The Fifth Elephant

'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 named I do not mean that it should have been called "Spot" or "Ginger", mmm mmhm. 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 marthter 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, mhm.'

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

Sybil patted him on the knee. 'You're not in Ankh-Morpork any more, 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, mhm. 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 re-entered, 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 towards 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, to the sound of thuds from downstairs.

'Snow leopards,' he muttered, and drifted away again.

There was a louder crash.

'Moose,' murmured Lady Sybil.

'Elk?' mumbled Vimes.

'Def'nitely 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-coloured 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, mmph. 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. Mmph, 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, mhm,' 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 upriver, 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.'