The Fifth Elephant (17 page)

“
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.

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.”