The Fifth Elephant

by Terry Pratchett

  Vimes held his gaze for a moment, and then patted him on the shoulder.

  “Hold on to that thought,” he said.

  A coach pulled to a halt beside him as he continued on his way. It slid to a stop so silently, not a jingle of harness, not a clop of horseshoe, that Vimes jumped sideways out of shock.

  The horses were black, with black plumes on their heads. The coach was a hearse, the traditional long glass windows now filled with smoked black glass. There was no driver; the reins were simply loosely knotted on a brass railing.

  A door swung open. A veiled figure leaned out.

  “Your Excellency? Do let me give you a lift back to the embassy. You look so tired.”

  “No, thank you,” said Vimes grimly.

  “I apologize for the emphasis on black,” said Lady Margolotta. “It is rather expected of one on these occasions, I’m afraid—”

  Vimes swung himself up and into the carriage with furious speed.

  “You tell me,” he growled, waving a finger under her nose, “how anyone can swim up a vertical waterfall? I was prepared to believe anything about that bastard, but even he couldn’t have managed that…”

  “Certainly that is a puzzle,” said the vampire calmly, as the driverless coach moved on. “Superhuman strength, possibly?”

  “And now he’s gone and that’s one up for the vampires, eh?”

  “I would like to think that it’s going to be a blessing for the whole country.” Lady Margolotta leaned back. Her rat with the bow around its neck watched Vimes suspiciously from its pink cushion. “Wolfgang was a sadistic murderer, a throwback who frightened even his own family. Delphine…sorry, Angua…will have some peace of mind. An intelligent young lady, I’ve always thought. Leaving here was the best thing she ever did. The darkness will be a little less frightening. The world will be a better place.”

  “And I’ve handed you Uberwald?”

  “Don’t be stupid. Uberwald is huge. This is one small part of it. And now it’s going to change. You have been a breath of fresh air.”

  Lady Margolotta drew a long holder from her bag and inserted a black cigarette. It lit itself.

  “Like you, I have found consolation in a…different vice,” she said. “Black Scopani. They grow the tobacco in total darkness. Do try some. You could waterproof roofs with it. I believe Igor makes cigars by rolling the leaves between his thighs.” She blew out a stream of smoke. “Or someone’s thighs, anyway. Of course, I am sorry for the baroness. It must be so hard for a werewolf, realizing that she’s raised a monster. As for the baron, give him a bone and he’s happy for hours.” Another stream of smoke. “Do look after Angua. Happy Families is not a popular game among the undead.”

  “You helped him come back! Just like you did for me!”

  “Oh, he’d have come back anyway, in time. Some time when you weren’t expecting him. He’d track Angua like a wolverine. Best that things ended today.” She gave him an appraising look through the smoke. “You’re good at anger, Your Grace. You save it up for when you need it.”

  “You couldn’t have known I’d beat him. You left me in the snow. I wasn’t even armed!”

  “Havelock Vetinari would not have sent a fool to Uberwald.” More smoke, which writhed in the air. “At least, not a stupid fool.”

  Vimes’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve met him, haven’t you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And taught him all he knows, right?”

  She blew smoke down her nostrils, and gave him a radiant smile.

  “I’m sorry? You think I taught him? My dear sir…As for what I’ve got out of all this…well, a little breathing space. A little influence. Politics is more interesting than blood, Your Grace. And much more fun. Beware the reformed vampire, sir—the craving for blood is only a craving, and with care it can be diverted along different channels. Ah, I believe we are here,” she added, although Vimes could have sworn that she hadn’t so much as glanced out of the window.

  The door opened.

  “If my Igor’s still there, do tell him I will see him Downtown. So nice to have met you. I’m sure we shall meet again. And do please present my fondest regards to Lord Vetinari.”

  The door shut behind Vimes. The coach moved off.

  He swore, under his breath.

  The hall was full of Igors. Several of them touched their forelocks, or at least the approximate line of stitch marks, when they saw him. All of them were carrying heavy metal containers of varying sizes, on which frost crystals were forming.

  “What’s this?” he said. “Igor’s funeral?” Then it sunk in. “Oh, my gods…with party loot bags? Everyone gets something to take home?”

  “You could say that, thir, you could put it that way,” said an Igor, as the rest filed past. “It may theem odd to you, but we think that putting bodieth in the ground ith rather gruethome. All thothe wormth and thingth.” He tapped the tin box under his arm. “Thith way, he’ll be mothtly up and about again in no time,” he added brightly.

  “Reincarnation on the installment plan, eh?” said Vimes weakly.

  “Motht amuthing, thir,” said the Igor gravely. “But it’th amathing what people need. Heartth, liverth, handth…we keep a litht, thir, of detherving catheth. By tonight there will be thome very lucky people in thethe parth—”

  “And these parts in some very lucky people?”

  “Well done, thur. I can thee you are a wit. And I’m sure one day thome poor thoul will have a really nathty brain injury, and,” he tapped the chilly box again, “what goeth around, cometh around.”

  He nodded at Cheery, and at Vimes.

  He limped off, but suddenly a very similar voice was behind Vimes. Another Igor came out of the kitchens, carrying a dusty black suit on a hanger and, in his other hand, a pair of boots.

  “A bit worn, but I darethay some poor thoul will be grateful,” he said. “Thorry we’re all ruthing off, thir. Tho much to do, you know how it ith.”

  “I can imagine,” said Vimes, and unfortunately he could. But, then, he thought: The ax of my grandfather, the king called it. You change things around, you replace every bit, but the ax survives. There will always be an Igor.

  “They’re really rather selfless people, sir,” said Cheery, when the last Igor had lurched off. “They do a lot of good work for people.”

  “I know, I know. But—”

  “Yes, sir. I know what you mean, sir. Everyone’s in the drawing room. Lady Sybil said you’d be back. She said anyone with that look in their eye comes back.”

  “We’re all going to the coronation. Might as well see this through. Is that what you’ll be wearing, Cheery?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But it’s just…ordinary dwarf clothes. Trousers and everything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But Sybil said you’d got a fetching little green number and a helmet with a feather in it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re free to wear whatever you want, you know that.”

  “Yes, sir. And then I thought about Dee. And I watched the king when he was talking to you, and…well, I can wear what I like, sir. That’s the point. I don’t have to wear that dress. I can wear what I like. I don’t have to wear something just because other people don’t want me to. Anyway, it made me look a rather stupid lettuce.”

  “That’s all a bit complicated for me, Cheery.”

  “It’s probably a dwarf thing, sir.”

  “And a female thing,” said Vimes.

  “Well, sir…yes. A dwarf thing and a female thing,” said Cheery. “And they don’t come much more complicated than that.”

  Vimes pushed open the doors to the drawing room.

  “It’s over,” he said, as they turned to look at him.

  “Did you hurt anyone else?” said Sybil.

  “Only Wolfgang.”

  “He’ll be back,” said Angua, flatly.

  “No.”

  “You killed him?”

  “No. I put him do
wn. I see you’re up, Captain.”

  Carrot got to his feet, awkwardly, and saluted.

  “Sorry I haven’t been much use, sir.”

  “You just chose the wrong time to fight fair. Are you well enough to come?”

  “Er…Angua and I want to stay here, if it’s all right with you, sir. We’ve got things to talk about.” Carrot looked down. “And…er…do,” he added.

  It was the first coronation Vimes had attended. He’d expected it to be…stranger, touched somehow by glory.

  Instead it was dull, but at least it was big dull, dullness distilled and honed and cultivated over thousands of years until it had developed an impressive shine, as even grime will if you polish it long enough. It was dullness hammered into the shape and form of ceremony.

  It had also been timed to test the capacity of the average bladder.

  A number of dwarfs read passages from ancient scrolls. There were what sounded like excerpts from the Koboldean Saga, and Vimes wondered desperately if they were in for another opera, but these were over after a mere hour. There were more readings by different dwarfs. At one point the king, who had been standing alone in the center of a circle of candlelight, was presented with a leather bag, a small mining ax, and a ruby. Vimes didn’t catch the meaning of any of this, but by the sounds behind him it was clear that each item was of huge and satisfying significance to the thousands who were standing behind him. Thousands? No, there must be tens of thousands, he thought. The bowl of the cavern was full of tier upon tier of dwarfs. Maybe a hundred thousand…

  …and he was in the front row. No one had said anything. The four of them had simply been led there and left, although the murmurings suggested that the presence of Detritus was causing considerable comment. Senior, long-bearded and richly clothed dwarfs were all around them, and the troll stood out like a tower.

  Someone was being taught something. Vimes wondered who the lesson was directed at.

  Finally, the Scone was brought in, small and dull and yet carried by twenty-four dwarfs on a large bier. It was laid, reverentially, on a stool.

  He could sense the change in the air of the huge cavern, and once again he thought: There’s no magic, you poor devils, there’s no history. I’ll bet my wages the damn thing was molded with rubber from a vat that had last been used in the preparation of Sonky’s Eversure Dependables, and there’s your holy relic for you…

  There were still more readings, much shorter this time.

  Then the dwarfs who had been participating in the endless and baffling hours withdrew from the center of the cavern, leaving the king looking as small and alone as the Scone itself.

  He stared around him and, although it was surely impossible for him to have seen Vimes among the thousands in the gloom, it did seem that his gaze rested on the Ankh-Morpork party for a fraction of a second.

  The king sat down.

  A sigh began. It grew louder and louder, a hurricane made up of the breath of a nation. It echoed back and forth among the rocks until it drowned out all other sounds.

  Vimes had half expected the Scone to explode, or crumble, or flash red-hot. Which was stupid, said a dwindling part of himself—it was a fake, a nonsense, something made in Ankh-Morpork for money, something that had already cost lives. It was not, it could not be real.

  But in the roaring air he knew that it was, in the minds of all who needed to believe, and in a belief so strong that fact was not the same as truth…he knew that for now, and yesterday, and tomorrow, it was both the thing, and the whole of the thing.

  Angua noticed that Carrot was walking better even as they reached the forest below the falls, and the shovel over his shoulder hardly burdened him at all.

  There were wolf prints all over the snow.

  “They won’t have stayed,” she said, as they walked between the trees. “They felt things keenly when he died but…wolves look to the future. They don’t try to remember things.”

  “They’re lucky,” said Carrot.

  “They’re realistic, it’s just that the future contains the next meal and the next danger. Is your arm all right?”

  “It feels as good as new.”

  They found the freezing mass of fur lying at the water’s edge. Carrot pulled it out of the water, scraped off the snow higher up the shingle, and started to dig.

  After a while he took off his shirt. The bruises were already fading.

  Angua sat and looked over the water, listening to the thud of the spade and the occasional grunt when Carrot hit a tree root. Then she heard the soft slither of something being pulled over snow, a pause, and then the sound of sand and stones being shoveled into a hole.

  “Do you want to say a few words?” said Carrot.

  “You heard the howl last night. That’s how wolves do it,” said Angua, still looking out across the water. “There aren’t any other words.”

  “Perhaps just a moment’s silence, then—”

  She spun round. “Carrot! Don’t you remember last night? Didn’t you wonder what I might become? Didn’t you worry about the future?”

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “It hasn’t happened yet. Shall we get back? It’ll be dark soon.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “I’d like you to come back to Ankh-Morpork.”

  “Why? There’s nothing for me there.”

  Carrot patted the soil over the grave.

  “Is there anything left for you here?” he said. “Besides, I—”

  Don’t you dare say the words, Angua thought. Not at a time like this.

  And then they both became aware of the wolves. They were creeping through the trees, darker shadows in the evening light.

  “They’re hunting,” said Angua, grabbing Carrot’s arm.

  “Oh, don’t worry. They don’t attack human beings for no reason.”

  “Carrot?”

  “Yes?” The wolves were closing in.

  “I’m not human!”

  “But last night—”

  “That was different. They remembered Gavin. Now I’m just a werewolf to them…”

  She watched him turn to look at the advancing wolves. The hairs were up on their backs. They were growling. They moved with the strange sidle of those whose hatred could just manage to overcome their fear. And at any moment that balance in one of them was going to tip all the way, and then it would be all over.

  There was a leap, and it was Carrot who made it. He grabbed the lead wolf by its neck and tail and held on as it struggled and snapped. Its frantic efforts to escape resulted only in it running in a circle with Carrot in the middle, the other wolves back away from the whirl of gray. Then, as it stumbled, he bit it on the back of the neck. It screamed.

  Carrot let go, and stood up. He looked at the circle of wolves. They shied away from his gaze.

  “Hmmm?” he said.

  The wolf on the ground whined, and got to its feet awkwardly.

  “Hmmm?”

  It tucked its tail between its legs and backed off, but it still seemed to be attached to Carrot by an invisible lead.

  “Angua?” said Carrot, still watching it carefully.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you speak wolf? I mean, in this shape?”

  “A bit. Look, how did you know what to do?”

  “Oh, I’ve watched animals,” said Carrot, as if that was an explanation. “Please tell them…tell them if they go away now, I won’t harm them.”

  She managed to bark out the words. It had all changed, in such a tiny handful of seconds. Now Carrot wrote the script.

  “And now tell them that although I’m going away, I may be back. What’s the name of this one?” He nodded at the cowering wolf.

  “That’s Eats Wrong Meat,” Angua whispered. “He was…he’s the leader now that Gavin’s gone.”

  “Then tell them that I’m quite happy that he should go on leading. Tell them all that.”

  They watched her intently. She knew what they were thinkin
g. He’d beaten the leader. It was all Sorted Out. Wolves did not have a lot of mental space for uncertainty. Doubt was a luxury for species that did not live one meal away from starvation. They still had a Gavin-shaped hole in their minds and Carrot had stepped into it. Of course, it wouldn’t last long. But it didn’t need to.

  He always, always finds a way in, she thought. He doesn’t think about it, he doesn’t plot, he simply slides in. I saved him because he couldn’t save himself, and Gavin saved him because…because…because he had some reason…and I’m almost, almost certain that Carrot doesn’t know how he manages to wrap the world around him. Almost certain. He’s good and kind and born to be a king of the ancient sort that wore oak leaves and ruled from a seat under a tree, and though he tries hard he never has a cynical thought.

  I’m almost certain.

  “Let’s go now,” said Carrot. “The coronation will be over soon, and I don’t want Mister Vimes to worry.”

  “Carrot! I’ve got to know something…”

  “Yes?”

  “That might happen to me. Have you ever thought about that? He was my brother, after all. Being two things at the same time, and never quite being one…we’re not the most stable of creatures…”

  “Gold and muck come out of the same shaft,” said Carrot.

  “That’s just a dwarf saying!”

  “It’s true, though. You’re not him.”

  “Well…if it happened…if it did…would you do what Vimes did? Carrot? Would it be you who picked up a weapon and came after me? I know you won’t lie. I’ve got to know. Would it be you?”

  A little snow slid down from the trees. The wolves watched. Carrot looked up for a moment, at the gray sky, and then nodded.

  “Yes.”

  She sighed.

  “Promise?” she said.

  Vimes was surprised at how quickly the coronation became a working day. There was a flourish of echoing horns, a general flow of the crowd and, gradually, a queue in front of the king.

  “They haven’t even given him time to get comfy!” said Lady Sybil, as they headed toward the exit.