The Fifth Elephant (11 page)

Vimes stared glumly out of the window.

There was another clacking tower on the horizon. They were putting them near the road, he recalled, even though that wasn’t the direct route. Only a fool would build them across the badlands. You had to remember, sometimes, that within a few hundred miles of Ankh-Morpork there were still trolls who hadn’t caught on to the fact that humans weren’t digestible. Besides, most of the settlements were near the road.

The new guild must be coining money. Even from here he could see the scaffolding, as workers feverishly attached still more gantries and paddles to the main tower. The whole thing would likely be matchsticks after the next hurricane, but by then the owners would probably have earned enough to build another five. Or fifty.

It had all happened so fast. Who’d have believed it? But all the components had been there for years. Semaphore was ancient—a century ago the Watch had used a few towers to relay messages to patrolling officers. And gargoyles had nothing to
do
all day but sit and watch things, and usually were too unimaginative to make mistakes.

What
had
happened was that people thought differently about news now. Once upon a time they’d have used something like this to relay information about troop movements and the death of kings. True, that was something that people need to know, but they didn’t need to know it every day. No, what they needed to know every day were things like
How much are cattle selling for in Ankh-Morpork today?
Because, if they weren’t fetching much, maybe it was better to drive them to Quirm instead. People needed to know these little things. Lots and lots of little things. Little things like
Did my ship get there safely?
That’s why the Guild was driving hell-bent across the mountains on to Genua, four thousand miles away. It took many months for a ship to round Cape Terror. How much, exactly, would a trader pay to know, within a day, when it had arrived? And how much the cargo was worth? Has it been sold? Is there credit to my name in Ankh-Morpork?

Coining money? Oh yes!

And it had caught on as fast as every other craze did in the big city. It seemed as though everybody who could put together a pole, a couple of gargoyles and some secondhand windmill machinery was in on the business. You couldn’t go out to dinner these days without seeing people nip out of the restaurant every five minutes to check that there weren’t any messages for them on the nearest pole. As for those who cut out the middleman and signaled directly to their friends across a crowded room, causing mild contusions to those nearby…

Vimes shook his head.
That
was messages without meaning: telepathy without brains.

But…it
had
been good, hadn’t it, last week? When Don’t Know Jack had pinched that silver in Sto Lat and then galloped at speed to the sanctuary of the Shades in Ankh-Morpork? And Sergeant Edge of the Sto Lat Watch, who’d trained under Vimes, had put a message on the clacks that arrived on Vimes’s desk more than an hour before Jack sauntered through the city gates and into the waiting embrace of Sergeant Detritus? Legally it had been a bit tricky, since the offense hadn’t been committed on Ankh-Morpork soil and a semaphore message did not, strictly speaking, come under the heading of ‘hot pursuit,’ but Jack had kindly solved that one by taking a wild swing at the troll, resulting in his arrest for Assault on a Watch Officer and treatment for a broken wrist…

There was a gentle snore from Lady Sybil. A marriage is always made up of two people who are prepared to swear that only the
other
one snores.

Inigo Skimmer was hunched in a corner, reading a book. Vimes watched him for some time.

“I’m just going up top for some air,” he said at last, opening the door. The clattering of the wheels filled the tiny, hot space, and dust blew in.

“Your Grace—” Inigo began, standing up. Vimes, already clambering up the side of the coach, stuck his head back in.

“You’re not making any friends with that attitude,” he said, and kicked the door shut with his foot.

Cheery and Detritus had made themselves comfortable on the roof. It was a lot less stuffy and at least there was a view, if vegetables were your idea of a panorama.

Vimes worked himself into a niche between two bundles and leaned toward Cheery.

“You know about the clacks, right?” he said.

“Well, sort of, sir…”

“Good.” Vimes passed her a piece of paper. “There’s bound to be a tower near where we stop tonight. Cipher this and send it to the Watch, will you? They ought to be able to turn it around in an hour, if they ask the right people. Tell them to try Washable Topsy, she does the laundry there. Or Gilbert Gilbert, he always seems to know what’s going on.”

Cheery read the message, and then stared at Vimes.

“Are you
sure
, sir?” she said.

“Maybe. Make sure you send the
description.
Names don’t mean much.”

“May I ask what makes you think—”

“His walk. And he didn’t catch an orange,” said Vimes. “Mhm. Mhm.”

Constable Visit was cleaning out the old pigeon loft when the message arrived on the clacks.

He had been spending more and more time with the pigeons these days. It wasn’t a popular job, so no one had tried to take it away from him, and at least up here the shouts and door-slammings were muffled.

The perches
gleamed.

Constable Visit enjoyed his job. He didn’t have many friends in the city. Truth to tell, he didn’t have many friends in the Watch, either. But at least there were people to talk to, and he was making headway with the religious instruction of the pigeons.

But now there was this…

It was addressed to Captain Carrot. That meant it probably ought to be delivered to Captain Colon now, and
personally
, because Captain Colon thought that people were spying on his messages sent via the suction tube.

Constable Visit had been fairly safe up until now. Omnians were good at not questioning orders, even ones that made no sense. Visit instinctively respected authority, no matter how crazy, because he’d been brought up properly. And he had plenty of time to keep his armor bright. Brightly polished armor had suddenly become very important in the Watch, for some reason.

Even so, going into Colon’s office needed all the courage that the legendary Bishop Horn had shown when entering the city of the Oolites, and everyone knew what
they
did to strangers.

Visit climbed down from the loft and made his nervous way to the main building, taking care to walk smartly.

The main office was more or less empty. There seemed to be fewer watchmen around these days. Usually people preferred to loaf indoors in this chilly weather, but suddenly everyone was keen to be out of Captain Colon’s view.

Visit went up to the office and knocked on the door.

He knocked again.

When there was no reply he pushed open the door, walked carefully over to the sparkling clean desk and went to tuck the flimsy message under the ink bottle in case it blew away—

“Aha!”

The ink soared up as Visit’s hand jerked. He had a vision of the blue-black shower passing his ear, and heard the
splat
as it hit something behind him.

He turned like an automaton, to see a Captain Colon who would have been white-faced if it weren’t for the ink.

“I
see
,” said Colon. “Assault on a superior officer, eh?”

“It was an accident, Captain!”

“Oh, was it? And why, pray, were you sneaking into my office?”

“I didn’t think you were in here, Captain!” Visit gabbled.

“Aha!”

“Sorry?”

“Sneaking a look at my private papers, eh?”

“No, Captain!” Visit rallied a little bit. “Why were you standing behind the door, Captain?”

“Oh? I’m not allowed to stand behind my own door, is that it?”

It was then that Constable Visit made his next mistake. He tried to smile.

“Well, it
is
a bit odd, sir—”

“Are you suggesting there is anything
odd
about me, Constable?” said Captain Colon. “Is there anything about me that you find
funny
?”

Visit stared at the mottled face, speckled with ink.

“Not a thing, sir.”

“You’ve been working acceptably, Constable,” said Colon, standing slightly too close to Visit, “and therefore I don’t intend to be harsh with you. No one could call me an unfair man. You is demoted to lance-constable, understand? Your pay will be adjusted and backdated to the beginning of the month.”

Visit saluted. It was probably the only way to get out of there alive. One of Colon’s eyes was twitching.

“However, you could redeem yourself,” said Colon, “if you was to tell me who has been stealing, I said
stealing
, the sugar lumps.”

“Sir?”

“I
knows
there was forty-three last night. I counted ’em very thoroughly. There’s forty-one this morning, Constable. And they’re
locked
in the cupboard. Can you explain that?”

If Visit had been suicidal and honest, he had said: Well, Captain, while of course I think you have many worthy qualities, I
have
known you to count your fingers twice and come up with different answers.

“Er…mice?” he said, weakly.

“Hah! Off you go, Lance-Constable, and just you think about what I said!”

When the dejected Visit had gone, Captain Colon sat down at his big, clean desk.

The little flickering part of his brain that was still sparking coherent thought through the fog of mind-numbing terror that filled Colon’s head was telling him that he was so far out of his depth that the fish had lights on their noses.

Yes
, he did have a clean desk. But that was because he was throwing all the paperwork away.

It wasn’t that he was illiterate, but Fred Colon did need a bit of a think and a run-up to tackle anything much longer than a list and he tended to get lost in any word that had more than three syllables. He was, in fact,
functionally
literate. That is, he thought of reading and writing like he thought about boots—you needed them, but they weren’t supposed to be fun, and you got suspicious about people who got a kick out of them.

Of course, Mr. Vimes had kept his desk piled high with paperwork, but it occurred to Colon that maybe Vimes and Carrot between them had developed a way of keeping just ahead of the piles, by knowing what was
important
and what wasn’t. To Colon, it was all gut-wrenchingly mysterious. There were complaints, and memos, and invitations, and letters requesting “a few minutes of your time” and forms to fill in, and reports to read, and sentences containing words like “iniquitous” and “immediate action” and they tottered in his mind like a great big wave, poised to fall on him.

The sane core of Colon was wondering if the purpose of officers wasn’t to stand between the sergeants and all this sh—this slush, so that they could get on with sergeanting.

Captain Colon took a deep, wobbly breath.

On the other hand, if people were nicking the sugar lumps, no wonder things weren’t working properly! Get the sugar lumps right, and everything else would work out!

That made sense!

He turned, and his eye caught the huge accusing heap of paperwork in the corner.

And the empty fireplace, too.

That was what officering was all about, wasn’t it? Making
decisions
!

Lance-Constable Visit walked dejectedly back down to the main office, which had filled up for a watch change.

Everyone was clustered around one of the desks on which lay, looking slightly muddy, the Scone of Stone.

“Constable Thighbiter found it in Zephire Street, just lying there,” said Sergeant Stronginthearm. “The thief must’ve gotten scared.”

“A long way from the museum, though,” said Reg Shoe. “Why lug it all the way across the city and leave it in a posh part of town where someone’s bound to trip over it?”

“Oh woe is me, for I am undone,” said Lance-Constable Visit, who felt he was playing a poor second fiddle to what he would call, if he had no use for his legs, a pagan image.

“Could be drafty,” said Corporal Nobbs, a man of little sympathy.

“I mean I have been reduced to Lance-Constable,” said Visit.

“What? Why?” said Sergeant Stronginthearm.

“I’m…not sure,” said Visit.

“That just about does it!” said the dwarf. “He sacked three of the officers up at Dolly Sisters yesterday. Well, I’m not waiting for it to happen to me. I’m off to Sto Lat. They’re always looking for trained watchmen. I’m a sergeant. I could name my price.”

“But, look, Vimesy used to say that sort of thing, too, I heard him,” said Nobby.

“Yeah, but that was different.”

“How?”

“
That
was Mister Vimes,” said Stronginthearm. “Remember that riot in Easy Street last year? Bloke came after me with a club when I was on the ground, and Mister Vimes caught it on his arm and punched the man right in the head.”

“Yeah,” said Constable Hacknee, another dwarf, “When your back’s against the wall, Mister Vimes is right behind you.”

“But old Fred…you all know old Fred Colon, boys,” Nobby wheedled, taking a kettle off the office stove and pouring the boiling water into a teapot. “He knows coppering inside and out.”

“His kind of coppering, yeah,” said Hacknee.

“I mean, he’s been a copper longer than anyone in the Watch,” said Nobby.

One of the dwarfs said something in Dwarfish. There were a few smiles from the shorter watchmen.

“What was that?” said Nobby.

“Well, roughly translated,” said Stronginthearm, “‘My bum has been a bum for a very long time but I don’t have to listen to anything it says.’”

“He fined me half a dollar for mumping,” said Hacknee. “Fred Colon! He practically goes on patrol with a shopping bag! And all I had was a free pint at the Bunch of Grapes
and
I found out that Posh Wally is suddenly flashing a lot of money lately. That’s worth knowing. I remember going out on patrol with Fred Colon when I started and you could practically see him tucking his napkin under his chin whenever we walked past a café. ‘Oh
no
, Sergeant Colon, wouldn’t
dream
of seeing you pay.’ They used to lay the table when they saw him turn the corner.”