The Fifth Elephant

Igor looked down from the top of the coach: 'In Ankh-Morpork, marthter? My word. Everyone wantth to go to Ankh-Morpork, marthter. It'th a very tempting offer. But I know where my duty lieth, your exthellenthy. I mutht get the plathe ready for the next exthellenthy.'

'Oh, surely—'

'However, fortuitouthly my nephew Igor ith looking for a pothition, marthter. He thould do well in Ankh-Morpork. He'th rather too modern for Uberwald, that'th for thure!'

'Good lad, is he?'

'Hith heart'th in the right plathe. I know that for thertain, thur.'

'Er, good. Well, get a message to him, then. We're leaving as soon as we can.'

'He will be tho exthited, thur! I've heard that in Ankh-Morpork bodieth jutht lie around in the thtreetth for anyone to take away!'

'It's not quite as bad as that, Igor.'

'Ithn't it? Oh well, you can't have everything. I'll tell him directly.' Igor lurched off in a sort of high-speed totter.

I wonder why they all walk like that, thought Vimes. They must have one leg shorter than the other. Either that or they're not good at choosing boots.

He sat down on the steps to the house and fished out a cigar. So that was it, then. Bloody

politics again. It was always bloody politics, or bloody diplomatics. Bloody lies in smart clothing. Once you got off the streets criminals just flowed through your fingers. The King and Lady Margolotta and Vetinari... they always looked at some sort of big picture. Vimes knew he was, and always would be, a little picture man. Dee was useful, so she'd probably get, oh, a few days breaking bread or whatever it was they gave you here for being naughty. After all, all she'd destroyed was a fake, wasn't it?

Was it?

But she'd thought she was committing a much bigger crime. That ought to mean something, in Sam Vimes's personal gallery of little pictures.

And the Baroness was as guilty as hell. People had died. As for Wolfgang... well, some people were just built guilty. It was as simple as that. Anything they did became a crime, simply because it was them doing it.

He blew out a stream of smoke.

People like that shouldn't be allowed to simply die their way out of things.

But... he hadn't, had he?

The wolves had gone a long way down the river, Sybil had said, on both banks. There wasn't a sniff of him. Further down was a mass of rapids and another fall. What couldn't kill him would certainly make him wish it could.

If he'd gone downstream. But upstream there was nothing but wild water, too, right up to the town.

No, he couldn't... surely no one could swim up a waterfall...

A chilly little feeling began at the back of Vimes's neck. But any sensible person would get right out of the country, wouldn't they? The wolves were looking for him, Tantony wouldn't remember him fondly and if Vimes judged the King correctly then the dwarfs would have some dark little revenge in store, too.

The trouble was that, if you formed a picture in your mind of a sensible person, and tried to superimpose it on a picture of Wolfgang, you couldn't get them to meet anywhere.

There was an old saying, wasn't there: as a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly. Well, that got Wolfgang coming and going.

Vimes stood up and turned around carefully. There was no one there. Sounds came in from the street gateway—people laughing, the sound of a harness, the clank of a shovel clearing up last night's snow.

He sidled into the embassy, his back to the wall, and groped his way towards the stairs, peering into every doorway. He ran across the expanse of the hallway, did a tumbling roll, and ended up against the far wall.

'Is there anything wrong, sir?' said Cheery. She was watching him from the top of the stairs.

'Er, have you seen anything odd?' said Vimes, dusting himself off self-consciously. 'And I realize that we're talking about a house with Igor in it.'

'Could you give me a hint, sir?'

'Wolfgang, godsdammit!'

'But he's dead, sir. Isn't he?'

'Not dead enough!'

'Er, what do you want me to do?'

'Where's Detritus?'

'Polishing his helmet, sir!' said Cheery, on the point of panic.

'What the hell is he wasting time with that for?'

'Er, er, because we're supposed to leave for the coronation in ten minutes, sir?'

'Oh, yes...'

'Lady Sybil told me to come and find you. In a very distinct tone of voice, sir.'

At that point Lady Sybil's voice boomed along the corridor. 'Sam Vimes! You come here!'

'That one, sir,' Cheery added helpfully.

Vimes trailed into the bedroom. Sybil was wearing another blue dress, a tiara and a firm expression.

'Is it a posh do?' said Vimes. 'I thought if I put on a clean shirt—'

'Your official dress uniform is in the dressing room,' said Sybil.

'It was rather a long day yesterday—'

'This is a coronation, Samuel Vimes. It is not a come-as-you-are! Go and get dressed, quickly. Including, and I don't want to have to say this twice, the helmet with the feathers.'

'But not the red tights,' said Vimes, hoping against hope. 'Please?'

'The red tights, Sam, go without saying.'