The Fifth Elephant

by Terry Pratchett

  Instead, he sidled over to a female wolf who was watching the fire haughtily.

  “Yo, bitch,” he said.

  “Vot vas that?”

  Gaspode reconsidered his strategy.

  “Hi, foxy…er…wolf lady,” he tried.

  A certain lowering of the temperature suggested that this one hadn’t worked either.

  “’Ullo, miss,” he said, hopefully.

  Her muzzle turned to point at him. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Vot har you?” Ice slithered off every syllable.

  “Gaspode’s the name,” barked Gaspode, with insane cheerfulness. “’M a dog. That’s a kind of wolf, sort of thing. So…what’s your name, then?”

  “Go avay.”

  “No offense meant. ’Ere, I heard tell wolves mate for life, right?”

  “Vell?”

  “Wish I could.”

  Gaspode froze as the she-wolf’s muzzle snapped an inch from his nose.

  “Vere I come from, ve eat things like you,” she said.

  “Fair enough, fair enough,” muttered Gaspode, backing away. “I don’t know, you try to be friendly and this is what you get…”

  Nearer the fire, the humans were getting complicated. Gaspode slunk back and lay down.

  “You could have told me,” Carrot was saying.

  “It would’ve taken too long. You always want to understand things. Anyway, it’s none of your business. This is family.”

  Carrot waved a hand toward the wolf.

  “He’s a relative?” he said.

  “No. He’s a…friend.”

  Gaspode’s ears waggled. He thought: Whoops…

  “He’s very big for a wolf,” said Carrot slowly, as if filing new information.

  “He’s a very big wolf,” said Angua, shrugging.

  “Another werewolf?”

  “No.”

  “Just a wolf?”

  “Yes,” said Angua sarcastically, “just a wolf.”

  “And his name is…?”

  “He would not object to being called Gavin.”

  “Gavin?”

  “He once ate someone called Gavin.”

  “What, all of him?”

  “Of course not. Just enough to make certain that the man set no more wolf traps.” Angua smiled. “Gavin is…quite unusual.”

  Carrot looked at the wolf and smiled. He picked up a piece of wood and tossed it gently toward him. The wolf snapped it, doglike, out of the air.

  “I’m sure we will be friends,” he said.

  Angua sighed. “Wait.”

  Gaspode, the unheeded spectator, watched as Gavin, without taking his eyes off Carrot, very slowly bit the wood in two.

  “Carrot?” said Angua, sweetly. “Don’t do that again. Gavin isn’t even in the same clan as these wolves, and he took over the pack without anyone even whining. He’s not a dog. And he’s a killer, Carrot. Oh, don’t look like that. I don’t mean he pounces on wandering kids or eats up the odd grandmother. I mean that if he thinks a human ought to die, that human is dead. He will always, always fight. He’s very uncomplicated like that.”

  “He’s an old friend?” said Carrot.

  “Yes.”

  “A…friend.”

  “Yes.” Angua rolled her eyes and said, in a voice of singsong sarcasm, “I was out in the woods one day and I fell into some old pit trap under the snow and some wolves found me and would have killed me but Gavin turned up and faced them down. Don’t ask me why. People do things sometimes. So do wolves. End of story.”

  “Gaspode said wolves and werewolves didn’t get on,” said Carrot patiently.

  “He’s right. If Gavin wasn’t here they’d have torn me to pieces. I can look like a wolf, but I’m not a wolf. I’m a werewolf! I’m not a human, either. I’m a werewolf! Get it? You know some of the remarks people make? Well, wolves don’t make remarks. They go for the throat. Wolves have got a very good sense of smell. You can’t fool it. I can pass for human, but I can’t pass for wolf.”

  “I never thought of it like that…I mean, you would just think that wolves and werewolves—”

  “That’s how it is,” sighed Angua.

  “You said this was family,” said Carrot, as if working down a mental checklist.

  “I meant it’s personal. Gavin came all the way into Ankh-Morpork to warn me. He even slept on the timber wagons during the day so that he’d keep moving. Can you imagine how much nerve that took? It’s got nothing to do with the Watch. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  Carrot looked around. The snow was falling again, turning into rain above the fire.

  “I’m here now.”

  “Go away. Please. I can sort this out.”

  “And then you’ll come back to Ankh-Morpork? Afterward?”

  “I…” Angua hesitated.

  “I think I should stay,” said Carrot.

  “Look, the city needs you,” said Angua. “You know Vimes relies on—”

  “I’ve resigned.”

  For a moment, Gaspode thought he could hear the sound of every settling snowflake.

  “Not really?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did old Stoneface say?”

  “Er, nothing. He’d already left for Uberwald.”

  “Vimes is coming to Uberwald?”

  “Yes. For the coronation.”

  “He’s got mixed up in this?” said Angua.

  “Mixed up in what?”

  “Oh…my family’s been…stupid. I’m not quite sure I know everything, but the wolves are worried. When werewolves make trouble, it’s the real wolves that always suffer. People’ll kill anything with fur.” Angua stared at the fire for a moment and then said, with forced brightness, “So who’s been left in charge?”

  “I don’t know. Fred Colon’s got seniority.”

  “Ha, yes. In his nightmares.” Angua hesitated. “You really left?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  Gaspode listened to some more snowflakes.

  “Well, you won’t get far by yourselves now,” said Angua, standing up. “Rest for another hour. And then we’ll be going through the deep forest. Not too much snow there yet. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. I hope you can keep up.”

  At breakfast early next morning Vimes noticed that the other guests were keeping so far away from him that they were holding on to the walls.

  “The men who went out came back around midnight, sir,” said Cheery quietly.

  “Did they catch anyone?”

  “Um…sort of, sir. They found seven dead bodies.”

  “Seven?”

  “They think some others might have got away where there’s a path up the rocks.”

  “But…seven? Detritus got one, and…I got one, and a couple were wounded, and Inigo got…one…” Vimes’s voice tailed off.

  He stared at Inigo Skimmer, who was sitting on the other side of the room at a crowded public table. The ones around Vimes and Lady Sybil were deserted; Sybil had put it down to deference. The little man was eating soup in a little neat self-contained world among the waving arms and intrusive elbows. He’d even tucked a napkin under his chin.

  “They were…very dead, sir,” Cheery whispered.

  “Well, that was…interesting,” said Sybil, wiping her mouth delicately. “I’ve never had soup with sausages in it for breakfast before. What is it called, Cheery?”

  “Fatsup, Your Ladyship,” said Cheery. “It means ‘fat soup.’ We’re close to the Shmaltzberg fat layers now, and…well, it’s nourishing and keeps out the cold.”

  “How very…interesting.”

  Lady Sybil looked at her husband. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Inigo.

  The door opened and Detritus ducked inside, banging snow off his knuckles.

  “It’s not too bad,” he said. “Dey say it’d be a good idea to make an early start, sir.”

  “I bet they do,” said Vimes, and thought: They don’t want someone like me hanging around, there’s
no knowing who’ll die next.

  Several faces he vaguely recalled from last night were missing now. Presumably some travelers had started off even earlier, which meant that the news was probably running ahead of him. He’d staggered in, covered in blood and mud, carrying a crossbow and, d’you know, when they went back to look there were seven dead men. By the time that sort of story had gone ten miles he’d be carrying an ax as well, and make that thirty dead men and a dog.

  The diplomatic career had certainly got off to a good start, eh?

  As they got into the coach he saw the little dart stuck in the door jamb. It was metallic, with metal fins, and had overall a look of speed, as if, when you touched it, you’d burn your fingers.

  He walked around to the back of the coach. There was another, much larger arrow high in the woodwork.

  “They tried to catch up with you on the upgrade,” said Inigo, behind him.

  “You killed them.”

  “Some got away.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “I’ve only got one pair of hands, Your Grace.”

  Vimes glanced up at the inn sign. Crudely painted on the boards was a large red head, complete with trunk and tusks.

  “This is the Inn of the Fifth Elephant,” said Inigo. “You left the law behind when we passed Lancre, Your Grace. Here it’s the lore. What you keep is what you can. What’s yours is what you fight for. The fittest survive.”

  “Ankh-Morpork is pretty lawless, too, Mister Skimmer.”

  “Ankh-Morpork has many laws. It’s just that people don’t obey them. And that, Your Grace, is quite a different bowl of fat, mhm, mmm.”

  They set off in convoy. Detritus sat on the roof on the leading coach, which lacked a door and most of one side. The view was flat and white, a featureless expanse of snow.

  After a while they passed a clacks tower. Burn marks on one side of the stone base suggested that someone had thought that no news was good news, but the semaphore shutters were clacking and twinkling in the light.

  “The whole world is watching,” said Vimes.

  “But it’s never cared,” said Skimmer. “Up until now. And now it wants to rip the top off the country and take what’s underneath, mph, mhm.”

  Ah, thought Vimes, our killer clerk does have more than one emotion.

  “Ankh-Morpork has always tried to get on well with other nations,” said Sybil. “Well…these days, at least.”

  “I don’t think we exactly try, dear,” said Vimes. “It’s just that we found that—Why’re we stopping?”

  He pulled down the window.

  “What happening, Sergeant?”

  “Waiting for dese dwarfs, sir,” the troll called down.

  Several hundred dwarfs, four abreast, were trotting across the white plain toward them. There was, Vimes thought, something very determined about them.

  “Detritus?”

  “Yessir?”

  “Try not to look too troll-like, will you?

  “Tryin’ like hell, sir.”

  The column was abreast of them before someone barked the command to halt. A dwarf detached himself from the rest and walked over to the coach.

  “Ta’grdzk?” he bellowed.

  “Would you like me to take care of this, Your Grace?” said Inigo.

  “I’m the damn ambassador,” said Vimes. He stepped down.

  “Good morning, dwarf (indicating miscreant), I am Overseer Vimes of the Look.”

  Lady Sybil heard Inigo give a little groan.

  “Krz? Gr’dazak yad?”

  “Hang on, hang on, I know this one…I am sure you are a dwarf of no convictions. Let us shake our business, dwarf (indicating miscreant).”

  “Yes, that will just about do it, I think,” said Inigo. “Mmm, mhm.”

  The senior dwarf had gone red in those areas of his face that could be seen behind the hair. The rest of the squad were taking a renewed interest in the coach.

  The leader took a deep breath.

  “D’kraha?”

  Cheery dropped down from the coach. Her leather skirt flapped in the wind.

  As one dwarf, the column swiveled to stare at her. Their leader went pop-eyed.

  “B’dan? K’raa! D’kraga ‘ha’ak’!”

  Vimes saw the expression that appeared on Cheery’s small round face.

  Above him there was a clunk as Detritus rested the loaded Piecemaker on the edge of the coach.

  “I know dat word he said to her,” he announced to the world. “It is not a good word. I do not want to hear dat word again.”

  “Well, this is all very jolly, mph, mhm,” said Inigo, getting down. “And now if everyone will just relax for a moment we might get out of here alive, mmm.”

  Vimes reached up and carefully pushed the end of Detritus’s crossbow toward a less threatening direction.

  Inigo talked very fast in what seemed to Vimes to be a torrent of perfect Dwarfish, although he was sure he heard the occasional “mmm.” He opened his leather case and produced a couple of documents affixed with big waxy seals. These were inspected with considerable suspicion. The dwarf pointed at Cheery and Detritus. Inigo flapped a hand impatiently, the universal symbol for dismissing that which was not important. More papers were examined.

  Eventually, with more universal body language meaning “I could do something bad to you but right now it’s just too much bother” the dwarf waved Inigo away, gave Vimes a look that suggested that, against all physical evidence, Vimes was beneath him, and strode back to his troops.

  An order was barked. The dwarfs set off again, leaving the road and heading off toward the forest.

  “Well, that all seems sorted out,” said Inigo, getting back into the coach. “Miss Littlebottom was a bit of a sticking point, but a dwarf does respect very complicated documents. Something’s up. He wouldn’t say what it was. He wanted to search the coach.”

  “The hell with that. What for?”

  “Who knows? I persuaded him that we have diplomatic immunity.”

  “And what did you tell him about me?”

  “I tried to convince him that you were a bloody idiot, Your Grace. Mph, mhm.”

  “Oh really?” Vimes heard Lady Sybil repress a laugh.

  “It was necessary, believe me. Street Dwarfish wasn’t a good idea, Your Grace. But when I pointed out that you were an aristocrat, he—”

  “I am not an—well, I’m not really a—”

  “Yes, Your Grace. But if you’ll be advised by me, a lot of diplomacy lies in appearing to be a lot more stupid than you are. You’ve made a good start, Your Grace. And now, I think we’d better be moving, mhm.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re being less deferential, Inigo,” said Vimes, as they got under way again.

  “Oh well, Your Grace, I’ve gotten to know you better now.”

  Gaspode had confused recollections of the rest of that night. The pack moved fast, and he realized that most of them were running ahead of Carrot, to flatten down the snow.

  It wasn’t flat enough for Gaspode. Eventually a wolf picked him up by the scruff of the neck and carried him bodily, while making muffled comments about the foul taste.

  The snow stopped after a while and there was a slip of moonlight behind the clouds.

  And all around, near and far, was the howl. Occasionally the pack would stop, in a clearing or on the crisp white brow of a hill, and join in.

  Gaspode limped to Angua while the cries went up around them.

  “What’s this for?” he said.

  “Politics,” said Angua. “Negotiation. We’re crossing territories.”

  Gaspode glanced at Gavin. He hadn’t joined in the howl but sat a little way off, regally dividing his attention between Carrot and the pack.

  “He has to ask permission?” he said.

  “He has to make sure they’ll let me through.”

  “Oh. That’s giving him problems?”

  “None that he can’t bite through.”

  “Oh. Er…is the howl
saying anything about me?”

  “‘Small, horrible, smelly dog.’”

  “Ah, right.”

  They set off again a few minutes later, down a long snow-crusted slope in the moonlight toward the forest again, and Gaspode saw shadows angling fast across the snowfield toward them. For a moment he was flanked by two packs, the old and the new, and then their original escort dropped away.

  So we’ve got a new honor guard, he thought, as he ran in the center of a wall of blurred gray legs. Wolves we haven’t met before. I just hope the howl added “doesn’t taste nice.”

  Then Carrot fell over in the snow. It was a moment before he pushed himself up again.

  The wolves circled uncertainly, occasionally glancing at Gavin. Gaspode caught up with Carrot, jumping awkwardly through the snow.

  “You all right?”

  “Hard…to…run…”

  “I don’t want to, you know, worry you or anything,” whined Gaspode, “but we’re not exactly among friends here, know what I mean? Our Gavin isn’t going to win the prize of the wolf with the waggiest tail anywhere.”

  “When did he last sleep?” Angua demanded, pushing her way through the wolves.

  “Dunno, really,” said Gaspode. “We’ve been moving pretty fast the last few days…”

  “No sleep, no food and no proper clothing,” snarled Angua. “Idiot!”

  There was growling and whining from some of the wolves around Gavin. Gaspode sat down by Carrot’s head and watched as Angua…argued.

  He couldn’t speak pure wolf and, besides, gesture and body language played a far greater part than it did in canine. But you didn’t have to be bright to see that things weren’t going well. There was def’nitly a lot of Atmosphere in the atmosphere. And Gaspode had a feeling that, if things went all pear-shaped in a hurry, one small dog had all the survival chances of a chocolate kettle on a very hot stove.

  There was a lot of whining and growling. One wolf—Gaspode mentally named him Awkward—was not happy. It looked as though a number of wolves were agreeing with him. One of them bared its teeth at Angua.

  Then Gavin stood up. He shook some snowflakes off his coat, looked around in an offhand fashion, and padded toward Awkward.