Pratchett's Women: Unauthorised Essays on Female Characters of the Discworld

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

Lobsang’s frustration with the master who won’t apparently teach him anything (while sneakily teaching him all of the important things) mirrors Magrat and Agnes’ respective journeys alongside the older witches of Lancre. As suggested by the title, the book is very much Lobsang’s story, and the climax of the plot revolves around how he is able to utilise Lu-Tze’s teachings.

  ‘Most people call me Lu-Tze, lad. Or ‘Sweeper’. Until they get to know me better, some call me ‘Get out of the way’. I’ve never been very venerable, except in cases of bad spelling.’

  So where’s Susan? Tidying up in the B plot, as usual. She is now a schoolteacher who uses all of her otherworldly abilities and innate practical ruthlessness to provide an unparalleled education for the children under her care. She has a life, in other words, and isn’t pleased when summoned indirectly by her grandfather (he never asks in person, always sends the rat and the raven!) to interfere in a matter he himself is not allowed to be involved with.

  Once again, Susan is absent for large sections of the book, while Lobsang is Learning Stuff and the Auditors themselves discover how hard it is to walk in human shape without their brains turning dangerously human too. Susan isn’t given much to do (are you surprised? I’m not) until the final act, when time is stopped and everything goes pear-shaped.

  Along with Lu-Tse and Lobsang, the other most interesting relationship in Thief of Time is between Susan and Myria/Unity LeJean, the Auditor who takes on human shape to commission the clock and is quickly seduced, damaged and infiltrated by the messiness of human nature. This is the closest thing we see to a female friendship for Susan since the schoolgirls from Soul Music (who didn’t really know her that well), and it’s an intense, complicated, utterly awkward combination of two people who both have to work hard at pretending to be human.

  The use of chocolate and other foods as sensory weapons against the Auditors (who are intensely vulnerable to anything that smacks of humanity) and Unity’s use of illogical signs to keep them at bay are nothing short of brilliant, and the ‘boy talk’ scene in which Unity embarrasses Susan with intimate questions and revelations about their respective attractions for Lobsang and his ‘brother’ (really the other half of him) Jeremy is greatly revealing of both of their characters.

  While there are a couple of elements of the way Myria/Unity’s character is handled that make me uncomfortable (mostly her self-diagnosis of being Completely Insane and how that meant she had to die, but also the whole gendered joke about women’s relationship to chocolate) all her scenes are electric, and I appreciate how she and Susan work as a team.

  Susan names Unity, insisting that its a better choice for her than Myria—being an individual rather than representing the many—and this is a deeply symbolic act that ties them together. I’m so sorry that the story ends with Unity’s suicide, as I would have adored to see her embracing her new humanity (with Susan’s help) rather than giving up on it.

  Meanwhile, there’s a sneaky romance. Yes, another one. Between Susan and Lobsang. Possibly. They hardly ever cross paths through the book, but that’s the story of Susan’s life. Her subtle relationship with Lobsang is handled exactly the same way as her interactions with Buddy and Bilious: their few scenes together involve them getting snarky at each other on early acquaintance and never quite managing to convey any mutual attraction. Susan’s buried interest in Lobsang is noticed by other characters, but not something she ever admits to—the two of them have one or two angst-filled conversations, once it becomes obvious that he is going to have to leave humanity behind, but there is no overt romance until the very final scene of the book, which makes it clear through some very understated (DID I MENTION SUBTLE) writing that Lobsang (maybe) returns Susan’s (possible) feelings.

  They’re utterly repressed and not quite human—perfect for each other, in other words, but basically doomed as a couple. If there’s ever another Susan book I fully expect that Lobsang will not be mentioned in it.

  (Author’s Note: there was not, in fact, another Susan book)

  I was not expecting to be quite so critical of Susan’s portrayal in the Discworld books—she’s always been a character I liked (and still do like, very much) and I think she’s a great example of how Pratchett improves radically in his portrayal of young female characters after his first five or ten books. It’s such a shame that she is not allowed to be a protagonist through a whole book, instead of being introduced and then waiting patiently while everyone else gets the character development and plot bunnies out of the way, only to turn up with her scythe at the end to kick butt and take names.

  Susan has grown up from book to book, and what we have of her is awesome. She is a powerful female character who balances domestic skills with battle skills, isn’t distracted by romance, gets the job done every time and then returns to the life she has built for herself. She’s extraordinary.

  But I remain saddened she did get to pick up the scythe one more time, before Pratchett finally laid down his pen. It would have been nice to see her to take central stage for a whole book, in a plot that revolved around her: Susan Sto Helit, Granddaughter of Death. Protagonist.

  8

  Pole Dancers, Goblin Girls, and the Family Man

  Thud (2005)

  Snuff (2011)

  I know I read Thud when it came out. But this was the early days of motherhood when my memory retention was out the window. I know I read this book, but it was a speedy, uninvolved reading. It had to be. Because there is no other excuse for me not realising before now that this is SO GOOD.

  For a start, this is the best Angua novel since Feet of Clay—I think it might actually be better, in the attention given to her character. I like that she and Carrot have been allowed now to settle into a comfortable relationship. I also like that her main plotline for this novel is about her interactions with another female character.

  Sybil also gets to shine in this book, despite her new motherhood.

  Then there’s Cheery, who doesn’t get a subplot or even a subplotlet of her own, but remains awesome, and gets to play with the other girls.

  There are two new women of note introduced in Thud. Salacia Delorisista Amanita Trigestrata Zeldana Malifee (etc.) von Humpeding, or Sally for short, is the first vampire that Vimes has allowed into the Watch. I was really pleased that Pratchett chose to do this plotline with a female character. Sally’s personality provides an interesting contrast to the other female characters in and around the Watch and I thought it was a clever choice that, while she looks young, her age is cited as 50 (most fictional vampires tend to be much older or much younger than this). Her apparently effortless confidence could as easily be due to her age as her status as vampire.

  Angua reacts badly to Sally. I was wary at first about the female jealousy trope being trotted out here, but Pratchett is at pains in the narrative to show that this is a natural werewolf reaction to a vampire, rather than anything gendered. Still, a lot of clichés about ‘the new girl’ trope flit through the story, particularly with Sally’s attraction to Carrot.

  Sally and Angua’s uneasy partnership makes for great reading. Angua’s is constantly interrogating how she feels about Sally, and internally questioning her own reactions from a gender point of view. Sally is as it turns out, neither a completely innocent sweetheart, nor a vixen out to steal Angua’s man. I appreciate that Pratchett also shows us Carrot’s attractiveness from Sally’s point of view, the final hurdle of straight men trying to write the female gaze. Depicting female lust for a hot bloke is a rare thing in a) fantasy fiction by men and b) the Discworld in particular, so thumbs up for that one.

  The other new female character we have, Tawneee, Nobby’s pole dancer girlfriend, comes to the aid of the women in the Watch and consequently becomes far more integral to their story than Nobby’s. When Sally takes Angua, Cheery and Tawneee on a girl’s night out to thank Tawneee for her assistance, they get to know her as a person, and deal with the elephant in the room, which is basically how a strange little per
son like Nobby (whose bizarre appearance is really nothing compared to his bewildering personality) could attract such a hot girlfriend.

  I’m wary of this subplot, because it relies on clichéd ideas that are very dated, and smack of “what men think women talk about when no men are present.” I’m uncomfortable with how the girls were so quick to suggest that Tawneee could do better than Nobby based on her appearance. The main topic of their girls night out is the ‘jerk’ syndrome, whereby some women are so preternaturally attractive that no ‘normal’ man is likely to get up the nerve to ask them out, so only guys who are too dumb or ‘jerky’ to know the girl is out of their league will ask them out, and by that stage the girl is so lacking in self confidence that she’ll take anyone.

  Yeah. It’s all a bit 90’s sitcom, and I raised my eyebrows a lot through those scenes. Ultimately, though, the way that Tawneee and Nobby resolve their relationship makes me feel better about the plot, and it’s nice to see the women of the Watch bonding so successfully.

  Sybil, sadly, is not invited to the girl’s night out, but that’s understandable as she has a baby to deal with. The presence of Young Sam is used mostly for Vimes’ character development, as happened in previous books; Thud in particular has a tight focus on Vimes’ changing priorities now that he is a dad. I was irritated on Sybil’s behalf that we see Vimes continuing to duck and weave his responsibilities as a husband, while being totally awesome about his responsibilities as a dad. On the other hand, once you have a baby that’s the way around you’d choose to have it… but it’s still uncomfortable. Sybil herself is the one who adapts, figuring out how to balance her husband’s limited time and patience with her own needs, as shown at the end where she gives up on the idea of having him sit for a painted portrait and goes for a photograph instead.

  Still, Vimes is an excellent dad, and the exploration of how he balances his workaholic ways with his commitment to reading The Story to his son at bedtime is emotionally compelling. Pratchett released a gorgeous picture book, Where’s My Cow? that ties in with Thud and became my partner’s official Daddy book to read to our eldest child for a good couple of years—it is all about the importance of reading to your kids every night, and sharing your world with them instead of some idealised picture book version of reality.

  Sybil doesn’t disappear completely into motherhood, thank goodness—her intelligence and insight is raised repeatedly through this story, and her own cultural interests prove to be useful to the plot—her knowledge of dwarf language comes up regularly, and her teenage fascination with art and geometry are vital to the resolution of the plot. She insists on joining Vimes on his journey at the end, not only because she wants to keep her family together, but also because she’s not going to let him go off to Koom Valley on his own when it has been her own lifelong dream.

  I love that Sybil sees herself as a robust woman. This comes up back in The Fifth Elephant, when she gives Vimes that lecture on how her family were bred to breed. Sadly this was somewhat dented in Night Watch when her robustness was sacrificed for a bit of narrative WOMAN IN LABOUR PANIC.

  Here in Thud, when Sybil and her son come under attack, she is vulnerable but strong, and again cites the traditions of her family. Considering how often aristocratic women are portrayed in fantasy fiction as frail waifs who can barely survive a cold (as opposed to those rough, tough peasant women with babies on their backs) I enjoy it when Sybil cites her own family history as precedent for her own resilience, strength and general badassery.

  When I first heard the title of the latest Pratchett novel, Snuff, I wondered if it might be the last. Sadly, as his health began to fail, the last few volumes of this series all carried that weight of ‘what if this is the last one.’

  It’s a very good Sam Vimes novel, and takes his character to new places, something I wouldn’t have thought possible. It is also, quite excellently, a good Sybil Vimes novel, and I was delighted to see that Vimes’s love, desire and respect for his wife is articulated more clearly in this novel than previously, where his actions have mostly spoken for his feelings.

  There is a sense of completion to Vimes’ story with this book. His interactions with Feeney Upshot, the young local constable in the village of Ramkin Manor, are notably different to his previous mentoring narratives, because Upshot already has the right ideas in his head—he has read Vimes’ speeches from afar. The character’s legend has spread to the point that he isn’t needed in person to make change in the world—and, as we see here, he’s not even always the right man for the job. He can afford take a holiday. Even a policeman’s holiday.

  Once again, Vimes’ developing relationship with his son Young Sam is front and centre in the story, with added bonus male bonding with Willikins the butler, a character who has developed dramatically since his first appearance, and whose loyal friendship with his ‘master’ is now essential to these stories.

  Snuff does, however, give us little of the usual supporting characters—it offers an epilogue style resolution for Sgt Colon and Nobby, but hardly uses Cheery, Angua, Carrot or any other City Watch characters. Sally isn’t mentioned. But then it’s not, actually, a City Watch novel at all—it’s a Vimes novel. Still, we’ve come a long way from the boy’s own narrative of Guards! Guards! Apart from Sybil’s splendid contributions, Snuff offers a wealth of varied and interesting female characters in supporting roles.

  The plot of Snuff contains the signature beats of most Vimes novels from Men At Arms on: Vimes learns to overcome his prejudices about a particular type of person/creature and subsequently becomes their champion in the universe. In this case, it’s goblins.

  We meet Miss Beedle, a thinly veiled avatar of a certain Ms Rowling (with perhaps a side helping of Andy Griffiths) in our universe, an acclaimed children’s author who has taught kids everywhere to be fascinated with poo. When not writing famous novels, she is secretly tutoring the daughter of the much-despised goblins in the ways of civilisation so that they can pass things on to their children and change the world.

  The local toffs have their own smuggling operation, and as well as supplying deadly drugs for trolls, they are responsible for treating goblins as vermin and shipping them out of the village as slaves. While the son of recurring villain/antagonist Lord Rust is supposed to be the main villain of this group of aristocrats who believe they are above the law, it’s actually the ruthless female magistrate ‘Mrs Colonel’ who comes across as the most compelling, creepy and entitled antagonist.

  When Vimes discovers the awful treatment of the goblins, his first instinct is to deal with it through law: arresting people, upsetting the upper classes and generally causing havoc in his desperation to make the world bend to his newly found perspective on how people the goblins are. But while her husband is leaping around on riverboats, pursuing slavers and murderers, it’s Sybil who actually goes about making effective change.

  Discreetly, with letter-writing and gently persuasive words, Sybil stages a public event in Ankh-Morpork attended by aristocrats, culture lovers and ambassadors of all kinds, providing a showcase for the beautiful music played by Tears of the Mushroom, a young goblin woman. This creates more allies to their cause than any amount of Vimes telling people how wrong they are.

  The combination of Sybil and Vimes is diabolical, and they will clearly continue to achieve great things in their marriage.

  I also enjoyed, in Snuff, the “casual drive-by” female characters, who were so much interesting than the random sexy lamps I might trip over in the early Discworld novels. The gaggle of daughters waiting for husbands, to whom Vimes gives a lecture about finding a useful path in the world, could have represented an awful and patriarchal mansplaining situation, but this is mitigated by the fact that the girls’ mother and Sybil orchestrated his presence precisely so that his plainspoken habits will put a bomb under the crinolines.

  There is also a sly moment at the end where, Vimes having got rid of Lord Rust’s corrupt son, Vetinari is not happy about the replacement
heir Regina:

  ‘Frankly, I was looking forward to dealing with the son, who is an ignorant, arrogant, pompous idiot, but his sister? She is smart!’

  Vetinari’s ongoing (silent) battle with the lady who designs the crossword puzzles in the Times is also a nice touch. He is a character usually surrounded by other men (except the Aunt in Night Watch and the occasional moment when Lady Sybil decides to have a firm word with Havelock), so it’s nice to see the Patrician deal with a female nemesis who is worthy of his respect.

  I would have loved to read that novel.

  9

  The Truth Has Got Her Boots On

  The Truth (2000)

  I almost wasn’t going to write a Pratchett’s Women piece for The Truth. Like Night Watch, it’s a marvellous book, but I never thought of it as one that had much to say about women or gender. The Truth is a love letter to moveable type, and a fun take on the history of the printing press, with the usual Discworld layers of humour and cleverness, and a rich cast of characters. It’s easily forgiven it for the ensemble being so overwhelmingly male. This was the book that brought me back to the Discworld after losing interest somewhere in its middle years.

  I wasn’t alone in that. The Truth was a huge success for Terry Pratchett, and is one of the books that helped to cement his ‘legend’ status among mainstream readers as well as diehard fans. He had previously written other novels with a similar formula (standalone male character deals with the Discworld’s crazy version of an industrial development borrowed from our own history, and chaos ensues) but there was something about this book, and its maturity, that made it special. This is also a story that features fewer overt fantasy elements than any previous Discworld novel—it’s certainly not a story about magic gone wrong and trying to kill you, which sets it apart from the series. Instead, this is a story of PEOPLE gone wrong and trying to kill you, and how societal change can be every bit as terrifying and dangerous as anything from the Dungeon Dimensions.