The Fifth Elephant d-24

by Terry Pratchett

  '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 2,000 lb.-draw crossbow as a hand weapon.

  'Days 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 dat, 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 armour, 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.[9]

  And, as a clan, Igors liked working for vampires. Vampires kept regular hours, were generally polite to their servants and, an important extra, didn't require much work in the bedmaking 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.'

  A dainty hand came out of the partly opened coffin and punched the air.

  'Yes!'

  'Yeth, ladythip.'

  'Vell, vell. Samuel Vimes. Poor devil. Do the doggies know?'

  Igor nodded. 'The Baron'th Igor wath altho collecting a methage, ladythip.'

  'And the dwarfs?'

  'It ith an official appointment, ladythip. Everyone knowth. Hith Grathe the Duke of Ankh, 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 press-ups in front of the fire.

  'So does the name Smith. What of it?'

  Wolf changed to the other hand, in mid-air. 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 silly little letters 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, heavy-set 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, moustache 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.

  'Guye, 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 afterwards. 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.

  'Guye! 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 soft-hearted— Guye! Don't you dare do that! If you're 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 on to 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 lolly nearing the last suck. He carried a black bowler hat th
e way 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 mush 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 backwards, mildly appalled at the upper class's habit of fruithurling.

  'Are you all right, sir? Mhm-mhm?'

  'Sorry about that,' said Vimes. 'I was carried away by fruit.'

  He laid aside his napkin and got up from 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 towards 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're 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. He makes rubber... things.'

  'Hang on, I remember seeing something once... Don't they make things by dipping them in the rubber? You make, 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.'

  'Nothing more about the Scone theft?'

  'Not really. Lots of accusations in the dwarf community, but no one really knows anything. Like you say, sir, we'll probably know more when it goes bad.'

  'Any word on the street?'

  'Yes, sir. It's "Halt", sir. Sergeant Colon painted it at the top of Lower Broadway. The carters are a lot more careful now. Of course, someone has to shovel the manure off every hour or so.'

  'This whole traffic thing is not making us very popular, captain.'

  'No, sir. But we aren't popular anyway. And at least it's bringing in money for the city treasury. Er... there is another thing, sir.'

  'Yes?'

  'Have you seen Sergeant Angua, sir?'

  'Me? No. I was expecting her to be here.' Then Vimes noticed just the very edge of concern in Carrot's voice. 'Something wrong?'

  'She didn't turn up for duty last night. It wasn't full moon, so it's a bit... odd. Nobby said she was rather concerned about something when they were on duty the other day.'

  Vimes nodded. Of course, most people were concerned about something if they were on duty with Nobby. They tended to look at clocks a lot.

  'Have you been to her lodgings?'

  'Her bed hadn't been slept in,' said Carrot. 'Or her basket, either,' he added.

  'Well, I can't help you there, Carrot. She's your girlfriend.'

  'She's been a bit worried about the future, I think,' said Carrot.

  'Um, you... she... the, er, werewolf thing?' Vimes stopped, acutely embarrassed.

  'It preys on her mind,' said Carrot.

  'Perhaps she's just gone somewhere to think about things.' Like how on earth could she go out with a young man who, magnificent though he was, blushed at the idea of a packet of Sonkies.

  'That's what I hope, sir,' Carrot said. 'She does that sometimes. It's really quite stressful, being a werewolf in a big city. I know we'd have heard if she'd run into any trouble—'
>
  There was the sound of a harness outside, and the rattle of a coach. Vimes was relieved. Seeing Carrot worried was so unusual that it had the shock of the unfamiliar.

  'Well, we'll have to go without her,' he said. 'I want to be kept in touch about everything, captain. A fake Scone going missing a week or two before a big dwarf coronation - that sounds like another shoe is about to drop and it might just hit me. And while you're about it, put the word out that I'm to be sent anything about Sonky, will you? I don't like mysteries. The clacks do a skeleton service as far as Uberwald now, don't they?'

  Carrot brightened up. 'It's wonderful, sir, isn't it? In a few months they say we'll be able to send messages all the way from Ankh-Morpork to Genua in less than a day!'

  'Yes indeed. I wonder if by then we'll have anything sensible to say to each other.'

  Lord Vetinari stood at his window watching the semaphore tower on the other side of the river. All eight of the big shutters facing him were blinking furiously - black, white, white, black, white...

  Information was flying into the air. Twenty miles behind him, on another tower in Sto Lat, someone was looking through a telescope and shouting out numbers.

  How quickly the future comes upon us, he thought.

  He always suspected the poetic description of Time like an ever-rolling stream. Time, in his experience, moved more like rocks... sliding, pressing, building up force underground and then, with one jerk that shakes the crockery, a whole field of turnips mysteriously slips sideways by six feet.

  Semaphore had been around for centuries, and everyone knew that knowledge had a value, and everyone knew that exporting goods was a way of making money. And then, suddenly, someone realized how much money you could make by exporting to Genua by tomorrow things known in Ankh-Morpork today. And some bright young man in the Street of Cunning Artificers had been unusually cunning.

  Knowledge, information, power, words... flying through the air, invisible...

  And suddenly the world was tap-dancing on quicksand.

  In that case, the prize went to the best dancer.

  Lord Vetinari turned away, took some papers from a desk drawer, walked to a wall, touched a certain area, and stepped quickly through the hidden door that noiselessly swung open.

  Beyond was a corridor, lit by borrowed light from high windows and paved with small flagstones. He walked forward, hesitated, said 'No, this is Tuesday,' and moved his descending foot so that it landed on a stone that in every respect appeared to be exactly the same as its fellows.[10]