The Fifth Elephant (19 page)

“Something wrong?” said Detritus.

Vimes sighed. What was the point? He’d spot it sooner or later.

“I’m sorry about this, Detritus,” he said, standing aside.

Detritus looked at the horrible trophy and nodded.

“Yeah, dere used to be a lot of dat sort of fing in der old days,” he said calmly, putting down the luggage. “Dey wouldn’t be de real diamond teef, o’course. Dey’d take dem out and put bigger glass ones in.”

“You don’t
mind
?” said Lady Sybil. “It’s a troll’s head! Someone actually mounted a troll’s head and put it on the wall!”

“Ain’t mine,” said Detritus.

“But it’s so
horrible
!”

Detritus stood in thought for a moment, and then opened the stained wooden box that contained all he had felt it necessary to bring.

“Dis is de old country, after all,” he said. “So if it’d made you feel better…”

He pulled out a smaller box and rummaged among what appeared to be bits of rock and cloth until he found something yellowy-brown and round, like a shallow cup.

“Should’ve bunged it away,” he said, “but it’s all I got to remember my old granny by. She kept fings in it.”

“It’s a bit of human skull, isn’t it,” said Vimes, at last.

“Yep.”

“Whose?”

“Anyone ask dat troll dere
his
name?” said Detritus, and the glint in his eye had a brittle edge to it for a moment. Then he carefully put the bowl away. “Tings were diff’rent in dem days. Now you don’t chop our heads off an’ we don’t make drums outa your skin. Everyt’ing is hunky-dory. Dat’s all we have to know.”

He picked up the boxes again and followed Lady Sybil toward the staircase. Vimes took another look at the trophy head. The teeth
were
longer, far longer than they’d be on a real troll. A hunter’d have to be very brave and very lucky to go up against a fighting troll and survive. It’d be so much easier to go after an old one and later replace the ground-down stumps with sparkly fangs.

My gods, the things we do…

“Igor?” he said, as the odd-job man lurched past under the weight of two more bags.

“Yeth, Your Exthelenthy?”

“I’m an Excellency?” said Vimes to Inigo.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And still My Grace as well?”

“Yes, Your Grace. You are His Grace His Excellency the Duke of Ankh-Morpork, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, Your Grace.”

“Hang on, hang on…His Grace cancels out the Sir, I know that. It’s like having an ace in poker.”

“Strictly speaking this is true, Your Grace, but great score is set by titles here and it is best to play with a full deck, mmm.”

“I was once blackboard monitor at school,” said Vimes sharply. “For a whole term. Would that help? Dame Venting said no one could clean a blackboard like me.”

“A useful fact, Your Grace, which may possibly be helpful in the event of a tie-breaker, mmm, mhm,” said Inigo, his face carefully blank.

“We Igorth have alwayth preferred ‘marthter,’” said Igor. “What wath it you were requiring?”

Vimes gestured toward the heads that covered every wall.

“I want them taken down as soon as possible. I can do this, can’t I, Mister Skimmer?”

“You are the ambassador, sir. Mmm, mmm.”

“Well, they’re coming down. All of them.”

Igor gave the camphor-smelling multitude a worried look.

“Even the thwordfith?”

“Even the swordfish,” said Vimes firmly.

“And the thnow leopardth?”

“Both of them, yes.”

“What about the troll?”

“
Especially
the troll. See to it.”

Igor could have been said to have looked as if his world had fallen down around his ears were it not for the fact that he
already
looked as if this had happened.

“What do you want to do with them, mathter?”

“That’s up to you. Throw them in the river, maybe. Ask Detritus about the troll…maybe it should be buried, or something. Is there any supper?”

“There’th walago,
*
noggi,
†
sclot,
‡
swinefletht and thauthageth,” said Igor, still clearly upset about the trophies. “I’ll thop tomorrow, if Her Ladythip giveth me inshtructionth.”

“Is swineflesh the same as pork?” said Vimes. People in drought-stricken areas would have paid good money to have Igor pronounce “sausages.”

“Yes,” said Inigo.

“And what’s in the sausages?”

“Er…meat?” said Igor, looking as though he was ready to run.

“Good. We’ll give them a try.”

Vimes went upstairs and followed the sound of conversation until he reached a bedroom, where Sybil was laying clothes on a bed the size of a small country. Cheery was assisting her.

The walls were carved panels of wood. The bed was carved panels of wood. The Mad Fretworker of Bonk had been hard at work here, too. Only the floors weren’t wood; they were stone, and radiated cold.

“It’s a bit like the inside of a cuckoo clock, isn’t it,” said Sybil. “Cheery has volunteered to be my lady’s maid for now.”

Cheery saluted.

“Why not?” said Vimes. After a day like this, a lady’s maid with a long flowing beard now seemed perfectly normal.

“The floors are a bit chilly, though. Tomorrow I shall measure up for some carpets,” said Sybil firmly. “I know we won’t be here long, but we ought to leave something for the next people.”

“Yes, dear. That would be a good idea.”

“There’s a bathroom through there,” said Sybil, nodding. “There’s hot springs near here, apparently. They pipe them in. You’ll feel better for a hot bath.”

Ten minutes later Vimes was happy to agree. The water was a funny color and smelled a little of what he would politely call bad eggs, but it was good and hot and he could feel it drawing the tension out of his muscles.

A distressing scent of secondhand baked beans sloshed around him as he lay back. At the other end of the huge bath, the lump of pumice stone that he’d been using to rasp the dead skin off his feet banged against the side. Vimes watched it, unseeing, while he filed the thoughts of the day.

Things
were
starting to smell, just like the bathwater. The Scone of Stone had been stolen, had it? Now
there
was a coincidence.

It had been a complete shot in the dark. But lately he was on the lucky side when it came to nocturnal targets. Someone had pinched the replica Scone, and now the
real
one had gone missing, and someone in Ankh-Morpork who was good at making rubber molds had been found dead. You didn’t need the brains of Detritus in a snowdrift to suspect a connection.

A recollection nagged at him. Someone had said something and he’d thought it odd at the time but then something else had happened and it had gone out of his mind. Something about…a welcome to Bonk. Only…

Well, he was here. No doubt about that.

Absolute confirmation of the fact was brought forth half an hour later, at supper.

Vimes cut into a sausage, and stared.

“What is
in
these? All this…pink stuff?” he demanded.

“Er…that’s the meat, Your Grace,” said Inigo, on the other side of the table.

“Well, where’s the texture? Where’s the white bits and the yellow bits and those green bits you always hope are herbs?”

“To a connoisseur here, Your Grace, an Ankh-Morpork sausage would not be considered a sausage, mph, mhm.”

“Oh really? So what would he call it?”

“A loaf, Your Grace. Or possibly a log. Here, a butcher can be hanged if his sausages are not all meat, and at that it must be from a named domesticated animal, and I perhaps should add that by name I mean that it should not have been called ‘Spot’ or ‘Ginger,’ mmm, mmm. I’m sure that if Your Grace would prefer the more genuine Ankh-Morpork taste, Igor could make up some side dishes of stale bread and sawdust.”

“Thank you for that patriotic comment,” said Vimes. “However, these are…okay, I suppose. They just came as a bit of a shock, that’s all. No!”

He put his hand over his mug to prevent Igor from filling it with beer.

“Ith there thomething wrong, marthter?”

“Just water, please,” said Vimes. “No beer.”

“The marthster doth not drink…beer?”

“No. And perhaps in a mug without a face on it?” He took another look at the stein. “Why’s it got a lid, by the way? Are you afraid of the rain getting in?”

“I’ve never been quite certain of that one,” said Inigo, as Igor shuffled off. “From observation, though, I believe the purpose of the stein is to stop the beer being spilled while using the mug to conduct the singing, mmm, mmm.”

“Ah, the old quaffing problem,” said Vimes. “What a clever idea.”

Sybil patted him on the knee.

“You’re not in Ankh-Morpork anymore, dear,” she said.

“Now we’re alone, Your Grace,” said Inigo, leaning closer, “I’m very worried about Mister Sleeps. The acting consul, you remember? He seems to have vanished, mmm, mmm. Some of his personal items have gone, too.”

“Holiday?”

“Not at a time like this, sir! And—”

There was a thud of wood against wood as Igor reentered, pointedly carrying a stepladder. Inigo sat back.

Vimes found that he was yawning.

“We’d better talk about that in the morning,” he said, as the ladder was dragged toward the horrible hunting trophies. “It’s been a long day, what with one thing and another.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The bed’s mattress was so soft that Vimes sank into it nervously, afraid it might close over the top of his head. That was just as well, because the pillow was…well, everyone
knew
a pillow was a sack full of feathers, didn’t they? Not an apprentice eiderdown like this thing.

“Just fold it up, Sam,” said Sybil, from the depths of the mattress. “G’night.”

“G’night.”

“Sam…?”

There was a snore from Sam Vimes. Sybil sighed, and turned over.

Vimes awoke a few times, when there were two thuds from downstairs.

“Snow leopards,” he muttered, and drifted away again.

There was a louder crash.

“Moose,” murmured Lady Sybil.

“Elk?” mumbled Vimes.

“Def’nitly moose.”

Some time later there was a muffled scream, a thud, and a sound very much like the sound made when a huge wooden ruler is held against a desk and twanged.

“Swordfish,” said Sam and Sybil together, and went back to sleep.

“You should present your credentials to the rulers of Bonk,” said Inigo in the morning.

Vimes was looking out of the window. Two guards in the rainbow-colored uniforms were standing stiffly to attention outside the embassy.

“What’re
they
doing here?” he said.

“Guarding,” said Inigo.

“Guarding who from what?”

“Just generally guarding, mmm. I suppose it’s thought that guards give such a
finished
look to an important building.”

“What was that you said about credentials?”

“They’re just formal letters from Lord Vetinari, confirming your appointment. Mph, mmm…the lore is a little complex, but at the moment the order of precedence is the future Low King, the Lady Margolotta and the Baron von Uberwald. Each, of course, will pretend that you are not calling on the other two. It’s called the Arrangement. It’s an awkward system but it keeps the peace.”

“If I understood your briefing,” said Vimes, still watching the guards, “in the days of Imperial Uberwald the whole bloody show was run by the werewolves and the vampires and everyone else was lunch.”

“Somewhat simplistic but broadly true, mmm,” said Inigo, brushing some dust off Vimes’s shoulder.

“And then it all broke up and the dwarfs became powerful because there’s dwarfs from one end of Uberwald to the other and they all keep in touch…”

“Their system certainly survives political upheaval, yes.”

“And then…what was it? A diet of beetles?”

“The Diet of Bugs, mmm. Diet being an Uberwaldean word for meeting, and Bugs being an important town further up river, famous for its pastries made from flax. Everyone came to an…arrangement. No one would wage war on any of the others, and everyone could live in peace. No garlic to be grown, no silver to be mined. And the werewolves and vampires promised that those things wouldn’t be needed. Mmm, mmm.”

“Seems a bit trusting,” said Vimes.

“It appears to have worked, mhm.”

“What did the humans think about it all?”

“Well, humans have always been a bit of background noise in the history of Uberwald, Your Grace.”

“It must be a bit dull for the undead, though.”

“Oh, the bright ones know the old days can’t come back.”

“Ah, well…that’s always the trick, isn’t it? Finding the bright ones?” Vimes put on his helmet. “And what’re the dwarfs like?”

“The future Low King is considered pretty clever, Your Grace. Mhm.”

“How does he stand on Ankh-Morpork?”

“He can take Ankh-Morpork or leave it alone, Your Grace. On balance, I believe he doesn’t much like us.”

“I thought it was Albrecht that didn’t like us?”

“No, Your Grace. Albrecht is the one who would be happy to see Ankh-Morpork burned to the ground. Rhys merely wishes we didn’t exist.”

“I thought he was one of the good guys!”

“Your Grace, I did hear you express some negative sentiments about Ankh-Morpork on the way here, mhm, mhm.”

“Yes, but I
live
there! I’m
allowed
to! That’s
patriotic
!”

“Across the whole of the world, Your Grace, there inexplicably appear to be definitions of, mmm, mhm, ‘good guy’ which do not automatically mean ‘likes Ankh-Morpork.’ You will find out, I daresay. The other two are a lot easier to deal with. It may have been the Lady Margolotta who tried the little trick with the guards last night. She was the one who got me to bring you back, anyway. She has invited you for drinks.”

“Oh.”

“She’s a vampire, mmm, mmm.”

“What?”

Inigo sighed.

“Your Grace, I thought you understood. Vampires are simply part of Uberwald. This is where they belong. I’m afraid this is something you will have to come to terms with. I understand that now they…obtain blood by arrangement. Some people are…impressed by a title, Your Grace.”