The Fifth Elephant - Terry Pratchett [54]
“He’s an old friend?” said Carrot.
“Yes.”
“A…friend.”
“Yes.” Angua rolled her eyes and said, in a voice of singsong sarcasm, “I was out in the woods one day and I fell into some old pit trap under the snow and some wolves found me and would have killed me but Gavin turned up and faced them down. Don’t ask me why. People do things sometimes. So do wolves. End of story.”
“Gaspode said wolves and werewolves didn’t get on,” said Carrot patiently.
“He’s right. If Gavin wasn’t here they’d have torn me to pieces. I can look like a wolf, but I’m not a wolf. I’m a werewolf! I’m not a human, either. I’m a werewolf! Get it? You know some of the remarks people make? Well, wolves don’t make remarks. They go for the throat. Wolves have got a very good sense of smell. You can’t fool it. I can pass for human, but I can’t pass for wolf.”
“I never thought of it like that…I mean, you would just think that wolves and werewolves—”
“That’s how it is,” sighed Angua.
“You said this was family,” said Carrot, as if working down a mental checklist.
“I meant it’s personal. Gavin came all the way into Ankh-Morpork to warn me. He even slept on the timber wagons during the day so that he’d keep moving. Can you imagine how much nerve that took? It’s got nothing to do with the Watch. It’s got nothing to do with you.”
Carrot looked around. The snow was falling again, turning into rain above the fire.
“I’m here now.”
“Go away. Please. I can sort this out.”
“And then you’ll come back to Ankh-Morpork? Afterward?”
“I…” Angua hesitated.
“I think I should stay,” said Carrot.
“Look, the city needs you,” said Angua. “You know Vimes relies on—”
“I’ve resigned.”
For a moment, Gaspode thought he could hear the sound of every settling snowflake.
“Not really?”
“Yes.”
“And what did old Stoneface say?”
“Er, nothing. He’d already left for Uberwald.”
“Vimes is coming to Uberwald?”
“Yes. For the coronation.”
“He’s got mixed up in this?” said Angua.
“Mixed up in what?”
“Oh…my family’s been…stupid. I’m not quite sure I know everything, but the wolves are worried. When werewolves make trouble, it’s the real wolves that always suffer. People’ll kill anything with fur.” Angua stared at the fire for a moment and then said, with forced brightness, “So who’s been left in charge?”
“I don’t know. Fred Colon’s got seniority.”
“Ha, yes. In his nightmares.” Angua hesitated. “You really left?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
Gaspode listened to some more snowflakes.
“Well, you won’t get far by yourselves now,” said Angua, standing up. “Rest for another hour. And then we’ll be going through the deep forest. Not too much snow there yet. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. I hope you can keep up.”
At breakfast early next morning Vimes noticed that the other guests were keeping so far away from him that they were holding on to the walls.
“The men who went out came back around midnight, sir,” said Cheery quietly.
“Did they catch anyone?”
“Um…sort of, sir. They found seven dead bodies.”
“Seven?”
“They think some others might have got away where there’s a path up the rocks.”
“But…seven? Detritus got one, and…I got one, and a couple were wounded, and Inigo got…one…” Vimes’s voice tailed off.
He stared at Inigo Skimmer, who was sitting on the other side of the room at a crowded public table. The ones around Vimes and Lady Sybil were deserted; Sybil had put it down to deference. The little man was eating soup in a little neat self-contained world among the waving arms and intrusive elbows. He’d even tucked a napkin under his chin.
“They were…very dead, sir,” Cheery whispered.
“Well, that was…interesting,” said Sybil, wiping her mouth delicately. “I’ve never had soup with sausages in it for breakfast before. What is it called, Cheery?”
“Fatsup, Your Ladyship,” said Cheery. “It means ‘fat soup.’ We’re close to the Shmaltzberg fat layers now, and…well, it’s nourishing and keeps out the cold.”
“How very…interesting.”
Lady Sybil