The Fifth Elephant

bloodshot eye, the towers in the night, clicking and clacking, delivering to Genua exactly the message that had been sent from Ankh-Morpork.
    “I want to take this to the king,” he said, in the hushed silence.
    “ We will take it—” the dwarf began, moving forward.
    Vimes stepped aside.
    “Good evenin’, boys,” said Detritus, standing up in the sleigh.
    The tortured noises the bow’s springs were making under their preternatural stress sounded like some metal animal in extreme pain. The dwarf was a couple of feet away from several dozen arrow points.
    “On the other hand,” said Vimes, “we could continue talking. You look like a dwarf who likes to talk.”
    The dwarf nodded.
    “First of all, is there any reason why the two wounded men I have here couldn’t be taken inside before they die of their wounds?”
    The bow twitched in Detritus’s hands.
    The dwarf nodded.
    “They can go inside and be treated?” said Vimes.
    The dwarf nodded again, still looking into a bundle of arrows bigger than his head.
    “Capital. See how we get on when we simply talk? And now I suggest that you arrest me.”
    “You want me to arrest you?”
    “Yes. And Lady Sybil. We place ourselves under your personal jurisdiction.”
    “That’s right,” said Sybil. “I demand to be arrested.” She drew herself up and out, righteous indignation radiating like a bonfire, causing the dwarfs to back away from what was clearly an unexploded bosom.
    “And since the arrest of its ambassador will certainly cause…difficulties with Ankh-Morpork,” Vimes went on, “I strongly suggest you take us directly to the king.”
    By blessed chance, the distant tower sent up another flare. Green light illuminated the snows for a moment.
    “What’s that mean?” said the dwarf captain.
    “It means that Ankh-Morpork knows what’s going on,” said Vimes, praying that it did. “And I don’t reckon you want to be the dwarf who started the war.”
    The dwarf spoke to the dwarf beside him. A third dwarf joined them. Vimes couldn’t follow the hurried conversation, but right behind him Cheery whispered: “It’s a bit beyond him. He doesn’t want anything to happen to the Stone.”
    “Good.”
    The dwarf turned back to Vimes.
    “What about the troll?”
    “Oh, Detritus will stay in the embassy,” said Vimes.
    This seemed to lighten the tone of the debate somewhat, but it still appeared to be heavy going.
    “What’s happening now?” whispered Vimes.
    “There’s no precedent for anything like this,” muttered Cheery. “You’re supposed to be an assassin, but you’ve come back to see the king and you’ve got the Scone—”
    “No precedent?” said Sybil. “Yes there bloody well is, pardon my Klatchian…”
    She took a deep breath, and began to sing.
    “Oh,” said Cheery, shocked.
    “What?” said Vimes.
    The dwarfs were staring at Lady Sybil as she changed up through the gears into full, operatic voice. For an amateur soprano she had an impressive delivery and range, a touch too wobbly for the professional stage but exactly the kind of high coloratura to impress the dwarfs.
    Snow slid off roofs. Icicles vibrated. Good grief, thought Vimes, impressed, with a spiky corset and a hat with wings on it she could be ferrying dead warriors off a battlefield…
    “It’s Ironhammer’s ‘Ransom’ song,” said Cheery. “Every dwarf knows it! Er, it doesn’t translate well, but…‘I come now to ransom my love, I bring a gift of great wealth, none but the king can have power over me now, standing in my way is against all the laws of the world, the value of truth is greater than gold’…er, there’s always been some debate about that last line, sir, but generally considered acceptable if it’s a really big truth—”
    Vimes looked at the dwarfs. They were fascinated, and one or two of them were mouthing along to the words.
    “Is it going to work?” he whispered.
    “It’s hard to think of a bigger precedent than this, sir. I mean…it’s the song of songs! The ultimate appeal! It’s built into dwarf law, almost! They can’t refuse. It’d be…not being a dwarf, sir!”
    As Vimes watched, one dwarf pulled a fine chain-mail handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose with a wet, jingling noise. Several others were in tears.
    When the last note died away there was silence, and then the sudden thunder of axes banging on shields.
    “It’s all right!” said Cheery. “They’re clapping!”
    Sybil, panting