Discworld and Member Articles
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Written by TheJackal
Saturday, 27 August 2005 |
Brother Rubeus was happy. Everything was going to plan. So far.
Of all the members in the Order, only his most loyal and trusted subordinates knew of his plan. And even they only knew part of it. What they did know would be kept to themselves, for they feared their master utterly and knew what he was capable of.
The nine Sub-Commanders had fallen hook, line and sinker for his act at the meeting. Those unsuspecting fools really were stupid. It had been even easier than thirty years ago, when he had come up with the plan. Even then, they had suspected nothing. Rubeus took a tremendous pride in that because he had spent many days in his study, planning it all out. The Grand Master had accounted for everything, which was harder than it looked:
You had to arrange for both a Newbie, and someone with years of experience to be assigned to the Job. An experienced Mediator would assess the situation and just get on with it; the Newbie would follow whatever his superior said.
There had also been the problem of how to get the third, Senior Mediator, out of the way. Setting fire to Polix’s home had seen to that. Everyone knew that a father would return home immediately upon hearing that his home had caught fire...while his family were still inside.
Finally, Rubeus had taken care of the Substitute. It was general practice in the Order to have at least five Substitutes on call on any given day…except during the Hondor Festival (Hondor being Stavromula’s most popular God). It had all been so simple.
‘I love this job,’ exclaimed Rubeus happily.
Nemoy slowly directed Jessie up and over the final hill that led towards the tavern.
Jim’s Olde Tavern had a bit of a bad reputation. In fact, it had a reputation for having a bad reputation. Strangely enough, Jim was somewhat proud of his tavern’s notoriety. He was a firm believer that any publicity was good publicity.
Jim also believed in giving his customers incorrect change. This was an art form, which the proprietor had perfected over the years. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded because you had to take into account how drunk your customer in question was, and how stupid he looked. Getting it wrong could result in a lot of messiness. Jim hated mess; he was always the one that had to clean up.
Nemoy eased himself off the horse and tied Jessie to a nearby post.
‘Now stay here, okay? Otherwise it’ll be horse stew for supper.’
With that, Nemoy slowly walked towards the entrance of the tavern. He took a deep breath to brace himself for what lay inside and walked through the doorway.
Before entering the tavern, Nemoy had expected to see the dank, smoky, just generally unfriendly looking environment which he had experienced previously. Upon entering, this in turn, would result in being met by a chorus of stares.
What he did see was totally the opposite: The tavern was empty.
Nemoy was very confused by this. ‘I know it can be quiet in your local in the morning, what with your average Joe being at work, but this is ridiculous! There isn’t even a bartender for the Gods’ sakes!’
The sound of someone screaming outside broke his train of thought. Nemoy decided to cautiously investigate.
The second shock in five minutes greeted Nemoy upon going round to the back of the tavern. His gaze met a make shift corral which was being used as a fighting arena of some sorts.
Two men were fighting viciously within the corral and a rather large crowd had gathered around it to watch.
At least the mystery of where all the traders had gone had now been solved. They had seen an opportunity to do some good business and set up their stalls beside the arena.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Nemoy asked an onlooker.
‘Those two guys are fighting,’ replied the onlooker, simply.
‘I can see they’re fighting, but why?’
‘They volunteered to fight in a Deathmatch.’
‘Wait a minute,’ replied Nemoy. ‘You’re saying they volunteered to fight…to the death?’
‘Yes.’
‘O..kay. Why is that exactly?’ asked a confused Nemoy.
‘You’re not from around here are you?’ asked the onlooker, who was now eating an apple. incidentally, the guy was not a local either, but at least he was in the know.
‘No, I’m not actually. So why are they trying to kill one another?’
‘It’s this new thing, see? People volunteer to fight against other strangers. The winner gets half of the money that people bet on the fight, but more importantly, he gets respect.’
‘So they’re risking their lives for a bit of money and the respect of people they don’t even know?’ asked Nemoy, to confirm that he had heard what he couldn’t believe he’d just heard.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’
The fight lasted for another ten minutes. It was clear whom the victor was because no matter where you came from, the winner was always the one that still had this head attached to the usual position.
The crowd cheered and roared winner’s name. Regrettably, the victor did not have a name that sounded well shouted out loud. It sounded something like ‘Grk’. Nemoy knew there was a vowel in there somewhere but did not know where. Grk’s management also knew this and were thinking of changing the name to something more fitting, like Fist.
The man- soon to be the artist formerly known as Grk- although worse for wear, smiled a big, proud, toothless smile. He was carried to the tavern amid rapture and applause. Nemoy bemusedly followed the crowd back to the tavern.
‘It really has been a strange week,’ muttered Nemoy to the world at large.
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