The Fifth Elephant (13 page)

Captain Colon almost swallowed his tongue.

“Minor matter, sah!” he managed.

“So…Sonky is alive?”

“Er…found dead, sah!”

“Murdered?”

“Sah!”

“Dear me. Many people would not consider that a minor matter, Acting Captain. Sonky, for one.”

“Well, sah, not everyone agrees with what he does, sah.”

“Are we by any chance talking about
Wallace
Sonky? The manufacturer of rubber goods?”

“Sah!”

“Boots and gloves seem noncontroversial to
me
, Acting Captain.”

“It’s…er…the other stuff, sah!” Colon coughed nervously. “He makes them rubber wallies, sah.”

“Ah. The preventatives.”

“Lot of people don’t agree with that sort of thing, sah.”

“So I understand.”

Colon drew himself up to attention again.

“Not natural, in my view, sah. Not in favor of unnatural things.”

Vetinari looked perplexed.

“You mean…you eat your meat raw and sleep in a tree?”

“Sah?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Someone in Uberwald seems to be taking an interest in him lately. And now he’s dead. I would not dream of telling the Watch their job, of course.”

He watched Colon carefully to see if this had sunk in.

“I said that it is entirely up to you to choose what to investigate in this bustling city,” he prompted.

Colon was lost in unfamiliar country without a map.

“Thank you, sah!” he barked.

Vetinari sighed. “And now, Acting Captain, I’m sure there’s much that needs your attention.”

“Sah! I’ve got plans to—”

“I meant, do not let me detain you.”

“Oh, that’s all right, sir, I’ve got plenty of time—”

“
Goodbye
, Acting Captain Colon.”

Out in the anteroom, Fred Colon stood very still for a while, until his heartbeat wound down from a whine to at least a purr.

It had, on the whole, gone quite well. Very well. Amazingly well, really. His Lordship had practically taken him into his confidence. He’d called him “a man to watch.”

Fred wondered why he’d been so scared of officering all these years. There was nothing to it, really, once you got the bull between your teeth. If only he’d started years ago! Of course, he wouldn’t hear a word said about Mr. Vimes, who should certainly be looking after himself in those dangerous foreign parts…but…well, Fred Colon had been a sergeant when Sam Vimes was a rookie, hadn’t he? It was only his nat’ral deference that’d held him back all these years. When Sam Vimes came back, and with the Patrician there to put in a good word for him, Fred Colon would definitely be on the promotion ladder.

Only to full captain, of course, he thought as he strutted down the stairs—with great care, because strutting is usually impossible while walking downward. He wouldn’t want to outrank Captain Carrot. That would be…wrong.

This fact shows that, however crazed with power someone may become, a tiny instinct for self-preservation always remains.

He got the chickens first, thought Gaspode, winding his way through the legs of the crowd. Amazin’.

They hadn’t stopped to eat them, though. Gaspode had been stuffed into the other saddlebag and would not like to have to go through ten miles like that again, especially so close to the smell of roast chicken.

It looked as though there was a market going on, and the wolf-baiting had been saved as a sort of closing ceremony. Hurdles had been arranged on a rough circle. Men were holding the collars of dogs—big, heavy, unpleasant looking dogs, which were already wild with excitement and deranged stupidity.

There was a coop by the hurdles. Gaspode made his way to it, and peered through the wooden bars at the heap of matted gray fur in the shadows.

“Looks like you’re in a spot of strife, friend,” he said.

Contrary to legend—and there are so many legends about wolves, although mostly they are legends about the way men think about wolves—a trapped wolf is more likely to whine and fawn than go wild with rage.

But this one must have felt it had nothing to lose. Foam-flecked jaws snapped at the bars.

“Where’s the rest of your pack, then?” said Gaspode.

“No pack, shorty!”

“Ah. A lone wolf, eh?” The worst kind, Gaspode thought.

“Roast chicken isn’t worth this,” he muttered. Out loud, he growled, “You seen any other wolves around here?”

“Yes!”

“Good. You want to get out of here alive?”

“I’ll kill them all!”

“Right, right…but there’s dozens of ’em, see. You won’t stand a chance. They’ll tear you to bits. Dogs’re a lot nastier than wolves.”

In the shade, the eyes narrowed.

“Why’re you telling me, dog?”

“’Cos I am here to help you, see? You do what I tell you, you could be out of here in half an hour. Otherwise you’re a rug on someone’s floor tomorrow. Your choice. O’course, there might not be enough of you left to make a rug.”

The wolf listened to the baying of the dogs. There was no mistaking their intent.

“What did you have in mind?” it said.

A few minutes later the crowd was gently nudged aside as Carrot edged his horse toward the pen. The hubbub died. A sword on a horse always commands respect; the rider is often a mere courtesy detail, but in this case it was not so. The Watch had put the final swell and polish on Carrot’s muscles.

And there was that faint smile. It was the sort you backed away from.

“Good day. Who is in charge here?” he said.

There was a certain amount of comparison of status, and a man cautiously raised his hand.

“I’m the deputy mayor, y’honor,” he said.

“And what is this event?”

“We’m about to bait a wolf, y’honor.”

“Really? I myself own a wolfhound of unusual strength and prowess. May I test it against the creature?”

There was more mumbling among the bystanders, the general consensus being: Why not? Anyway, there was that smile…

“Go ahead, y’honor,” said the deputy mayor.

Carrot stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled.

The townspeople watched in astonishment as Gaspode walked out from between their legs and sat down. Then the laughter started.

It died away after a while, because the faint smile didn’t.

“Is there a problem?” said Carrot.

“It’ll get torn limb from limb!”

“Well? Do you
care
what happens to a wolf?”

Laughter broke out again. The deputy mayor had a feeling he was being got at.

“It’s your dog, mister,” he said, shrugging.

The little dog barked.

“And to make it interesting, we’ll wager a pound of steak,” said Carrot.

The dog barked again.

“Two pounds of steak,” Carrot corrected himself.

“Oh, I reckon it’s going to be interesting enough as it is,” said the deputy mayor. The smile was beginning to prey on his nerves. “All right, boys—fetch the wolf!”

The creature was dragged into the ring of hurdles, slavering and snarling.

“No, don’t tie it up,” said Carrot, as a man went to wrap the halter around a post.

“It’ll get away if we don’t.”

“It won’t have a chance, believe me.”

They looked at the smile, dragged the muzzle from the wolf, and leapt to safety.

“Now, just in case you were havin’ second thoughts about our agreement,” said Gaspode to the wolf, “I suggest you look at the face of the bloke on the horse, right?”

The wolf glanced up. It saw the wolverine smile of the face of the rider.

Gaspode barked. The wolf yelped and rolled over.

The crowd waited. And then—

“Is that
it
?”

“Yes, that’s how it normally goes,” said Carrot. “It’s a special bark, you see. All the blood in the victim congeals in an instant, out of sheer terror.”

“It hasn’t even worried the body!”

“What,” said Carrot, “would be the point of that?”

He got down from the horse, pushed his way into the ring, picked up the body of the wolf and flung it across the saddle.

“It grunted! I heard it—” someone began.

“That was probably air being expressed from the corpse,” said Carrot. The smile still hadn’t gone, and at that point it suggested very subtly that Carrot had heard the last gasp of
hundreds
of corpses.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said a voice in the crowd. “Everyone knows that. And now what about the steak for the brave little doggie?”

The people looked around to see who had said this. None of them looked down, because dogs can’t talk.

“We can forgo the steak,” said Carrot, mounting up.

“No, w—No you can’t,” said the voice, “A deal’s a deal. Who was risking their life here, that’s what I’d like to know?”

“Come, Gaspode,” said Carrot.

Whining and grumbling, the little dog emerged from the crowd and trailed after the horse.

It wasn’t until they were at the edge of the town square that one of the people said “Oi, what the hell happened there?” and the spell broke. But by then both horse and dog were traveling really, really fast.

Vimes hated and despised the privileges of rank, but they had this to be said for them: At least they meant that you could hate and despise them in comfort.

Willikins would arrive at an inn an hour before Vimes’s coach and, with an arrogance that Vimes would never dare employ, take over several rooms and install Vimes’s own cook in the kitchen. Vimes complained about this to Inigo.

“But you see, Your Grace, you’re not here as an individual but as Ankh-Morpork. When people look at you, they
see
the city, mhm, mhm.”

“They do? Should I stop washing?”

“That is very droll, sir. But you see, sir, you and the city are one. Mhm, mhm. If you are insulted, Ankh-Morpork is insulted. If you befriend, Ankh-Morpork befriends.”

“Really? What happens when I go to the lavatory?”

“That’s up to you, sir. Mhm, mph.”

At breakfast next morning Vimes sliced the top off a boiled egg, thinking: This is Ankh-Morpork slicing the top off a boiled egg. If I cut my toast into soldiers, we’re probably at war.

Constable Littlebottom entered, carefully, and saluted.

“Your message came back, sir,” she said, handing him a scrap of paper. “From Sergeant Stronginthearm. I’ve deciphered it for you. Er…the Scone from the museum’s been found, sir.”

“Well, that’s the other shoe dropped,” said Vimes. “I was worried there for a moment.”

“Er, in fact Constable Shoe is bothered about it,” said Cheery. “It’s a bit hard to follow what he says, but he seems to think someone made a copy of it.”

“What, a fake of a fake? What good’s that?”

“I really couldn’t say, sir. Your other…surmise was correct.”

Vimes glanced at the paper.

“Hah. Thanks, Cheery. We’ll be down shortly.”

“You’re humming, Sam,” said Sybil, after a while. “That means that something awful is going to happen to somebody.”

“Wonderful thing, technology,” said Vimes, buttering a slice of toast. “I can see it has its uses.”

“And when you grin in that shiny sort of way it means that someone’s playing silly buggers and doesn’t know you’ve just thrown a six.”

“I don’t know what you mean, dear. It’s probably the country air agreeing with me.”

Lady Sybil put down her teacup.

“Sam?”

“Yes, dear?”

“This is probably not the best time to mention it, but you know I told you I went to see old Mrs. Content? Well, she says—”

There was another knock at the door. Lady Sybil sighed.

This time it was Inigo who entered.

“We should be leaving, Your Grace, if you don’t mind. I would like us to be at Slake by lunchtime and through the pass at Wilinus before dark, mhm, mhm.”

“Do we have to
rush
so?” sighed Sybil.

“The pass is…slightly dangerous,” said Inigo. “Somewhat lawless. Mhm, mhm.”

“Only somewhat?” said Vimes.

“I will just feel happier when it is behind us,” said Inigo. “It would be a good idea if the second coach follows us closely and your men stay alert, Your Grace.”

“They teach you tactics in Lord Vetinari’s political office, do they, Inigo?” said Vimes.

“Just common sense, mhm, mhm, sir.”

“Why don’t we wait until tomorrow before attempting the pass?”

“With respect, Your Grace, I suggest not. For one thing, the weather is worsening. And I’m sure we are being watched. We must demonstrate that there is no yellow in the Ankh-Morpork flag, mhm, mhm.”

“There is,” said Vimes. “It’s on the owl and the collars of the hippos.”

“I mean,” said Inigo, “that the colors of Ankh-Morpork do not run.”

“Only since we got the new dyes,” said Vimes. “All right, all right. I know what you mean. But, look, I’m not risking the servants if there’s any danger. And there’s to be no arguing, understand? They can stay here and take the mail coach tomorrow. No one attacks the mail coaches anymore.”

“I suggest Lady Sybil remains here, too, sir. Mhm.”

“Absolutely
not
,” said Sybil. “I wouldn’t hear of it! If it’s not too dangerous for Sam, it’s not too dangerous for me.”

“I wouldn’t argue with her, if I were you,” said Vimes to Inigo. “I really wouldn’t.”

The wolf was not very happy about being tethered to a tree but, as Gaspode said, never trust nobody.

They’d paused awhile in a wood about five miles from the town. It’d be a brief stop, Carrot had said. Some of the people in the square looked the sort who treasured their lack of a sense of humor.

After some barking and growling, Gaspode said: “You got to understand that matey here is pers’naly non gratis in local wolf society, being a bit of, ahaha, lone wolf…”

“Yes?” Carrot was taking the roast chickens out of their sack. Gaspode’s eyes fixed on them.

“But he hears the howlin’ at night.”

“Ah…wolves communicate?”

“Basic’ly your wolf howl is just another way of pissin’ against a tree to say it’s your damn tree, but there’s always bit of news, too. Something nasty’s happenin’ in Uberwald. He doesn’t know what.” Gaspode lowered his voice. “Between you and me, our friend here was well behind the door when the brains was handed out. If wolves was people, he’d be like Foul Ole Ron.”