The Fifth Elephant

There was another clacks 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, those were things that people needed to know, but they didn't need to know them 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? Had it been sold? Was there credit to the trader's 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 second-hand 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 signalled 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 which 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 offence 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 towards 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. Cypher 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—'