The Fifth Elephant

tell Lady Sybil about us?'

'Nothing! I don't write back, of course. A rather sad and foolish woman.'

'And she still writes every year?... thirty-six, thirty-seven...'

'Yes. Four pages, usually. And that tells you everything about her you need to know. Where is your father?'

A flap in the bottom of a nearby door swung back and a large, heavy-set wolf trotted in. It glanced around the room and then shook itself vigorously. The Baroness bridled.

'Guye! You know what I said! It's after six! Change when you come in from the garden!'

The wolf gave her a look and strolled behind a massive oak screen at the far end of the room. There was a... noise, soft and rather strange, not so much an actual sound as a change in the texture of the air.

The Baron walked around from behind the screen, doing up the cord of a tattered dressing gown. The Baroness sniffed.

'At least your father wears clothes,' she said.

'Clothes are unhealthy, Mother,' said Wolf calmly. 'Nakedness is purity.'

The Baron sat down. He was a large, red-faced man, insofar as a face could be seen under the beard, hair, moustache and eyebrows, which were engaged in a bitter four-way war over the remaining areas of bare skin.

'Well?' he growled.

'Vimes the thief-taker from Ankh-Morpork is going to be the alleged ambassador!' snapped the Baroness.

'Dwarfs?'

'Of course they'll be told.'

The Baron sat staring at nothing, with the same expression Detritus used when a new thought was being assembled.

'Bad?' he ventured, at last.

'Guye, I've told you about this a thousand times!' said the Baroness. 'You're spending far too much time changed! You know what you're like afterwards. Supposing we had official visitors?'

'Bite 'em!'

'You see? Go on off to bed and don't come down until you're fit to be human!'

'Vimes could ruin everything, Father,' said Wolfgang. He was now doing handstands, using one hand.

'Guye! Down!'

The Baron stopped trying to scratch his ear with his leg. 'Do?' he said.

Wolfgang's gleaming body dipped a moment as he changed hands again.

'City life makes men weak. Vimes will be fun. They do say he likes running, though.' He gave a little laugh. 'We shall have to see how fast he is.'

'His wife says he's very soft-hearted— Guye! Don't you dare do that! If you're going to do that sort of thing do it upstairs!'

The Baron looked only moderately ashamed, but readjusted his clothing anyway.

'Bandits!' he said.

'Yes, they could be a problem at this time of year,' said Wolfgang.

'At least a dozen,' said the Baroness. 'Yes, that should—'

Wolf grunted, upside down. 'No, Mother. You are being stupid. His coach must get here safely. You understand? When he is here... that is a different matter.'

The Baron's massive eyebrows tangled with a thought. 'Plan! King!'

'Exactly.'

The Baroness sighed. 'I don't trust that little dwarf.'

Wolf somersaulted on to his feet. 'No. But trustworthy or not, he's all we've got. Vimes must get here, with his soft heart. He may even be useful. Perhaps we should... assist matters.'

'Why?' snapped the Baroness. 'Let Ankh-Morpork look after their own!'

There was a knock on the door while Vimes was having breakfast. Willikins ushered in a small thin man in neat but threadbare black clothes, whose overlarge head gave him the appearance of a lolly nearing the last suck. He carried a black bowler hat the way a soldier carries his helmet, and walked like a man who had something wrong with his knees.

'I am so sorry to disturb your grace...'

Vimes laid down his knife. He'd been peeling an orange. Sybil insisted he eat fruit.

'Not your grace,' he said. 'Just Vimes. Sir Samuel, if you must. Are you Vetinari's man?'

'Inigo Skimmer, sir. Mhm-mhm. I am to travel with you to Uberwald.'

'Ah, you're the clerk who's going to do all the whispering and winking while I hand around the cucumber sandwiches, are you?'

'I will try to be of service, sir, although I'm not much of a winker. Mhm-mhm.'

'Would you like some breakfast?'

'I ate already, sir. Mhm-mhm.'

Vimes looked the clerk up and down. It wasn't so mush that his head was big, it was simply that someone appeared to have squeezed the bottom half of it and forced everything up into the top. He was going bald, too, and had carefully teased the remaining strands of hair across the pink dome. It was hard to tell his age. He could be twenty-five and a big worrier, or a fresh-faced forty. Vimes inclined to the former - the man had the look of someone who had spent his life watching the world over the top of a book. And there was that... well, was it a nervous laugh? A giggle? An unfortunate way of clearing his throat?

And that strange way he walked...

'Not even some toast? A piece of fruit? These oranges are fresh from Klatch, I really can recommend them.'

Vimes tossed one at the man. It bounced off his arm, and Skimmer took a step backwards, mildly appalled at the upper class's habit of fruithurling.

'Are you all right, sir? Mhm-mhm?'

'Sorry about that,' said Vimes. 'I was carried away by fruit.'

He laid aside his napkin and got up from the table, putting his arm around Skimmer's shoulders.

'I'll just take you into the Mildly Yellow drawing room where you can wait,' he said, walking him towards the door and patting him on the arm in a friendly way. 'The coaches are loaded up. Sybil is re-grouting the bathroom, learning Ancient Klatchian and doing all those other little last-minute things women always do. You're with us in the big coach.'

Skimmer recoiled. 'Oh, I couldn't do that, sir! I'll travel with your retinue. Mhm-mhm. Mhm-mhm.'

'If you mean Cheery and Detritus, they're in there with us,' said Vimes, noting the look of horror deepen slightly. 'You need four for a decent game of cards and the road's as boring as hell for most of the way.'

'And, er, your servants?'

'Willikins and the cook and Sybil's maid are in the other coach.'

'Oh.'

Vimes smiled inwardly. He remembered the saying from his childhood: too poor to paint, but too proud to whitewash...

'Bit of a tough choice, is it?' he said. 'I'll tell you what, you can come in our coach but we'll give you a hard seat and patronize you from time to time, how about that?'

'I am afraid you are making a mockery of me, Sir Samuel. Mhm-mhm.'

'No, but I may be assisting. And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to nip down to the Yard to sort out a few last-minute things...'

A quarter of an hour later Vimes walked into the charge room at the Yard. Sergeant Stronginthearm looked up, saluted, and then ducked to avoid the orange that was tossed at his head.