The Fifth Elephant d-24

by Terry Pratchett

  'Well? Do you care what happens to a wolf?'

  Laughter broke out again. The deputy mayor had a feeling he was being got at.

  'It's your dog, mister,' he said, shrugging.

  The little dog barked.

  'And to make it interesting we'll wager a pound of steak,' said Carrot.

  The dog barked again.

  'Two pounds of steak,' Carrot corrected himself.

  'Oh, I reckon it's going to be interesting enough as it is,' said the deputy mayor. The smile was beginning to prey on his nerves. 'All right, boys, fetch the wolf!'

  The creature was dragged into the ring of hurdles, slavering and snarling.

  'No, don't tie it up,' said Carrot, as a man went to wrap the halter around a post.

  'It'll get away if we don't.'

  'It won't have a chance, believe me.'

  They looked at the smile, dragged the muzzle from the wolf and leapt to safety.

  'Now, just in case you were havin' second thoughts about our agreement,' said Gaspode to the wolf, 'I suggest you look at the face of the bloke on the horse, right?'

  The wolf glanced up. It saw the wolverine smile on the face of the rider.

  Gaspode barked. The wolf yelped and rolled over.

  The crowd waited. And then:

  'Is that it?'

  'Yes, that's how it normally goes,' said Carrot. 'It's a special bark, you see. All the blood in the victim congeals in an instant, out of sheer terror.'

  'It hasn't even worried the body!'

  'What,' said Carrot, 'would be the point of that?'

  He got down from the horse, pushed his way into the ring, picked up the body of the wolf and flung it across the saddle.

  'It grunted! I heard it—' someone began.

  'That was probably air being expressed from the corpse,' said Carrot. The smile still hadn't gone, and at that point it suggested very subtly that Carrot had heard the last gasp of hundreds of corpses.

  'Yeah, that's right,' said a voice in the crowd. 'Everyone knows that. And now what about the steak for the brave little doggie?'

  The people looked around to see who had said this. None of them looked down, because dogs can't talk.

  'We can forgo the steak,' said Carrot, mounting up.

  'No, w— No you can't,' said the voice. 'A deal's a deal. Who was risking their life here, that's what I'd like to know.'

  'Come, Gaspode,' said Carrot.

  Whining and grumbling, the little dog emerged from the crowd and trailed after the horse.

  It wasn't until they were at the edge of the town square that one of the people said, 'Oh, what the hell happened there?' and the spell broke. But by then both horse and dog were travelling really, really fast.

  Vimes hated and despised the privileges of rank, but they had this to be said for them: at least they meant that you could hate and despise them in comfort.

  Willikins would arrive at an inn an hour before Vimes's coach and, with an arrogance that Vimes would never dare employ, take over several rooms and install Vimes's own cook in the kitchen. Vimes complained about this to Inigo.

  'But you see, your grace, you're not here as an individual but as Ankh-Morpork. When people look at you, they see the city, mhm, mhm.'

  'They do? Should I stop washing?'

  'That is very droll, sir. But you see, sir, you and the city are one. Mhm, mhm. If you are insulted, Ankh-Morpork is insulted. If you befriend, Ankh-Morpork befriends.'

  'Really? What happens when I go to the lavatory?'

  'That's up to you, sir. Mmhm, mmph.'

  At breakfast next morning Vimes sliced the top off a boiled egg, thinking: this is Ankh-Morpork slicing the top off a boiled egg. If I cut my toast into soldiers we're probably at war.

  Corporal Littlebottom entered carefully and saluted.

  'Your message came back, sir,' she said, handing him a scrap of paper. 'From Sergeant Stronginthearm. I've deciphered it for you. Er... the Scone from the Museum's been found, sir.'

  'Well, that's the other shoe dropped,' said Vimes. 'I was worried there for a moment.'

  'Er, in fact Constable Shoe is bothered about it,' said Cheery. 'It's 'a bit hard to follow what he says, but he seems to think someone made a copy of it.'

  'What, a fake of a fake? What good's that?'

  'I really couldn't say, sir. Your other... surmise was correct.'

  Vimes glanced at the paper. 'Hah. Thanks, Cheery. We'll be down shortly.'

  'You're humming, Sam,' said Sybil, after a while. 'That means something awful is going to happen to somebody.'

  'Wonderful thing, technology,' said Vimes, buttering a slice of toast. 'I can see it has its uses.'

  'And when you grin in that shiny sort of way it means that someone's playing silly buggers and doesn't know you've just thrown a six.'

  'I don't know what you mean, dear. It's probably the country air agreeing with me.'

  Lady Sybil put down her teacup. 'Sam?'

  'Yes, dear?'

  'This is probably not the best time to mention it, but you know I told you I went to see old Mrs Content? Well, she says—'

  There was another knock at the door. Lady Sybil sighed.

  This time it was Inigo who entered.

  'We should be leaving, your grace, if you don't mind. I would like us to be at Slake by lunchtime and through the pass at Wilinus before dark, mhm, mhm.'

  'Do we have to rush so?' sighed Sybil.

  'The pass is... slightly dangerous,' said Inigo. 'Somewhat lawless. Mhm, mhm.'

  'Only somewhat?' said Vimes.

  'I will just feel happier when it is behind us,' said Inigo. 'It would be a good idea if the second coach follows, us closely and your men stay alert, your grace.'

  'They teach you tactics in Lord Vetinari's political office, do they, Inigo?' said Vimes.

  'Just common sense, mhm, mhm, sir.'

  'Why don't we wait until tomorrow before attempting the pass?'

  'With respect, your grace, I suggest not. For one thing, the weather is worsening. And I'm sure we're being watched. We must demonstrate that there is no yellow in the Ankh-Morpork flag, mhm, mhm.'

  'There is,' said Vimes. 'It's on the owl and the collars of the hippos.'

  'I mean,' said Inigo, 'that the colours of Ankh-Morpork do not run.'

  'Only since we got the new dyes,' said Vimes. 'All right, all right. I know what you mean. But, look, I'm not risking the servants if there's any danger. And there's to be no arguing, understand? They can stay here and take the mail coach tomorrow. No one attacks the mail coaches any more.'

  'I suggest Lady Sybil remains here too, sir. Mhm.'

  'Absolutely not,' said Sybil. 'I wouldn't hear of it! If it's not too dangerous for Sam, it's not too dangerous for me.'

  'I wouldn't argue with her if I was you,' said Vimes to Inigo. 'I really wouldn't.'

  The wolf was not very happy about being tethered to a tree but, as Gaspode said, never trust nobody.

  They'd paused a while in a wood about five miles from the town. It'd be a brief stop, Carrot had said. Some of the people in the square looked the sort who treasured their lack of a sense of humour.

  After some barking and growling Gaspode said, 'You got to understand that matey here is pers'nally non gratis in local wolf society, being a bit of, ahaha, lone wolf...'

  'Yes?' Carrot was taking the roast chickens out of their sack. Gaspode's eyes fixed on them.

  'But he hears the howlin' at night.'

  'Ah, wolves communicate?'

  'Basic'ly your wolf howl is just another way of pissin' against a tree to say it's your damn tree, but there's always bits of news, too. Something pasty's happenin' in Uberwald. He doesn't know what.' Gaspode lowered his voice. 'Between you and me, our friend here was well behind the door when the brains was handed out. If wolves was people, he'd be like Foul Ole Ron.'

  'What's his name?' said Carrot thoughtfully.

  Gaspode gave Carrot a Look. Who cared what a wolf was called?

&nb
sp; 'Wolf names is difficult,' he said. 'More like a description, see? It's not like callin' yourself Mr Snuggles or Bonzo, you understand...'

  'Yes, I know. So what is his name?'

  'You want to know what his name is, then?'

  'Yes, Gaspode.'

  'So, in fact, it's the name of this wolf you want to know?'

  'That is correct.'

  Gaspode shifted uneasily. 'Arsehole,' he said.

  'Oh.' To the dog's frank astonishment, Carrot blushed.

  'That's basic'ly a summary, but it's a pretty good translation,' he said. 'I wouldn't have mentioned it, but you did ask...'

  Gaspode stopped and whined for a moment, trying to convey the message that he was losing his voice due to lack of chicken.

  'Er, there's been a lot on the howl about Angua,' he went on, when Carrot seemed unable to take the hint. 'Er, they think she's bad news.'

  'Why? She's travelling as a wolf, after all.'

  'Wolves hate werewolves.'

  'What? That can't be right! When she's wolf-shaped she's just like a wolf!'

  'So? When she's human-shaped she's just like a human. And what's that got to do with anything? Humans don't like werewolves. Wolves don't like werewolves. People don't like wolves that can think like people, an' people don't like people who can act like wolves. Which just shows you that people are the same everywhere,' said Gaspode. He assessed this sentence and added, 'Even when they're wolves.'

  'I never thought of it like that.'

  'And she smells wrong. Wolves are very sensitive to that sort of thing.'

  'Tell me more about the howl.'

  'Oh, it's like the clacky thing. News gets spread for hundreds of miles.'

  'Do the howls... mention her... companion?'

  'No, If you like, I'll ask Ars—'

  'I'd prefer a different name, if it's all the same to you,' said Carrot. 'Words like that aren't clever.'

  Gaspode rolled his eyes. 'There's nothing wrong with the word among us pedestically gifted species,' he said. 'We're very smelloriented.' He sighed. 'How about "bum"? In the sense of, er, migratory worker? He's a freelance chicken-throttler, style of fing?'

  He turned to the wolf and spoke in canine. 'Now then, Bum, this human is insane and believe me I know a mad human when I see one. He's frothing at the mouth inside and he'll rip your hide off and nail it to a tree if you aren't straight with us, understand?'

  'What was that you just told him?' said Carrot.

  'Just explainin' we're friends,' said Gaspode. To the cowering wolf he barked: 'Okay, he's prob'ly going to do that anyway, but I can talk to him, so your only chance is to tell us everything—'

  'Know nothing!' the wolf whined. 'She was with a big he-wolf from Uberwald! From the Clan That Smells Like This!'

  Gaspode sniffed. 'He's a long way from home, then.'

  'He's a bad news wolf!'

  'Tell it there'll be roast chicken for its trouble,' said Carrot.

  Gaspode sighed. It was a hard life, being an interpreter.

  'All right,' he growled. 'I'll persuade him to untie you. It'll take some doing, mark you. If he offers you a chicken, don't take it 'cos it'll be poisoned. Humans, eh?'

  Carrot watched the wolf flee.

  'Odd,' he said. 'You've have thought it'd be hungry, wouldn't you?'

  Gaspode looked up from the roast chicken. 'Wolves, eh?' he said, indistinctly.

  That night, when they heard the wolves howling in the distant mountains, Gaspode picked up one solitary, lonely howl behind them.

  The towers followed them up into the mountains although, Vimes noticed, there were some differences in construction. Down on the plains they were more or less just a high wooden gantry with a shed at the bottom but here, although the design was the same, it was clearly temporary. Next to it men were at work on a heavy stone base - fortifications, he realized, which meant that he really was beyond the law. Of course, technically he'd been beyond his law since leaving Ankh-Morpork, but laws were where you could make it stick and these days a City Watch badge would at least earn respect, if not actual cooperation, everywhere on the plains. Up here, it was just an ugly brooch.

  Slake turned out to be a stone-walled coaching inn and not much else. It had, Vimes noticed, very heavy shutters on the window. It also had what he thought was a strange iron griddle over the fireplace until he recognized it for what it was, a sort of portcullis that could block off the chimney. This place expected to withstand the occasional siege that might include enemies who could fly.

  It was sleeting when they went out to the coaches.

  'A storm's closing in, mmm-mhm,' said Inigo. 'We shall have to hurry.'

  'Why?' said Sybil.

  'The pass will probably be closed for several days, Your Ladyship. If we wait, we may even miss the coronation. And... er... there may be slight bandit activity...'

  'Slight bandit activity?' said Vimes.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'You mean they wake up and decide to go back to bed? Or they just steal enough for a cup of coffee?'

  'Very droll, sir. They do, notoriously, take hostages—'

  'Bandits don't frighten me,' said Sybil.

  'If I may—' Inigo began.

  'Mister Skimmer,' said Lady Sybil, drawing herself up to her full width, 'I did in fact just tell you what we are going to do. See to it, please. There are servants at the consulate, aren't there?'

  'There is one, I believe—'

  'Then we shall happily make do as best we can. Won't we, Sam?'

  'Certainly, dear.'

  It was seriously snowing by the time they left, in great feather lumps which fell with a faint damp hiss, muffling all other sound. Vimes wouldn't have known that they'd reached the pass if the coaches hadn't stopped.

  'The coach with your... men on it should go in front,' said Inigo, as they stood in the snow beside the steaming horses. 'We should follow close behind. I'll ride with our driver, just in case.'

  'So that if we're attacked by anyone you can give them a potted summary of the political situation?' said Vimes. 'No, you will ride inside with the Lady Sybil, and I'll ride on the box. Got to protect the civilians, eh?'

  'Your Grace, I—'

  'However, your suggestion is appreciated,' Vimes went on. 'You get inside, Mister Skimmer.'

  The man opened his mouth. Vimes raised an eyebrow.

  'Very well, Your Grace, but it is extremely—'

  'Good man.'

  'I should like my leather case down from the roof, though.'

  'Certainly. A bit of fact-finding will take your mind off things.'

  Vimes walked forward to the other carriage, poked his head inside and said, 'We're going to be ambushed, lads.'

  'Dat's interestin',' said Detritus. He grunted slightly as he wound the windlass of his crossbow.

  'Oh,' said Cheery.

  'I don't think they'll try to kill us,' Vimes went on.

  'Does dat mean we don't try to kill dem?'

  'Use your own judgment.'

  Detritus sighted along a thick bundle of arrows. They were his idea. Since his giant crossbow was capable of sending an iron bolt through the gates of a city under siege, he had felt it rather a waste to use it on just one person, so he had adapted it to fire a sheaf of several dozen arrows all at once. The threads holding them together were supposed to snap under acceleration. They did so. Quite often the arrows also shattered in midair as they failed to withstand the enormous pressure.

  He called it the Piecemaker. He'd only tried it once, down at the butts; Vimes had seen a target vanish. So had the targets on either side of it, the earth bank behind it, and a spiraling cloud of feathers floating down had been all that remained of a couple of seagulls who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. In this instance, the wrong place had been vertically above Detritus.

  Now no other watchmen would go on patrol with the troll unless they could stay at least a hundred yards directly behind him. But the test had the desired effect, because some saw e
verything in Ankh-Morpork and news about the targets had got around. Now just the knowledge that Detritus was on his way cleared a street much faster than any weapon.

  'I got lots of judgment,' he said.

  'You be careful with that thing,' said Vimes. 'You could hurt someone.'

  The party started out again, through the swirls of snow. Vimes made himself comfortable among the luggage, lit a cigar, and then, when he was sure that the rattling of the coach would mask the sounds, rummaged farther under the tarpaulin and drew out Inigo's cheap, scarred leather case.

  From his pocket he took a small roll of black cloth, and unrolled it on his knee. Intricate little lockpicks glinted for a moment in the light of the coach lamps.

  A good copper has to be able to think like a criminal. Vimes was a very good copper.

  He was also a very alive copper and intended to remain that way. That was why, when the case's lock went click, he laid it down on the shaking roof with its lid opening away from him, and, leaning back, carefully lifted the lid with his boot.

  A long blade flicked out. It would have terminally ruined the digestion of a casual thief. Someone obviously expected very bad hotel security on this journey.

  Vimes carefully eased it back into its spring-loaded sheath, looked upon the contents of the case, smiled in a not very happy way, and carefully lifted out something that gleamed with the silvery light of carefully designed, beautifully engineered and very compact evil.

  He thought: Sometimes it would be nice to be wrong about people.

  Gaspode knew they were in the high foothills now. Places to buy food were getting scarce. However carefully Carrot knocked at the door of some isolated farmstead, he'd end up having to talk to people who were hiding under the bed. People here were not used to the idea of muscular men with swords who were actually anxious to buy things.

  In the end it generally worked out quicker to walk in, go through the contents of the pantry, and leave some money on the table for when the people came up out of the cellar.

  It had been two days since the last cottage, and there was so little there that Carrot, to Gaspode's disgust, had just left some money.

  The forest thickened. Alder became pine. There were snow showers every night. The stars were pinpoints of frost.