“I’m not thinking diplomatically, am I?” he said. Cheery watched him with a carefully blank expression.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, sir,” she said. “You didn’t actually finish the sentence. And…well, a lot of dwarfs respect them. You know…feel better for seeing them.”
Vimes looked puzzled. Then understanding dawned.
“Oh, I get it,” he said. “I bet they say things like ‘thank goodness people are keeping up the old ways,’ eh?”
“That’s right, sir. I suppose that inside every dwarf in Ankh-Morpork is a little part of him—or her—that knows real dwarfs live underground.”
Vimes doodled on his notepad. “Back home,” he thought. Carrot had innocently talked about dwarfs “back home.” To all dwarfs far away, the mountains were “back home.” It was funny how people were people everywhere you went, even if the people concerned weren’t the people the people who made up the phrase “people are people everywhere” had traditionally thought of as people. And even if you weren’t virtuous, as you had been brought up to understand the term, you did like to see virtue in other people, provided it did not cost you anything.
“Why have these d’r…these traditional dwarfs come here, though? Ankh-Morpork’s full of humans. They must have their work cut out avoiding humans.”
“They’re…needed, sir. Dwarf law is complicated, and there’s often disputes. And they conduct marriages and that sort of thing.”
“You make them sound more like priests.”
“Dwarfs aren’t religious, sir.”
“Of course. Oh well. Thank you, Corporal. Off you go. Any fallout from last night? No sulfurous incontinent cats have come forward to confess?”
“No, sir. The Campaign for Equal Heights has put out a pamphlet saying it was another example of the second-class treatment of dwarfs in the city, but it was the same one they always put out. You know, the one with blanks to fill in the details.”
“Nothing changes, Cheery. See you tomorrow morning, then. Send Detritus up.”
Why him? Vimes thought. Ankh-Morpork was lousy with diplomats. It was practically what the upper classes were for, and it was easy for them because half the foreign bigwigs they’d meet were old chums they’d played Wet Towel Tag with back at school. They tended to be on first-name terms, even with people whose names were Ahmed or Fong. They knew which forks to use. They hunted, shot and fished. They moved in circles that more or less overlapped the circles of their foreign hosts, and were a long way from the rather grubby circles that people like Vimes went around in every working day. They knew all the right nods and winks. What chance had he got against a tie and a crest?
Vetinari was throwing him among the wolves. And the dwarfs. And the vampires. Vimes shuddered. And Vetinari never did anything without a reason.
“Come in, Detritus.”
It always amazed Sergeant Detritus that Vimes knew he was at the door. Vimes had never mentioned that the office wall creaked and bent inward as the big troll made his way along the corridor.
“You want to see me, sir.”
“Yes. Sit down, man. It’s this Uberwald business.”
“Yessir.”
“How do you feel about visiting the old country?”
Detritus’s face remained impassive, as it always did when he was waiting patiently for things to make sense.
“Uberwald, I mean,” Vimes prompted.
“Dunno, sir. I was a just a pebble when we left dere. Dad wanted a better life in der big city.”
“There’ll be a lot of dwarfs, Detritus.” Vimes didn’t bother to mention vampires and werewolves. Either of those who attacked a troll was making the last big mistake of its career in any case. Detritus carried a two-thousand-pound–draw crossbow as a hand weapon.
“Dat’s okay, sir. I’m very modern ’bout dwarfs.”
“These might be a bit old-fashioned about you, though.”
“Dem deep-down dwarfs?”
“That’s right.”
“I heard about dem.”
“There’s still wars with trolls up near the Hub, I hear. Tact and diplomacy will be called for.”
“You have come to der right troll for that, sir,” said Detritus.
“You did push that man through that wall last week, Detritus.”
“It was done with tact, sir. Quite a fin wall.”
Vimes let it go at that. The man in question had just laid out three watchmen with a club, which Detritus had broken in one hand before selecting the suitably tactful wall.
“See you tomorrow, then. Best dress armor, remember. Send Angua now, please.”
“She’s not here, sir.”
“Blast. Put out some messages for her, will you?”
Igor lurched through the castle corridors, dragging one foot after the other in the approved fashion.
He was Igor, son of Igor, nephew of several Igors, brother of Igors and cousin of more Igors than he could remember without checking up in his diary. Igors did not change a winning formula.*
And, as a clan, Igors liked working for vampires. They kept regular hours, were generally polite to their servants and, an important extra, didn’t require much work in the bed-making and cookery department, and tended to have cool, roomy cellars where an Igor could pursue his true calling. This more than made up for those occasions when you had to sweep up their ashes.
He entered Lady Margolotta’s crypt and knocked politely on the coffin lid. It moved aside a fraction.
“Yes?”
“Thorry to wake you in the middle of the afternoon, Your Ladythip, but you did thay—”
“All right. And—?”
“It’s going to be Vimeth, Ladythip. You were right.”
A dainty hand came out of the partly opened coffin and punched the air.
“Yes!”
“Well thpotted, Ladythip.”
“Well, well. Samuel Vimes. Poor devil. Do the doggies know?”
Igor nodded. “The baron’th Igor was altho collecting a methage, Ladythip.”
“And the dwarfs?”
“It ith an official appointment, Ladythip. Everyone knows. Hith Grace the Duke of Ankh-Morpork, Thir Thamuel Vimeth, Commander of the Ankh-Morpork Thity Watch.”
“Then the midden has hit the windmill, Igor.”
“Very well put, Ladythip. No one liketh a thort thower of thit.”
“I imagine, Igor, that he’ll leave them behind.”
Let us consider a castle from the point of view of its furniture.
This one has chairs, yes, but they don’t look very lived in. There is a huge sofa near the fire, and that is ragged with use, but other furnishings look as if they’re there merely for show.
There is a long oak table, well polished and looking curiously unused for such an old piece of furniture. Possibly the reason for this is that on the floor around it are a large number of white earthenware bowls.
One of them has FATHER written on it.
The Baroness Serafine von Uberwald slammed shut Twurp’s Peerage, irritably.
“The man is a…a nothing,” she said. “A paper man. A man of straw. An insult.”
“The name Vimes goes back a long time,” said Wolfgang von Uberwald, who was doing one-handed push-ups in front of the fire.
“So does the name Smith. What of it?”
Wolf changed to the other hand, in midair. He was naked. He liked his muscles to get an airing. They shone. Someone with an anatomical chart could have picked out every one. They might also have remarked on the unusual way his blond hair grew not only on his head but down and across his shoulders as well,
“He is a Duke, Mother.”
“Hah! Ankh-Morpork hasn’t even got a king!”
“…nineteen, twenty…I hear stories about that, Mother…”
“Oh, stories. Sybil writes a silly little letter to me every year! Sam this, Sam that. Of course, she had to be grateful for what she could get, but…the man is just a thief-taker, after all. I shall refuse to see him
.”
“You will not do that, Mother,” Wolf grunted. “That would be…twenty-nine, thirty…dangerous. What do you tell Lady Sybil about us?”
“Nothing! I don’t write back, of course. A rather sad and foolish woman.”
“And she still writes every year?…thirty-six, thirty-seven…”
“Yes. Four pages, usually. And that tells you everything about her you need to know. Where is your father?”
A flap in the bottom of a nearby door swung back and a large, heavyset wolf trotted in. It glanced around the room, and then shook itself vigorously. The baroness bridled.
“Guye! You know what I said! It’s after six! Change when you come in from the garden!”
The wolf gave her a look, and strolled behind a massive oak screen at the far end of the room. There was a…noise, soft and rather strange, not so much an actual sound as a change in the texture of the air.
The baron walked around from behind the screen, doing up the cord of a tattered dressing gown. The baroness sniffed.
“At least your father wears clothes,” she said.
“Clothes are unhealthy, mother,” said Wolf, calmly. “Nakedness is purity.”
The baron sat down. He was a large, red-faced man, insofar as a face could be seen under the beard, hair, mustache and eyebrows which were engaged in a bitter four-way war over the remaining areas of bare skin.
“Well?” he growled.
“Vimes the thief-taker from Ankh-Morpork is going to be the alleged ambassador,” snapped the baroness.
“Dwarfs?”
“Of course they’ll be told.”
The baron sat staring at nothing, with the same expression Detritus used when a new thought was being assembled.
“Bad?” he ventured, at last.
“Ruston, I’ve told you about this a thousand times!” said the baroness. “You’re spending far too much time Changed! You know what you’re like afterward. Supposing we had official visitors?”
“Bite ’em!”
“You see? Go on off to bed and don’t come down until you’re fit to be human!”
“Vimes could ruin everything, Father,” said Wolfgang. He was now doing handstands, using one hand.
“Ruston! Down!”
The baron stopped trying to scratch his ear with his leg.
“Do?” he said.
Wolfgang’s gleaming body dipped a moment as he changed hands again.
“City life makes men weak. Vimes will be…fun. They do say he likes running, though.” He gave a little laugh. “We shall have to see how fast he is.”
“His wife says he’s very softhearted—Ruston! Don’t you dare do that! If you going to do that sort of thing, do it upstairs!”
The baron looked only moderately ashamed, but readjusted his clothing anyway.
“Bandits!” he said.
“Yes, they could be a problem at this time of year,” said Wolfgang.
“At least a dozen,” said the baroness. “Yes, that should—”
Wolf grunted, upside down.
“No, mother. You are being stupid. His coach must get here safely. You understand? When he is here…that is a different matter.”
The baron’s massive eyebrows tangled with a thought.
“Plan! King!”
“Exactly.”
The baroness sighed. “I don’t trust that little dwarf.”
Wolf somersaulted onto his feet.
“No. But trustworthy or not, he’s all we’ve got. Vimes must get here, with his soft heart. He may even be useful. Perhaps we should…assist matters.”
“Why?” snapped the baroness. “Let Ankh-Morpork look after their own!”
There was a knock on the door while Vimes was having breakfast. Willikins ushered in a small thin man in neat but threadbare black clothes, whose overlarge head gave him the appearance of a lollypop nearing the last suck. He was carrying a black bowler hat like a soldier carries his helmet and walked like a man who had something wrong with his knees.
“I am so sorry to disturb Your Grace…”
Vimes laid down his knife. He’d been peeling an orange. Sybil insisted he eat fruit.
“Not Your Grace,” he said. “Just Vimes. Sir Samuel if you must. Are you Vetinari’s man?”
“Inigo Skimmer, sir. Mhm, mhm. I am to travel with you to Uberwald.”
“Ah, you’re the clerk who’s going to do all the whispering and winking while I hand around the cucumber sandwiches, are you?”
“I will try to be of service, sir, although I’m not much of a winker. Mhm, mhm.”
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“I ate already, sir. Mhm-mhm.”
Vimes looked the clerk up and down. It wasn’t so much that his head was big, it was simply that someone appeared to have squeezed the bottom half of it and forced everything up into the top. He was going bald, too, and had carefully teased the remaining strands of hair across the pink dome. It was hard to tell his age. He could be twenty-five and a big worrier, or a fresh-faced forty. Vimes inclined to the former—the man had the look of someone who had spent his life watching the world over the top of a book. And there was that…well, was it a nervous laugh? A giggle? An unfortunate way of clearing his throat?
And that strange way he walked…
“Not even some toast? A piece of fruit? These oranges are fresh from Klatch, I really can recommend them…”
Vimes tossed one at the man. It bounced off his arm, and Skimmer took a step backward, mildly appalled at the upper class’s habit of fruit hurling.
“Are you all right, sir? Mhm-mhm?”
“Sorry about that,” said Vimes. “I was carried away by fruit.”
He laid aside his napkin and came around the table, putting his arm around Skimmer’s shoulders.
“I’ll just take you into the Mildly Yellow drawing room where you can wait,” he said, walking him toward the door and patting him on the arm in a friendly way. “The coaches are loaded up. Sybil is re-grouting the bathroom, learning Ancient Klatchian and doing all those other little last minute things women always do. You’re with us in the big coach.”
Skimmer recoiled. “Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir! I’ll travel with your retinue. Mhm-mhm. Mhm-mhm.”
“If you mean Cheery and Detritus, they’re in there with us,” said Vimes, noting the look of horror deepen slightly. “You need four for a decent game of cards and the road’s as boring as hell for most of the way.”
“And, er, your servants?”
“Willikins and the cook and Sybil’s maid are in the other coach.”
“Oh.”
Vimes smiled inwardly. He remembered the saying from his childhood: too poor to paint, but too proud to whitewash…
“Bit of a tough choice, is it?” he said. “I’ll tell you what, you can come in our coach but we’ll give you a hard seat and patronize you from time to time, how about that?”
“I am afraid you are making a mockery of me, Sir Samuel. Mhm-mhm.”
“No, but I may be assisting. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to nip down to the Yard to sort out a few last minute things.”
A quarter of an hour later Vimes walked into the charge room at the Yard. Sergeant Stronginthearm looked up, saluted, and then ducked to avoid the orange that was tossed at his head.
“Sir?” he said, bewildered.
“Just testing, Stronginthearm.”
“Did I pass, sir?”
“Oh yes. Keep the orange. It’s full of vitamins.”
“My mother always told me those things could kill you, sir.”
Carrot was waiting patiently in Vimes’s office. Vimes shook his head. He knew all the places to tread in the corridor and he knew he didn’t make a sound, and he’d never once caught Carrot reading his paperwork, not even upside down. Just once it’d be nice to catch him out at something. If the man was any straighter you could use him as a plank.
Carrot stood up and saluted.
“Yes, yes, we haven’t got a
lot of time for that now,” said Vimes, sitting behind his desk. “Anything new overnight?”
“An unattributed murder, sir. A tradesman called Wallace Sonky. Found in one of his own vats with his throat cut. No guild seal or note or anything. We are treating it as suspicious.”
“Yes, I think that sounds fairly suspicious,” said Vimes. “Unless he has a record as a very careless shaver. What kind of vat?”
“Er…rubber, sir.”
“Rubber comes in vats? Wouldn’t he bounce out?”
“No, sir. It’s a liquid in the vat, sir. Mister Sonky makes…rubber things…”
“Hang on, I remember seeing something once…Don’t they make things by dipping them in the rubber? You made sort of…the right shapes and dip them in to get gloves, boots…that sort of thing?”
“Er…that…er…sort of thing, sir.”
Something about Carrot’s uneasy manner got through to Vimes. And the little file at the back of his brain eventually waved a card.
“Sonky, Sonky…Carrot, we’re not talking about Sonky as in ‘a packet of Sonkies,’ are we?”
Now Carrot was bright red with embarrassment. “Yes, sir!”
“My gods, what was he dipping in the vat?”
“He’d been thrown in, sir. Apparently.”
“But he’s practically a national hero!”
“Sir?”
“Captain, the housing shortage in Ankh-Morpork would be a good deal worse if it wasn’t for old man Sonky and his penny-a-packet preventatives. Who’d want to do away with him?”
“People do have Views, sir,” said Carrot coldly.
Yes, you do, don’t you, Vimes thought. Dwarfs don’t hold with that sort of thing.
“Well, put some men on it. Anything else?”
“A carter assaulted Constable Swires last night for clamping his cart.”
“Assault?”
“Tried to stamp on him, sir.”
Vimes had a mental picture of Constable Swires, a gnome six inches tall but a mile high in pent-up aggression.
“How is he?”
“Well, the man can speak, but it’ll be a little while before he can climb back on a cart again. Apart from that, it’s all run-of-the-mill stuff.”
The Fifth Elephant Page 5
