The Fifth Elephant

gives you a bit of an insight.”
    “I have to tell you, sir…my brother killed the clacky signalers. His scent’s all over the place up there.”
    Gavin made a noise in his throat.
    “And another man that Gavin didn’t recognize, except that he spent a lot of time hiding in the forest and watching our castle.”
    “I think that might have been a man called Sleeps. One of our…agents,” said Vimes.
    “He did well. He managed to get to a boat a few miles downriver. Unfortunately, there was a werewolf waiting in it.”
    “It was a waterfall that did it for me,” said Vimes.
    “Permission to speak honestly, sir?” said Angua.
    “Don’t you always?”
    “They could have got you any time they liked, sir. Really they could. They wanted you to get as far as the tower before they really attacked. I expect Wolfgang thought that’d be nicely symbolic, or something.”
    “I got three of them!”
    “Yes, sir. But you wouldn’t have been able to get three of them all at once. Wolfgang was having some…fun. That’s how he’s always played the Game. He’s good at thinking ahead. He likes ambushes. He likes some poor soul to get within a few yards of the finish before he leaps out on them.” Angua sighed. “Look, sir, I don’t want there to be trouble—”
    “He’s been killing people!”
    “Yes, sir. But my mother’s just a rather ignorant snob and my father’s half-gone now, he spends so much time as a wolf he hardly knows how to act human anymore. They don’t live in the real world. They really think Uberwald can stay the same. There isn’t a lot up here, really…but it’s ours. Wolfgang’s a murderous idiot who thinks that werewolves were born to rule. The trouble is, sir…he hasn’t broken the lore.”
    “Oh, ye gods!”
    “I bet he could find plenty of witnesses to say that he gave everyone the start the lore requires. That’s the rules of the Game.”
    “And meddling with the dwarfs’ affairs? He’s stolen the Scone or swapped it or…something, I haven’t worked it all out yet, but one poor dwarf’s already dead because of it! Cheery and Detritus are under arrest! Inigo is dead! Sybil’s locked up somewhere! And you’re saying it’s all okay?”
    “Things are different here, sir,” said Carrot. “It wasn’t until ten years ago they replaced trial by ordeal here with trial by lawyer, and that was only because they found that lawyers were nastier.”
    “I’ve got to get back to Bonk. If they’ve harmed Sybil I don’t care what the damn lore is.”
    “Mister Vimes! You look done in as it is!” said Carrot.
    “I’ll keep going. Come on. Get some of the wolves to pull the sleigh—”
    “You don’t get them to, sir. You ask Gavin if they will,” said Carrot.
    “Oh. Er…can you explain the situation to him?”
    I’m standing in the cold in the middle of a forest, thought Vimes a moment later, watching a quite handsome young woman growling a conversation with a wolf who is watching her. This does not often happen. Not in Ankh-Morpork, anyway. It’s probably a daily occurrence up here.
    Eventually six wolves allowed themselves to be harnessed, and Vimes was carried up the hill to the road.
    “Stop!”
    “Sir?” said Carrot.
    “I want a weapon! There’s got to be something I can use in the tower!”
    “Sir, you can use my sword! And there’s the…hunting spears…”
    “You know what you can do with the hunting spears!”
    Vimes kicked the door at the base of the tower. Fresh snow had blown in, smoothing the edges of wolf and human tracks.
    He felt drunk. Bits of his brain were going on and off. His eyeballs felt as though they were lined with toweling. His legs seemed only vaguely under his control.
    Surely the signalers must’ve had something ?
    Even the sacks and barrels had gone. Well, there were plenty of peasants in the hills, and winter was coming on, and the men who’d been here certainly didn’t have any use for the food anymore. Even Vimes wouldn’t call that theft.
    He climbed up to the next floor. The thrifty people of the forest had been up here, too. But they hadn’t taken the bloodstains off the floor, or Inigo’s little round hat which inexplicably was wedged into the wooden wall.
    He pulled it out, and saw where the thin felt on the brim had been pushed back to reveal the razor-shape edge.
    An assassin’s hat, he thought. And then…no, not an assassin’s hat. He remembered the street fights he’d seen when he was a kid, among the