The Fifth Elephant

door, a few feet high, set into it.
    “What’s that for?” said Vimes. “Even a dwarf would bump their head.”
    “I suppose it depends on what shape you are when you go in,” said Cheery darkly.
    The main door opened as soon as Vimes had laid his hand on the wolf’s-head knocker. But he was ready this time.
    “Good morning, Igor,” he said.
    “Good day, Your Exthelency,” said Igor, bowing.
    “Igor and Igor send their regards, Igor.”
    “Thank you, Your Exthelency. Thince you mention it, could I put a parthel on your coach for Igor?”
    “You mean the Igor at the embassy?”
    “That’s who I thaid, thir,” said Igor, patiently. “He athked me if I could lend him a hand.”
    “Yes, no problem there.”
    “Good. It’th well wrapped up and the ithe with keep it nithe and frethh. Would you thtep thith way? The marthter ith changing at the moment.”
    Igor shambled into a wide hall, one side of which was mostly fireplace, and bowed out.
    “Did he say what I thought he said?” said Vimes. “About the hand and ice?”
    “It’s not what it sounds like, sir,” said Cheery.
    “I hope so. My gods, look at that damned thing!”
    A huge red flag hung from the rafters. In the middle of it was a black wolf’s head, its mouth full of stylized flashes of lightning.
    “Their new flag, I think,” said Cheery.
    “I thought it was just a crest with the doubled-headed bat?”
    “Perhaps they thought it was time for a change, sir—”
    “Ah, Your Excellency! Isn’t Sybil with you?”
    The woman who had entered was Angua, but padded somewhat with years. She was wearing a long, loose green gown, very old-fashioned by Ankh-Morpork standards, although there were some styles that never go out of style on the right figure. She was brushing her hair as she walked across the floor.
    “Er…she’s staying at the embassy today. We had rather a difficult journey. You would be the Baroness Serafine von Uberwald?”
    “And you’re Sam Vimes. Sybil’s letters are all about you. The baron won’t be long. We were out hunting and lost track of time.”
    “I expect it’s a lot of work, seeing to the horses,” said Vimes politely.
    Serafine’s smile went strange for a moment.
    “Hah. Yes,” she said. “Can I get Igor to fetch you a drink?”
    “No, thank you.”
    She sat down on one of the overstuffed chairs and beamed at him.
    “You’ve met the new king, Your Excellency?”
    “This morning.”
    “I believe he’s having trouble.”
    “What makes you think that?” said Vimes. Serafine looked startled.
    “I thought everyone knew?”
    “Well, I’ve hardly been here five minutes,” said Vimes. “I probably don’t count as everyone.”
    Now, he was pleased to note, she looked puzzled.
    “We…just heard there was some problem,” she said.
    “Oh, well…a new king, a coronation to organize…a few problems are bound to occur,” he said. Well, he thought, so this is diplomacy. It’s lying, only for a better class of people.
    “Yes. Of course.”
    “Angua is well,” said Vimes.
    “Are you sure you won’t have a drink?” said Serafine quickly, standing up. “Ah, here is my husband—”
    The baron entered the room like a whirlwind which had swept up several dogs. They bounded ahead of him and danced around him.
    “Hello! Hello!” he boomed.
    Vimes looked at an enormous man—not fat, not tall, just built to perhaps one-tenth over scale. He didn’t so much have a face with a beard as a beard with, peeking over the top in that narrow gap between the mustache and the eyebrows, small remnants of face. He bore down on Vimes in a cloud of leaping bodies, hair and a smell of old carpets.
    Vimes was ready for the handshake when it came but even so had to grimace as his bones were ground together.
    “Good of you to come, hey? Heard so much about you!”
    But not enough, Vimes thought. He wondered if he’d ever have the use of his hand again. It was still being gripped. The dogs had transferred their attention to him. He was being sniffed.
    “Greatest respect for Ankh-Morpork, hey?” said the baron.
    “Er…good,” said Vimes. Blood was getting no farther than his wrist.
    “Have seat!” the baron barked. Vimes had been trying to avoid the word, but that was exactly how the man spoke—in short, sharp, sentences, every one an exclamation.
    He was herded toward a chair. Then the baron let go of his hand and flung himself onto the huge carpet, the excited dogs piling on top of him.
    Serafine