The Fifth Elephant - Terry Pratchett [17]
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 partly opened coffin and punched the air.
“Yes!”
“Well thpotted, Ladythip.”
“Well, well. Samuel Vimes. Poor devil. Do the doggies know?”
Igor nodded. “The baron’th Igor was altho collecting a methage, Ladythip.”
“And the dwarfs?”
“It ith an official appointment, Ladythip. Everyone knows. Hith Grace the Duke of Ankh-Morpork, Thir Thamuel Vimeth, Commander of the Ankh-Morpork Thity Watch.”
“Then the midden has hit the windmill, Igor.”
“Very well put, Ladythip. No one liketh a thort thower of thit.”
“I imagine, Igor, that he’ll leave them behind.”
Let us consider a castle from the point of view of its furniture.
This one has chairs, yes, but they don’t look very lived in. There is a huge sofa near the fire, and that is ragged with use, but other furnishings