The Fifth Elephant - Terry Pratchett [80]
“Dere’s been a lot of visitors,” said Detritus.
Vimes took a handful of cards. Some of them had gold edging.
“Dem diplomatics all want you to come for drinky-poos an’ stories about chickens,” the troll added helpfully.
“Cocktails, I think you’ll find,” said Vimes, reading through the pasteboards. “Hmm…Klatch…Muntab…Genua…Lancre…Lancre? It’s a kingdom you could spit across! They’ve got an embassy here?”
“No, sir, mostly dey’ve got a letterbox.”
“Will we all fit in?”
“Dey’ve rented a house for der coronation, sir.”
Vimes dropped the invitations back onto the table.
“I don’t think I can face any of this stuff,” he said. “A man can only drink so much fruit juice and listen to so many bad jokes. Where is the nearest clacks tower, Detritus?”
“About fifteen miles hubward, sir.”
“I’d like to find out what’s going on back home. I think that this afternoon Lady Sybil and I will have a nice quiet ride in the country. It’ll take her mind off this.”
And then, he thought, I’ll wait until midnight, see?
And it’s still only lunchtime.
In the end, Vimes took Igor as driver and guide, and the guards Tantony and the one he would forever think of as Colonesque. Skimmer still hadn’t returned from whatever nefarious expedition was occupying his time, and Vimes was damned if he’d leave the embassy unguarded.
Yet another word for diplomat, Vimes mused, was “spy.” The only difference was that the host government knew who you were. The game was to outwit them, presumably.
The sun was warm, the breeze was cold, the mountain air made every peak look as if Vimes could reach out and touch it. Outside the town snow-covered vineyards and farms clung to slopes that in Ankh-Morpork would be called walls, but after a while the pine forests closed in. Here and there, at a curve in the road, the river was visible far below.
Up on the box, Igor was crooning a lament.
“He told me Igors heal very fast,” said Lady Sybil.
“They’d have to.”
“Mister Skimmer said they are very gifted surgeons, Sam.”
“Except cosmetically, perhaps.”
The coach slowed.
“Do you come up here a lot, Igor?” said Vimes.
“Mister Thleep used to have me drive over on the a week to collect methages, marthter.”
“I’d have thought it’d be easier to have a pickup tower in Bonk.”
“The counthil are dead againtht it, thir.”
“And you?”
“I am very modern in my outlook, thir.”
The tower was quite close now, and loomed. The first twenty feet or so were of stone with narrow, barred windows. Then there was a broad platform from which the main tower grew. It was a sensible arrangement. An enemy would find it hard to break in or set fire to it, there was enough storage room inside to see out a siege, and the enemy would be aware that the lads inside would have signaled for help thirty seconds after the attack began. The company had money. They were like the coaching agents in that respect. If a tower went out of action, someone would be along to ask expensive questions. There was no law here; the kind of people who’d turn up would be inclined to leave a message to the world that towers were not to be touched.
Everyone should know this, and therefore it was odd to see that the big signal arms were stationary.
The hairs rose on Vimes’s neck.
“Stay in the carriage, Sybil,” he said.
“Is there something wrong?”
“I’m not…sure,” said Vimes, who was sure. He stepped down and nodded to Igor.
“I’m going to have a look inside,” he said. “If there is any…trouble, you’re to get Lady Sybil back to the embassy, all right?”
Vimes leaned back into the coach and, trying not to look at Sybil, lifted up one of the seats and pulled out the sword he had hidden there.
“Sam!” she said, accusingly.
“Sorry, dear. I thought I ought to carry a spare…”
There was a bellpull by the door of the tower. Vimes tugged at it, and heard a clang somewhere above.
When nothing else happened, he tried the door. It swung open.
“Hello?”
There was silence.
“This is the Wa—” Vimes stopped. It wasn’t the Watch, was it. Not out here. The badge didn’t work. He was just an