The Fifth Elephant

by Terry Pratchett

  Dreamlike, Vimes heard a small voice say: “He wouldn’t last five minutes back home fightin’ like that. The silly bugger’s gonna get creamed, fightin’ like that! Stuff the Marquis of flamin’ Fantailler!”

  Gaspode was sitting bolt upright, stubby tail vibrating.

  “The daftie! This is how you win a dogfight!”

  As the wolves rolled over and over, Wolfgang tearing at Gavin’s belly, Gaspode arrived growling and yapping and launched himself in the general direction of the werewolf’s hindquarters.

  There was a yip. Gaspode’s growling was suddenly muffled. Wolfgang leapt vertically. Gavin sprang. The three hit the parapet of the bridge together, knocked the crumbling stones aside, hung for a moment in a snarling ball, and then dropped down into the roaring whiteness of the river.

  The whole of it, from the moment Tantony had crossed the bridge, had taken much less than a minute.

  The baroness was staring down into the gorge. Keeping his eye on her, Vimes spoke to Detritus.

  “Are you sure you’re werewolf-proof, Sergeant?”

  “Pretty much, sir. Anyway, I got the bow wound up again.”

  “Go into the castle and fetch the resident Igor, then,” said Vimes calmly. “If anyone even tries to stop you, shoot them. And shoot anyone standing near them.”

  “No problem about dat, sir.”

  “We’re not at home to Mister Reasonable, Sergeant.”

  “I do not hear him knockin’, sir.”

  “Go to it, then. Sergeant Angua?”

  She did not look up.

  “Sergeant Angua!”

  Now she looked up.

  “How can you be so…so cool?” she snarled. “He’s hurt…”

  “I know. Go and talk to those watchmen hanging around on the other end of the bridge. They look scared. I don’t want any accidents. We’re going to need them. Cheery, cover Carrot and Tantony with something. Keep them warm.”

  I wish there was something to keep me warm, he thought. The thoughts came slowly, like drips of freezing water. He felt that ice would crackle off him if he moved, that frost would sparkle in his footsteps, that his mind was full of crisp snow.

  “And now, madam,” he said, turning back to the baroness, “you will give me the Scone of Stone.”

  “He’ll be back!” hissed the baroness. “That fall was nothing! And he’ll find you.”

  “For the last time…the stone of the dwarfs. The wolves are waiting out there. The dwarfs are waiting down in the city. Give me the stone, and we all might survive. This is diplomacy. Don’t let me try anything else.”

  “I have only to say the word—”

  Angua began to growl. Sybil strode toward and grabbed the baroness.

  “You never answered a single letter! All those years I wrote to you!”

  The baroness stared at her in amazement, as people so often did when struck with Sybil’s sharp non sequiturs.

  “If you know we’ve got the Scone,” she said to Vimes, “then you know it’s not the real one. And much good may it do the dwarfs!”

  “Yes, you had it made in Ankh-Morpork. Made in Ankh-Morpork! They should have stamped it on the bottom. But someone killed the man who did it. That’s murder. It’s against the law.” Vimes nodded at the baroness. “It’s a thing we have.”

  Gaspode dragged himself out of the water and stood, shivering, on the shingle. Every single part of him felt bruised. There was a nasty ringing noise in his ears. Blood dripped down one leg.

  The last few minutes had been a little hazy, but he did recall they’d involved a lot of water that had hit him like hammers.

  He shook himself. His coat jangled where the water was already freezing.

  Out of habit, he walked over to the nearest tree and, wincing, raised a leg.

  EXCUSE ME.

  A busy, reflective silence followed.

  “That was not a good thing you just did,” said Gaspode.

  I’M SORRY. PERHAPS THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT MOMENT.

  “Not for me, no. You may have caused some physical damage here.”

  IT’S HARD TO KNOW WHAT TO SAY.

  “Trees don’t normally talk back, is my point.” Gaspode sighed. “So…what happens now?”

  I BEG YOUR PARDON?

  “I’m dead, right?”

  NO. NO ONE IS MORE SURPRISED THAN ME, I MAY SAY, BUT YOUR TIME DOES NOT APPEAR TO BE NOW.

  Death pulled out an hourglass, held it up against the cold stars for a moment, and stalked away along the riverbank.

  “’Scuse me, there’s no chance of a lift, is there?” said Gaspode, struggling after him.

  NONE WHATSOEVER.

  “Only, being a short dog in deep snow is not good for the ol’ wossnames, if you get my—”

  Death had stopped at a little bay. An indistinct shape lay in a few inches of water.

  “Oh,” said Gaspode.

  Death leaned down. There was a flash of blue, and then he vanished.

  Gaspode shivered. He paddled into the water, and nudged Gavin’s sodden fur with his nose.

  “Shouldn’t be like this,” he whined. “If you was a human, they’d put you in a big boat on the tide and set fire to it, an’ everyone’d see. Shouldn’t just be you an’ me down here in the cold.”

  There was something that had to be done, too. He knew it in his bones. He crawled back to the bank and pulled himself up onto the trunk of a fallen willow.

  He cleared his throat.

  Then he howled.

  It started badly, hesitantly, but it picked up and got stronger, richer…and when he paused for breath the howl went on and on, passing from throat to throat across the forest.

  The sound wrapped him as he slid off the log and struggled on toward higher ground. It lifted him over the deeper snow. It wound around the trees, a plaiting of many voices becoming something with a life of its own. He remembered thinking: Maybe it’ll even get as far as Ankh-Morpork.

  Maybe it’ll get much farther than that.

  Vimes was impressed by the baroness. She fought back in a corner.

  “I know nothing about any deaths—”

  A howl came up from the forest. How many wolves were there? You never saw them…and then, when they cried out, it sounded as though there was one behind every tree. This one went on and on—it sounded like a cry thrown into a lake of air, the ripples spreading out across the mountains.

  Angua threw her head back and screamed. Then, breath hissing between her teeth, she advanced on the baroness, fingers flexing.

  “Give him…the damn stone,” she hissed. “Will any…of…you…face me? Now? Then…give him the stone!”

  “What theems to be the throuble?”

  Igor lurched through the stricken gates, trailed by Detritus. He caught sight of the two bodies and hurried over like a very large spider.

  “Fetch the stone,” growled Angua. “And then…we…will leave. I can smell it. Or do you…want me to take it?”

  Serafine glared at her, then turned on her heel and ran back into the ruins of the castle. The other werewolves shrank back from Angua as if her stare were a whip.

  “If you can’t help these men,” said Vimes to the kneeling Igor, “your future does not look good.”

  Igor nodded. “Thith one,” he said, indicating Tantony, “fleth woundth, I can thitch him up a treat, no problem. Thith one,” he tapped Carrot, “…nasty break on the arm.” He glanced up. “Marthter Wolfgang been playing again?”

  “Can you make him well?” snapped Vimes.

  “No, it’th hith lucky day,” said Igor. “I can make him better. I’ve got some kidneyth jutht in, a lovely little pair, belonged to young Mr. Crapanthy, hardly touched a drop of thtrong licker, shame about the avalanchthe…”

  “Does he need them?” said Angua.

  “No, but you thould never mith an opportunity to improve yourthelf, I alwayth thay.”

  Igor grinned. It was a strange sight. The scars crawled around his face like caterpillars.

&n
bsp; “Just see to the arm,” said Vimes, firmly.

  The baroness reappeared, flanked by several werewolves. They also backed away as Angua spun around.

  “Take it,” said Serafine. “Take the wretched thing. It is a fake. No crime has been committed!”

  “I’m a policeman,” said Vimes. “I can always find a crime.”

  The sleigh slid under its own weight down the track toward Bonk, the town’s watchmen running alongside it and giving it the occasional push. With their captain down they were lost and bewildered and in no mood to take orders from Vimes, but they did what Angua commanded because Angua was of the class that traditionally gave them orders…

  The two casualties were bedded down on blankets.

  “Angua?” said Vimes.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “There’s wolves keeping pace with us. I can see them running between the trees.”

  “I know.”

  “Are they on our side?”

  “Let’s just say…they’re not on anyone else’s side yet, shall we? They don’t like me much but they know…Gavin did, and right now that is what’s important. Some of them are out looking for my brother.”

  “Would he have survived that? It was a long way down.”

  “Well, it wasn’t fire or silver. There’s nothing but white water for miles. It probably hurt a lot, but we heal amazingly well, sir.”

  “Look, I’m sorry that—”

  “No, Mister Vimes, you’re not. You shouldn’t be. Carrot just didn’t understand what Wolfgang is like. You can’t beat something like him in a fair fight. Look, I know he’s family, but…personal is not the same as important. Carrot always said that.”

  “Says that,” said Lady Sybil sharply.

  “Yes.”

  Carrot opened his eyes.

  “What…happened back there?” he said.

  “Wolfgang hit you,” said Angua. She wiped his brow.

  “What with?” Carrot tried to push himself upward, winced, and fell back.

  “What have I always told you about the Marquis of Fantailler?” said Vimes.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Something bright rose from the distant forests. It vanished, and then a green light expanded into existence. A moment later came the pop of the flare.

  “The signalers have got to the tower,” said Vimes.

  “Can’t this damn thing go any faster?” said Angua.

  “I mean, we can contact Ankh-Morpork,” said Vimes. After everything, he felt curiously cheered by this. It was as if a special human howl had gone up. He wasn’t floundering around loose now. He was floundering on the end of a very long line. That made all the difference.

  It was a small public room over a shop in Bonk and, since it belonged to everybody, it looked as though it didn’t belong to anyone. There was dust in the corners, and the chairs that were currently arranged in a ragged circle had been chosen for their ability to be stacked neatly rather than sat on comfortably.

  Lady Margolotta smiled at the assembled vampires. She liked these meetings.

  The rest of the group were a pretty mixed bunch, and she wondered what their motives were. But perhaps they at least shared one conviction—that what you were made as, wasn’t what you had to be or what you might become…

  And the trick was to start small. Suck, but don’t impale. Little steps. And then you found that what you really wanted was power, and there were much politer ways of getting it. And then you realized that power was a bauble. Any thug had power. The true prize was control. Lord Vetinari knew that. When heavy weights were balanced on the scales, the trick was to know where to place your thumb.

  And all control started with the self.

  She stood up. They watched her with slightly worried yet friendly faces.

  “My name, in the short form, is Lady Margolotta Amaya Katerina Assumpta Crassina von Uberwald, and I am a vampire…”

  They chorused: “Hello, Lady Margolotta Amaya Katerina Assumpta Crassina von Uberwald!”

  “It has been five years now,” said Lady Margolotta. “And I am still taking one night at a time. One neck would always be one too many. But…there are compensations…”

  There were no guards on the gate of Bonk, but there was a cluster of dwarfs outside the embassy as the cart slid to a halt. The wolves in the traces jerked nervously and whined at Angua.

  “I’ll have to let them go,” she said, getting out. “They’ve only come this far because they’re frightened of me…”

  Vimes wasn’t surprised. At the moment, anything would be frightened of Angua.

  Even so, a squad of dwarfs was hurrying to the sledge.

  It’d take them a few seconds to get a grip on things, Vimes realized. There were uptown guards here, and an Igor, and a werewolf. They’d be puzzled as well as suspicious. That should give him a tiny crack to lever open. And, ashamed as he was to say it, an arrogant bastard always had the edge.

  He glared at the lead dwarf. “What is your name?” he demanded.

  “You are under—”

  “You know the Scone of Stone was stolen?”

  “You…what?”

  Vimes reached around and pulled a sack out of the sleigh.

  “Bring those torches closer!” he shouted, and because he delivered the command in a tone that said there was no doubt that it’d be obeyed, it was obeyed. I’ve got twenty seconds, he thought, and then the magic goes away.

  “Now look at this,” he said, lifting the thing out of the sack.

  Several dwarfs fell to their knees. The murmuring spread out. Another howl, another rumor…in his current state he could see, in his mind’s bloodshot eye, the towers in the night, clicking and clacking, delivering to Genua exactly the message that had been sent from Ankh-Morpork.

  “I want to take this to the king,” he said, in the hushed silence.

  “We will take it—” the dwarf began, moving forward.

  Vimes stepped aside.

  “Good evenin’, boys,” said Detritus, standing up in the sleigh.

  The tortured noises the bow’s springs were making under their preternatural stress sounded like some metal animal in extreme pain. The dwarf was a couple of feet away from several dozen arrow points.

  “On the other hand,” said Vimes, “we could continue talking. You look like a dwarf who likes to talk.”

  The dwarf nodded.

  “First of all, is there any reason why the two wounded men I have here couldn’t be taken inside before they die of their wounds?”

  The bow twitched in Detritus’s hands.

  The dwarf nodded.

  “They can go inside and be treated?” said Vimes.

  The dwarf nodded again, still looking into a bundle of arrows bigger than his head.

  “Capital. See how we get on when we simply talk? And now I suggest that you arrest me.”

  “You want me to arrest you?”

  “Yes. And Lady Sybil. We place ourselves under your personal jurisdiction.”

  “That’s right,” said Sybil. “I demand to be arrested.” She drew herself up and out, righteous indignation radiating like a bonfire, causing the dwarfs to back away from what was clearly an unexploded bosom.

  “And since the arrest of its ambassador will certainly cause…difficulties with Ankh-Morpork,” Vimes went on, “I strongly suggest you take us directly to the king.”

  By blessed chance, the distant tower sent up another flare. Green light illuminated the snows for a moment.

  “What’s that mean?” said the dwarf captain.

  “It means that Ankh-Morpork knows what’s going on,” said Vimes, praying that it did. “And I don’t reckon you want to be the dwarf who started the war.”

  The dwarf spoke to the dwarf beside him. A third dwarf joined them. Vimes couldn’t follow the hurried conversation, but right behind him Cheery whispered: “It’s a bit beyond him. He doesn’t want anything to happen to the Stone.”

  “Good.”

  The dwarf turned back to Vim
es.

  “What about the troll?”

  “Oh, Detritus will stay in the embassy,” said Vimes.

  This seemed to lighten the tone of the debate somewhat, but it still appeared to be heavy going.

  “What’s happening now?” whispered Vimes.

  “There’s no precedent for anything like this,” muttered Cheery. “You’re supposed to be an assassin, but you’ve come back to see the king and you’ve got the Scone—”

  “No precedent?” said Sybil. “Yes there bloody well is, pardon my Klatchian…”

  She took a deep breath, and began to sing.

  “Oh,” said Cheery, shocked.

  “What?” said Vimes.

  The dwarfs were staring at Lady Sybil as she changed up through the gears into full, operatic voice. For an amateur soprano she had an impressive delivery and range, a touch too wobbly for the professional stage but exactly the kind of high coloratura to impress the dwarfs.

  Snow slid off roofs. Icicles vibrated. Good grief, thought Vimes, impressed, with a spiky corset and a hat with wings on it she could be ferrying dead warriors off a battlefield…

  “It’s Ironhammer’s ‘Ransom’ song,” said Cheery. “Every dwarf knows it! Er, it doesn’t translate well, but…‘I come now to ransom my love, I bring a gift of great wealth, none but the king can have power over me now, standing in my way is against all the laws of the world, the value of truth is greater than gold’…er, there’s always been some debate about that last line, sir, but generally considered acceptable if it’s a really big truth—”

  Vimes looked at the dwarfs. They were fascinated, and one or two of them were mouthing along to the words.

  “Is it going to work?” he whispered.

  “It’s hard to think of a bigger precedent than this, sir. I mean…it’s the song of songs! The ultimate appeal! It’s built into dwarf law, almost! They can’t refuse. It’d be…not being a dwarf, sir!”

  As Vimes watched, one dwarf pulled a fine chain-mail handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose with a wet, jingling noise. Several others were in tears.

  When the last note died away there was silence, and then the sudden thunder of axes banging on shields.

  “It’s all right!” said Cheery. “They’re clapping!”