The Fifth Elephant

by Terry Pratchett

  Gaspode felt every hair on his body stand on end.

  The other wolves crouched back. Gavin ignored them. When he was a few feet away from Awkward, he put his head on one side and said “Hrurrrm?”

  It was almost a pleasant noise. But right down inside Gaspode’s bones it bounced a harmonic which said: At this point, we could go two ways. There is the easy way, and that is very easy.

  You’ll never know about the hard way.

  Awkward held eye contact for a while, and then looked down.

  Gavin snarled something. Half a dozen of the wolves, led by Angua, loped off toward the forest.

  They returned twenty minutes later. Angua was human again—at least, Gaspode corrected himself, human shaped—and the wolves were harnessed to a big dog sled.

  “Borrowed it from a man in the village over the hill,” she said, as it slid to a halt by Carrot.

  “Nice of him,” said Gaspode, and decided not to pursue the subject. “I’m surprised to see wolves in harness, though.”

  “Well, this was the easy way,” said Angua.

  It’s odd, Gaspode mused, as he lay in the sled alongside the slumbering Carrot. He was so int’rested when Bum talked about the howl and how it could send messages right up into the mountains. If I was a suspicious dog, I’d wonder if he knew that she’d come back for him if he was really in trouble, if he decided to gamble everything on it…

  He poked his head out from under the blanket. Snow stung his eyes. Running alongside the sled, only a few feet away from Carrot, and glowing silver in the moonlight, was Gavin.

  This is me, thought Gaspode, stuck between the humans and the wolves. It’s a dog’s life.

  This is the life, thought Acting Captain Colon. Hardly any paperwork was coming up here now, and by dint of much effort he’d entirely cleared the backlog. It was a lot quieter, too.

  When Vimes was here—and Fred Colon suddenly found himself thinking the word “Vimes” without prefixing it with the word “Mister”—the main office was full of so much noise and bustle you could hardly hear yourself speak. Completely inefficient, that was. How could anyone hope to get anything done?

  He counted the sugar again. Twenty-nine. But he’d had two in his tea, so that was all right. Toughness was paying off.

  Colon went and opened his door a fraction so that he could just see down into the office. It was amazing how you could catch them out that way.

  Quiet. And neat, too. Every desk was clear. Much better than the mess you used to get.

  He went back to the desk and counted the sugar lumps.

  There were twenty-seven.

  Ah-ha! Someone was trying to drive him mad. Well, two could play at that game.

  He counted the lumps again.

  There were twenty-six, and there was a knock at the door.

  This caused it to swing inward, and Colon to jump up in evil triumph.

  “Ah-ha! Burst in on me, eh?…oh…”

  The “oh” was because the knocker was Constable Dorfl, the golem. He was taller than the doorway and strong enough to tear a troll in half; he’d never done this, since he was an intensely moral being, but not even Colon was going to pick an argument with someone who had glowing red holes where his eyes should be. Ordinary golems would not harm a human because they had magic words in their head that ordered them not to. Dorfl had no magic words, but he didn’t harm people because he’d decided that it wasn’t moral. This left the worrying possibility that, given enough provocation, he might think again.

  Beside the golem was Constable Shoe, saluting smartly.

  “We’ve come to pick up the wages chitty, sir,” he said.

  “The what?”

  “The wages chitty, sir. The monthly chitty, sir. And then we take it to the palace and bring back the wages, sir.”

  “I don’t know anything about that!”

  “I put it on your desk yesterday, sir. Signed by Lord Vetinari, sir.”

  Colon couldn’t hide the flicker in his eyes. The black ash in the fireplace was, by now, overflowing.

  Shoe followed his gaze.

  “I haven’t seen any such thing,” said Colon, while the color drained from his face like a sucked popsicle.

  “I’m sure I did, sir,” said Constable Shoe. “I wouldn’t forget a thing like that, sir. In fact, I distinctly remember saying to Constable Visit, ‘Washpot, I’m just going to take this—’”

  “Look, you can see I’m a busy man!” snapped Colon. “Get one of the sergeants to sort it out!”

  “There’s no sergeants left except Sergeant Flint, sir, and he spends all his time going around asking people what he should be doing,” said Constable Shoe. “Anyway, sir, it’s the senior officer who must sign the chitty—”

  Colon stood up, leaning on his knuckles, and shouted, “Oh, I ‘must,’ must I? That’s a nerve and no mistake! ‘Must,’ eh? Most of you lot are lucky anyone even gives you a job! Bunch of zombies and loonies and lawn ornaments and rocks! I’ve had it up to here with you!”

  Shoe leaned back out of range of the spittle.

  “Then I am afraid I must take this up with the Guild of Watchmen, sir,” he said.

  “Guild of Watchmen? Hah! And since when has there been a Guild of Watchmen?”

  “Dunno. What’s the time now?” said Corporal Nobbs, ambling into the room. “Got to be a couple of hours, at least. Morning, Captain.”

  “What are you doing here, Nobby?”

  “That’s Mister Nobbs to you, Captain. And I’m president of the Guild of Watchmen, since you ask.”

  “There’s no such bloody thing!”

  “All legit, Captain. Registered at the Palace and everything. Amazin’ how people rushed to join, too.” He pulled his grubby notebook. “Got a few matters to take up with you, if you have a moment. Well, I say a few—”

  “I’m not putting up with this!” bellowed Colon, his face crimson. “This is high treason! You’re all sacked! You’re all—”

  “We’re all on strike,” said Nobby, calm in the face.

  “You can’t go on strike while I’m sacking you!”

  “Our strike headquarters are in the back room of the Bucket, on Gleam Street,” said Nobby.

  “Here, that’s my boozer! I forbid you to go on strike in my own pub!”

  “We shall be there when you wish to talk terms. Come, brothers. We are now officially in a dispute situation.”

  They marched out.

  “Don’t bother to come back!” Colon shouted after them.

  Bonk wasn’t what Vimes had expected. In fact he’d find it hard to say what he had expected, except that this wasn’t it.

  It occupied a narrow valley with a white-water river winding through it. There were city walls. They were not like those of Ankh-Morpork, which had become at first a barrier to expansion and then a source of masonry for it. These had an inside and an outside.

  There were castles on the hills. There were castles on most hills in these parts. And there were high gates across the road.

  Detritus thumped on the side of the coach. Vimes stuck his head out.

  “Dere’s guys in der road,” said the troll. “Dey got halibuts.”

  Vimes looked out of the windows. There were half a dozen guards, and they did indeed have halberds.

  “What are they after?” he said.

  “I expect they’ll also want to see our papers and make a search of the coaches,” said Inigo.

  “Papers are one thing,” said Vimes, getting out of the coach, “but no one is rummaging in our stuff. I know that trick. They’re not looking for anything, they just want to show us who’s boss. You come along and do the translating.” He added, “Don’t worry, I’ll be diplomatic.”

  The two men barring the way did have helmets and they were holding weapons, but their uniforms did not conform to normal uniformity. No guards, Vimes thought, should be dressed in red, blue and yellow. People would be able to see them coming. Vimes liked a uniform you could lurk in.

 
He pulled out his badge and held it up, advancing with an ingratiating smile.

  “Just repeat this, Mister Skimmer,” Vimes raised his voice. “Hello, fellow officer, as you can see I am Commander V—”

  A blade swung around. If Vimes hadn’t stopped, he’d have walked into it.

  Inigo stepped forward, leather case already open, one hand holding several impressive pieces of paper, mouth already framing some suitable sentences. A guard took one of the pieces of paper and stared at it.

  “This is a studied insult,” said Inigo, contriving to speak out of the corner of his mouth while maintaining a smile. “Someone wishes to see how you react, mmm, mhm.”

  “Them?”

  “No. We are being watched.”

  The paper was handed back. There was a terse conversation.

  “The captain of the guard says there are special circumstances and he will search the coaches,” said Inigo.

  “No,” said Vimes, taking in the expression on the captain’s white face. “I know when people are playing silly buggers, ’cos I’ve done it myself.”

  He pointed to the door of his coach.

  “See this?” he said. “Tell him this is an Ankh-Morpork crest. And this is an Ankh-Morpork coach, property of Ankh-Morpork. If they lay hands on it, that will constitute an act of war against Ankh-Morpork. Tell him that.”

  He saw the man lick his lips nervously as Inigo translated. Poor sod, he thought. He didn’t ask for this. He was probably expecting a quiet day on the gate. But someone gave him some orders.

  Inigo said, “He says he’s very sorry, but those are his instructions, and he quite understands if His Grace wishes to make a complaint at the highest level, mmm, mhm.”

  A guard turned the handle of the coach door. Vimes slammed it shut.

  “Tell him the war will start right now,” he said. “And then it’ll work its way up.”

  “Your Grace!”

  The guards looked at Detritus. It was quite hard to hold the Piecemaker nonchalantly, and he wasn’t even making the attempt.

  Vimes maintained eye contact with the captain of the guard. If the man had any sense, he’d realize that if Detritus fired the thing it’d kill them all, besides sending the coach backward at high speed.

  Please just let him have the sense to know when to fold, he prayed.

  Out of the corner of his ear, he could hear the guards whispering to one another. He caught the word “Wilinus.”

  The captain stepped back and saluted.

  “He apologizes for any inconvenience and hopes you will enjoy your stay in his beautiful city,” said Inigo. “He particularly hopes you will visit the Chocolate Museum in Prince Vodorny Square, where his sister works.”

  Vimes saluted.

  “Tell him I think he is an officer with a great future,” said Vimes. “A future which, I trust, is going to very soon include opening the damn gates.”

  The captain had nodded to the men before Inigo was halfway through the translation. Aha…

  “And ask him his name,” he said. The man was bright enough not to respond until this had been translated.

  “Captain Tantony,” Inigo said.

  “I shall remember it,” said Vimes. “Oh…and tell him he has a fly on his nose.”

  Tantony won a prize. His eyes barely flickered. Vimes grinned.

  As for the town itself…it was just a town. Roofs were steeper than in Ankh-Morpork, some maniac with a fretsaw had been allowed to amuse himself on the wooden architecture, and there was more paint than you saw back home. Not that this told you anything; many a rich man had become rich by, metaphorically, not painting his house.

  The coaches bowled over the cobbles. Not the right sort of cobbles, of course. Vimes knew that.

  The coach stopped again. Vimes stuck his head out of the window. Two rather scruffier guards had barred the road this time.

  “Ah, I recognize this one,” said Vimes grimly. “I reckon that this time we’ve just met Colonesque and Nobbski.”

  He stepped out and walked up to them.

  “Well?”

  The fatter of the two hesitated, and then held out his hand.

  “Pisspot,” he said.

  “Inigo?” said Vimes quietly, without turning his head.

  “Ah,” said Inigo, after some muttered exchanges. “Now the problem seems to be Sergeant Detritus. No trolls are allowed in this part of town during the hours of daylight, apparently, without a passport signed by their…owner. Uh…in Bonk the only trolls allowed are prisoners of war. They have to carry identification.”

  “Detritus is a citizen of Ankh-Morpork and my sergeant,” said Vimes.

  “However, he is a troll. Perhaps in the interests of diplomacy you could write a short—”

  “Do I need a pisspot?”

  “A passport…no, Your Grace.”

  “Then he doesn’t, either.”

  “Nevertheless, Your Grace—”

  “There is no nevertheless.”

  “But it may be advisable to—”

  “There’s no advisable, either.”

  A few other guards had drifted over. Vimes was aware of watching eyes.

  “He could be ejected by force,” said Inigo.

  “Now there’s an experiment I wouldn’t want to miss,” said Vimes.

  Detritus made a rumbling noise. “I don’t mind goin’ back if—”

  “Shut up, Sergeant. You’re a free troll. That’s an order.”

  Vimes permitted himself another brief scan of the growing, silent crowd. And he saw the fear in the eyes of the men with the halberds. They did not want to be doing this, any more than the captain had.

  “I’ll tell you what, Inigo,” he said, “tell the…guards that the Ambassador from Ankh-Morpork commends them for their diligence, congratulates them on their dress sense, and will see that their instruction is obeyed forthwith. That should do it, shouldn’t it?”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.”

  “And now turn the coach around, Detritus. Coming, Inigo?”

  Inigo’s expression changed rapidly.

  “We passed an inn about ten miles back,” Vimes went on. “Ought to make it by dark, do you think?”

  “But you can’t go, Your Grace!”

  Vimes turned, very slowly.

  “Would you repeat that, Mister Skimmer?”

  “I mean—”

  “We are leaving, Mister Skimmer. What you do, of course, is up to you.”

  He sat down inside the coach. Opposite him, Sybil made a fist and said “Well done!”

  “Sorry, dear,” said Vimes, as the coach turned. “It didn’t look like a very good inn.”

  “Serves them right, the little bullies,” said Sybil. “You showed them.”

  Vimes glanced out and saw, at the edge of the crowd, a black coach with dark windows. He could make out a figure in the gloom within. The luckless guards were looking at it, as if for instructions. It waved a gloved hand languidly.

  He started counting under his breath.

  After eleven seconds Inigo trotted alongside the coach and jumped onto the running board.

  “Your Grace, apparently the guards acted quite without authority and will be punished—”

  “No they didn’t. I was looking at ’em. They’d been given an order,” said Vimes.

  “Nevertheless, diplomatically it would be a good idea to accept the explan—”

  “So that the poor buggers can be hung up by their thumbs?” said Vimes. “No. Just you go back and tell whoever’s giving the orders that all our people can go anywhere they like in this city, d’you see, whatever shape they are.”

  “I don’t think you can actually demand that, sir—”

  “Those lads had old Burleigh and Stronginthearm weapons, Mister Skimmer. Made in Ankh-Morpork. So did the men on the gate. Trade, Mister Skimmer. Isn’t that part of what diplomacy is all about? You go back and talk to whoever’s in the black carriage, and then you’d better get them to lend you a horse, because I rec
kon we’ll have gone a little way by then.”

  “You could perhaps wait—”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  In fact the coach was outside the gates of the town before Skimmer caught it up again.

  “There will not be a problem with either of your requests,” he panted, and for a moment there appeared to be a touch of admiration in his expression.

  “Good man. Tell Detritus to turn around again, will you?”

  “You’re grinning, Sam,” said Sybil, as Vimes sat back.

  “I was just thinking that I could take to the diplomatic life,” said Vimes.

  “There is something else,” said Inigo, getting into the coach. “There’s some…historical artifact owned by the dwarfs, and there’s a rumor—”

  “How long ago was the Scone of Stone stolen?”

  Inigo’s mouth stayed open. Then he shut his mouth and his eyes narrowed.

  “How in the world did you know that, Your Grace? Mmm?”

  “By the pricking of my thumbs,” said Vimes, his face carefully blank. “I’ve got very odd thumbs, when it comes to pricking.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Dogs had a much easier sex life than humans, Gaspode decided. That was something to look forward to, if he ever managed to have one.

  It wasn’t going to start here, that was definite. The female wolves snapped at him if he came too close, and they weren’t just warnings, either. He was having to be very careful where he trod.

  The really odd thing about human sex, though, was the way it went on even when people were fully clothed and sitting on opposite sides of a fire. It was in the things they said and did not say, the way they looked at one another and looked away.

  The packs had changed again, overnight. The mountains were higher, the snow was crisper. Most of the wolves were sitting at some distance from the fire that Carrot had made—just enough distance, in fact, to establish that they were proud wild creatures that didn’t have to rely on this sort of thing but close enough to get the benefit.

  And then there was Gavin, sitting a little way off, turning to look from one to the other.

  “Gavin’s people hate my family,” Angua was saying. “I told you, it’s always wolves who suffer when werewolves get too powerful. Werewolves are smarter at escaping hunters. That’s why wolves much prefer vampires. Vampires leave them alone. Werewolves sometimes hunt wolves.”