The Fifth Elephant

'What did they do?'

'Well, you know about firedamp? It's a gas you get in mines sometimes. It explodes.'

Vimes saw the images in his mind as Cheery explained...

The miners would clear the area, if they were lucky. And the knockerman would go in wearing layer after layer of chain-mail and leather, carrying his sack of wicker globes stuffed with rags and oil. And his long pole. And his slingshot.

Down in the mines, all alone, he'd hear the knockers. Agi Hammerthief and all the other things that made noises, deep under the earth.

There could be no light, because light would mean sudden, roaring death. The knockerman would feel his way through the utter dark, far below the surface.

There was a type of cricket that lived in the mines. It chirruped loudly in the presence of firedamp. The knockerman would have one in a box, tied to his hat.

When it sang, a knockerman who was either very confident or extremely suicidal would step back, light the torch on the end of his pole and thrust it ahead of him. The more careful knockerman would step back rather more, and slingshot a ball of burning rags into the unseen death. Either way, he'd trust in his thick leather clothes to protect him from the worst of the blast.

Initially the dangerous trade did not run in families, because who'd marry a knockerman? They were dead dwarfs walking. But sometimes a young dwarf would ask to become one; his family would be proud, wave him goodbye, and then speak of him as if he was dead, because that made it easier.

Sometimes, though, knockermen came back. And the ones that survived went on to survive again, because surviving is a matter of practice. And sometimes they would talk a little of what they heard, all alone in the deep mines... the tap-tapping of dead dwarfs trying to get back into the world, the distant laughter of Agi Hammerthief, the heartbeat of the turtle that carried the world.

Knockermen became kings.

Vimes, listening with his mouth open, wondered why the hell it was that dwarfs believed that they had no religion and no priests. Being a dwarf was a religion. People went into the dark for the good of the clan, and heard things, and were changed, and came back to tell...

And then, fifty years ago, a dwarf tinkering in Ankh-Morpork had found that if you put a simple fine mesh over your lantern flame it'd burn blue in the presence of the gas but wouldn't explode. It was a discovery of immense value to the good of dwarfkind and, as so often happens with such discoveries, almost immediately led to a war.

'And afterwards there were two kinds of dwarf,' said Cheery sadly. 'There's the Copperheads, who all use the lamp and the patent gas exploder, and the Schmaltzbergers, who stick to the old ways. Of course we're all dwarfs,' she said, 'but relations are rather... strained.'

'I bet they are.'

'Oh, no, all dwarfs recognize the need for the Low King, it's just that...'

'... they don't quite see why knockermen are still so powerful?'

'It's all very sad,' said Cheery. 'Did I tell you my brother Snorey went off to be a knockerman?'

'I don't think so.'

'He died in an explosion somewhere under Borogravia. But he was doing what he wanted to do.' After a moment she added, conscientiously, 'Well, up to the moment when the blast hit him. After that, I don't think so.'

Now the coach was rumbling up the mountain on one side of the town. Vimes looked down at the little round helmet beside him. Funny how you think you know about people, he thought.

The wheels clattered over the wood of a drawbridge.

As castles went, this one looked as though it could be taken by a small squad of not very efficient soldiers. Its builder had not been thinking about fortifications. He'd been influenced by fairytales and possibly by some of the more ornamental sorts of cake. It was a castle for looking at. For defence, putting a blanket over your head might be marginally safer.

The coach stopped in the courtyard. To Vimes's amazement, a familiar figure in a shabby black coat came shuffling up to open the door.

'Igor?'

'Yeth, marthter?'

'What the hell are you doing here?'

'Er, I'm opening thith here door, marthter,' said Igor.

'But why aren't you—?'

Then it stole over Vimes that Igor was different. This Igor had both eyes the same colour, and some of his scars were in different places.

'Sorry,' he mumbled. 'I thought you were Igor.'

'Oh, you mean my couthin Igor,' said Igor. 'He workth down at the embathy. How'th he getting on?'

'Er, he's looking... well,' said Vimes. 'Pretty... well. Yes.'

'Did he mention how Igor'th getting on, thur?' said Igor, shambling away so fast that Vimes had to run to keep up. 'Only none of uth have heard from him, not even Igor, who'th alwayth been very clothe.'

'I'm sorry? Is your whole family called Igor?'

'Oh, yeth, thur. It avoidth confuthion.'

'It does?'

'Yeth, thur. Anyone who ith anyone in Uberwald wouldn't dream of employing any other thervant but an Igor. Ah, here we are, thur. The mithtreth ith exthpecting you.'

They'd walked under an arch and Igor was opening a door with far more studs in it than was respectable. This led to a hallway.

'Are you sure you want to come?' said Vimes to Cheery. 'She is a vampire.'

'Vampires don't worry me, sir.'

'Lucky for you,' said Vimes. He glanced at the silent Tantony. The man was looking strained.

'Tell our friend here he won't be needed and he's to wait for us in the coach, the lucky devil,' he said. 'But don't translate that last bit.'

Igor opened an inner door as Tantony almost ran out of the hall. 'Hith grathe hith exthellenthy—'

'Ah, Sir Samuel,' said Lady Margolotta. 'Do come in. I know you don't like being your grace. Isn't this tiresome? But it has to be done, doesn't it?'

It wasn't what he'd expected. Vampires weren't supposed to wear pearls, or jumpers in pink. In Vimes's world they didn't wear sensible flat shoes, either. Or have a sitting room in which every conceivable piece of furniture was upholstered in chintz.

Lady Margolotta looked like someone's mother, although possibly someone who'd had an expensive education and a pony called Fidget. She moved like someone who had grown used to her body and, in general, looked like what Vimes had heard described as 'a woman of a certain age'. He'd never been quite certain what age that was.

But... things weren't quite right. There were bats embroidered on the pink jumper, and the pattern on the furniture had a sort of... bat look. The little dog with a bow round its neck, lying curled on a cushion, looked more like a rat than a dog. Vimes was less certain about that one, though; dogs of that nature tended to look a bit rat-like in any case. The effect was as if someone had read the music but had never heard it played.

He realized she was politely waiting for him and bowed, stiffly.

'Oh, don't bother with that, please,' said Lady Margolotta. 'Do take a seat.' She walked over to a cabinet and opened it. 'Do you fancy a Bull's Blood?'

'Is that the drink with the vodka? Because—'

'No,' said Lady Margolotta quietly. 'This, I am afraid, is the other kind. Still, ve have that in common, don't ve? Neither of us drinks... alcohol. I believe you ver an alcoholic, Sir Samuel.'

'No,' said Vimes, completely taken aback. 'I was a drunk. You have to be richer than I was to be an alcoholic.'