Rule 34 - Charles Stross [43]
“Yes,” she says brightly: “It needs emptying once a week!”
“Damp. In the cellar.” If Sameena’s plans to try and hold a family reunion in Lahore to corral everyone into buying into some kind of extended family takeover of a half-completed hotel complex had worked, you wouldn’t have a problem with rising damp in the cellar. (You might have to dodge the occasional lunatic in explosive corsetry, but it can’t be any more risky than running the gauntlet of the random bampots down the Foot of the Walk on a Saturday night.) Alas, you were one of the idiots who balked at the idea of turning to the hospitality trade. “Besides, it rains too much there!” you moaned at your mother-in-law, regurgitating childhood memories of a June vacation. Oh, the irony.
“Yes. I think it’s getting worse.” Your wife tilts her head on one side as she looks at you. “What are you going to do about it?”
You sigh, deeply. “I’ll see if I can round up someone who knows about such things.”
She hands you a cardboard punnet full of mushrooms. “You’d better. Or we’ll be growing these down there.”
You help Bibi unpack the groceries that need refrigerating, then retreat upstairs to the bathroom, clutching the kettle. Not being entirely stupid, you wash the filthy thing out in the wash-basin, then take it up to the attic and return for a bucket of water (which you manhandle up the ladder precariously, with much sloshing and dripping).
Finally, you glance at the brew shop’s website, where there is indeed a multilingual FAQ. It’s in Arabic, Turkish, and Farsi among other languages, if you recognize the characters correctly: You’ll have to settle for English.
“First boil 20 litres of water and allow to cool to 40 degrees . . .”
You plug the kettle in, fill it up, throw the switch, and all the lights and electrics go out. A few seconds later, you hear Bibi cursing most immodestly downstairs.
You’re really going to have to tackle the damp now, aren’t you? Otherwise, you’re never going to hear the end of it.
On day four of your new occupation, you receive an invitation to a diplomatic reception at the Georgian consulate.
Actually, you received it on day two, or rather your spam filter received it, whereupon it languished in MIME-encapsulated limbo until you could be bothered to skim the contents of the mailbox, swear, then freak out and run squawking in circles.
“You are invited to attend an informal cheese and wine reception at the Georgian Consulate on Brunswick Street on—” (tonight) “—at 7:30 P.M., hosted by the Trans-Caucasian Inward Investment and Tourism Trust. RSVP, etc.”
After about fifteen minutes you wise up and dash off a hasty query to Head Office: Should I stay or should I go? You haven’t been keeping up with the daily bulletins from the Diplomatic Service—they are replete with information about yak wool exports, the lemon harvest, and the urgent need to redress the balance-of-trade deficit, but not so fascinatingly full of matters of statecraft—so you have not the veriest inkling of a clue as to whether the Independent Republic of Issyk-Kulistan is on kissing terms with Georgia, or at war, or something in between. All you really know about politics in the part of the world you represent is that it can be alarmingly personal at times, not to mention bloody-minded, brutal, byzantine, and any number of other unpleasant adjectives beginning with “b.”
There’s no immediate reply, so you call the Gnome. “Help,” you say succinctly.
There’s a brief, pregnant pause. “Help what?”
“I’ve been invited to a diplomatic reception! Help!”
“You’re beyond help, laddie.” He sounds amused. “You’ll just have to fend for yourself. Is it one of the Middle East missions?”
“No!” You swallow. “It’s Georgia.”
“Georgia next to Alabama or—oh, I see. Well you may be in luck, then: They drink alcohol. Just remember