The Fifth Elephant

superimpose it on a picture of Wolfgang, you couldn’t get them to meet anywhere .
    There was an old saying, wasn’t there? As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly. Well, that got Wolfgang coming and going.
    Vimes stood up, and turned around carefully. There was no one there. Sounds came in from the street gateway—people laughing, the sound of harness, the clank of a shovel clearing up last night’s snow.
    He sidled into the embassy, keeping his back to the wall. He groped his way toward the stairs, peering into every doorway. He ran across the expanse of the hallway, did a tumbling roll, and ended up against the far wall.
    “Is there anything wrong, sir?” said Cheery. She was watching him from the top of the stairs.
    “Er…have you seen anything odd?” said Vimes, dusting himself off self-consciously, “And I do realize that we’re talking about a house with Igor in it.”
    “Could you give me a hint, sir?”
    “Wolfgang, godsdammit!”
    “But he’s dead, sir. Isn’t he?”
    “Not dead enough!”
    “Er…what do you want me to do?”
    “Where’s Detritus?”
    “Polishing his helmet, sir!” said Cheery, on the point of panic.
    “What the hell is he wasting time with that for?”
    “Er…er…because we’re supposed to leave for the coronation in ten minutes, sir?”
    “Oh…yes…”
    “Lady Sybil told me to come and find you. In a very distinct tone of voice, sir.”
    At that point Lady Sybil’s voice boomed along the corridor.
    “Sam Vimes! You come here!”
    “That one, sir,” Cheery added helpfully.
    Vimes trailed into the bedroom. Sybil was wearing another blue dress, a tiara and a firm expression.
    “Is it a posh do?” said Vimes. “I thought if I put on a clean shirt—”
    “Your official dress uniform is in the dressing room,” said Sybil.
    “It was rather a long day yesterday—”
    “This is a coronation , Samuel Vimes. It is not a come-as-you-are! Go and get dressed, quickly. Including, and I don’t want to have to say this twice, the helmet with the feathers.”
    “But not the red tights,” said Vimes, hoping against hope. “Please?”
    “The red tights, Sam, go without saying.”
    “They go at the knees,” said Vimes, but it was the grumble of the defeated.
    “I’ll ring for Igor to come and help you.”
    “Things will have come to a pretty pass when I can’t put my own tights on, dear, thank you.”
    Vimes dressed hurriedly, listening for…anything. Some creak in the wrong place, perhaps.
    At least this was a Watch uniform, even if it did have buckled shoes. It included a sword. The duking outfit didn’t allow for one, which had always struck Vimes as amazingly stupid. You got made a duke for being a fighter, and then they gave you nothing to fight with.
    There was a tinkle of glass, back in the bedroom, and Lady Sybil was astonished to see her husband enter at a run with his sword raised.
    “I dropped the top of a scent bottle, Sam!” she said. “What’s up with you? Even Angua says he’s probably miles away and in no shape to cause trouble! Why’re you so nervy?”
    Vimes sheathed the sword, and tried to relax.
    “Because our Wolfgang’s a damn bottle covey, dear. Any normal person, they crawl off if they get a beating. Or they have the sense to stay down, at least. But sometimes you get one who just won’t let go. Eight-stone weaklings who’ll try to head-butt Detritus. Evil little bantamweight bastards who’ll bust a bottle on the bar and try to attack five watchmen all at once. You know what I mean? Idiots who’ll go on fighting long after they should stop. The only way to put ’em down is to put ’em out.”
    “I think I recognize the type, yes,” said Lady Sybil, with an irony that failed to register with Sam Vimes until some days later. She picked some lint off his cloak.
    “He’s going to be back. I can feel it in my water,” mumbled Vimes.
    “Sam?”
    “Yes?”
    “Can I have your attention for a couple of minutes? Wolfgang is not your problem now. And I really need to talk to you very quietly for a little while without you running off after werewolves.” She said it as if this was a minor character flaw, like a tendency to leave his boots where people could trip over them.
    “Er…they run after me ,” he pointed out.
    “But there’s always people being found dead or trying to kill you—”
    “I don’t ask them to, dear.”
    “Sam, I’m going to have a baby.”
    Vimes’s head was