Secrets of the Wee Free Men and Discworld

by Linda Washington

  —From The Prince, chapter 9 “Concerning a Civil Principality”

  In Djelibeybi in Klatch, a pharaohlike king rules in the manner of Egyptian pharoahs in our world. In Pyramids, Teppic (actually Pteppic) ascends to the throne after the death of his father. Before abdicating the throne in favor of his half-sister Ptraci, he even has a dream like the pharaoh of the Bible—a dream of seven fat cows and seven thin ones (Genesis 41:17-24)—a dream that seems to come with the job of being the king. With the kingdom squarely between Ephebe and Tsort, Djelibeybi is in a perfect spot to influence the political arena of either country. But as Teppic learns, the first Machiavellian principle described in this section is firmly in place within the foreign policy of Djelibeybi. In short, keep each country happy and believing you support them, but keep them out of your land.

  During his travels, Teppic learns about the Ephebian culture: that they have an elected Tyrant as a leader and are a democracy (or “mocracy” as Teppic describes it), rather than a monarchy—an idea he hopes does not catch on.

  Both principles above can be seen in Monstrous Regiment, in Borogravia to be exact, a duchy like Luxembourg ruled by a duke and duchess or, rather, the Duchess who is believed dead. Borogravia is a country usually at war with its neighbors. During the war with Zlobenia, Vimes, as the duke of Ankh-Morpork, winds up in Borogravia (sent by Vetinari) to “bring things to a ‘satisfactory’ conclusion”132 after the Borogravians destroy several clacks towers. That’s Ankh-Morpork’s way of sticking its fingers in every political pie as well as demonstrating the first principle above (act supportive, but make sure no one gets into power that you can’t control). If that means keeping out Prince Heinrich, the ruler of Zlobenia, well, so be it.

  Vimes’s attempts to assess the political climate and end the hostilities involve curtailing Borogravia’s “freedom” to continue the war with Zlobenia. But after meeting Polly Perks and her regiment, Vimes learns what Prince Heinrich fails to learn: to ask the people what they want.

  According to Machiavelli, a principality is composed of two groups: the nobles and the people. A ruler who governs by the will of the nobles winds up alienating the people. A usurper attempting to take over an area would do well to avoid alienating the people. Prince Heinrich, take note.

  OTHER HELPFUL POWER PRINCIPLES

  To rise in the political sphere, it helps to be an assassin. Vetinari and Teppic both trained as assassins. In Discworld, being an assassin is a profession for a gentleman, particularly an upwardly mobile gentleman. It certainly helps Teppic kill off a pyramid. And it usually helps one move up the wizard ladder.

  The view is great from behind the scenes. Carrot, like Lady Margolotta, knows how to act behind the scenes. Carrot gains Vimes’s social standing (duke, commander) and has thus far eluded the grasp of those who would force him to ascend to the throne of Ankh-Morpork. Lady Margolotta, as we’ve already mentioned, is adept at moving pawns.

  Never count on werewolves to get ahead. Dee tries to play the game of politics and loses badly, having been duped by werewolves. (Isn’t that always the way?) Even Angua knows that werewolves cannot always be trusted.

  Never cross Vetinari or Mustrum Ridcully. They have a strange way of not dying. Ridcully, usually armed to the teeth even when going to bed, foils all would-be assassins. And Vetinari is almost immortal in the way that he refuses to die.

  Avoid scheming against your employer. Mort, Death’s one-time apprentice, tries by sparing the life of a princess and thus making “ripples in reality”133 as everyone in Discworld winds up doing. Alas, that is not the way to get ahead in a job. He winds up dueling with Death. By the same token, Lupine Wonse, Vetinari’s secretary in Guards! Guards!, is less than loyal to his boss when he schemes to depose Vetinari and put a stooge king on the throne. Wonse winds up DOA.

  Albert, the wizard who would prefer to be immortal than die a wizard on earth, learns the true value of getting ahead: suck up to Death.

  Never borrow money from Chrysophrase or hire Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler. In fact, you’re better off not talking to either of them.

  16

  Why the Watch Works

  A constable was empowered to apprehend “all loose, idle and disorderly Persons whom he shall find disturbing the public Peace, or whom he shall have just

  Cause to suspect of any evil Designs.”

  —The Metropolitan Police Act of 1829134

  TEN O’CLOCK AND ALL’S WELL?

  If you’ve read the City Watch miniseries (Guards! Guards!, Men at Arms, Feet of Clay, Jingo, The Fifth Element, Night Watch, Thud!) within the Discworld series, maybe you consider the watchmen the few, the proud, but ultimately, the inept—a far cry from the forensics experts of CSI (and its thousands of spin-offs) or other law enforcement agents in Law and Order (another show with multiple spin-offs). But that’s not so far from reality, particularly in England and Australia in the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries!

  Before 1674, depending on where you were—within the sprawling metropolis of London or the country—you would probably find the same amateur, unskilled form of peacekeeping taking place since the Middle Ages. But after 1674, the duty of keeping the peace fell upon the shoulders of the justice of the peace—the magistrates. In country settings, this was probably the largest landowner in the area. Justices were part of a larger Commission of Peace body. But untrained constables did the legwork of keeping the peace. After all, there was no police force as such with rules in place. And the constables were men from the area who rotated the duty.

  The justice of the peace had the authority to hold a trial and carry out a judgment. Depending on the offense, the sentenced person might be whipped, placed in the stocks, or fined. Needless to say, justice wasn’t always served.

  In London, justices weren’t the wealthy landowners. They were the tradesmen—also known as “trading justices”—who received a fee every time a criminal was brought before them. So, some “administered justice,” as often as possible—sometimes by inventing reasons to have people brought before them.

  Also, in many of the parishes of London, watchmen were on patrol from 9:00 P.M. until sunrise. Some parishes also hired thief takers—bounty hunters like Stephanie Plum of Janet Evanovich’s series—some of whom were thieves themselves (unlike Stephanie Plum)! Before the passing of the Watch Acts, watchmen were selected from the homeowners in the area and served for a year. They could question individuals out on the streets at that hour (“Up to no good? Push off home, you!”), but couldn’t do much about stopping crime. Also, they were part-timers. They rotated with men who, like them, had other employment. And there’s something about not getting paid that puts a damper on one’s enthusiasm.

  Constables, during the daytime, had more authority to question and detain minor criminals. But, alas, they were few and could do little to deter major criminals—like those of the Carcer (Night Watch) variety.

  When Charles I allowed for watchmen to be hired, the low salary kept away more qualified applicants. Many watchmen were poor or poorly chosen. Picture a frail, elderly man holding a stick and a lantern. There’s something about the sight that doesn’t ensure confidence in the justice system. Unfortunately, many also were corrupt (like Quirke or Sergeant Knock in Night Watch) and unskilled. (Bet you’re thinking of Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs right about now … . )

  So, two brothers (half brothers really)—Henry and John Fielding—set out to set up a system of policing the city and its environs. Their dream began because Henry Fielding decided not to be the kind of trading justice he observed. Instead, thanks to his training as a journalist and a lawyer, he wanted to reform the office of magistrate and the laws concerning the poor. Having set up his magistrate’s office at Bow Street, Henry also established a criminal law journal in the mid-eighteenth century. So, in a way, he was like William de Worde, the journalist in The Truth and Monstrous Regiment. Henry’s journal later became known as the Police Gazette.

  The advent of the Bow St
reet Runners—thief takers used by Henry and later John, who were rewarded due to the criminals they apprehended—helped in the later establishment of a regular police force. But during their lifetimes, the brothers could not get the government to agree on the necessity of having a regularly employed police force. John’s plan for expanding the role of the Bow Street Runners was continually thwarted.

  THE POLICE: EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE … I’LL BE WATCHING YOU

  In the nineteenth century, the Watch Acts (particularly, the Metropolitan Police Act of 1829) were passed, allowing a tax to be levied to hire full-time watchmen. Sadly, it took the deaths of eleven people and the injury of five hundred (the Peterloo massacre of 1819), after an altercation between soldiers and unarmed civilians at a protest rally, for the government to see the need for a better-trained peacekeeping unit. These were London’s first police officers—a group which Sir Robert Peel, the home secretary at the time (the Vetinari of his day), helped set up. Richard Mayne and Charles Rowan, the first joint police commissioners in the formation of the police, are predecessors in a way of Commander Sam Vimes and Carrot Ironfoundersson. Ex-soldier Rowan (the Vimes), who was older than Mayne and had military training, was considered slightly more senior in rank. Mayne, like Carrot, had a strong sense of civic duty as well as knowledge of the law.

  No longer would these peacekeepers be called watchmen. They would be patrolmen. But they earned a nickname as well—bobbies, after Sir Robert Peel. The first police—a group of about three thousand—wore uniforms and patrolled like Ankh-Morpork’s watchmen.

  At the time this book is published, Vimes’s counterpart in the Metropolitan Police Service is Sir Ian Blair, a man who rose in the ranks just like Vimes, from constable to commissioner.

  EQUAL OPPORTUNITY EMPLOYMENT

  In Men at Arms, Vimes is forced to bend with the times by hiring practices represented by significant segments of the population (e.g., a werewolf, a dwarf, a gnome, and a troll—most of whom moved up the promotion ladder faster than Nobby). However, as you know, Vimes draws the line at hiring vampires until forced to do so in Thud! when Sally (Salacia Deloresista Amanita Trigestatra Zeldana Malifee … von Humpeding—vampires have incredibly long names) comes on the scene.

  The City Watch hiring practices mirror the Race Relations Act 1976 and the Sex Discrimination Act 1975 in Great Britain (acts of Parliament), as well as such U.S. laws as Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and its subsequent amendments and Title 42. Read for yourself:

  British Law

  Part II: Discrimination in the Employment Field

  Discrimination by employers …

  (1) It is unlawful for a person, in relation to employment by him at an establishment in Great Britain, to discriminate against another—

  (a) in the arrangements he makes for the purpose of determining who should be offered that employment; or

  (b) in the terms on which he offers him that employment; or

  (c) by refusing or deliberately omitting to offer him that employment.

  Race Relations Act 1976, 1976 CHAPTER 74135

  U. S. Law

  SEC. 2000e-2. [Section 703]

  (a) It shall be an unlawful employment practice for an employer—

  (1) to fail or refuse to hire or to discharge any individual, or otherwise to discriminate against any individual with respect to his compensation, terms, conditions, or privileges of employment, because of such individual’s race, color, religion, sex, or national origin; or

  (2) to limit, segregate, or classify his employees or applicants for employment in any way which would deprive or tend to deprive any individual of employment opportunities or otherwise adversely affect his status as an employee, because of such individual’s race, color, religion, sex, or national origin.

  Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 (Pub. L. 88-352) (Title VII)136

  In Britain, the Race Relations Acts were passed starting in 1965. But further revisions were needed, making necessary the Race Relations Acts of 1968, 1976, and the Race Relations (Amendment) Act 2000. Third time’s the charm, apparently.

  Lately, however, with affirmative action under fire in the United States, reverse discrimination cases have had their day in court in some states, with demands for the end of quota-hiring systems, especially in regard to promotions on the force. It will be interesting to see whether the hiring quotas will come under fire in Discworld as well.

  In the meantime, the Watch keeps on ticking.

  Ripped from the Headlines?

  I f you watch the original Law and Order and its trillions of spin-offs, you know that their cases are “ripped from today’s headlines.” In other words, they mirror many real-life cases.

  While the news hasn’t featured any golem or werewolf killings (at least to our knowledge), there have been real-life criminals who could have served as inspiration for the criminals the Watch tries to apprehend. For instance, such serial killers as Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy, and John Wayne Gacy were the “bogeymen” who haunted police just as double-murderer Carcer has haunted the Watch.

  Although there have been serial killers who killed more people, Jack the Ripper remains larger than life because he was never caught or identified, unlike Carcer. He (and police aren’t entirely sure that only one person was involved) operated in Whitechapel in 1888, killing five prostitutes (possibly more; again, the police aren’t sure of the number) in a grisly way that gained him his nickname.

  These real-life killers helped spawn such twisted fictional serial killers as “Buffalo Bill” of The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris (the book; the 1991 movie screenplay was by Ted Tally).

  17

  Time Waits for No One

  GOT THE TIME?

  If you were in, say, Armethalieh in Mercedes Lackey/James Mallory’s Obsidian Trilogy series, you’d measure time by bells (“See you in half a bell, dude”), specific days (Light’s Day), or by wars and epochs (the time of Great Queen Vielissiar Farcarinon; the Great War). In other fantasy series, time is regulated in a similar way (the Third age of Middle-earth and the calendar according to the “Shire-reckoning” of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings).

  In our world, we measure time by ages and eras (Ice Age, Napoleonic era, Victorian era), the Gregorian calendar (rather than the Julian calendar named after Julius Caesar), B.C.-A.D. demarcations (thanks to Venerable Bede, an eighth-century monk scholar who first used A.D.), and by how long we have to wait in line at Starbucks or the grocery store (“That took ages!”).

  In Discworld, there’s a hodgepodge of ways to measure time.

  Calendars and Almanacs

  Societies of our world have differing calendars (Gregorian, Hindu, Chinese, Japanese) in which the names of months or even the number of days in a month vary. But in a place like Discworld, where centuries and years are marked by animals, food items, or inexplicable terms (the Century of the Fruitbat, the Year of the Intimidating Porpoise, Century of the Anchovy, the Year of the Impromptu Stoat, Third Ning of the Shaving of the Goat), and the months have such names as Grune, Ick, Spune, and Offle, you’ve got to expect some weirdness.

  The naming of years and centuries in Discworld reminds us of the Chinese calendar, a calendar with a sixty-year cycle based on the moon phases, the sun, and conjunctions of planets. As you know, in China the years follow a cycle of animal names (year of the dragon, year of the ox). You’ve probably seen a chart of them on a placemat wherever you go for dim sum. And although some of us born in years like the year of the rat could wish that the year bore the name of a cooler animal (such as the year of the tiger), it certainly beats being born in the Year of the Impromptu Stoat.

  Terms like the Third Ning, although made-up, remind us of the different dynasties in the history of China—part of the era/epochbased way of measuring time.

  You probably know a year in Discworld can last for eight hundred days and runs through eight seasons, rather than the usual four. (If you don’t know, you do now.) Imagine what you’d do with all o
f that time. Take two summer vacations?

  Almanacs also record the moon phases. Poor Richard’s Almanack, developed by Benjamin Franklin, lists the times of sun and moon risings and planetary configurations. In Discworld (especially the Chalk and the Ramtops), an annual almanac called the Almanack And Book Of Dayes (Equal Rites, Lords and Ladies, The Wee Free Men) is used to gauge the weather and serves as bathroom tissue. Quite handy.

  Holidays and Special Days

  Our holidays and special days tell us a lot about who we are as a people and what we believe in. We celebrate Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Martin Luther King Day, Kasmir Pulaski Day (a Chicago holiday), New Year’s, Groundhog Day, Valentine’s Day, and hold events like Oktoberfest and elections. In Discworld, they also celebrate New Year’s, along with such holidays as Hogswatch, Soul Cake Tuesday, and Fat Lunchtime—like Fat Tuesday in our world. And then there are Troll New Year, Chase Whiskers Day, and Sektoberfest, a two-week event involving a beer festival, like Oktoberfest. Pratchett describes these and other holidays in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld Collector’s Edition 2005 Calendar and Discworld’s Ankh-Morpork City Watch Diary.

  In Discworld, certain rituals help mark the seasons, holidays, and such special occasions as weddings. There’s the Morris dance, which comes from the traditions of the British Isles. In our world, the Morris is danced at the beginning of spring and summer. It’s been around since at least the fifteenth century. Seven dancers, usually male, wear white clothes, bells, and clogs. In Wintersmith, the usual Morris dance occurs in May, to usher in the summer; and in Reaper Man, it ushers in the spring. As we mentioned in chapter 5, Jason Ogg and Lancre Morris men gather to dance for the king’s wedding on Midsummer’s Eve. But then there’s the Dark Morris—a Pratchett creation. Danced without bells, it ushers in the winter in Wintersmith.