The Fifth Elephant

'There is,' said Vimes. 'It's on the owl and the collars of the hippos.'

'I mean,' said Inigo, 'that the colours of Ankh-Morpork do not run.'

'Only since we got the new dyes,' said Vimes. 'All right, all right. I know what you mean. But, look, I'm not risking the servants if there's any danger. And there's to be no arguing, understand? They can stay here and take the mail coach tomorrow. No one attacks the mail coaches any more.'

'I suggest Lady Sybil remains here too, sir. Mhm.'

'Absolutely not,' said Sybil. 'I wouldn't hear of it! If it's not too dangerous for Sam, it's not too dangerous for me.'

'I wouldn't argue with her if I was you,' said Vimes to Inigo. 'I really wouldn't.'

The wolf was not very happy about being tethered to a tree but, as Gaspode said, never trust nobody.

They'd paused a while in a wood about five miles from the town. It'd be a brief stop, Carrot had said. Some of the people in the square looked the sort who treasured their lack of a sense of humour.

After some barking and growling Gaspode said, 'You got to understand that matey here is pers'nally non gratis in local wolf society, being a bit of, ahaha, lone wolf...'

'Yes?' Carrot was taking the roast chickens out of their sack. Gaspode's eyes fixed on them.

'But he hears the howlin' at night.'

'Ah, wolves communicate?'

'Basic'ly your wolf howl is just another way of pissin' against a tree to say it's your damn tree, but there's always bits of news, too. Something pasty's happenin' in Uberwald. He doesn't know what.' Gaspode lowered his voice. 'Between you and me, our friend here was well behind the door when the brains was handed out. If wolves was people, he'd be like Foul Ole Ron.'

'What's his name?' said Carrot thoughtfully.

Gaspode gave Carrot a Look. Who cared what a wolf was called?

'Wolf names is difficult,' he said. 'More like a description, see? It's not like callin' yourself Mr Snuggles or Bonzo, you understand...'

'Yes, I know. So what is his name?'

'You want to know what his name is, then?'

'Yes, Gaspode.'

'So, in fact, it's the name of this wolf you want to know?'

'That is correct.'

Gaspode shifted uneasily. 'Arsehole,' he said.

'Oh.' To the dog's frank astonishment, Carrot blushed.

'That's basic'ly a summary, but it's a pretty good translation,' he said. 'I wouldn't have mentioned it, but you did ask...'

Gaspode stopped and whined for a moment, trying to convey the message that he was losing his voice due to lack of chicken.

'Er, there's been a lot on the howl about Angua,' he went on, when Carrot seemed unable to take the hint. 'Er, they think she's bad news.'

'Why? She's travelling as a wolf, after all.'

'Wolves hate werewolves.'

'What? That can't be right! When she's wolf-shaped she's just like a wolf!'

'So? When she's human-shaped she's just like a human. And what's that got to do with anything? Humans don't like werewolves. Wolves don't like werewolves. People don't like wolves that can think like people, an' people don't like people who can act like wolves. Which just shows you that people are the same everywhere,' said Gaspode. He assessed this sentence and added, 'Even when they're wolves.'

'I never thought of it like that.'

'And she smells wrong. Wolves are very sensitive to that sort of thing.'

'Tell me more about the howl.'

'Oh, it's like the clacky thing. News gets spread for hundreds of miles.'

'Do the howls... mention her... companion?'

'No, If you like, I'll ask Ars—'

'I'd prefer a different name, if it's all the same to you,' said Carrot. 'Words like that aren't clever.'

Gaspode rolled his eyes. 'There's nothing wrong with the word among us pedestically gifted species,' he said. 'We're very smelloriented.' He sighed. 'How about 'bum'? In the sense of, er, migratory worker? He's a freelance chicken-throttler, style of fing?'

He turned to the wolf and spoke in canine. 'Now then, Bum, this human is insane and believe me I know a mad human when I see one. He's frothing at the mouth inside and he'll rip your hide off and nail it to a tree if you aren't straight with us, understand?'

'What was that you just told him?' said Carrot.

'Just explainin' we're friends,' said Gaspode. To the cowering wolf he barked: 'Okay, he's prob'ly going to do that anyway, but I can talk to him, so your only chance is to tell us everything—'

'Know nothing!' the wolf whined. 'She was with a big he-wolf from Uberwald! From the Clan That Smells Like This!'

Gaspode sniffed. 'He's a long way from home, then.'

'He's a bad news wolf!'

'Tell it there'll be roast chicken for its trouble,' said Carrot.

Gaspode sighed. It was a hard life, being an interpreter.

'All right,' he growled. 'I'll persuade him to untie you. It'll take some doing, mark you. If he offers you a chicken, don't take it 'cos it'll be poisoned. Humans, eh?'

Carrot watched the wolf flee.

'Odd,' he said. 'You've have thought it'd be hungry, wouldn't you?'

Gaspode looked up from the roast chicken. 'Wolves, eh?' he said, indistinctly.

That night, when they heard the wolves howling in the distant mountains, Gaspode picked up one solitary, lonely howl behind them.

The towers followed them up into the mountains although, Vimes noticed, there were some differences in construction. Down on the plains they were more or less just a high wooden gantry with a shed at the bottom but here, although the design was the same, it was clearly temporary. Next to it men were at work on a heavy stone base - fortifications, he realized, which meant that he really was beyond the law. Of course, technically he'd been beyond his law since leaving Ankh-Morpork, but laws were where you could make it stick and these days a City Watch badge would at least earn respect, if not actual cooperation, everywhere on the plains. Up here, it was just an ugly brooch.

Slake turned out to be a stone-walled coaching inn and not much else. It had, Vimes noticed, very heavy shutters on the window. It also had what he thought was a strange iron griddle over the fireplace until he recognized it for what it was, a sort of portcullis that could block off the chimney. This place expected to withstand the occasional siege that might include enemies who could fly.

It was sleeting when they went out to the coaches.

'A storm's closing in, mmm-mhm,' said Inigo. 'We shall have to hurry.'

'Why?' said Sybil.

'The pass will probably be closed for several days, Your Ladyship. If we wait, we may even miss the coronation. And... er... there may be slight bandit activity...'

'Slight bandit activity?' said Vimes.

'Yes, sir.'

'You mean they wake up and decide to go back to bed? Or they just steal enough for a cup of coffee?'

'Very droll, sir. They do, notoriously, take hostages—'

'Bandits don't frighten me,' said Sybil.

'If I may—' Inigo began.

'Mister Skimmer,' said Lady Sybil, drawing herself up to her full width, 'I did in fact just tell you what we are