The Fifth Elephant

'Do you wish me to recall Vimes, sir?'

'Good heavens, no. Vimes in Uberwald will be more amusing than an amorous armadillo in a bowling alley. And who else could I send? Only Vimes could go to Uberwald.'

'But surely this is an emergency, sir?'

'Hmm?'

'What else are we to call it, sir, when a young man of such promise throws away his career for the pursuit of a girl?'

The Patrician stroked his beard and smiled at something.

There was a line across the map: the progress of the semaphore towers. It was mathematically straight, a statement of intellect in the crowding darkness of miles and miles of bloody Uberwald.

'Possibly, a bonus,' he said. 'Uberwald has much to teach us. Fetch me the papers on the werewolf clans, will you? Oh, and although I swore I would never ever do this, please prepare a message for Sergeant Colon, too. Promotion, alas, beckons.'

A grubby cloth cap lay on the pavement. On the pavement beside the cap someone had written in damp chalk:

Plese HelP This LiTTle doGGie.

Beside it sat a small dog.

It was not cut out by nature to be a friendly little waggy-tailed dog, but it was making the effort. Whenever someone walked by it sat up on its hind legs and whined pitifully.

Something landed in the cap. It was a washer.

The charitable pedestrian had gone only a few steps further along the road when he heard: 'And I hope your legs fall off, mister.'

The man turned. The dog was watching him intently.

'Woof?' it said.

He looked puzzled, shrugged, and then turned and walked on.

'Yeah, bloody woof woof,' said the strange voice, as he was about to turn the corner.

A hand reached down and picked up the dog by the scruff of its neck. 'Hello, Gaspode. I believe I've solved a little mystery.'

'Oh, no...' the dog moaned.

'That's not being a good dog, Gaspode,' said Carrot, lifting the dog so they could meet eye to eye.

'All right, all right, put me down, will you? This hurts, you know.'

'I need your help, Gaspode.'

'Not me. I don't help the Watch. Nothing personal, but it doesn't do anything for my street cred.'

'I'm not talking about helping the Watch, Gaspode. This is personal. I need your nose.' Carrot lowered the dog to the pavement and rubbed his hand on his shirt. 'Unfortunately, this means I need the rest of you as well, although of course I am aware that under that itchy exterior beats a heart of gold.'

'Really,' said Gaspode. 'Nothing good starts with "I need your help." '

'It's Angua.'

'Oh dear.'

'I want you to track her.'

'Huh, not many dogs could track a werewolf, mister. They're cunning.'

'Go to the best, I always say,' said Carrot.

'Finest nose known to man or beast,' said Gaspode, wrinkling it. 'Where's she gone, then?'

'To Uberwald, I think.'

Carrot moved fast. Gaspode's flight was hindered by the hand gripping his tail.

'That's hundreds of miles away! And dog miles is seven times longer! Not a chance!'

'Oh? All right, then. Silly of me to suggest it,' said Carrot, letting go. 'You're right. It's ridiculous.'

Gaspode turned, suddenly full of suspicion. 'No, I didn't say it was ridiculous,' he said. 'I just said it was hundreds of miles away...'

'Yes, but you said you had no chance.'

'No, I said that you had no chance of getting me to do it.'

'Yes, but winter's coming on and, as you say, a werewolf is very hard to track and on top of that Angua's a copper. She'll work out that I'd use you, so she'll be covering her trail.'

Gaspode whined. 'Look, mister, respect is hard to earn in this dog's town. If I'm not smelled around the lamp-posts for a couple of weeks my stock is definitely in the gutter, right?'

'Yes, yes, I understand. I'll make some other arrangements. Nervous Nigel's still around, isn't he?'

'What? That spaniel? He couldn't smell his own bottom if you put it in front of him!'

'They say he's pretty good, nasally.'

'And he widdles every time anyone looks at him!' snapped Gaspode.

'I heard he can smell a dead rat two miles away.'

'Yeah? Well, I can smell what colour it is!'

Carrot sighed. 'Well, I've got no choice, I'm afraid. You can't do it, so I'll—'

'I didn't say—' Gaspode stopped, and then went on, 'I'm going to do it, aren't I? I'm bloody well going to do it. You're going to trick me or blackmail me or whatever it takes, aren't you...?'

'Yes. How do you manage to write, Gaspode?'

'I holds the chalk in me mouth. Easy.'

'You're a smart dog. I've always said so. The world's only talking dog, too.'

'Lower your voice, lower your voice!' said Gaspode, looking around. 'Here, Uberwald's wolf country, isn't it?'

'Oh, yes.'

'I could've bin a wolf, you know. With diff'rent parents, of course.' Gaspode sniffed and looked furtively up and down the street again.

'Steak?'

'Every night.'

'Right.'

Sergeant Colon was a picture of misery drawn on a lumpy pavement in bad crayon on a wet day. He sat on a chair and occasionally glanced at the message that had just been delivered, as if hoping that the words would somehow fade away.

'Bloody hell, Nobby,' he moaned.