The Fifth Elephant d-24

by Terry Pratchett

  Cheery saluted.

  'Why not?' said Vimes. After a day like this, a lady's maid with a long flowing beard seemed perfectly normal.

  'The floors are a bit chilly, though. Tomorrow I'll measure up for some carpets,' said Sybil firmly. 'I know we won't be here long, but we ought to leave something for the next people.'

  'Yes, dear. That would be a good idea.'

  'There's a bathroom through there,' said Sybil, nodding. 'There's hot springs near here, apparently. They pipe them in. You'll feel better for a hot bath.'

  Ten minutes later Vimes was happy to agree. The water was a funny colour and smelled a little of what he would politely call bad eggs, but it was good and hot and he could feel it drawing the tension out of his muscles.

  The distressing scent of second-hand baked beans sloshed around him as he lay back. At the other end of the huge bath the lump of pumice stone that he'd been using to rasp the dead skin off his feet banged against the side. Vimes watched it, unseeing, while he filed the thoughts of the day.

  Things were starting to smell, just like the bathwater. The Scone of Stone had been stolen, had it? Now there was a coincidence.

  It had been a complete shot in the dark. But lately he was on the lucky side when it came to nocturnal targets. Someone had pinched the replica Scone, and now the real one had gone missing, and someone in Ankh-Morpork who was good at making rubber moulds had been found dead. You didn't need the brains of Detritus in a snowdrift to suspect a connection.

  A recollection nagged at him. Someone had said something and he'd thought it odd at the time but then something else had happened and it had gone out of his mind. Something about... a welcome to Bonk. Only...

  Well, he was here. No doubt about that.

  Absolute confirmation of the fact was brought forth half an hour later, at supper.

  Vimes cut into a sausage and stared. 'What is in these? All this... pink stuff?' he demanded.

  'Er, that's meat, your grace,' said Inigo, on the other side of the table.

  'Well, where's the texture? Where's the white bits and the yellow bits and those green bits you always hope are herbs?'

  'To a connoisseur here, your grace, an Ankh-Morpork sausage would not be considered a sausage, mmph, mmhm.'

  'Oh, really? So what would he call it?'

  'A loaf, your grace. Or possibly a log. Here, a butcher can be hanged if his sausages are not all meat, and at that it must be from a named domesticated animal, and I perhaps should add that by named I do not mean that it should have been called "Spot" or "Ginger", mmm mmhm. I'm sure that if your grace would prefer the more genuine Ankh-Morpork taste, Igor could make up some side dishes of stale bread and sawdust.'

  'Thank you for that patriotic comment,' said Vimes. 'However, these are... Okay, I suppose. They just came as a bit of a shock, that's all. No!'

  He put his hand over his mug to prevent Igor from filling it with beer.

  'Ith there thomething wrong, marthter?'

  'Just water, please,' said Vimes. 'No beer.'

  'The marthter doth not drink... beer?'

  'No. And perhaps in a mug without a face on it?' He took another look at the stein. 'Why's it got a lid, by the way? Are you afraid of the rain getting in?'

  'I've never been quite certain of that one,' said Inigo, as Igor shuffled off. 'From observation, though, I believe the purpose of the stein is to stop the beer being spilled while using the mug to conduct the singing, mmm, mhm.'

  'Ah, the old quaffing problem,' said Vimes. 'What a clever idea.'

  Sybil patted him on the knee. 'You're not in Ankh-Morpork any more, dear,' she said.

  'Now we're alone; Your Grace,' said Inigo, leaning closer, 'I'm very worried about Mister Sleeps. The acting consul, you remember? He seems to have vanished, mmm, mhm. Some of his personal items have gone, too.'

  'Holiday?'

  'Not at a time like this, sir! And—'

  There was a thud of wood against wood as Igor re-entered, pointedly carrying a stepladder. Inigo sat back.

  Vimes found that he was yawning. 'We'd better talk about that in the morning,' he said, as the ladder was dragged towards the horrible hunting trophies. 'It's been a long day, what with one thing and another.'

  'Of course, your grace.'

  The bed's mattress was so soft that Vimes sank into it nervously, afraid it might close over the top of his head. That was just as well, because the pillow was... well, everyone knew a pillow was a sack full of feathers, didn't they? Not an apprentice eiderdown like this thing.

  'Just fold it up, Sam,' said Sybil, from the depths of the mattress. 'G'night.'

  'G'night.'

  'Sam... ?'

  There was a snore from Sam Vimes. Sybil sighed and turned over.

  Vimes awoke a few times, to the sound of thuds from downstairs.

  'Snow leopards,' he muttered, and drifted away again.

  There was a louder crash.

  'Moose,' murmured Lady Sybil.

  'Elk?' mumbled Vimes.

  'Def'nitely moose.'

  Some time later there was a muffled scream, a thud, and a sound very much like the sound made when a huge wooden ruler is held against a desk and twanged.

  'Swordfish,' said Sam and Sybil together, and went back to sleep.

  'You should present your credentials to the rulers of Bonk,' said Inigo in the morning.

  Vimes was looking out of the window. Two guards in the rainbow-coloured uniforms were standing stiffly to attention outside the embassy.

  'What're they doing here?' he said.

  'Guarding,' said Inigo.

  'Guarding who from what?'

  'Just generally guarding, mmph. I suppose it's thought that guards give such a finished look to an important building.'

  'What was that you said about credentials?'

  'They're just formal letters from Lord Vetinari, confirming your appointment. Mmph, mmm... the lore is a little complex, but at the moment the order of precedence is the future Low King, the Lady Margolotta and the Baron von Uberwald. Each, of course, will pretend that you are not calling on the other two. It's called the arrangement. It's an awkward system but it keeps the peace.'

  'If I understood your briefing,' said Vimes, still watching the guards, 'in the days of imperial Uberwald the whole bloody show was run by the werewolves and the vampires and everyone else was lunch.'

  'Somewhat simplistic but broadly true, mhm,' said Inigo, brushing some dust off Vimes's shoulder.

  'And then it all broke up and the dwarfs became powerful because there's dwarfs from one end of Uberwald to the other and they all keep in touch...'

  'Their system certainly survives political upheaval, yes.'

  'And then... what was it? A diet of beetles?'

  'The Diet of Bugs, mmm. "Diet" being an Uberwaldean word for "meeting", and Bugs being an important town further upriver, famous for its pastries made from flax. Everyone came to an... arrangement. No one would wage war on any of the others, and everyone could live in peace. No garlic to be grown, no silver to be mined. And the werewolves and vampires promised that those things wouldn't be needed. Mmm, mmm.'

  'Seems a bit trusting,' said Vimes.

  'It appears to have worked, mhm.'

  'What did the humans think about it all?'

  'Well, humans have always been a bit of background noise in the history of Uberwald, your grace.'

  'It must be a bit dull for the undead, though.'

  'Oh, the bright ones know the old days can't come back.'

  'Ah, well, that's always the trick, isn't it? Finding the bright ones?' Vimes put on his helmet. 'And what're the dwarfs like?'

  'The future Low King is considered pretty clever, your grace. Mhm.'

  'How does he stand on Ankh-Morpork?'

  'He can take Ankh-Morpork or leave it alone, your grace. On balance, I believe he doesn't much like us.'

  'I thought it was Albrecht who didn't like us?'

  'No, your grace. Albrecht is the one who would
be happy to see Ankh-Morpork burned to the ground. Rhys merely wishes we didn't exist.'

  'I thought he was one of the good guys!'

  'Your Grace, I did hear you express some negative sentiments about Ankh-Morpork on the way here, mhm, mhm.'

  'Yes, but I live there! I'm allowed to! That's patriotic!'

  'Across the whole of the world, your grace, there inexplicably appear to be definitions of, mmph, mmhm, "good guy" which do not automatically mean "likes Ankh-Morpork". You will find out, I daresay. The other two are a lot easier to deal with. It may have been the Lady Margolotta who tried the little trick with the guards last night. She was the one who got me to bring you back, anyway. She has invited you for drinks.'

  'Oh.'

  'She's a vampire, mmm, mmm.'

  'What?'

  Inigo sighed. 'Your grace, I thought you understood. Vampires are simply part of Uberwald. This is where they belong. I'm afraid this is something you will have to come to terms with. I understand that now they... obtain blood by arrangement. Some people are... impressed by a title, your grace.'

  'Good grief.'

  'Quite so. In any case, you will be safe. Remember your diplomatic immunity, mmm, mhm.'

  'I didn't quite see that working in the Wilinus Pass the other day.'

  'Oh, they were common bandits.'

  'Really? Has your man Sleeps turned up? Haven't you taken this to the Watch here?'

  'There's no Watch here, as you understand the term. You saw them. They're... gate guards, enforcers for the city rulers, mhm, mmm, not officers of the law. But enquiries are being made.'

  'Does Sybil come with me for this bit?' said Vimes, and thought: we were guards like that, not so long ago...

  'It is usually done by the new ambassador and his guards.'

  'Well, Detritus is staying here to keep an eye on her, all right? She said this morning she really thinks this place would be better for some decent carpet, and there's no stopping her when she's in a tape-measure mood. I'll take Cheery and one of the lads from outside, for the look of the thing. I assume you're coming?'

  'I won't be required, sir. Mmm. The new coachman knows the way. Morporkian is the diplomatic language, after all, and... I shall be making enquiries.'

  'Delicate ones?'

  'Indeed, your grace.'

  'If he's been killed won't that be an act of war?'

  'Yes and no, your grace.'

  'What? Sleeps was— is our man!'

  Inigo looked awkward. 'It would depend on... exactly where he was and what he was doing...'

  Vimes gave him a blank look, and then the penny dropped and operated his brain. 'Spying?'

  'Acquiring information. Everyone does it, mmm, mhm.'

  'Yes, but if you find a diplomat going too far you just send him home with a sharp note, don't you?'

  'Around the Circle Sea, your grace, that is the case. Here they may have a different approach.'

  'Something rather sharper than a note?'

  'Exactly. Mmm.'

  One of the guards was Captain Tantony. There was some minor difficulty, but the argument that, since he was guarding Vimes, he might as well be where Vimes was, eventually carried some weight. Tantony had the look of an agonizingly logical man.

  He kept giving Vimes curious looks as the coach rattled out of the town. Beside him sat Cheery with her legs dangling. Vimes noticed, although it was not the kind of thing he generally made a habit of noticing, that the shape of her breastplate had been subtly altered, probably by the same armourer that Angua went to, to indicate that the chest underneath it was not quite the same shape of chest that you got under the armour of, say, Corporal Nobbs, although of course probably no one had a chest the same shape as that of Corporal Nobbs.

  She was wearing her high-heeled iron boots, too.

  'Look, you don't have to come,' he said out loud.

  'Yes, I do.'

  'I mean I could go and get Detritus instead. Although I suppose there'd be even more upshot if I took a troll into a dwarf mine. I mean, rather than a... a...'

  'Girl,' said Cheery helpfully.

  'Er, yes.' Vimes felt the coach slow to a halt, even though they hadn't left the town yet, and he looked out.

  In front of them, across a small square, was a fort of sorts, but with much larger gates than you'd expect for its size. As Vimes stared at them they were swung open from within.

  Inside was a slope. All the fort consisted of were four walls around a large, sloping tunnel.

  'The dwarfs live underneath the town?' he said, as the light from outside was gradually replaced by the infrequent glow of torches. But they clearly showed the coach was rattling past a long, long line of stationary carts. The pools of light revealed horses, and drivers talking in groups.

  'Under quite a lot of Uberwald,' said Cheery. 'This is just the nearest entrance, sir. We'll probably have to stop in a minute because the horses don't like— Ah.'

  The coach stopped again, and the coachman banged on the side to indicate that this was the end of the line. The queue of carts wound off down another tunnel, but the coach had stopped in a small cave with a big door. A couple of dwarfs were waiting there. They had axes slung across their backs, although by dwarf standards this counted merely as 'politely dressed' rather than 'heavily armed'. Their attitude, however, was in the international language of people guarding gates everywhere. 'Commander Sam Vimes, Ankh-Morpork Ci— Ambassador from Ankh-Morpork,' said Vimes, handing one of them his papers. At least it was not hard to assume a lofty air with dwarfs.

  To his surprise, the document was read thoroughly, one dwarf looking over the other one's shoulder and pointing out interesting sub clauses. The official seal was carefully examined.

  One guard pointed to Cheery. 'Kra'k?'

  'My official guard,' said Vimes. 'Included in "associated members of staff" on page two,' he added helpfully.

  'Mhust searhch thy coash,' said the guard.

  'No. Diplomatic immunity,' said Vimes. 'Tell 'em, Cheery.'

  They listened to Cheery's urgent dwarfish. Then the other guard, whose face had indicated that there was something on his mind and it was jumping up and down, nudged his companion and pulled him aside.

  There was a torrent of whispers. Vimes couldn't understand, but he caught the word 'Wilinus'. And, shortly afterwards, the word 'hr grag', dwarfish for 'thirty'.

  'Oh gods,' he said. 'And a dog?'

  'Good guess, sir,' said Cheery.

  The document was handed back hurriedly. Vimes could read the body language, even written smaller than usual: there was probably an expensive problem here, so the guards were inclined to leave it to someone who earned more money than them.

  One of them pulled a bellrope by the door. After some time the door slid open, revealing a small room.

  'We have to go in, sir,' said Cheery.

  'But there's no other doors!'

  'It's all right, sir.'

  Vimes stepped inside. The dwarfs slid the door back, leaving them in the room, which was lit by a single candle.

  'Some kind of waiting room?' said Vimes.

  Somewhere far off something went clonk. The floor trembled for a moment and then Vimes had an uneasy sensation of movement.

  'The room moves?' he said.

  'Yes, sir. Several hundred feet down, probably. I think it's all done by counterweights.'

  They stood silently, unsure of what to say, as walls around them creaked and groaned. Then there was a rattle, a passing sensation of weight, and the room stopped moving.

  'Wherever we're headed, keep your ears open,' said Vimes. 'Something's going on, I can feel it.'

  The door slid back. Vimes looked out on to the night sky, underground. The stars were all around him... below him...

  'I think we went down too far,' he said. And then his brain made sense of what his eyes had seen. The moving room had brought them out somewhere on the side of a huge cave. He was looking at a thousand points of candlelight, spread out on the cavern floor and in
other galleries. Now that he could grasp the scale of things, he realized that many of them were moving.

  The air was full of one huge sound made up of thousands of voices, echoed and re-echoed. Occasionally a shout or a laugh would stand out, but mostly it was just an endless sea of sound, beating on the shores of the eardrum.

  'I thought you people lived in little mines,' said Vimes.

  'Well, I thought humans lived in little cottages, sir,' said Cheery, taking a candle from a large rack beside the door and lighting it. 'And then I saw Ankh-Morpork.'

  There was something recognizable about the way the lights were moving. A whole constellation of them was heading in towards one invisible wall, where reflected light now indicated, very faintly, the mouth of a large tunnel. In front of it was a row of lights.

  Think of it as a lot of people heading for something that one row of people was... guarding.

  'People down there aren't happy,' said Vimes. 'That looks like a mob to me. Look, you can tell by the way they move.'

  'Commander Vimes?'

  He turned. In the gloom he could make out several dwarfs, each with a candle fixed to his helmet. In front of them was, presumably, another dwarf.

  He'd seen dwarfs like this in Ankh-Morpork, but always scurrying away. This was a deep-down dwarf.

  The robe it was wearing was made of overlapping leather plates. Instead of the small round iron helmet which Vimes had always thought dwarfs were born with, it had a pointed leather hat with more leather flaps all round it. The one at the front had been tied up, to allow the wearer to look out at the world, or at least that part of it that was underground. The general effect was of a mobile cone.

  'Er, yes, that's me,' said Vimes.

  'Welcome to Schmaltzberg, your excellency. I am the King's jar'ahk'haga, which in your language you would call—'

  But Vimes's lips had been moving fast as he tried to translate.

  'Ideas... taster?' he said.

  'Hah! That would be a way of putting it, yes. My name is Dee. Would you care to follow me? This should not take long.'

  The figure swept away. One of the other dwarfs prodded Vimes very gently, indicating that he should follow.

  The sound from far below redoubled. Someone was yelling.

  'Is there a problem?' said Vimes, catching up with the fast-moving Dee.