The Fifth Elephant (9 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“Good day to you.”

When Carrot had gone Lord Vetinari got up and walked across to the other side of the room, where a map of Uberwald was unrolled on a table. It was quite old, but in recent years any mapmakers who had wandered off the beaten track in that country had spent all their time trying to find it again. There were a few rivers, their courses mostly guesswork, and the occasional town or at least the
name
of a town, probably put in to save the cartographer the embarrassment of filling his chart with, as they said in the trade,
MMBU
.
*

The door opened and Vetinari’s head clerk, Drumknott, eased his way in with the silence of a feather falling in a cathedral.

“A somewhat unexpected development, my lord,” he said quietly.

“An uncharacteristic one, certainly,” said Vetinari.

“Do you wish me to send a clacks to Vimes, sir? He could be back in a day or so.”

Vetinari was looking intently at the blind, blank map. It was, he felt, very much like the future; a few things were outlined, there were some rough guesses, but everything else was waiting to be created…

“Hmm?” he said.

“Do you wish me to recall Vimes, sir?”

“Good heavens, no. Vimes in Uberwald will be more amusing than an amorous armadillo in a bowling alley. And who else could I send? Only Vimes could go to Uberwald.”

“But surely this is an emergency, sir?”

“Hmm?”

“What else are we to call it, sir, when a young man of such promise throws away his career for the pursuit of a girl?”

The Patrician stroked his beard and smiled at something.

There was a line across the map: the progress of the semaphore towers. It was mathematically straight, a statement of intellect in the crowding darkness of miles and miles of bloody Uberwald.

“
Possibly
…a bonus,” he said. “Uberwald has much to teach us. Fetch me the papers on the werewolf clans, will you? Oh…and although I swore I would never ever do this…please prepare a message for Sergeant Colon, too. Promotion, alas, beckons.”

A grubby cloth cap lay on the pavement.

On the pavement beside the cap, someone had written in damp chalk:

Plese HelP This LiTTle doGGie

Beside it sat a small dog.

It was not cut out by nature to be a friendly little waggy-tailed dog, but was making the effort. Whenever someone walked by it sat up on its hind legs and whined pitifully.

Something landed in the cap. It was a washer.

The charitable pedestrian had gone only a few steps farther along the road when he heard: “And I hope your legs falls off, mister.”

He turned. The dog was watching him intently.

“Woof?” it said.

He looked puzzled, shrugged, and then turned and walked on.

“Yeah…bloody woof woof,” said the strange voice, as he was about to turn the corner.

A hand reached down and picked up the dog by the scruff of its neck.

“Hello, Gaspode. I believe I’ve solved a little mystery.”

“Oh
no
…” the dog moaned.

“That’s not being a good dog, Gaspode,” said Carrot, lifting the dog so they could meet eye to eye.

“All right, all right, put me down, will you? This hurts, you know.”

“I need your help, Gaspode.”

“Not me. I don’t help the Watch. Nothing personal, but it doesn’t do anything for my street cred.”

“I’m not talking about helping the Watch, Gaspode. This
is
personal. I need your nose.” Carrot lowered the dog to the pavement, and rubbed his hand on his shirt. “Unfortunately, this means I need the rest of you as well, although of course I am aware that under that itchy exterior beats a heart of gold.”

“Really,” said Gaspode. “
Nothing
good starts with ‘I need your help.’”

“It’s Angua.”

“Oh dear.”

“I want you to track her.”

“Huh, not many dogs could track a werewolf, mister. They’re
cunning.
”

“Always go to the best, I always say,” said Carrot.

“Finest nose known to man or beast,” said Gaspode, wrinkling it. “Where’s she gone, then?”

“To Uberwald, I think.”

Carrot moved fast. Gaspode’s flight was hindered by the hand gripping his tail.

“That’s hundreds of miles away! And dog miles is seven times longer! Not a chance!”

“Oh? All right, then. Silly of me to suggest it,” said Carrot, letting go. “You’re right. It’s ridiculous.”

Gaspode turned, suddenly full of suspicion.

“No, I didn’t say it was ridiculous,” he said. “I just said it was hundreds of miles away…”

“Yes, but you said you had no chance.”

“No, I
said
that you had no chance of getting
me
to do it.”

“Yes, but winter’s coming on and, as you say, a werewolf is very hard to track and on top of that Angua’s a copper. She’ll work out that I’d use you, so she’ll be covering her trail.”

Gaspode whined. “Look, mister, respect is hard to earn in this dog’s town. If I’m not smelled around the lampposts for a couple of weeks my stock is definitely in the gutter, right?”

“Yes, yes, I understand. I’ll make some other arrangements. Nervous Nigel’s still around, isn’t he?”

“What? That spaniel? He couldn’t smell his own bottom if you put it in front of him!”

“They say he’s pretty good, nasally.”

“And he widdles every time anyone looks at him!” snapped Gaspode.

“I heard he can smell a dead rat two miles away.”

“Yeah? Well, I can smell what
color
it is!”

Carrot sighed. “Well, I’ve got no choice, I’m afraid. You can’t do it, so I’ll—”

“I didn’t say—” Gaspode stopped, and then went on. “I’m going to do it, aren’t I? I’m bloody well going to do it. You’re going to trick me or blackmail me or whatever it takes, aren’t you…”

“Yes. How do you manage to write, Gaspode?”

“I holds the chalk in me mouth. Easy.”

“You’re a smart dog. I’ve always said so. The world’s only talking dog, too.”

“Lower your voice, lower your voice!” said Gaspode, looking around. “Here, Uberwald’s wolf country, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes.”

“I could’ve
bin
a wolf, you know. With diff’rent parents, of course.”

Gaspode sniffed, and looked furtively up and down the street again.

“Steak?”

“Every night.”

“Right.”

Sergeant Colon was a picture of misery, drawn on a lumpy pavement in bad crayon on a wet day. He sat on a chair and occasionally glanced at the message which had just been delivered, as if hoping that the words would somehow fade away.

“Bloody hell, Nobby,” he moaned.

“There, there, Fred…” said Nobby, currently a vision in organdy.

“I can’t be promoted! I’m not an officer! I am base, common and popular!”

“I’ve always said that about you, Fred. You got common off to a treat.”

“But it’s writ down, Nobby! Look, His Lordship’s signed it!”

“We-ell, the way I see it, you’ve got three choices,” said Nobby.

“Yeah?”

“You can go and tell him you’re not doing it…”

The panic in Colon’s face was replaced by glazed gray terror.

“Thank you very much, Nobby,” he said bitterly. “Let me know if you’ve got any more suggestions like that, ’cos I’ll need to go and change my underwear.”

“Or you could accept it and make such a screw-up of it that he takes it away from you…”

“You’re doing this on purpose, Nobby!”

“Might be worth a try, Fred.”

“Yeah, but the thing about screw-ups, Nobby, is that it’s hard for you to be, you know,
precise.
You might think you’re making a little screw-up and then it blows up in your face and it turns out to be in fact a big screw-up, and in those circumstances, Nobby, I’m sort of worried that what His Lordship might take away from me wouldn’t just be the job. I hope I don’t have to draw you a picture?”

“Good point, Fred.”

“What I’m saying is, screw-ups is like…well, screw-ups is…well, the thing about screw-ups is you never know what size they’re going to be.”

“Well, Fred, the
third
choice is you putting up with it.”

“That’s not helpful, Nobby.”

“It’ll only be for a couple of weeks, then Mister Vimes’ll be back.”

“Yeah, but supposing he isn’t? Nasty place, Uberwald. I heard where it’s a misery wrapped in an enema. That doesn’t sound too good. You can fall down things. Then I’m stuck, right? I don’t know how to
do
officering.”

“
No one
knows how to do officering, Fred. That’s why they’re officers. If they
knew
anything, they’d be sergeants.”

Now Colon’s face screwed up again in desperate thought. As a lifelong uniformed man, a three-striped peg that had found a three-striped hole very early in its career, he subscribed automatically and unthinkingly to the belief that officers as a class could not put their own trousers on without a map. He conscientiously excluded Vimes and Carrot from the list, automatically elevating them to the rank of honorary sergeant.

Nobby was watching him with an expression of combined concern, friendliness and predatory intent.

“What shall I
do
, Nobby?”

“Well, ‘Captain,’” said Nobby, and then he gave a little cough, “what officers
mainly
have to do, as you know, is sign things—”

The door was knocked on and opened at the same time, by a flustered constable.

“Sarge, Constable Shoe says he really
does
need an officer down at Sonky’s factory.”

“What, the rubber wally man?” said Colon. “Right. An officer. Right. We’ll be along.”

“And that’s
Captain
Colon,” said Nobby quickly.

“Er…er…yes, and that’s
Captain
Colon, thank you very much,” said Colon, adding as his resolve stiffened, “and I’ll thank you not to forget it!”

The constable stared at them, and then stopped trying to understand.

“And there’s a troll downstairs who insists on speaking to whoever’s in charge—”

“Can’t Stronginthearm deal with it?”

“Er…is Sergeant Stronginthearm still a sergeant?” said the constable.

“Yes!”

“Even unconscious?”

“What?”

“He’s flat on the floor right now, Sa—Captain.”

“What’s the troll want?”

“Right now he wants to kill someone, but mainly I think he wants someone to take the clamp off’f his foot.”

Gaspode ran up and down, nose barely an inch from the ground. Carrot waited, holding his horse. It was a good one. Carrot hadn’t spent a lot of his wages, up until now.

Finally the dog sat down and looked depressed.

“So tell me about this wonderful nose the Patrician has got, then,” he said.

“Not a trace?”

“You better get Vetinari down here, if he’s so good,” said Gaspode. “What’s the
point
of starting here? Worst place in the whole city! It’s the gate to the cattle market, am I right? Trying
not
to smell stuff is the trick here, is the point I’m makin’. There’s
ground-in
stink. If you wanted to get on the trail of somebody, this is the last place I’d start.”

“Very good point,” said Carrot, carefully. “So…what’s the strongest smell heading hubward?”

“Dung carts, o’course. Yesterday. Always a big clear-out of the pens first thing Friday morning.”

“You can follow the smell?”

Gaspode rolled his eyes. “With my head in a bucket.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

“So,” said Gaspode, as they began to leave the gate’s bustle behind, “We’re chasing this girl, right?”

“Yes.”

“Just you?”

“Yes.”

“Not like with dogs, then, where there might be twenty or thirty?”

“No.”

“So we’re not looking at a bucket of cold water here?”

“No.”

Constable Shoe saluted, but a little testily. He’d been waiting rather a long time.

“Afternoon, Sergeant—”

“That’s Captain,” said Captain Colon. “See the pip on my shoulder, Reg?”

Reg looked closely. “I thought it was bird doings, Sarge.”

“That’s Captain,” said Colon automatically. “It’s only chalk now because I ain’t got time to get it done properly,” he said, “So don’t be cheeky.”

“What’s up with Nobby?” said Reg. Corporal Nobbs was holding a damp cloth over one eye.

“Bit of a contry tomps with an illegally parked troll,” said Captain Colon.

“Shows what kind of troll
he
was, striking a lady,” muttered Nobby.

“But you ain’t a lady, Nobby. You’re just wearing your traffic-calming disguise.”

“He wasn’t to know.”

“You’d got your helmet on. Anyway, you shouldn’t have clamped him.”

“He
was
parked, Fred.”

“He’d been knocked down by a cart,” said Captain Colon. “And that’s Captain.”

“Well, they always have excuses,” said Nobby sullenly.

“You’d better show us the corpus, Reg,” said Colon.

The body in the cellar was duly inspected.

“…and I remember Cheery saying there was a smell of cat’s pee and sulfur at the Dwarf Bread Museum,” said Reg.

“Certainly hangs about,” said Colon. “You wouldn’t have blocked sinuses if you worked here for a day.”

“And I thought, ‘I wonder if someone’d tried to make a mold of the replica Stone,’ sir,” said Reg.

“Now that
is
clever,” said Fred Colon. “You’d get the real one back then, wouldn’t you?”

“Er…no, Sarge—Captain. But you’d get a copy of the replica.”

“Would that be legal?”

“Can’t say, sir. I wouldn’t think so. It wouldn’t fool a dwarf for five minutes.”

“Then who’d want to kill him?”

“A father of thirteen kids, maybe?” said Nobby. “Haha.”

“Nobby, will you stop pinching the merchandise?” said Colon. “And don’t argue, I just saw you put a couple of dozen in your handbag.”

“Dat don’t matter,” rumbled the troll. “Mister Sonky always said dey was free to the Watch.”

“That was very…civic of him,” said Captain Colon.