The Fifth Elephant

'No, I don't think, sir, I'm a civil servant. I advise other people, mmm, mmph. Then they think. My advice is that an hour or two won't hurt, sir. My advice is that you return with Lady Sybil now, sir. I will send up a flare as soon as it's dark and make my way back to the embassy.'

'Hold on, I am Commander in—'

'Not here, your grace. Remember? Here you are a civilian in the way, mmhm, mmm. I'll be safe enough—'

'The crew weren't.'

'They weren't me, mmhm, mmhm. For the sake of Lady Sybil, your grace, I advise you to leave now.'

Vimes hesitated, hating the fact that Inigo was not only right but was, despite his claim to mindlessness, doing the thinking that he should be doing. He was supposed to be out for an afternoon's drive with his wife, for heaven's sake.

'Well, all right. Just one thing, though. Why are you here?'

'The last time Sleeps was seen he was on his way up here with a message.'

'Ah. And am I right in thinking that your Mister Sleeps was not exactly the kind of diplomat that hands around the cucumber sandwiches?'

Inigo smiled thinly. 'That's right, sir. He was... the other sort. Mmm.'

'Your sort.'

'Mmm. And now go, your grace. The sun will be setting soon. Mmm, mmm.'

Corporal Nobbs, President and Convenor of the Guild of Watchmen, surveyed his troops.

'All right, one more time,' he said. 'Whadda we want?'

The strike meeting had been going on for some time, and it had been going on in a bar. The watchmen were already a little forgetful.

Constable Ping raised his hand. 'Er... a proper grievance procedure, a complaints committee, an overhaul of the promotion procedures... er...'

'—better crockery in the canteen,' someone supplied.

'—freedom from unwarranted accusations of sucrose theft—' said someone else.

'—no more than seven days straight on nights—'

'—an increase in the boots allowance—'

'—at least three afternoons off for grandmothers' funerals per year??'

'—not having to pay for our own pigeon feed—'

'—another drink.' This last demand met with general approval.

Constable Shoe got to his feet. He was still, in his spare time, organizer of the Campaign for Dead Rights, and he knew how this sort of thing went.

'No, no, no, no, no,' he said. 'You've got to get it a lot simpler than that. It's got to have bounce. And rhythm. Like "Whadda we want? Dum-deedum-dee. When do we want it? Now!" See? You need one simple demand. Let's try it again. Whadda we want?'

The watchmen looked at one another, no one quite wanting to be the first.

'Another drink?' someone volunteered.

'Yeah!' said someone at the back. 'When do we want it? NOW!'

'Well, that one seems to have worked,' said Nobby as the policemen crowded round the bar. 'What else are we going to need, Reg?'

'Signs for the picket,' said Constable Shoe.

'We've got to picket?'

'Oh, yes.'

'In that case,' said Nobby firmly, 'we've got to have a big metal drum to burn old scrap wood in, while we're pickin' at it.'

'Why?' said Reg.

'You got to stand around warmin' your hands over a big drum,' said Nobby. 'That's how people know you're an official picket and not a bunch of bums.'

'But we are a bunch of bums, Nobby. People think we are, anyway.'

'All right, but let's be warm ones.'

The sun was a finger's width above the Rim when Vimes's coach set off from the tower. Igor whipped the horses up. Vimes looked out of the window at the road's edge, a few feet away and several hundred feet above the river.

'Why so fast?' he shouted.

'Got to be home by thunthet!' Igor shouted. 'It'th tradithional.'

The big red sun was moving through bars of cloud.

'Oh, let him, dear, if it gives the poor soul pleasure,' said Lady Sybil, shutting the window. 'Now, Sam, what happened at the tower?'

'I don't really want to worry you, Sybil.'

'Well, now that you've got me really worried, you may as well tell me. All right?'

Vimes gave in and explained the little that he knew.

'Someone's killed them?'

'Possibly.'

'The same people that ambushed us back in that gorge?'

'I don't think so.'

'This isn't turning out to be much of a holiday Sam.'

'It's being unable to do anything that makes me sick,' said Vimes. 'Back in Ankh-Morpork... well, I'd have leads, contacts, some kind of a map. Everyone here is, well, hiding something, I think. The new king thinks I'm a fool, the werewolves treated me as if I was something the cat dragged in. The only person who's been halfway civil was a vampire!'

'Not the cat,' said Sybil.

'What?' said Vimes, mystified.

'Werewolves hate cats,' said Sybil. 'I distinctly remember that. Definitely not cat people.'

'Hah. No. Dog people. They don't like words like bath or vet, either. I reckon if you threw a stick at the Baron he'd leap out of his chair to catch it—'

'I suppose I ought to tell you about the carpets,' said Sybil, as the coach rocked around a corner.

'What, isn't he house-trained?'

'I meant the carpets in the embassy. You know I said I'd measure up for them? Well, the measurements aren't right on the first floor...'