as a conjurer if he valued his life. Pirates hate wizards but they love conjurers - nothing like a spot of sleight-of-hand to entertain the crew on those long boring between-plunder voyages, and lonely sea dogs are always glad for the sight of anything in a robe... sure enough, the pirates lined up the passengers, rifled the cabins, disposed of the captain and first mate, and chose all the more able-bodied of those left as unpaid labour on their ship. By sunrise we were all in chains. I was, however, right to grab the lute. Being a Bard gets a lady out of all manner of trouble, such as unwanted attention from unwashed freebooters at sea. And oh my, what an unwashed crew they were.
The crew of the Lalip-Ap (named, I'm told, for a minor local sea-spirit - they wanted to name her after the far more fearsome Shirlit Ampol Balak, small but deadly patron Goddess of pirates and very inept seamen, but the name was too long to fit on the bowsprit) are as scurvy a lot of swabbers as I've ever seen. Some of the more colourful ones (and I mean that in stomach-churning literalness) were Molasses "Blackstrap" Williams, a rum-soaked old navigator descended from an ancient line of Morporkian treacle miners; Jacqs Perot, an expatriate Genuan now living at sea with a girl in every port and an able-bodied tar in every cabin; Har al-Flin, swash-buckling son of the desert who took up buccaneering because he's allergic to camels; Scree, an unusually small greenish-grey Troll often used as a cannonball during attacks on larger ships; Blackboard, the infamous schoolteacher turned buccaneer; and Daffy James, late - in more ways than one - of Llamedos, who obviously had more than a bit of squid in his ancestry. They were all rude, crude and lewd, and Jacqs Perot was always in a mood. Captain Aie rules them all with an iron hand - as well he would, since his real one got cut off in a swordfight. We were treated badly on the whole, but we weren't killed (a plus) and even though they chained us to the oars and whipped us to row whenever the wind dropped, Cert and I got a relative amount of freedom and extra rum rations owing to our special talents.
I have to say, Cert's handled himself very well so far. He didn't complain more than expected, he didn't try to take on the whole heavily-armed crew using only third-year spellcasting, and it turned out he actually does know quite a few feats of legerdemain including the rope trick and the one with the egg (donated by a passing seagull). I like him better all the time. I just wish he was a Sourcerer. For, like, five minutes. That'd improve the situation.
Third day out. Very tired. Have to whisper to my PDA when Blackstrap isn't looking. Clever Gimpy, disguising himself as a dropped oyster and rolling under bulkheads when any pirates get near.
Fifth day out. Bloody freezing gale. At least we don't have to row.
Seventh day out. Asked Cert in whispered conversation what he thinks of our chances for escaping. He says good, but not time yet. Says he'll let me know when it's time yet. Wish it was time yet.
Ninth day out. Change of circumstances. Double rum ration for entertaining Captain Aie with sea shanties I made up! He's easily entertained. Put me down for only half-shifts on the oars. Hope we get another gale.
Tenth day out. Sunburnt. Must be getting close now, I can see the snowcaps of the Rammerock Mountains on landward side. And longboats on the horizon. Not sure if this is good or bad. Cert says not time yet.
Nighttime, tenth day. Moon half waned. Seems like forever since Fat Tuesday. Need more rum. Cert getting stir-crazy, says if he never has to do the spoon trick again it'll be too soon. Jacqs Perot eyeing him up more every day. Must be the robes.
Gimpy can remember music and sing it back exactly as he hears it; time I put some of this post in the medium of song. Very quietly.
Post. Endeth. Tired.
Second Clog: "Carnival knowledge? Make mine a double!"
As promised: since everyone else aboard is drunk (which is to say our captors are passed out to a man and Troll) and Gimpy says he has plenty of memory left before he has to do a dump (I told him that fell under the category of too much information, but he assures me it has something to do with thaumotechnology and nothing to do with Impish bodily functions), more now about my stay in Genua. I told you that New Genua is now the "party city that never stops"; as it turned out, there was an almost unbelievable choice of places to party in, at, around, and under. I've never seen so much rum in my life. Or so many music venues! Apart from Puttin' on the Grits and the House of Booze (see previous Clog), there are more amazing and bawdy and downright debauched pubs and clubs and shebeens here than you can shake a Zombie's Leg at, so I'll just list a few of my favourites...at least the ones I can remember through the pounding red haze of various hangovers: Going to a-Gogol, where I met my first genuine Genuan Zombie barmen; Thank Gods It's Saturday's, also known as T.G.I.S., which is owned by the Baroness herself -- she's a regular there and has even been known to have a go at the piano bar; the Genuan Article, head-quarters of the Campaign for Real Scumble; the Dead Duc, where everything's green, especially the beer; and the city's premier tourist attraction (apart from the Castle and the restaurants and the swamps and the Museum of Lady Lilith's Smiling Horrors), the notorious Show Boat. Or to give it its correct name, the Show!Boat!
The Show!Boat! is exactly what it sounds like -- an old retired paddlewheel steamboat that's been drydocked, hauled ashore, and permanently stationed near the riverbank -- but inside, things aren't exactly what they seem to be. Or they're exactly what they don't seem to be, if you take my meaning. The Show!Boat! has entertainment every night of the week, or in the words of its copiously exclamation-marked billboards:
ENTERTAINMENT!!! EIGHT NIGHTS! A WEEK!!!!! FEATURING GENUA'S! BEST!! AND EXOTIC!!! GUEST!!! PERFORMERS!!! FROM THE FURTHEST! REACHES! OF THE DISC!!!!! SPECIAL AUDIENCE! PARTICIPATION! NIGHT!!! EVERY OCTEDAY!!!!!!!
The week we were there, their EXOTIC!!! GUEST!!! PERFORMERS!!! were Lavender Beer, all-singing, all-dancing troupe from the Continent of EcksEcksEcksEcks. I have to say they were exotic. Three of them -- Letitia, Darleen and Noelene -- and their manager, a nice young lady called Neilette who invited me back to their cart for drinkies when she heard I was a Bard, and oh yes their pet sheep. Answers to the name of Rinso, the real Rinso being some kind of Ecksian hero or criminal (I get the impression they're the same thing there). They'd been booked to lead the Fat Tuesday Parade, since they have so much experience leading parades back home. I have to say their singing is dreadful but they have the best costumes I've ever seen, the sort you'd expect at the Opera House in A-M. At one point Letitia was dressed as Madame Cupidor, the mistress of Mad King Soup II -- and complete with the wig with the replica linguini shop and water clock in it, and six-inch heels, she topped seven feet. I asked Neilette (good voice by the way, but won't sing with the troupe for some reason) if they'd be willing to gig in Lancre, but she said she didn't think Lancre was ready for their unique approach to woman-hood, song and beard stubble. Hah! She should see the beards on some of the old birds at the Witch Trials, and those old ladies are old ladies who came into the world as young ladies!
All in all, an unforgettable time. Like I wish this one was!
Over and out.
Third clog: "Pining on the fjords"
We dropped anchor in NoThingfjord harbour this morning. Blackstrap says the slave auction will be held on the docks at noon tomorrow. He also said "Nurr, nurr" a lot. I'll be glad to see the back of him. I'd be gladder to see the back of him if I had a sword I could stick right through to the front of him!
NoThingfjordsbergen is very wooden and very hairy. Great strapping hairy wooden-faced men and great strapping hairy wooden-faced women and great strapping hairy-roofed wooden longhouses. I can't imagine why they'd want female slaves when every woman I've seen looks well capable of carrying a full-grown heifer under each arm. Maybe I'll get lucky and get bought by someone with a goat farm. I like goats. I even like milking them, though I can't say I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing nothing else but milking and mucking out, I mean, I've had books published, I'm famous in Lancre and Uberwald and and Genua and arrgh arrgh arrgh PANIC!!! is it time yet?
Rum for all last night! I know it's the same sort of thing as a condemned prisoner's last meal, but who cares? Rum! Got stinking drunk.
Blackstrap just threw a bucket of water over me and told me to "pretty yourself up, nurr, nurr," and laughed when I asked if there was any soap. Good thing Gimpy was out of range. I'd be lost without him passing messages between me and Cert. Wonderful imp.
They decided to keep Cert as Ship's entertainer. Gimpy just told me. This is hopeful, I think. At least he won't be up there on the auction block with me!
WE'RE FREE! FREE! FREE FREE FREE!
And this is how it happened -- when we slaves-to-be were standing on the little stage they use for auctions, I heard whispers from underneath the boards:
"Pssst." "No, hung over." "Seriously, psssst!" "Yerss, I was seriously pissed last night. -- oh, it's you!" "It's time yet. Hold out your wrists. And close your eyes, there may be some bright lights..."
I was already seeing more bright lights than I wanted to, but I did as told and there was a sort of quiet sizzle and a funny tingle around my wrists and suddenly my manacles turned into a pair of little snakes, non-venomous little snakes, praise Io, and slithered away. As did I. Not so much slithered as dropped like a stone, rolled off the back of the boards and hit the ground running. All three of us, running for our lives and freedom. And I'll cut this short by just saying that we got very lost on the docks, but it didn't matter because we ducked into a warehouse that was full of silks and hides and a rolled-up carpet in one corner and Cert yelled aloud because it looked like one of those carpets, you know, and it was! We unrolled it and there was a stamp on the underside that read PROPERTY OF EAT CARPET AIRWAYS, AL KHALI, KLATCH, and Cert said "Quick, I know how to drive these things," and we grabbed a pile of silk cloth and some hides for keeping warm with and Gimpy got some string and hopped up and tied it to the door-latch and then Cert and I got on the carpet and he said some wizardy words and we rose up smooth as glass and Gimpy pulled on the string and hopped on with us and then we flew through the entrance and we were free free FREE! There was a lot of shouting and pointing from the NoThingfjorders and the pirates and Captain Aie waved his iron hand at us and a few of the quicker ones fired crossbows but we were rising fast. One crossbow bolt did go through the middle of the carpet, but Cert said that was no problem because magic wasn't about aerodynamics, and off we went, over the hills and away! The only thing that would have been even better was if we'd had some rum.
Time to cut the trip short and go home, or at least back to someplace civilised. Food! Hot baths! A change of clothes!
Here endeth this post.
Fourth Clog: "What do you mean, 'it's on autopilot'?"
Apparently, we have to fly two-thirds of the way across the Disc before this damned carpet will let itself be landed. Arrgh!
My guidebook said the Hublights are especially lovely at this time of year. That's good news, since we'll unavoidably be passing right through them. The other good news is that what with Cori Celesti being a no-fly zone for non-divines, the carpet at least won't strand us in the middle of the Hall of Io. The third good news is that this carpet is fast. Cert says it will only take us a few days to get to Al-Khali where the Eat Carpet home stable is. Now if only we'd thought to bring food and water...
Well, the Hublights were especially lovely after all. And the flight is wonderfully quiet. And our week and more of travail and tribulations aboard the good ship Lalip-Ap have given Cert a lean and hungry look that rather suits him. And we're getting to know each other better all the time. And...oh. So that's why wizards aren't allowed to have families. "You mean you can't...?" "Afraid not. And certainly not while we're 1,500 feet up above what look like very solid mountains. But if I, you know, could, um, I'm not saying I wouldn't..."
I'm at one end of the carpet and Cert is at the other. I can see this is going to be a long flight.
-- Alice.
Note for Roundworlders: the original lyrics for Weather With You can
be found at: http://www.etext.org/lists/house/woodface/weather-with-you.html
First Clog: "I'm sure this wasn't in the travel brochure..."
Well, we finally left Genua and our transport didn't break down for once!
Instead, we got captured by pirates. Oh, and got free eventually, or else I wouldn't be dictating this. It was just the two of us, myself and Cert... the only two remaining travellers out of our original party of nine. Hard to believe after all this time that we'll never see some of them again! - though Listeria was adamant that she'd catch us up later in the journey; she was having such a good time learning (and teaching) about exotic poisons that she decided to stay on for a few extra days. Mr Num was so horrified by the "open debauchery" in Genua that he took his bags and tracts and Books of Om and went off into the swamps to convert the locals... no great loss there, but it would be too much to hope that a bad fate befalls him, since he's exactly the sort of intense personality who'd be likely to come back as a Zombie. The thought of a 24/8 Omnian door-knocker is too horrible to contemplate!
As for the Verdants, Lothar and Tessica were so taken with the Genuan lifestyle that they immigrated on the spot and sent a Clacks arranging for their haberdashery shop to be packed up and sent down posthaste. The last I saw of young Athelred, he was chatting up the Baroness and checking for any other unattached posh women with posh fortunes, and it will come as no surprise to anyone that Rumbustia applied to join the local Seamstresses' Guild. She'll go far, that girl. Quite possibly beyond the bounds of the Seamstresses' own guidelines, to the delight of the Genuan consumers; when it comes to negotiable affection, she can negotiate with the best of Dibblers...
... so yes, just Cert and me. I'm quite getting to like him, apart from his useful wizarding skills. He's actually not as obnoxious as I thought at first when he joined us, he's got over much of his go-faster obsession (since coming to Genua, at any rate. No-one in Genua ever does anything fast. It's the weather, I think), and he isn't bad-looking at all, when he's not covered in road muck or stains from potions that didn't work out the way he hoped they would. He's kind of tall and kind of dark and has rather a nice smile and erm, delete that last line - what do you mean, you've forgotten how to delete? Wretched imp! No more rum for you.
Anyway, pirates. Captured by. Not on my To Do list for that day.
We'd had a fantastic, phantasmagorical week that ended with a two-day leaving party. On the morning we were set to sail I woke up to find myself face down on a quaint needlework sampler that read BEE IT EVYR SO HUMBL THERES NOE PLAYCE LIKE RUM, with a headache worthy of Bilious himself. Staggered to my feet, went to our inn, threw everything I could find that looked like mine into my bags (note to self: remember to post back that warming pan), found Cert (better state than me, but much the worse for wear than usual and wearing a little paper drinks umbrella stuck behind his left ear), found a Zombie porter, and made it to the docks only five minutes before the Sea Donkey set sail for Krull the long way (see route description below). Thankfully, I had an outside cabin with a porthole big enough to stick my head and shoulders through. Not that we had rough sailing, but I was already seasick before I boarded! By the time we'd made our way down through the Swamp Sea and through the Strait of Narrows, I was feeling considerably less undead and ready to come up on deck and enjoy the beauty of the Gulf of Brindisi as it blends into the gorgeous lambent purple of the Kythian Sea. N.B. no-one seems to know exactly why the Kythian Sea is purple. Some say it's because of an outpouring of Hub magic through an undersea vent; some say it's algae; and a few people have suggested that the famous Kythian dye factories haven't yet got the hang of filtering their toxic waste. All I know is that it's amazingly pretty by night.
The route we were meant to take after reaching the Kythian Sea was this: around the Orohai Peninsula, past the Bay of Mantle, provisioning at the Rehigreed port of Direr Ghee, skimming through the Ghat Islands, a stop at the Isle of Sumtri for bird-watching and then on around Cape Terror, passing the Rimmost tip of Howondaland, and finally via the Bellicose Islands to the kingdom of Krull for a spot of Rim-gazing. The route we actually took was this: captured on the Kythian Sea and taken straight to NoThingfjord to be sold as slaves. A much simpler route altogether, though I can't say much for the food or the scenery...
It was a dark and moonless night - handy for pirates, that - when we were attacked and boarded by the infamous crew of the not-so-good ship Lalip-Ap, under the command of Captain Jimbo "Aye-aye" Aie. I happened to be up in the foredeck being seasick over the rails when they came alongside; sheer terror is probably the best seasickness cure there is, and it certainly gave wings to my deck-splintered heels as I ran below, grabbed my lute case, woke Gimpy, and told him to go wake Cert and, brilliant piece of inspiration here if I do say so myself, to tell him we were about to be boarded by pirates and to for gods' sake throw his grimoires out the porthole and pose as a conjurer if he valued his life. Pirates hate wizards but they love conjurers - nothing like a spot of sleight-of-hand to entertain the crew on those long boring between-plunder voyages, and lonely sea dogs are always glad for the sight of anything in a robe... sure enough, the pirates lined up the passengers, rifled the cabins, disposed of the captain and first mate, and chose all the more able-bodied of those left as unpaid labour on their ship. By sunrise we were all in chains. I was, however, right to grab the lute. Being a Bard gets a lady out of all manner of trouble, such as unwanted attention from unwashed freebooters at sea. And oh my, what an unwashed crew they were.
The crew of the Lalip-Ap (named, I'm told, for a minor local sea-spirit - they wanted to name her after the far more fearsome Shirlit Ampol Balak, small but deadly patron Goddess of pirates and very inept seamen, but the name was too long to fit on the bowsprit) are as scurvy a lot of swabbers as I've ever seen. Some of the more colourful ones (and I mean that in stomach-churning literalness) were Molasses "Blackstrap" Williams, a rum-soaked old navigator descended from an ancient line of Morporkian treacle miners; Jacqs Perot, an expatriate Genuan now living at sea with a girl in every port and an able-bodied tar in every cabin; Har al-Flin, swash-buckling son of the desert who took up buccaneering because he's allergic to camels; Scree, an unusually small greenish-grey Troll often used as a cannonball during attacks on larger ships; Blackboard, the infamous schoolteacher turned buccaneer; and Daffy James, late - in more ways than one - of Llamedos, who obviously had more than a bit of squid in his ancestry. They were all rude, crude and lewd, and Jacqs Perot was always in a mood. Captain Aie rules them all with an iron hand - as well he would, since his real one got cut off in a swordfight. We were treated badly on the whole, but we weren't killed (a plus) and even though they chained us to the oars and whipped us to row whenever the wind dropped, Cert and I got a relative amount of freedom and extra rum rations owing to our special talents.
I have to say, Cert's handled himself very well so far. He didn't complain more than expected, he didn't try to take on the whole heavily-armed crew using only third-year spellcasting, and it turned out he actually does know quite a few feats of legerdemain including the rope trick and the one with the egg (donated by a passing seagull). I like him better all the time. I just wish he was a Sourcerer. For, like, five minutes. That'd improve the situation.
* * *
Third day out. Very tired. Have to whisper to my PDA when Blackstrap isn't looking. Clever Gimpy, disguising himself as a dropped oyster and rolling under bulkheads when any pirates get near.
* * *
Fifth day out. Bloody freezing gale. At least we don't have to row.
* * *
Seventh day out. Asked Cert in whispered conversation what he thinks of our chances for escaping. He says good, but not time yet. Says he'll let me know when it's time yet. Wish it was time yet.
* * *
Ninth day out. Change of circumstances. Double rum ration for entertaining Captain Aie with sea shanties I made up! He's easily entertained. Put me down for only half-shifts on the oars. Hope we get another gale.
* * *
Tenth day out. Sunburnt. Must be getting close now, I can see the snowcaps of the Rammerock Mountains on landward side. And longboats on the horizon. Not sure if this is good or bad. Cert says not time yet.
* * *
Nighttime, tenth day. Moon half waned. Seems like forever since Fat Tuesday. Need more rum. Cert getting stir-crazy, says if he never has to do the spoon trick again it'll be too soon. Jacqs Perot eyeing him up more every day. Must be the robes.
Gimpy can remember music and sing it back exactly as he hears it; time I put some of this post in the medium of song. Very quietly.
- Everywhere you go, should always take a wizard with you
Everywhere you go, should always take a wizard
Everywhere you go, should always take a wizard with you
Everywhere you go, should always take a wizard
A wizard with you...
Travellin' round the Disc with a barmy wizard
Run-down and sore from that bargain seat
Now it's a slow doom and everything's dismal
Wish I was asleep on Lancre sheets
Things are looking
Cataclysmic
Waves of Rim foam wash over me
Cohen seized the
Agatean Empire
Wish he'd conquered this damned sea
There's a big boat full of pirates
Going faster since they captured me
Do I lie like a chained-up hostage
Or take my chance on the Kythian Sea?
Everywhere you go, should always take a wizard with you
Everywhere you go, should always take a wizard
Everywhere you go, should always take a wizard with you
Everywhere you go, should always take a wizard
A wizard with you...
Things are cracking
In my sacrum
Chains as fashion do naught for me
Truly seasick
Thirstin' like a vampire
Could I kill for a shower? - Aye!
There's a small bloke with an eye-patch
Going "Nurr, nurr" when he looks at me
Do I lie back and think of Morpork
Or stab him right in the hard-a-lee?
Everywhere you go, should always take a wizard with you
Everywhere you go, should always take a wizard
Everywhere you go, should always take a wizard with you
Everywhere you go, should always take a wizard
A wizard with you...
Post. Endeth. Tired.
* * *
Second Clog: "Carnival knowledge? Make mine a double!"
As promised: since everyone else aboard is drunk (which is to say our captors are passed out to a man and Troll) and Gimpy says he has plenty of memory left before he has to do a dump (I told him that fell under the category of too much information, but he assures me it has something to do with thaumotechnology and nothing to do with Impish bodily functions), more now about my stay in Genua. I told you that New Genua is now the "party city that never stops"; as it turned out, there was an almost unbelievable choice of places to party in, at, around, and under. I've never seen so much rum in my life. Or so many music venues! Apart from Puttin' on the Grits and the House of Booze (see previous Clog), there are more amazing and bawdy and downright debauched pubs and clubs and shebeens here than you can shake a Zombie's Leg at, so I'll just list a few of my favourites...at least the ones I can remember through the pounding red haze of various hangovers: Going to a-Gogol, where I met my first genuine Genuan Zombie barmen; Thank Gods It's Saturday's, also known as T.G.I.S., which is owned by the Baroness herself -- she's a regular there and has even been known to have a go at the piano bar; the Genuan Article, head-quarters of the Campaign for Real Scumble; the Dead Duc, where everything's green, especially the beer; and the city's premier tourist attraction (apart from the Castle and the restaurants and the swamps and the Museum of Lady Lilith's Smiling Horrors), the notorious Show Boat. Or to give it its correct name, the Show!Boat!
The Show!Boat! is exactly what it sounds like -- an old retired paddlewheel steamboat that's been drydocked, hauled ashore, and permanently stationed near the riverbank -- but inside, things aren't exactly what they seem to be. Or they're exactly what they don't seem to be, if you take my meaning. The Show!Boat! has entertainment every night of the week, or in the words of its copiously exclamation-marked billboards:
ENTERTAINMENT!!! EIGHT NIGHTS! A WEEK!!!!! FEATURING GENUA'S! BEST!! AND EXOTIC!!! GUEST!!! PERFORMERS!!! FROM THE FURTHEST! REACHES! OF THE DISC!!!!! SPECIAL AUDIENCE! PARTICIPATION! NIGHT!!! EVERY OCTEDAY!!!!!!!
The week we were there, their EXOTIC!!! GUEST!!! PERFORMERS!!! were Lavender Beer, all-singing, all-dancing troupe from the Continent of EcksEcksEcksEcks. I have to say they were exotic. Three of them -- Letitia, Darleen and Noelene -- and their manager, a nice young lady called Neilette who invited me back to their cart for drinkies when she heard I was a Bard, and oh yes their pet sheep. Answers to the name of Rinso, the real Rinso being some kind of Ecksian hero or criminal (I get the impression they're the same thing there). They'd been booked to lead the Fat Tuesday Parade, since they have so much experience leading parades back home. I have to say their singing is dreadful but they have the best costumes I've ever seen, the sort you'd expect at the Opera House in A-M. At one point Letitia was dressed as Madame Cupidor, the mistress of Mad King Soup II -- and complete with the wig with the replica linguini shop and water clock in it, and six-inch heels, she topped seven feet. I asked Neilette (good voice by the way, but won't sing with the troupe for some reason) if they'd be willing to gig in Lancre, but she said she didn't think Lancre was ready for their unique approach to woman-hood, song and beard stubble. Hah! She should see the beards on some of the old birds at the Witch Trials, and those old ladies are old ladies who came into the world as young ladies!
All in all, an unforgettable time. Like I wish this one was!
Over and out.
* * *
Third clog: "Pining on the fjords"
We dropped anchor in NoThingfjord harbour this morning. Blackstrap says the slave auction will be held on the docks at noon tomorrow. He also said "Nurr, nurr" a lot. I'll be glad to see the back of him. I'd be gladder to see the back of him if I had a sword I could stick right through to the front of him!
* * *
NoThingfjordsbergen is very wooden and very hairy. Great strapping hairy wooden-faced men and great strapping hairy wooden-faced women and great strapping hairy-roofed wooden longhouses. I can't imagine why they'd want female slaves when every woman I've seen looks well capable of carrying a full-grown heifer under each arm. Maybe I'll get lucky and get bought by someone with a goat farm. I like goats. I even like milking them, though I can't say I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing nothing else but milking and mucking out, I mean, I've had books published, I'm famous in Lancre and Uberwald and and Genua and arrgh arrgh arrgh PANIC!!! is it time yet?
* * *
Rum for all last night! I know it's the same sort of thing as a condemned prisoner's last meal, but who cares? Rum! Got stinking drunk.
Blackstrap just threw a bucket of water over me and told me to "pretty yourself up, nurr, nurr," and laughed when I asked if there was any soap. Good thing Gimpy was out of range. I'd be lost without him passing messages between me and Cert. Wonderful imp.
* * *
They decided to keep Cert as Ship's entertainer. Gimpy just told me. This is hopeful, I think. At least he won't be up there on the auction block with me!
* * *
WE'RE FREE! FREE! FREE FREE FREE!
And this is how it happened -- when we slaves-to-be were standing on the little stage they use for auctions, I heard whispers from underneath the boards:
"Pssst." "No, hung over." "Seriously, psssst!" "Yerss, I was seriously pissed last night. -- oh, it's you!" "It's time yet. Hold out your wrists. And close your eyes, there may be some bright lights..."
I was already seeing more bright lights than I wanted to, but I did as told and there was a sort of quiet sizzle and a funny tingle around my wrists and suddenly my manacles turned into a pair of little snakes, non-venomous little snakes, praise Io, and slithered away. As did I. Not so much slithered as dropped like a stone, rolled off the back of the boards and hit the ground running. All three of us, running for our lives and freedom. And I'll cut this short by just saying that we got very lost on the docks, but it didn't matter because we ducked into a warehouse that was full of silks and hides and a rolled-up carpet in one corner and Cert yelled aloud because it looked like one of those carpets, you know, and it was! We unrolled it and there was a stamp on the underside that read PROPERTY OF EAT CARPET AIRWAYS, AL KHALI, KLATCH, and Cert said "Quick, I know how to drive these things," and we grabbed a pile of silk cloth and some hides for keeping warm with and Gimpy got some string and hopped up and tied it to the door-latch and then Cert and I got on the carpet and he said some wizardy words and we rose up smooth as glass and Gimpy pulled on the string and hopped on with us and then we flew through the entrance and we were free free FREE! There was a lot of shouting and pointing from the NoThingfjorders and the pirates and Captain Aie waved his iron hand at us and a few of the quicker ones fired crossbows but we were rising fast. One crossbow bolt did go through the middle of the carpet, but Cert said that was no problem because magic wasn't about aerodynamics, and off we went, over the hills and away! The only thing that would have been even better was if we'd had some rum.
Time to cut the trip short and go home, or at least back to someplace civilised. Food! Hot baths! A change of clothes!
Here endeth this post.
* * *
Fourth Clog: "What do you mean, 'it's on autopilot'?"
Apparently, we have to fly two-thirds of the way across the Disc before this damned carpet will let itself be landed. Arrgh!
My guidebook said the Hublights are especially lovely at this time of year. That's good news, since we'll unavoidably be passing right through them. The other good news is that what with Cori Celesti being a no-fly zone for non-divines, the carpet at least won't strand us in the middle of the Hall of Io. The third good news is that this carpet is fast. Cert says it will only take us a few days to get to Al-Khali where the Eat Carpet home stable is. Now if only we'd thought to bring food and water...
* * *
Well, the Hublights were especially lovely after all. And the flight is wonderfully quiet. And our week and more of travail and tribulations aboard the good ship Lalip-Ap have given Cert a lean and hungry look that rather suits him. And we're getting to know each other better all the time. And...oh. So that's why wizards aren't allowed to have families. "You mean you can't...?" "Afraid not. And certainly not while we're 1,500 feet up above what look like very solid mountains. But if I, you know, could, um, I'm not saying I wouldn't..."
* * *
I'm at one end of the carpet and Cert is at the other. I can see this is going to be a long flight.
-- Alice.
Note for Roundworlders: the original lyrics for Weather With You can
be found at: http://www.etext.org/lists/house/woodface/weather-with-you.html
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