The Fifth Elephant

The door opened again.

'And none of you are to gob in it, neither!' shouted Colon. 'I know that one! And it's to be stirred with a spoon, understand? I know that one, too.' The door slammed.

Constable Visit took the mug from Nobby's shaking hand and patted him on the shoulder.

'Chalky the troll does some very good seconds, I understand—' he began.

The door opened. 'Bloody china, too!'

The door slammed.

'Anyone seen the petty cash lately?' said Constable Ping.

Nobby reached mournfully into his pocket and pulled out some dollars. He handed them to Visit.

'Better go to that posh shop in Kings Way,' he said. 'Get one of those cups and saucers thin enough to see through. You know, with gold around the rim.' He looked around the other constables. 'What're you lot doing here? You won't catch many criminals in here!'

'Does the petty cash count, Nobby?' said Ping.

'Don't you Nobby me, Ping! You just get out there! And the rest of you!'

Days rolled by. More accurately, they rattled by. It was a comfortable coach, as coaches went, and as coaches on this road went over continual potholes, it swayed and rocked like a cradle. Initially, the motion was soothing. After a day or two it palled. So did the scenery.

Vimes stared glumly out of the window.

There was another clacks tower on the horizon. They were putting them near the. road, he recalled, even though that wasn't the direct route. Only a fool would build them across the badlands. You had to remember, sometimes, that within a few hundred miles of Ankh-Morpork there were still trolls who hadn't caught on to the fact that humans weren't digestible. Besides, most of the settlements were near the road.

The new Guild must be coining money. Even from here he could see the scaffolding, as workers feverishly attached still more gantries and paddles to the main tower. The whole thing would likely be matchsticks after the next hurricane, but by then the owners would probably have earned enough to build another five. Or fifty.

It had all happened so fast. Who'd have believed it? But all the components had been there for years. Semaphore was ancient - a century ago the Watch had used a few towers to relay messages to patrolling officers. And gargoyles had nothing to do all day but sit and watch things, and usually were too unimaginative to make mistakes.

What had happened was that people thought differently about news now. Once upon a time they'd have used something like this to relay information about troop movements and the death of kings. True, those were things that people needed to know, but they didn't need to know them every day. No, what they needed to know every day were things like How much are cattle selling for in Ankh-Morpork today? Because if they weren't fetching much maybe it was better to drive them to Quirm instead. People needed to know these little things. Lots and lots of little things. Little things like Did my ship get there safely? That's why the Guild was driving hell-bent across the mountains on to Genua, four thousand miles away. It took many months for a ship to round Cape Terror. How much, exactly, would a trader pay to know, within a day, when it had arrived? And how much the cargo was worth? Had it been sold? Was there credit to the trader's name in Ankh-Morpork?

Coining money? Oh, yes!

And it had caught on as fast as every other craze did in the big city. It seemed as though everybody who could put together a pole, a couple of gargoyles and some second-hand windmill machinery was in on the business. You couldn't go out to dinner these days without seeing people nip out of the restaurant every five minutes to check that there weren't any messages for them on the nearest pole. As for those who cut out the middleman and signalled directly to their friends across a crowded room, causing mild contusions to those nearby...

Vimes shook his head. That was messages without meaning: telepathy without brains.

But it had been good, hadn't it, last week? When Don't Know Jack had pinched that silver in Sto Lat and then galloped at speed to the sanctuary of the Shades in Ankh-Morpork? And Sergeant Edge of the Sto Lat Watch, who'd trained under Vimes, had put a message on the clacks which arrived on Vimes's desk more than an hour before Jack sauntered through the city gates and into the waiting embrace of Sergeant Detritus? Legally it had been a bit tricky, since the offence hadn't been committed on Ankh-Morpork soil and a semaphore message did not, strictly speaking, come under the heading of 'hot pursuit', but Jack had kindly solved that one by taking a wild swing at the troll, resulting in his arrest for Assault on a Watch Officer and treatment for a broken wrist...

There was a gentle snore from Lady Sybil. A marriage is always made up of two people who are prepared to swear that only the other one snores.

Inigo Skimmer was hunched in a corner, reading a book. Vimes watched him for some time.

'I'm just going up top for some air,' he said at last, opening the door. The clattering of the wheels filled the tiny, hot space, and dust blew in.

'Your grace—' Inigo began, standing up.

Vimes, already clambering up the side of the coach, stuck his head back in. 'You're not making any friends with that attitude,' he said, and kicked the door shut with his foot.

Cheery and Detritus had made themselves comfortable on the roof. It was a lot less stuffy and at least there was a view, if vegetables were your idea of a panorama.

Vimes worked himself into a niche between two bundles and leaned towards Cheery.

'You know about the clacks, right?' he said.

'Well, sort of, sir...'

'Good.' Vimes passed her a piece of paper. 'There's bound to be a tower near where we stop tonight. Cypher this and send it to the Watch, will you? They ought to be able to turn it around in an hour, if they ask the right people. Tell them to try Washable Topsy, she does the laundry there. Or Gilbert Gilbert; he always seems to know what's going on.'

Cheery read the message, and then stared at Vimes.

'Are you sure, sir?' she said.

'Maybe. Make sure you send the description. Names don't mean much.'

'May I ask what makes you think—'

'His walk. And he didn't catch an orange,' said Vimes. 'Mhm. Mhm.'

Constable Visit was cleaning out the old pigeon loft when the message arrived on the clacks.

He was spending more and more time with the pigeons these days. It wasn't a popular job, so no one had tried to take it away from him, and at least up here the shouts and door-slammings were muffled.

The perches gleamed.

Constable Visit enjoyed his job. He didn't have many friends in the city. Truth to tell, he didn't have many friends in the Watch, either. But at least there were people to talk to, and he was making headway with the religious instruction of the pigeons.

But now there was this...

It was addressed to Captain Carrot. That meant it probably ought to be delivered to Captain Colon now, and personally, because Captain Colon thought that people were spying on his messages sent via the suction tube.

Constable Visit had been fairly safe until now. Omnians were good at not questioning orders, even ones that made no sense. Visit instinctively respected authority, no matter how crazy, because he'd been brought up properly. And he had plenty of time to keep his armour bright. Brightly polished armour had suddenly become very important in the Watch, for some reason.

Even so, going into Colon's office needed all the courage that the legendary Bishop Horn had shown when entering the city of the Oolites, and everyone knew what they did to strangers.

Visit climbed down from the loft and made his nervous way to the main building, taking care to walk