There followed seventeen centuries of monarchy of a sort, where the crown was available to anyone with enough soldiers and a strong stomach; the history of the Ankh-Morpork monarchy is a litany of betrayals, massacres, ambushes, poisonings, imprisonments in towers, wars, people staggering around battlefields looking for their horse, family feuds and assassinations and wars. Of these last, the longest continued on a low-key basis for two centuries and the shortest, between the followers of Blad, Scourge of Dolly Sisters, and those of Mad Eric the Peaceful, is known as the .002 Years War.
Compared to the legendary kings of Ankh, all the later kings of Ankh-Morpork were pretenders. Most of them had as much interest in good government as the Borgia popes had in divinity and most of the big families in Ankh-Morpork were ‘royal’ for a time. Not many lines survived for more than two or three generations and a number did not make it to the end of the coronation feast (in fact the shortest reign on record was that of Loyala the Aaargh, at 1.13 seconds). For a week, Ankh-Morpork was technically ruled by a wasp, and for several days by the left foot of the then High Priest of Io, who’d dropped the crown on it during the crucial point of the ceremony.
The legend of the sword figured very largely in the whole business. It was vaguely understood by the general population that possession of ‘the sword’ was the badge of the true king, and over the years any amount of ‘true swords’ were produced. In the case of Blad, it was two bits of wood hurriedly nailed together but for some reason, possibly to do with spikes and things, no one pointed this out for fifty-one years. It is now assumed (if not actually believed) that the ‘true’ sword is lost.
The last civil war, and execution and revelation of the personal habits of LORENZO THE KIND in 1688, marked the final end of any kind of monarchy in the city. The citizens did not object to rulers, even to cruel ones, but they did draw the line at being told that the various imbeciles and bloody-handed tyrants were there by the will of the gods.
And so the rule of kings gave way to the rule of the PATRICIANS. In a kind of mirror image of democracy, they have tended to get into power by lies, trickery and deceit but remain in power only by a very crude democratic process; if they make too many enemies, they’ll be out of office, power and probably their corporeal form. It seems to have worked, possibly for the reason advanced by the current Patrician in his treatise on the art of government, The Servant: ‘If it continues for long enough, even a reign of terror may become a fondly remembered period. People believe they want justice and wise government but, in fact, what they really want is an assurance that tomorrow will be very much like today.’
Monflathers, Lord. The first Duke led 600 men to a glorious and epic defeat at the Battle of Quirm, which somehow therefore has managed to become one of the great and proud moments of Ankh-Morpork’s military history. [MAA]
Monks, Balancing. Little has been revealed of this rather strange order, although they do run a charity hospital in Ankh-Morpork.
Central to their faith is a belief that the Discworld will wobble if things aren’t perfectly balanced, and the monks spend much of their time moving small weights around according to rituals in one of their holy books. The weights can sometimes be found in the most inaccessible places, the monks travelling thousands of miles to put just one rather small weight in one place on some otherwise insignificant mountain. The weights seldom exceed a pound or two and it is possible – although not necessarily wise – to assume that the whole thing is merely ceremonial.
Monks, History. Also called The Men in Saffron, but they have many names. An order of humans, but with attributes that almost put them in the realm of anthropomorphic personifications. Founded by WEN the Eternally Surprised.
They perform a number of functions, which have changed over the years because of all the QUANTUM going on these days.
Traditionally, the monks also guard the History Books – huge, lead-bound volumes held in a secret cave in their hidden valley near the Hub at the Monastery of Oi Dong (also known as No Such Monastery). It is located in the highest, greenest, airiest valley of all, where apricots are grown and the streams have floating ice in them even on the hottest day. It is always a spring day in the little valley and the cherry trees are always in bloom, which is tough if you actually want cherries.
The key to understanding the function of the monks is the fact that these books are not chronicles of history, but instructions for it – they are, as it were, the script. Every significant fact – and from the point of view of the historical narrative, many quite small events can have tremendous significance – is written down. It is now believed that the books were written as a gift to his followers by Wen who, because of his special ‘relationship’ with TIME, knew everything that was going to happen.
Classically, the role of the monks lay in the very important distinction between History and what might be called sequential events.
History, in order to happen, has to be observed by people who know they are observing History. Skilled people, in fact. It’s no good just anyone being there. It is well known that vast areas of the planet Earth had no history whatsoever until explorers turned up and brought History with them. Geography is similar in this respect; the fact that some lake, waterfall or continent is known to millions of people who live there is really of no significance compared to the arrival of an explorer who knows what Geography is.
History on the Discworld generally unfolds according to the patterns laid down in the books and has a natural tendency to spring back into shape, and for most of the time the monks merely have to observe. However, quantum uncertainty means that occasionally they have to intervene, usually in the most subtle of ways. In the same way that the placing of a 2oz weight can (possibly) affect the balance of the Discworld (see MONKS, BALABCING), the course of history can be changed by the mere misplacing of a pebble in a stream. These apparently trivial actions can send the whole world rushing down a different leg of the TROUSERS OF TIME.
At least, this is how the role is traditionally seen. Novices who rise through the ranks, however, learn the truth is different, and can be summarised thusly: For anything to happen, everything else has to happen, so everything happens anyway. Hang on, and try to steer with your knees.
This means, for example, that intervening to prevent an unwanted historical outcome may well stop it happening in this universe, but won’t prevent it happening in all the other, infinite number of universes. On that basis, what is the point of doing anything about anything?
The current ABBOT of Oi Dong has been considering this over many lifetimes, and has advised the Monks thusly:
Do your job. Do not worry about the other universes. We are there, too. Do not let the fact that you cannot lift a mountain prevent you from seeking to raise a man. Or, as summarised by Lu-Tze: ‘Get on with it! What’d happen to business if everyone took the day off!’ Nevertheless, the historical role has now perforce taken a back seat to the simple task of making sure that there is enough time for anything to happen. Humans, with their unique ability to manipulate time – to save it, waste it, lose it and kill it, but seldom to make it or save it – are seriously reducing the amount available, and the Monks have so far been able to make up the shortfall by moving time around – collecting it from where it is wasted or underused, such as the deep abyssal plains or the average classroom, and pumping it to those areas that use it fast. This is done using the ancient technology of the PROCRASTINATORS, which can wind and unwind time.
Since they are by definition and training outside History the monks are invisible to normal people except when they are performing some role in the unfolding drama (it is sometimes necessary to go into History in order to steer it). They experience time on a continual basis but age only when taking on these roles.
They are also skilled in martial arts such as oki doki, upsidazi and – rarely – déjà-fu, where the hands move in time as well as space. Some of them, at least, possess the secret of being able to walk for many hours in the sub-zero temp
eratures of the high mountains (known as the Double-Knit Woollen Combinations with the Reinforced Gusset and Trapdoor).
Monolith. A troll folk-hero, who first wrested the secret of rocks from the GODS. Believed to have been the first-ever troll. Apparently, the secret of rock is that if you pick one up you can throw it at someone. This knowledge was jealously guarded by the gods. [MP]
Mooner, Dr. The owner of Dr Mooner’s Travelling Take Your Breath Away Emporium. [P]
Mooty, Zebbo. A thief, third class, in Ankh-Morpork. The first person for hundreds of years to have been killed by a dragon. But not the last. [GG]
Morecombe. A vampire, although obviously housetrained. He is the solicitor of the RAMKIN family, and senior member of the firm Morecombe, Slant and Honeyplace. Scrawny around the neck, like a tortoise; very pale, with pearly, dead eyes. [MAA]
Morraine. A troll who acted in moving pictures. (After the collapse of the industry a Morraine is known to have worked at the Armoury, and later joined the Ankh-Morpork militia.) [MP, MAA]
Mort. Mortimer. Youngest son of LEZEK. Tall, red-haired and freckled, thin, white face, with the sort of body that seemed to be only marginally under its owner’s control; it appeared to have been built out of knees. He had the kind of vague, cheerful helpfulness that serious men soon learned to dread. Despite these drawbacks Mort was chosen by death to be his apprentice, and during that time became considerably less undirected and considerably more serious. Mort married YSABELL and became Duke of STO HELIT. They had a daughter, Susan STO HELIT, and were later killed in a coach crash.
As duke, his coat of arms was faux croisé on a sablier rampant against a sable field. His motto: NON TIMETIS MESSOR. [M, SM]
Moutarde, Colonel. A guest at the Samedi Nuit Mort ball in Genua. [WA]
Moving Pictures, Production Companies.
Century of the Fruitbat Moving Pictures
Fir Wood Studios
Floating Bladder Pictures
Microlithic Pictures
Untied Alchemists
Moving Pictures, Titles of.
Bad Menace of Troll Valley
Beyond the Valley of the Trolls
Blown Away
Bolde Adventurer, A
Burninge Passiones
Dark Forest
Exciting Study of Pottery Making, An
Golde Diggers of 1457
Golde Rushe, The
High Jinks at the Store
King’s Ransom, A
Mystery Mountain
Night at the Arena, A
Pelias and Melisande
Shadowe of the Dessert
Sons of the Dessert
Sword of Passione (or The Interestinge and Curious Adventures of Cohen the Barbarian)
Tales of the Dwarfes
Third Gnome, The
Turkey Legs
Valley of the Trolls
Murduck, Brother. A missionary member of the brethren in the Citadel in OMNIA. His death was used to incite conflict between EPHEBE and OMNIA. [SG]
Murderer, Captain. Highly respected in the coast around Quirm. Captain of the Queen of Quirm – and a smuggler. [SN]
Murune. A past King of LANCRE (709-745). He met a terrible fate involving a red-hot poker, ten pounds of live eels, a three-mile stretch of frozen river, a butt of wine, a couple of tulip bulbs, a number of poisoned eardrops, an oyster and a large man with a mallet. Some people just don’t seem to get along with others. [WS]
Musicians’ Guild. Motto: ID MVRMVRATIS, ID LVDAMVS. Coat of arms: a shield, azure, bisected by a band wavy, argent et melodieux. Sinister a trousseau des clés, or. Dexter a cor, or.
The Guild has a very small office in Tin Lid Alley, Ankh-Morpork (a couple of pokey rooms above a barber shop). On the wall of its poky, brown-walled waiting room is a sign: ‘For Your Comfort and Convenience YOU WILL NOT SMOKE’. Unlike most of the other Guilds it does not involve itself in education or social work, but does involve itself very deeply and sincerely in collecting very high membership fees and imposing very high performance rates to pay for them. It is not compulsory for a musician to belong to the GoM. On the other hand, it is not compulsory for a musician to breathe and see out of both eyes. Although most members of its senior council were once practising musicians, their contact with the Muse these days is generally limited to the notes you can obtain by hitting the human skull quite hard.
Muscara. Née Susan. One of the members of DIAMANDA’S coven in LANCRE. [LL]
Mwnyy, Owen. Owner of a legendary harp which, according to Llamedese legend, sang when danger threatened. [SM]
The Nac Mac Feegle (also called Pictsies, The Wee Free Men, The Little Men and ‘Person or Persons Unknown, Believed to be Armed’). Small red-haired, blue men and, infrequently, women. They always smell like slightly drunk potatoes.
From ‘Fairies and How To Avoid Them’ by Miss Perspicacia Tick:
‘The Nac Mac Feegle are the most dangerous of the fairy races, particularly when drunk. They love drinking, fighting and stealing, and will in fact steal anything that is not nailed down. If it is nailed down, they will steal the nails as well.
‘Nevertheless, those who have managed to get to know them, and survive, say that they are also amazingly loyal, strong, dogged, brave and, in their own way, quite moral. (For example, they won’t steal from people who don’t have anything.)
‘The average Feegle man (Feegle women are rare – see later) is about six inches high, red-haired, has skin turned blue with tattoos and the dye called woad and, since you’re this close, he’s probably about to hit you. He’ll wear a kilt made of any old material, because amongst the Feegles the clan allegiance is shown by the tattoos. He may wear a rabbit-skull helmet, and Feegles often decorate their beards and hair with feathers, beads and anything else that takes their fancy. He will almost certainly carry a sword, although it is mainly for show, the Feegles’ preferred method of fighting being with the boot and the head.’
They often have very descriptive names, such as Wee Honeymouth Jock, Slightly-more-wee-than-wee-Jock-Jock, Wee Jock O’the White Head and Slightly-Thinner-Than-Fat-Jock-Jock.
HISTORY AND RELIGION
The origin of the Nac Mac Feegle is lost in the famous Mists of Time. They say that they were thrown out of Fairyland by the Queen of the Fairies because they objected to her spiteful and tyrannical rule. Others say they were just thrown out for being drunk.
Little is known about their religion, if any, save for one fact: they think they are dead. They like our world, with its sunshine and mountains and blue skies and things to fight. An amazing world like this couldn’t be open to just anybody, they say. It must be some kind of a heaven or Valhalla, where brave warriors go when they are dead. So, they reason, they have already been alive somewhere else, and then died and were allowed to come here because they have been so good.
This is a quite incorrect and fanciful notion because, as we know, the truth is exactly the other way around.
There is not a great deal of mourning when a Feegle dies, and it’s only because his brothers are sad that he’s not spent more time with them before going back to the land of the living, which they also call ‘The Last World’.
HABITS AND HABITAT
For choice, the clans of the Nac Mac Feegle live in the burial mounds of ancient kings, where they hollow out a cosy cavern amongst the gold. Generally there will be one or two thorn or elder trees growing on it – the Feegles particularly like old, hollow elder trees, which become chimneys for their fire. And there will, of course, be a rabbit hole. It will look just like a rabbit hole. There will be rabbit droppings around it, and maybe even a few bits of rabbit fur if the Feegles are feeling particularly creative.
Down below, the world of the Feegle is a bit like a beehive, but with a lot less honey and a lot more sting.
The reason for this is that females are very rare among the Feegle. And, perhaps because of this, Feegle women give birth to lots of babies, very often and very quickly. They’re about the size of peas
when born but grow extremely fast if they’re fed well. (Feegles like to live near humans so that they can steal milk from cows and sheep for this purpose.)
The ‘queen’ of the clan is called the Kelda, who as she gets older becomes the mother of most of it. Her husband is known as The Big Man. When a girl child is born – and it doesn’t often happen – she stays with her mother to learn the hiddlins, which are the secrets of keldaring. When she is old enough to be married, she must leave the clan, taking a few of her brothers with her as a bodyguard on her long journey.
Often she’ll travel to a clan which has no kelda. Very, very rarely, if there is no clan without a kelda, she’ll meet with Feegles from several clans and form a completely new clan, with a new name and a mound of its own. She will also choose her husband. And, from then on, while her word is absolute law among her clan and must be obeyed, she’ll seldom go more than a little distance from the mound. She is both its queen and its prisoner.
But, once, for a few days, there was a kelda who was a human girl . . .
A FEEGLE GLOSSARY
Bigjobs: human beings
Blethers: rubbish, nonsense
Carlin: old woman
Cludgie: the privy
Crivens!: a general exclamation that can mean anything from ‘My goodness!’ to ‘I’ve just lost my temper and there is going to be trouble.’
Dree your/my/his/her weird: facing the fate that is in store for you/me/him/her.
Geas: a very important obligation, backed up by tradition and magic. Not a bird.
Eldritch: weird, strange. Sometimes means oblong, too, for some reason.
Hag: a witch, of any age
Hagging/Haggling: anything a witch does
Hiddlins: secrets
Mudlin: useless person
Turtle Recall: The Discworld Companion ... So Far Page 33