The Fifth Elephant

Vimes half turned, like someone just taking in the view. In amongst the human guests the dwarfs moved and clustered. Five or six would come together and talk animatedly. Then one would drift away and join another group. He might be replaced. And sometimes an entire group would spread out like the debris of an explosion, each member heading towards another group.

Vimes got the impression that there was a kind of structure behind all this, some slow, purposeful dance of information. Mineshaft meetings, he thought. Small groups, because there wouldn't be room for more. And you don't talk too loudly. And then when the group decides, every member is an ambassador for that decision. The word spreads out in circles. It's like running a society on formal gossip.

It occurred to him that it was also a way in which two plus two could be debated and weighed and considered and discussed until it became four-and-a-bit, or possibly an egg.

Occasionally a dwarf would stop and stare before hurrying away.

'We're supposed to go in for supper, dear,' said Sybil, indicating the general drift towards a brightly lit cave.

'Oh dear. Quaffing, do you think? Rats on sticks? Where's Detritus?'

'Over there, talking to the cultural attache from Genua. That's the man with the glazed expression.'

As they got closer Vimes heard Detritus's voice in full expansive explanation:

'—and den der's dis big room wid all seats in it, wid red walls and dem big gold babies climbin' up der pillar, only don't worry, 'cos dey're not real gold babies, dey're only made of plaster or somethin'...' There was a pause as Detritus considered matters. 'An' also I don't reckon it's real gold, neither, 'cos some bugger'd have pinched it if it was... and in front of der stage der's dis big pit where all der musicians sits. And days about it for dat room. In der next room der's all dese marble pillars, an' on der floor dey got red carpeting—'

'Detritus?' said Lady Sybil. 'I do hope you're not monopolizing this gentleman.'

'No, I bin tellin' him all about der culture we got in Ankh-Morpork,' said Detritus airily. 'I know just about every inch of der op'ra house.'

'Yes,' said the cultural attache in a stunned voice. 'And I must say I'm particularly interested in visiting the art gallery and seeing—' he shuddered— ' "der picture of dis woman, I don't reckon der artist knew how to do a smile prop'ly, but der frame's got to be worth a bob or two." It sounds like the experience of a lifetime. Good evening to you.'

'You know, I don't fink he knows a lot of culture,' said Detritus as the man strode away.

'Do you think people will miss us if we slip away?' said Vimes, looking around. 'It's been a long day and I want to think about things—'

'Sam, you are the ambassador, and Ankh-Morpork is a world power,' said Sybil. 'We can't just sneak off! People will comment.'

Vimes groaned. So Inigo was right: when Vimes sneezes, Ankh-Morpork blows its nose.

'Your excellency?'

He looked down at two dwarfs.

'The Low King will see you now,' said one of them.

'Er...'

'We will have to be officially presented,' Lady Sybil hissed.

'What, even Detritus?'

'Yes!'

'But he's a troll!' It had seemed amusing at the time.

Vimes was aware of a drift in the crowds across the floor of the huge cave. There was a certain movement to them, a flow in the current of people towards one end of the cave. There was really no option but to join it.

The Low King was on a small throne under one of the chandeliers. There was a metal canopy over it, already encrusted with marvellous stalactites of wax.

Around him, watching the crowd, were four dwarfs, tall for dwarfs, and looking rather menacing in their dark glasses. Each one was holding an axe. They spent all their time staring hard at people.

The King was talking to the Genuan ambassador. Vimes looked sideways at Cheery and Detritus. Suddenly, bringing them here wasn't such a good idea. In his official robes the King looked a lot more... distant, and a lot harder to please.

Hang on, he told himself. They are Ankh-Morpork citizens. They're not doing anything wrong. And then he argued: they're not doing anything wrong in Ankh-Morpork.

The line moved along. Their party was almost in the presence. The armed dwarfs were all watching Detritus now, and holding their axes in a slightly less relaxed way. Detritus appeared not to notice.

'Dis place is even more cult'ral than the op'ra house,' he said, gazing around respectfully. 'Dem chandeliers must weigh a ton.'

He reached up and rubbed his head, and then inspected his fingers.

Vimes glanced up. Something warm, like a buttered raindrop, hit his cheek. As he brushed it away he saw the shadows move...