The Fifth Elephant - Terry Pratchett [40]
“Only the best, mister.”
He spun around. No one was there except the little scruffy dog, which had followed him and was now raising a cloud of dust as it scratched itself.
“Woof?” it said.
He threw a stone at it, and it trotted off. Then he selected three of the very best chickens.
Carrot was lying down under a tree, trying to make his head comfortable on a saddlebag.
“Did you see in the dust where she’d almost rubbed out her footprints?” said Gaspode.
“Yes,” said Carrot, closing his eyes.
“Does she always pay for chickens?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Carrot turned over.
“Because animals don’t.”
Gaspode looked at the back of Carrot’s head. On the whole he enjoyed the unusual gift of speech, but something about the reddening of Carrot’s ears told him that this was the time to employ the even rarer gift of silence.
He settled down in the position he almost unconsciously categorized as Faithful Companion Keeping Watch, got bored, scratched himself absentmindedly, curled up in the pose known as Faithful Companion Curled Up With His Nose Pressed On His Bottom,* and fell asleep.
He awoke shortly afterward, to the sound of voices. There was also a faint smell of roast chicken coming from the direction of the farmhouse.
Gaspode rolled over, and saw the farmer talking to another man on a cart. He listened for a moment and then sat up, locked in a metaphysical conundrum.
Finally he awoke Carrot by licking his ear.
“Fzwl…what?”
“You got to promise to collect the roast chicken first, all right?” said Gaspode urgently.
“What?” Carrot sat up.
“Get the chickens and then we gotta go, right? You gotta promise.”
“All right, all right, I promise. What’s happening?”
“You ever heard of a town call Scant Cullot?”
“I think it’s about ten miles from here…”
“One of Mister Farmer’s neighbors has just told him that they’ve caught a wolf there.”
“Killed it?”
“No, no, no…but the wolf hunters…there’s wolf hunters in these parts, see, ’cos of the sheep up on the hills and…they have to train their dogs first remember you promised about the chickens!”
At precisely eleven o’clock there was a smart rap on Lord Vetinari’s door.
The Patrician gave the woodwork a puzzled frown. At last he said: “Come.”
Fred Colon entered with difficulty. Vetinari watched him for a few moments until pity overcame even him.
“Acting Captain, it is not necessary to remain at attention at all times,” he said, kindly. “You are allowed to unbend enough for the satisfactory manipulation of a doorknob.
“Yes, sah!”
Lord Vetinari raised a hand to his ear protectively.
“You may be seated.”
“Yes, sah!”
“You may be quieter, too.”
“Yes, sah!”
Lord Vetinari retreated to the protection of his desk.
“May I commend you on the gleam of your armor, Acting Captain—”
“Spit and polish, sah! No substitute for it, sah!” Sweat was streaming down Colon’s face.
“Oh, good. Clearly you have been purchasing extra supplies of spit. Now then, let me see…”
Lord Vetinari drew a sheet of paper from one of the small stack in front of him.
“Now then, Acti—”
“Sah!”
“To be sure. I have here another complaint of overenthusiastic clamping…I’m sure you know to what I refer.”
“It was causing serious traffic congestion, sah!”
“Quite so. It is well known for it. But it is, in fact, the opera house.”
“Sah!”
“The owner feels that big yellow clamps at each corner detract from what I might call the tone of the building. And, of course, they do prevent him from driving it away.”
“Sah!”
“Indeed. I think that this is a case where discretion might be advisable, Acting Captain!”
“Got to make an example to the others, sah!”
“Ah. Yes.” The Patrician held another piece of paper delicately between thumb and forefinger, as though it were some rare and strange creature. “The others being…let me see if I can recall, some things do stick in the mind so…ah, yes…three other