Discworld and Member Articles
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Written by TheJackal
Wednesday, 24 August 2005 |
There was great excitement in Head Office. Mediators all over were talking about it. Apparently, a Rogue was on the loose. A Rogue was the name the Order gave to some one or some thing, whose life force had not been extinguished when it was supposed to have been. It very rarely happened and was a serious problem. If the rumour were to prove true, then there was someone out there who was still alive but shouldn’t be. Not only that, but he would have become an Immortal. And everyone knew that an Immortal in a Mortal Realms could cause a lot of trouble for everyone…
Brother Rubeus, Number 209, Grand Master and Head Mediator, stood in the centre of the room. Surrounding him were the next nine highest-ranking members of the Order.
Contrary to popular belief, Mediators do die. Some die from very, very old age; others commit suicide- all the long, healthy living being too much for them. Some even decide to finish their lives as a Mortal in the Mortal Realms. Of course, by far the main cause of death in the Order of Mediators, is due to assassination.
It was by a combination of these reasons that Polix Maybury, Number 287, had recently* risen to the rank of Sub-Commander and joined the Elite Ten. The Elite Ten denoted the ten highest-ranking members in the Order. Nine sat around a perfectly round table which contained a hole in the middle. Grand Master Rubeus currently stood inside its centre. He was angry and they all knew why.
The meeting ended fifteen minutes later. Each of the nine Sub-Commanders had equivocally denied in turn, to having had any previous knowledge of a Rogue being on the loose. An enquiry was to be set up immediately so as to get to the bottom of it.
Polix Maybury walked slowly down the corridor. Something was troubling him. He was submerged in thought.
‘Surely it was just a coincidence?’ he pondered. ‘I know that I simply presumed they had handled the matter, but it was an open-shut case. It was nothing to worry about. But what if they hadn’t…?’
Polix cursed under his breath and ran full speed down the corridor.
There are certain things in life that one should aspire to do and see before they die. Many books have been written on this, mainly by snobby rich people who can afford to do it. But while some of these things are indeed magnificent, others on the list are often boring unless you have a PhD in Art History.
If Nemoy were to write a list things would be very different. Top of his list of places to visit before dying, for instance, would be a certain disreputable brothel in the northern tip of the Realm of the Lowlands. In fact, he would be most pleased to die right there, in the act as it were.
And then there are things which one should not have to endure in one’s lifetime. Currently, Nemoy could think of nothing worse then being disobeyed by your own horse. The damn thing was supposed to be subservient. This meant staying where you were put, not chewing off the rope you're tied up with and wandering off somewhere.
After much searching, Nemoy eventually found his horse. Jessie, as he called her, had strayed into some deep foliage whilst her master had been gone. The extra excursion had raised Nemoy’s anger level even more (if that were possible), not to mention the scratches that he now had on his arms and face.
‘You know,’ he said to Jessie, ‘in some countries they eat animals like you. Even the eyes, so I hear. They cook all of you in a big stew. It’s a hearty meal for eight people. Get the picture? Any more wanderings off and I might be tempted into making an anonymous donation.’
The horse snorted, almost mockingly. Nemoy knew that Jessie couldn’t understand him but he had to keep his principles. Besides, if Nemoy was forced to take this action, however unlikely that seemed, at least nobody could ever accuse him of being unfair. Let it not be said that he never gave Jessie a fair warning.
With that, Nemoy guided the horse back onto the dirt track and began his journey.
Polix took the steps three at a time, which was pretty good for a man of his considerable age. All along the corridor, the sound could be heard of someone bumping into people and making hasty apologies. Polix was panting profusely as he reached the door marked “831”. Its occupant also went by the epitaph Number 831. Polix was just about to knock when he realised that there was a small note attached to the door. The writing was barely more than a scribble and looked as though it had been written in a hurry. It read:
Gone on holiday. Back in a few days.
P.S. Drop off my laundry next door.
Ron, Number 831.
‘Gone on holiday?’ asked a perplexed Polix. ‘What does he mean he’s gone on holiday? Hondor is months away!’
It was a well-known fact that Mediators only ever take holidays during the Hondor Festival. It’s in the Rules.
‘Right, we’ll just see about that.’
____
Footnote:
* It was forty-seven years ago, but that is peanuts when you’re a Mediator.
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