The Fifth Elephant

whomever was beyond, and then made to head out of the room. He was brought up short when he almost walked into Vimes.
    The dwarf tilted its head to look up at him. There was no real face there, just the suggestion of the glint of angry eyes between the leather flaps.
    “Arnak-Morporak?”
    “Yes.”
    Vimes didn’t understand the words that followed, but the nasty tone was unmistakable. The important thing was to keep smiling. That was the diplomatic way.
    “Why, thank you,” he said. “And may I say it—”
    There was a grunt from the dwarf. He’d seen Cheery.
    “Ha’ak!” he shouted.
    Vimes heard a gasp. There were other dwarfs clustered around the doorway. Then he glanced down at Cheery. Her eyes were shut. She was trembling.
    “Who is this dwarf?” he said to Dee.
    “This is Albrecht Albrechtson,” said the Ideas-taster.
    “The runner-up?”
    “Yes,” said Dee hoarsely.
    “Then can you tell the creature that if he uses that word again in the presence of myself or any of my staff there will be, as we diplomats say, repercussions. Wrap that up in diplomacy and give it to him, will you?”
    The corners of Vimes’s ears picked up a suggestion that not every dwarf listening was ignorant of the language. A couple of dwarfs were already heading purposefully toward them.
    Dee babbled a stream of hysterical Dwarfish just as the other dwarfs caught up with the gaping Albrecht and led him quietly but firmly away, but not before one of them had whispered something to the Ideas-taster.
    “The…er…the king wishes to see you,” he mumbled.
    Vimes looked toward the doorway.
    More dwarfs were hurrying through it now. Some of them were dressed in what Vimes thought of as “normal” dwarf clothing, others in the heavy black leathers of the deep-down clans. All of them glared at him as they went past.
    Then there was just empty floor, all the way to the door.
    “Do you come too?” he said.
    “Not unless he asks for me,” said Dee. “I wish you luck, Your Monitorship.”
    Beyond the door…was a room of bookshelves, stretching up, stretching away. Here and there a candle merely changed the density of the darkness. There were lots of them, though, punctuating the distance. Vimes wondered how big this room must be—
    “In here is a record of every marriage, every birth, every death, every movement of a dwarf from one mine to another, the succession of the king of each mine, every dwarf’s progress through k’zakra , mining claims, the history of famous axes…and other matters of note,” said a voice behind him. “And perhaps most importantly, every decision made under dwarf law for fifteen hundred years is written down in this room, look you.”
    Vimes turned. A dwarf, short even by dwarf standards, was standing behind him.
    He seemed to be expecting a reply.
    “Er…every decision?”
    “Oh yes.”
    “Er…were they all good?” said Vimes.
    “The important thing is that they were all made,” said the king. “Thank you, young…dwarf, you may straighten up.”
    Cheery was bowing.
    “Sorry, should I be doing that?” said Vimes. “You’re…not the king, are you?”
    “Not yet.”
    “I…I’m…I’m sorry, I was expecting someone more…er…”
    “Do go on.”
    “…someone more…kingly.”
    The Low King sighed.
    “I meant…I mean, you look just like an ordinary dwarf,” said Vimes weakly.
    This time the king smiled. He was slightly shorter than average for dwarfs, and dressed in the usual almost-uniform of leather and home-forged chain mail. He looked old, but dwarfs started looking old around the age of five years and were still looking old three hundred years later, and he had that musical cadence to his speech that Vimes associated with Llamedos. If he’d asked Vimes to pass the ketchup in Gimlet’s Whole Food Delicatessen, Vimes wouldn’t have given him a second look.
    “This diplomacy business,” said the king, “are you getting the hang of it, do you think?”
    “It doesn’t come easy, I must admit…er, Your Majesty.”
    “I believe you have been, up until now, a watchman in Ankh-Morpork?”
    “Er, yes.”
    “And you had a famous ancestor, I believe, who was a regicide? Took an ax, he did, and cut the head off?”
    Here it comes, thought Vimes.
    “Yes, Stoneface Vimes,” he said, as levelly as possible. “I’ve always thought that word was a bit unfair, though. It was only one king. It wasn’t as if it was a hobby. ”
    “You don’t like kings,” said