The Fifth Elephant

  “You’re not hurt?”

  “No, Sam.”

  “Keep your hands where I can see them, Your Grace Vimes!”

  “And are you going to promise me you’ll let her go?” said Vimes.

  A flame flickered near Vimes’s face, a bright pool in the darkness, as he lit a cigar.

  “Now, Your Grace Vimes, why ever should I do that? But I am sure Ankh-Morpork will pay a lot for you!”

  “Ah. I thought so,” said Vimes. He shook the match out, and the cigar end glowed for a moment. “Sybil?”

  “Yes, Sam?”

  “Duck.”

  There was a second filled only with the indrawing of breath, and then, as Lady Sybil dived forward, Vimes’s hand came around from behind him in an arc, there was a silken sound, and the man’s head was flung back.

  Inigo leapt and caught his crossbow as it was dropped, then rolled and came up firing. Another figure staggered.

  Vimes was aware of a commotion elsewhere as he grabbed Sybil and helped her back into the coach. Inigo had vanished, but a scream in the dark didn’t sound like anyone that Vimes knew.

  And then…only the hiss of snow in the fire.

  “I…think they’re gone, sir,” said Cheery’s voice.

  “Not as fast as us! Detritus?”

  “Sir?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Feelin’ very tactful, sir.”

  “You two take that coach, I’ll take this, and let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?”

  “Where’s Mister Skimmer?” said Sybil.

  There was another scream from the woods.

  “Forget him!”

  “But he’s—”

  “Forget him!”

  The snow was falling thicker as they climbed the pass. The deep snow dragged at the wheels, and all Vimes could see were the darker shapes of the horses against the whiteness. Then the clouds parted briefly, and he wished they hadn’t, because here they revealed that the darkness on the left of his wasn’t rock any more but a sheer drop.

  At the top of the pass the lights of an inn glowed out onto the thickening snow. Vimes drove the carriage into the yard.

  “Detritus?”

  “Sir?”

  “I’ll watch our backs. Make sure this place is okay, will you?”

  “Yessir.”

  The troll jumped down, slotting a fresh bundle of arrows into the Piecemaker. Vimes spotted his intention just in time.

  “Just knock, Sergeant.”

  “Right you are, sir.”

  The troll knocked and entered. The buzz of sound from inside suddenly ceased. Vimes heard, muffled by the door, “Der Duke of Ankh-Morpork is coming in. Anyone have a problem with dis? Just say der word.” And in the background, the little humming, singing noise the Piecemaker made under tension.

  Vimes helped Sybil down from the coach.

  “How do you feel now?” he said.

  She smiled faintly. “I think this dress will have to go for dusters,” she said. She smiled a little more when she saw his expression.

  “I knew you’d come up with something, Sam. You go all slow and cold and that means something really dreadful’s going to happen. I wasn’t frightened.”

  “Really? I was scared shi—stiff,” said Vimes.

  “What happened to Mister Skimmer? I remember him rummaging in his case and cursing—”

  “I suspect Inigo Skimmer is alive and well,” said Vimes grimly. “Which is more than can be said for those around him.”

  There was silence in the main room of the inn. A man and a woman, presumably the landlord and his wife, were standing flat against the back of the bar. The dozen or so other occupants lined the walls, hands in the air. Beer dribbled from a couple of spilled mugs.

  “Everyt’ing normal an’ peaceful,” said Detritus, turning around.

  Vimes realized that everyone was staring at him. He looked down. His shirt was torn. Mud and blood caked his clothes. Melted snow dripped off him. In his right hand, un-regarded, he was still holding his crossbow.

  “Bit of trouble on the road,” he said. “Er…you know how it is.”

  No one moved.

  “Oh, good gods…Detritus, put that damn thing down, will you?”

  “Right, sir.”

  The troll lowered his crossbow. Two dozen people all began to breathe again.

  Then the skinny woman stepped around from behind the bar, nodded at Vimes, carefully took Lady Sybil’s hand from his, and pointed toward the wide wooden stairs. The black look she gave Vimes puzzled him.

  Only then did he realize that Lady Sybil was shaking. Tears were running down her face.

  “And…er…my wife is a bit shaken up,” he said weakly. “Corporal Littlebottom!” he yelled, to cover his confusion.

  Cheery stepped through the doorway.

  “Go with Lady Syb—”

  He stopped because of the rising hubbub. One or two people pointed. Someone laughed. Cheery stopped, looking down.

  “What’s up?” Vimes hissed.

  “Er…It’s me, sir. Ankh-Morpork dwarf fashions haven’t really caught on here, sir,” said Cheery.

  “The skirt?” said Vimes.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Vimes looked around at the faces. They seemed more shocked than angry, although he spotted a couple of dwarfs in one corner who were definitely unhappy.

  “Go with Lady Sybil,” he repeated.

  “It might not be a very good id—” Cheery began.

  “Godsdammit!” shouted Vimes, unable to stop himself. The crowd went silent. A ragged bloodstained madman holding a crossbow can command a rapt audience.

  Then he shuddered. What he wanted now was a bed, but what he wanted, before bed, more than anything, was a drink. And he couldn’t have one. He’d learned that long ago. One drink was one too many.

  “All right, tell me,” he said.

  “All dwarfs are men, sir,” said Cheery. “I mean…traditionally. That’s how everyone thinks of it up here.”

  “Well…stand outside the door, or…or shut your eyes or something, okay?”

  Vimes lifted Lady Sybil’s chin.

  “Are you all right, dear?” he said.

  “Sorry to let you down, Sam,” she whispered. “It was just so awful.”

  Vimes, designed by Nature to be one of those men unable to kiss their own wives in public, patted her helplessly on the shoulder. She thought she’d let him down. It was unbearable.

  “You just…I mean, Cheery will…and I’ll…sort things out and be along right away,” he said. “We’ll get a good bedroom, I suspect.”

  She nodded, still looking down.

  “And…I’m just going out for some fresh air.”

  Vimes stepped outside.

  The snow had stopped for now. The moon was half hidden by clouds, and the air smelled of frost.

  When the figure dropped down from the eaves it was amazed at the way Vimes spun and rushed it bodily against the wall.

  Vimes looked through a red mist at the moonlit face of Inigo Skimmer.

  “I’ll damn well—” he began.

  “Look down, Your Grace,” said Skimmer. “Mhm, mhm.”

  Vimes realized he could feel the faintest prick of the knife blade on his stomach.

  “Look down farther,” he said.

  Inigo looked down. He swallowed. Vimes had a knife, too.

  “You really are no gentleman, then,” he said.

  “Make a sudden move and neither are you,” said Vimes. “And now it appears that we have reached what Sergeant Colon persists in referring to as an imp arse.”

  “I assure you I will not kill you,” said Inigo.

  “I know that,” said Vimes. “But will you try?”

  “No. I am here for your protection, mhm, mhm.”

  “Vetinari sent you, did he?”

  “You know we never divulge the name of—”

  “That’s true. You people are very honorable,” Vimes spat the word, “in that respect.??
?

  Both men relaxed a little.

  “You left me alone surrounded by enemies,” said Inigo, but without much accusation in his tone.

  “Why should I care what happens to a bunch of bandits?” said Vimes. “You are an Assassin.”

  “How did you find out? Mmm?”

  “A copper watches the way people walk. The Klatchians say a man’s leg is his second face, did you know that? And that little clerky, I’m-so-harmless walk of yours is too good to be true.”

  “You mean that just from my walk you—”

  “No. You didn’t catch the orange,” said Vimes.

  “Come now—”

  “No, people either catch or flinch. You saw it wasn’t a danger. And when I took your arm I felt metal under your clothes. Then I just sent a clacks back with your description.”

  He let go of Inigo and walked over to the coach, leaving his back exposed. He took something down from the box and came back and waved it at the man.

  “I know this is yours,” he said. “I pinched it out of your luggage. If I ever catch anyone with one of these in Ankh-Morpork, I will make their life a complete misery as only a copper knows how. Is that understood?”

  “If you ever catch anyone with one of these in Ankh-Morpork, Your Grace, mhm, they will still be lucky that the Assassins’ Guild didn’t find them first, mmm. They are on our forbidden list, within the city. But we are a long way from Ankh-Morpork now. Mmm, mmm.”

  Vimes turned the thing over and over in his hands. It looked vaguely like a long-handled hammer, or perhaps a strangely made telescope. What it was, basically, was a spring. That’s all a crossbow was, after all.

  “It’s a devil to load,” he said. “I nearly ruptured myself cocking it against a rock. You’d only get one shot.”

  “But it’s the shot no one expects, mhm, mhm.”

  Vimes nodded. You could even conceal this thing down your pants, although the thought of all that coiled power that close would require nerves of steel and other parts of steel, too, if it came to it.

  “This is not a weapon. This is for killing people,” he said.

  “Uh…most weapons are,” said Inigo.

  “No, they’re not. They’re so you don’t have to kill people. They’re for…for having. For being seen. For warning. This isn’t one of those. It’s for hiding away until you bring it out and kill people in the dark. And where’s that other thing?”

  “Your Grace?”

  “The palm dagger. Don’t try to lie to me.”

  Inigo shrugged. The movement shot something silver out of his sleeve; it was a carefully shaped blade, padded on one side, that slid along the edge of his hand. There was a click from somewhere inside his jacket.

  “Good gods,” breathed Vimes. “Do you know how often people have tried to assassinate me, man?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Nine times. The Guild has set your fee at six-hundred-thousand dollars. The last time an approach was made, no Guild member volunteered. Mhm, mhm.”

  “Hah!”

  “Incidentally, and very informally of course, we would appreciate knowing the whereabouts of the body of the Honorable Eustace Bassingly-Gore, mhm, mhm.”

  Vimes scratched his nose.

  “Was he the one who tried poisoning my shaving cream?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Well, unless his body is an extremely strong swimmer, it’s still on a ship bound for Ghat via Cape Terror,” said Vimes. “I paid the captain a thousand dollars not to take the chains off before Zambingo, too. That’ll give it a nice long walk home through the jungles of Klatch where I’m sure its knowledge of rare poisons will come in very handy, although not as handy perhaps as a knowledge of antidotes.”

  “A thousand dollars!”

  “Well, he had twelve hundred dollars on him. I donated the rest to the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons. I got a receipt, by the way. You chaps are keen on receipts, I think.”

  “You stole his money? Mhm, mhm.”

  Vimes took a deep breath. His voice, when it emerged, was flat calm. “I wasn’t going to waste any of my own. And he had just tried to kill me. Think of it as an investment, for the good of his health. Of course, if in due course he cares to come and see me, I shall make sure he gets what’s coming to him.”

  “I’m…astounded, Your Grace. Mhm, mhm. Bassingly-Gore was an extremely competent swordsman.”

  “Really? I generally never wait to find out about that sort of thing.”

  Inigo smiled his thin little smile.

  “And two months ago Sir Richard Liddleley was found tied to a fountain in Sator Square, painted pink and with a flag stuck—”

  “I was feeling generous,” said Vimes. “I’m sorry, I don’t play your games.”

  “Assassination is not a game, Your Grace.”

  “It is the way you people play it.”

  “There have to be rules. Otherwise there would just be anarchy. Mhm, mhm. You have your code, and we have ours.”

  “And you’ve been sent here to protect me?”

  “I have other skills, but…yes.”

  “What makes you think I’ll need you?”

  “Well, Your Grace…here they don’t have rules. Mhm, mhm.”

  “I’ve spent most of my life dealing with people who don’t have rules!”

  “Yes, of course. But when you kill them, they don’t get up again.”

  “I’ve never killed anyone!” said Vimes.

  “You shot that bandit in the throat.”

  “I was aiming for the shoulder.”

  “Yes, the thing does pull to the left,” said Inigo. “You mean that you have never tried to kill anyone. I have, on the other hand. And here, hesitation may not be an option. Mmm.”

  “I didn’t hesitate!”

  Inigo sighed. “In the guild, Your Grace, we don’t…grandstand.”

  “Grandstand?”

  “That business with the cigar…”

  “You mean, when I shut my eyes and they had to look at a flame in the darkness?”

  “Ah…” Inigo hesitated. “But they might have shot you there and then.”

  “No. I wasn’t a threat. And you heard his voice. I hear that sort of voice a lot. He’s not going to shoot people too soon and spoil the fun. I can assume that you have not got a contract on me?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And you’d still swear to that?”

  “On my honor as an Assassin.”

  “Yes,” said Vimes. “That’s where I hit a difficulty, of course. And…I don’t know how to put this, Inigo, but you don’t act like a typical assassin. Lord this, Sir that…the Guild is the school for gentlemen but you…and gods know I don’t mean any offense here—are not exactly—”

  Inigo touched his forelock.

  “Scholarship boy, sir,” he said.

  My gods yes, thought Vimes. You can find your average, amateur killers on every street. They’re mostly deranged or drunk or some poor woman who’s had a hard day and the husband has raised his hand once too often and suddenly twenty years of frustration takes over. Killing a stranger without malice or satisfaction, other than the craftsman’s pride in a job well done, is such a rare talent that armies spend months trying to instill it into their young soldiers. Most people will shy away from killing people they haven’t been introduced to.

  The Guild had to have one or two people like Inigo. Didn’t some philosophical bastard once say that a government needed butchers as well as shepherds?

  He indicated the little crossbow.

  “All right, take it,” he said. “But you can put the word about that if I ever, ever see one on the street the owner will find it put where the sun does not shine.”

  “Ah,” said Inigo, “that’s the rather amusingly named place in Lancre, isn’t it? Only about fifty miles from here, I believe. Mhm, mhm.”

  “Rest assured that I can find a shortcut.”

  Gaspode tried blowing in Carrot’s ear again.

  “Time t
o wake up,” he growled.

  Carrot opened his eyes, blinked the snow out of them, and then tried to move.

  “You just lie still, right?” said Gaspode. “If it helps, just try to think of them as a very heavy eiderdown.”

  Carrot struggled feebly. The wolves piled on top of his shifted position.

  “Warming you up a treat,” said Gaspode, grinning nervously. “A wolf blanket, see? O’course, you’re going to be a bit whiffy on the nose for a while, but better to be itchy than dead, eh?” He scratched an ear industriously with a hind leg. One of the wolves growled at him. “Sorry. Grub’ll be up in a moment.”

  “Food?” muttered Carrot.

  Angua appeared in Carrot’s vision, dressed in a leather shirt and leggings. She stood looking down at him, hands on her hips. To Gaspode’s amazement, Carrot actually managed to push himself up on his elbows, dislodging several wolves.

  “You were tracking us?” he said.

  “No, they were,” said Angua. “They thought you were a bloody fool. I heard it on the howl. And they were right! You haven’t eaten anything for three days! And up here, winter doesn’t drop a few hints over a month or so. It turns up in one night! Why were you so stupid?”

  Gaspode looked around the clearing, Angua had rekindled the fire; Gaspode wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it, but actual wolves had dragged in actual fallen wood for her. And then another had turned up with a small deer, still fat after the autumn. He dribbled at the smell of it roasting.

  Something human and complicated was going on between Carrot and Angua. It sounded like an argument but it didn’t smell like one. Anyway, recent events all made perfect sense to Gaspode. The female ran away and the male chased her. That’s how it went. Actually, it was usually about twenty males of all sizes, but obviously, Gaspode conceded, things were a bit different for humans.

  Pretty soon, he reckoned, Carrot would notice the big male wolf sitting by the fire, And then the fur would fly. Humans, eh?

  Gaspode wasn’t sure of his own ancestry. There was some terrier, and a touch of spaniel, and probably someone’s leg, and an awful lot of mongrel. But he took it as an article of faith that there was in all dogs a tiny bit of wolf, and his was urgently sending messages that the wolf by the fire was one you didn’t even stare directly at.

  It wasn’t that the wolf was obviously vicious. He didn’t need to be. Even sitting still, he radiated the assurance of competent power. Gaspode was, if not the victor, then at least the survivor of many a street fight, and as such would not have gone up against this animal even if backed up by a couple of lions and a man with an ax.