Enriched Coiffeurs
Title: Linguistic Traps: Enriched Coiffeurs
Characters: Lord Rust, Lady Rust, Lady Selachii, Lady Venturi, anonymous watchmen.
Rating: PG.
Book/Source: Discworld.
Disclaimer: No profit is being made from this.
Summary: Another snippet of the misadventures of Ankh-Morpork's upper classes, prompted by Gogol and a coffer/coiffeur confusion once observed in the wild. (Note also a joke borrowed from The Producers, just because I can.)
Wordcount: 838
Lord Rust was in the gallery when the watchmen called. Normally, he would have been presiding over the solemn activities of the Convocation for the Preservation of Elite Domination by Means of Linguistic Deprivation at that very moment, but Lord Henry Venturi’s attack of influenza had coincided with Mr Slant’s prior engagement on a particularly messy case that, less coincidentally, was also occupying Lord Downey’s attention, thus diminishing the Convocation considerably. Lord Rust had regretfully returned his outfit to the secret cupboard in the back of the wardrobe and fallen back on his second favourite activity: contemplating the past glories of the Rust family and the degeneracies of this modern era when even women and trolls knew what ‘colonialism’ meant and how to use the word in everyday conversation. The faint cries of the protesters still shambling about the grounds supplied a melancholy backdrop to his sombre reflections. In the good old days, he was thinking, by jingo, when people died they jolly well stayed in the family catacombs and saw off grave-robbers, they didn’t lurch out of their crypts and demand rights and want to be treated like real people...
The blue monocled eye of his great-great-grandfather gazed severely down from an elaborate gilt frame as the watchmen thudded in. “Ah, gentlemen,” said Lord Rust, his own eyes fixed on his forefather’s chinless visage. “This is quite a... privilege.” For you, he would have added, had this point not been self-evident. “You see before you Lord Lucian Stephen Mayhurst Elizabeth Rust. Countless tribes in the hinterlands of Howondaland still whisper his name with fear and reverence. He led an army into the sands of Klatch for the greater glory of fair Ankh-Morpork’s name, at a time when her finest ruled the world like the gentlemen they were! His victories stuffed the city’s coffers! In those days, gentlemen, men were real men.”
On that note, he swept round menacingly. “Well, gentlemen? Are you not impressed?”
The watchmen shuffled uneasily. Strictly speaking, both of them were watchdwarves; and speaking even more strictly, at least one was female, judging by the eyeshadow. Not even social promotion could raise Mister Vimes to the status of a good chap who knew how things should be done, but Lord Rust made a mental note to sent a footman down to complain anyway. It was bad enough that watchmen insisted on knocking at the front door these days. What if someone saw dwarves coming out of the house?
“Uh,” said the female, staring all the way up at Lord Lucian Stephen Mayhurst Elizabeth Rust. “He’s got... a very big wig...”
“One of my family’s most treasured heirlooms,” said Lord Rust proudly. “It took all the coiffeurs of Genua a year to construct and was paid for with the booty from the sack of Ur. Every year on the anniversary of Lord Lucian’s death in Hersheba, the incumbent Lord Rust dons his wig and parades through the house accompanied by a complete brass band, beating any servant he meets with Lord Lucian’s favourite feather duster. Not that I would expect one of you people to appreciate these old family traditions.”
“Uh, no,” she said. “Uh...”
Her colleague coughed. “‘Elizabeth’?”
“Fine old family name!” snapped Lord Rust. “What does your Mister Vimes want now, eh?”
*
Magdalen Selachii blinked at her cards. Sixteen suits blinked back, which was undoubtedly, she thought muzzily, a bad sign. So was the serene smile currently swimming just beneath Lady Rust’s nose. But at least the warder was starting to look worried. Sara Venturi was sulking in the corner; she combined a poor head for numbers with an inability to lose graciously and had already fallen victim to the warder’s broken flush.
“I do believe,” said Magdalen, enunciating with great clarity, because the gin seemed to be trying to escape, “that if I put down this ten and this two and this nine -”
“That’s a three, dear,” said Lady Rust placidly.
“Oh.” She squinted. “So it is. Well, if I put down this five -”
She was interrupted by a sudden uproar. The door at the top of the steps slammed open and Lord Rust swept down, followed by a small mob of even smaller watchmen. “Dear!” he bellowed and grabbed the cell door, thrusting his broken keel of a nose between the bars. He was purple with outrage. “What are you doing here? What’s this rot about being arrested? drunk and disorderly behaviour? assaulting a watchman? What the devil is going on?”
Lady Rust gathered up the cards and beamed at him.
“Ronald, dear,” she said, while the warder tipped over his bucket in a sudden rush to get up and look busy. “There was a little bit of trouble while we were out being Charitable this evening. Sara made one or two rather personal remarks about an individual who I am assured is very good with books, and one thing led to another, you know how it happens, and would you be so good as to arrange to post our bail?”
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