The Fifth Elephant - Terry Pratchett [103]
“If he lost, then your father had him for dinner out in the woods.”
“Thank you for reminding me.”
“I was trying not to be nice.”
“You may have an undiscovered natural talent,” said Angua. “But no one had to run, is my point. I won’t apologize. I’ve been a copper in Ankh-Morpork, remember. City motto: You May Not Get Killed.”
“Actually, it’s—”
“Carrot! I know. And our family motto is Homo Homini Lupus. ‘A man is a wolf to other men’! How stupid. Do you think they mean that men are shy and retiring and loyal and kill only to eat? Of course not! They mean that men act like men toward other men, and the worse they are, the more they think they’re really being like wolves! Humans hate werewolves because they see the wolf in us, but wolves hate us because they see the human inside—and I don’t blame them!”
Vimes veered away from the farmhouse and sprinted toward the nearby barn. There had to be something in there. Even a couple of sacks would do. The chafing qualities of frozen underwear can be seriously underestimated.
He’d been running for half an hour. Well, for twenty-five minutes, really. The other five had been spent limping, wheezing, clutching at his chest and wondering how you knew if you were having a heart attack.
The inside of the barn was…barnlike. There were stacks of hay, dusty farm implements…and a couple of threadbare sacks, hanging on a nail. He snatched one, gratefully.
Behind him, the door creaked open. He spun around, clutching the sack to him, and saw three very somberly dressed women watching him carefully. One of them was holding a kitchen knife in a trembling hand.
“Have you come here to ravish us?” she said.
“Madam! I’m being pursued by werewolves!”
The three looked at one another. To Vimes, the sack suddenly seemed far too small.
“Vill that take you all day?” said one of the women.
Vimes held the sack more tightly.
“Ladies! Please! I need trousers!”
“Ve can see that.”
“And a weapon, and boots if you’ve got them! Please?”
They went into another huddle.
“We have the gloomy and purposeless trousers of Uncle Vanya,” said one, doubtfully.
“He seldom vore them,” said another.
“And I have an ax in my linen cupboard,” said the youngest. She looked guiltily at the other two. “Look, just in case I ever needed it, all right? I wasn’t going to chop anything down.”
“I would be so grateful,” said Vimes. He took in the good but old clothes, the faded gentility, and played the only card in his hand. “I am His Grace the Duke of Ankh-Morpork, although I appreciate this fact is not evident at the—”
There was a three-fold sigh.
“Ankh-Morpork!”
“You haf a magnificent opera house and many fine galleries.”
“Such vonderful avenues!”
“A veritable heaven of culture and sophistication and unattached men of quality!”
“Er…I said Ankh-Morpork,” said Vimes. “With an A and an M.”
“Ve have always dreamed of going there.”
“I’ll have three coach tickets sent along immediately after I get home,” said Vimes, his mind’s ear hearing the crunch of speeding paws over snow. “But, dear ladies, if you could fetch me those things—”
They hurried away, but the youngest lingered by the door.
“Do you have long, cold winters in Ankh-Morpork?” she said.
“Just muck and slush, usually.”
“Any cherry orchards?”
“I don’t think we have any, I’m afraid.”
She punched the air.
“Yesss!”
A few minutes later Vimes was alone in the barn, wearing a pair of ancient black trousers that he’d tied at the waist with rope, and holding an ax which was surprisingly sharp.
He had five minutes, perhaps. Wolves probably didn’t stop to worry about heart attacks.
There was no point in simply running. They could run faster. He needed to stay near civilization and its hallmarks, like trousers.
Maybe time was on Vimes’s side. Angua was never very talkative about her world, but she had said that, in either shape, a werewolf slowly lost some of the skills of the other shape. After several hours on two legs her sense of smell dropped