The Fifth Elephant Page 9

“Pond,” he said. “Not very big. ’Bout a mile away.”

  “She’ll be heading toward it. Very meticulous about cleanliness, Angua. That’s not usual in werewolves.”

  “Never been one for water myself,” said Gaspode.

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Here, no need for that! I had a B…A…T…H once, you know, it’s not as if I don’t know what it’s like.”

  The pond was in a clump of windblown trees. Dry grass rustled in the breeze. A single coot scuttled into the reeds as Carrot and Gaspode approached.

  “Yeah, here we are,” said Gaspode. “A lot of muck goes in, and…” He sniffed at the stirred-up mud. “Er…yeah, she comes out. Um.”

  “Is there a problem?” said Carrot.

  “What? Oh, no. Clear scent. Headin’ for the mountains, just like you said. Um.” Gaspode sat down and scratched himself with a hind leg.

  “There is a problem, isn’t there…” said Carrot.

  “Well…supposin’ there was something really bad that you wouldn’t really want to know, and I knew what it was…how’d you feel about me tellin’ you? I mean, some people’d rather not know. It’s a pers’nal thing.”

  “Gaspode!”

  “She’s not alone. There’s another wolf.”

  “Ah.”

  Carrot’s mild, uninformative smile did not change.

  “Er…of the male persuasion,” said Gaspode. “A boy wolf. Er. Very much so.”

  “Thank you, Gaspode.”

  “Extremely male. Um. In a very def’nite way. Unmistakably.”

  “Yes, I think I understand.”

  “And this is just Words. In Smell, it’s a lot more, well, emphatic.”

  “Thank you for that, Gaspode. And they’re heading…”

  “Still straight for the mountains, boss,” said Gaspode, as kindly as he could. He wasn’t certain of the details of human sexual relationships, and the ones he was certain of he still couldn’t quite believe, but he knew that they were a lot more complicated than those enjoyed by the doggy fraternity.

  “This smell…”

  “The extremely male one I was talkin’ about?”

  “The very one, yes,” said Carrot levelly. “You could still smell it if you were on the horse, could you?”

  “I could smell it with my nose in a sack of onions.”

  “Good. Because I think we should move a little faster now…”

  “Yes, I thought you’d think that.”

  Constable Visit saluted when Nobby and Colon entered Pseudopolis Yard.

  “I thought you ought to know about this right away, sir,” he said, flourishing a square of paper. “I just got it off Ronald.”

  “Who?”

  “The imp on the bridge, sir. He paints pictures of carts going too fast? No one had been feeding him,” Visit added, in a mildly accusing tone.

  “Oh. Someone speeding,” said Colon. “So?” He looked again. “That’s one of those sedan chairs the deep-down dwarfs use, isn’t it? Them trolls must’ve been moving!”

  “It was just after the Scone was stolen,” said Visit. “Ronald writes the time in the corner, see? A bit odd, I thought. Like a kind of getaway vehicle, sir?”

  “What’d a dwarf want to steal a worthless lump of rock for?” said Colon. “Especially them dark dwarfs. They give me the creeps in those stupid clothes they wear.”

  Angry silence rang like a dropped girder in a temple. There were three dwarfs in the room.

  “You two! You ought to be out on patrol!” barked Sergeant Stronginthearm. “I’ve got business down at Chitterling Street!”

  All three dwarfs marched out, somehow contriving even to walk angrily.

  “Well, what was that about?” said Fred Colon. “Bit touchy, aren’t they? Mister Vimes says that sort of thing all the time and no one minds.”

  “Yes, but that’s because he’s Sam Vimes,” said Nobby.

  “Oh? And are you inferring I’m not?” said Captain Colon.

  “Well…yes, Fred. You’re Fred Colon,” said Nobby patiently.

  “Oh, I am, am I?”

  “Yes, Captain Colon.”

  “And they’d better bloody remember it!” Colon snapped. “I’m not a soft touch, me. I’m not going to take insubordination like that! I’ve always said Vimes was a bit too soft on those dwarfs! They gets the same pay as us and they’re only half the size!”

  “Yes, yes,” said Nobby, waving his hands placatingly in a desperate attempt to calm things down, “But, Fred, trolls are twice as big as us and they get paid the same, so it—”

  “But they’ve only got a quarter of the brains, so it’s just the same like I said—”

  The noise they heard was long and drawn out and menacing. It was the sound of Lance-Constable Bluejohn’s chair being pushed back.

  The floor creaked as he shambled past Colon, removed his helmet from its peg with one enormous hand, and headed for the door.

  “’M goin’ on patrol,” he mumbled.

  “You’re not on patrol for another hour,” said Constable Visit.

  “’M goin’ now,” said Bluejohn. The room was darkened for a moment as he eclipsed the doorway, and then he was gone.

  “Why’s everyone so tetchy all of a sudden?” said Colon. The remaining constables tried not to catch his eye.

  “Did I hear someone snigger?” he demanded.

  “I didn’t hear anyone snigger, Sarge,” said Nobby.

  “Oh? Oh? You think I’m a sergeant, do you, Corporal Nobbs?”

  “No, Fred, I—oh gawds…”

  “I can see things have got pretty slack around here,” said Captain Colon, an evil little gleam in his eye. “I bet you were all thinking, oh, it’s only fat old Fred Colon, it’s all going to be gravy from now on, eh?”

  “Oh, Fred, no one thinks you’re old—oh gawds…”

  “Just fat, eh?” Fred glowered around the room. Suddenly, and against all previous evidence, everyone was vitally interested in their paperwork.

  “Right! Well, from now on things are going to be different,” said Captain Colon. “Oh yes. I’m up to all your little tricks—who said that?”

  “Said what, Captain?” said Nobby, who’d also heard the little whispered “We learned ’em all from you, Sarge” but at this moment would eat live coals rather than admit it.

  “Someone said something blotto voice,” said Captain Colon.

  “I’m sure they didn’t, Captain,” said Nobby.

  “And I won’t be eyeballed like that, neither!”

  “No one’s looking at you!” wailed Nobby.

  “Aha, you think I don’t know that one?” Colon shouted. “There’s plenty of ways to eyeball someone without lookin’ at ’em, Corporal. That man over there is earlobing me!”

  “I think Constable Ping is just really interested in the report he’s writing, Fre—Sar—Captain.”

  Colon’s ruffled feathers settled a little. “Well…all right. And now I’m going up to my office, all right? There’ll be some changes around here. And someone bring me a cup of tea.”

  They watched him go up the stairs, enter the office and slam the door.

  “Well, the—” Constable Ping began, but Nobby, who had a lot more experience with the Colon personality, waved one hand frantically for silence while he held the other one to his ear, very theatrically.

  Then they all heard the door click open again, quietly.

  “A change is as good as a rest, I suppose,” said Constable Ping.

  “As the prophet Ossory says, better an oxen in the potters’ fields of Hersheba than a sandal in the wine presses of Gash,” said Constable Visit.

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard,” said Nobby. “Well, I’ll just make him his tea. Everyone feels better after a cup of tea.”

  A couple of minutes later the constables heard Colon shouting, even through the door.

  “What is wrong with this mug, Corporal?”

  “Nothing, Sa—sir. It’s yer mug. You always have your tea in it.”


  “Ah, but, you see, it is a sergeant’s mug, Corporal. And what is it that officers drink out of?”

  “Well, Carrot and Mister Vimes have got their own mugs—”

  “No, they may choose to drink out of mugs, Corporal, but Watch regulations say officers have a cup and saucer. Says so right here, regulation three-oh-one, subsection C. Do you understand me?”

  “I don’t think we’ve got any—”

  “You know where the petty cash is. Usually, you’re the only person that does. You’re dismissed, Corporal.”

  Nobby came down the stairs white-faced, holding the offending receptacle.

  The door opened again.

  “And none of you are to gob in it, neither!” shouted Colon. “I know that one! And it’s to be stirred with a spoon, understand? I know that one, too.” The door slammed.

  Constable Visit took the mug from Nobby’s shaking hand and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Chalky the troll does some very good seconds, I understand—” he began.

  The door opened.

  “Bloody china, too!”

  The door slammed.

  “Anyone seen the petty cash lately?” said Constable Ping.

  Nobby reached mournfully into his pocket and pulled out some dollars. He handed them to Visit.

  “Better go to that posh shop in Kings Way,” he said. “Get one of those cups and saucers thin enough to see through. You know, with gold around the rim.” He looked around the other constables. “What’re you lot doing here? You won’t catch many criminals in here!”

  “Does the petty cash count, Nobby?” said Ping.

  “Don’t you Nobby me, Ping! You just get out there! And the rest of you!”

  Days rolled by. More accurately, they rattled by. It was a comfortable coach, as coaches went, and as coaches on this road went over continual potholes, it swayed and rocked like a cradle. Initially, the motion was soothing. After a day or two, it palled. So did the scenery.

  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.”