The Fifth Elephant

other people, provided it did not cost you anything.
    “ Why have these d’r …these traditional dwarfs come here, though? Ankh-Morpork’s full of humans. They must have their work cut out avoiding humans.”
    “They’re…needed, sir. Dwarf law is complicated, and there’s often disputes. And they conduct marriages and that sort of thing.”
    “You make them sound more like priests.”
    “Dwarfs aren’t religious, sir.”
    “Of course. Oh well. Thank you, Corporal. Off you go. Any fallout from last night? No sulfurous incontinent cats have come forward to confess?”
    “No, sir. The Campaign for Equal Heights has put out a pamphlet saying it was another example of the second-class treatment of dwarfs in the city, but it was the same one they always put out. You know, the one with blanks to fill in the details.”
    “Nothing changes, Cheery. See you tomorrow morning, then. Send Detritus up.”
    Why him ? Vimes thought. Ankh-Morpork was lousy with diplomats. It was practically what the upper classes were for , and it was easy for them because half the foreign bigwigs they’d meet were old chums they’d played Wet Towel Tag with back at school. They tended to be on first-name terms, even with people whose names were Ahmed or Fong. They knew which forks to use. They hunted, shot and fished. They moved in circles that more or less overlapped the circles of their foreign hosts, and were a long way from the rather grubby circles that people like Vimes went around in every working day. They knew all the right nods and winks. What chance had he got against a tie and a crest?
    Vetinari was throwing him among the wolves. And the dwarfs. And the vampires. Vimes shuddered. And Vetinari never did anything without a reason.
    “Come in, Detritus.”
    It always amazed Sergeant Detritus that Vimes knew he was at the door. Vimes had never mentioned that the office wall creaked and bent inward as the big troll made his way along the corridor.
    “You want to see me, sir.”
    “Yes. Sit down, man. It’s this Uberwald business.”
    “Yessir.”
    “How do you feel about visiting the old country?”
    Detritus’s face remained impassive, as it always did when he was waiting patiently for things to make sense.
    “Uberwald, I mean,” Vimes prompted.
    “Dunno, sir. I was a just a pebble when we left dere. Dad wanted a better life in der big city.”
    “There’ll be a lot of dwarfs, Detritus.” Vimes didn’t bother to mention vampires and werewolves. Either of those who attacked a troll was making the last big mistake of its career in any case. Detritus carried a two-thousand-pound–draw crossbow as a hand weapon.
    “Dat’s okay, sir. I’m very modern ’bout dwarfs.”
    “These might be a bit old-fashioned about you, though.”
    “Dem deep-down dwarfs?”
    “That’s right.”
    “I heard about dem.”
    “There’s still wars with trolls up near the Hub, I hear. Tact and diplomacy will be called for.”
    “You have come to der right troll for that, sir,” said Detritus.
    “You did push that man through that wall last week, Detritus.”
    “It was done with tact, sir. Quite a fin wall.”
    Vimes let it go at that. The man in question had just laid out three watchmen with a club, which Detritus had broken in one hand before selecting the suitably tactful wall.
    “See you tomorrow, then. Best dress armor, remember. Send Angua now, please.”
    “She’s not here, sir.”
    “Blast. Put out some messages for her, will you?”

    Igor lurched through the castle corridors, dragging one foot after the other in the approved fashion.
    He was Igor, son of Igor, nephew of several Igors, brother of Igors and cousin of more Igors than he could remember without checking up in his diary. Igors did not change a winning formula. *
    And, as a clan, Igors liked working for vampires. They kept regular hours, were generally polite to their servants and, an important extra, didn’t require much work in the bed-making and cookery department, and tended to have cool, roomy cellars where an Igor could pursue his true calling. This more than made up for those occasions when you had to sweep up their ashes.
    He entered Lady Margolotta’s crypt and knocked politely on the coffin lid. It moved aside a fraction.
    “Yes?”
    “Thorry to wake you in the middle of the afternoon, Your Ladythip, but you did thay —”
    “All right. And—?”
    “It’s going to be Vimeth, Ladythip. You were right.”
    A dainty hand came out of the