The Fifth Elephant

handle, new designs on the metalwork, a little refreshing of the ornamentation... but is this not the nine-hundred- year-old axe of my family? And because it has changed gently over time, it is still a pretty good axe, y'know. Pretty good. Will you tell me this is a fake too?' He sat back again.

Vimes remembered the look on Albrecht's face. 'He knew.'

'Oh, yes. A number of... more senior dwarfs know. The knowledge runs in families. The first Scone crumbled after three hundred years when the king of the time touched it. My ancestor was a guard who witnessed it, see. He got accelerated promotion, you could say. I'm sure you understand me. After that, we were a little more prepared. We would have been looking for a new one in fifty years or so in any case. I'm glad one was made in the large dwarf city of Ankh-Morpork, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if it turns out to be an excellent keeper. Look, they've even got the currants right, see?'

'But Albrecht could have exposed you!'

'Exposed what? He is not King, but I will be very surprised if one of his family is not King again, in the fullness of time. What goes around comes around, as the Igors say.' The King leaned forward.

'You have been labouring under a misapprehension; I reckon. You think that because Albrecht dislikes Ankh-Morpork and has... oldfashioned ideas, he is a bad dwarf. But I have known him for two hundred years. He is honest and honourable... more so than me, that I'm sure of. Five hundred years ago he would have made a fine king. Today, perhaps not. Perhaps... hah... the axe of my ancestors needs a different handle. But now I am King and he accepts that with all his heart because if he did not, he'd think he wasn't a dwarf, see? Of course he will now oppose me at every turn. Being Low King was never an easy job. But, to use one of your metaphors, we are all floating in the same boat.

We may certainly try to push one another over the side, but only a maniac like Dee would make a hole in the bottom.'

'Corporal Littlebottom thought there'd be a war—' said Vimes weakly.

'Well, there are always hotheads. But while we argue about who steers the boat, we don't deny that it's an important voyage. I see you are tired. Let your good lady take you home. But as a nightcap... What is it, your excellency, that Ankh-Morpork wants?'

'Ankh-Morpork wants the names of the murderers,' mumbled Vimes.

'No, that is what Commander Vimes wants. What is it that Ankh-Morpork wants? Gold? So often it is gold. Or iron, perhaps? You use a lot of iron.'

Vimes blinked. His brain had finally given up. There was nothing left any more. He wasn't certain he could even stand up.

He remembered a word.

'Fat,' he said blankly.

'Aha. The Fifth Elephant. Are you sure? There's some good iron now. Iron makes you strong. Fat only makes you slippery.'

'Fat,' parroted Vimes, feeling the darkness closing in. 'Lots of fat.'

'Well, certainly. The price is ten Ankh-Morpork cents a barrel but, your excellency, since I have come to know you, I feel that perhaps—'

'Five cents a barrel for grade one high-rendered, three cents for grade two, ten cents per barrel for heavy tallow, safe and delivered to Ankh-Morpork,' said Sybil. 'And all from the Schmaltzberg Bend levels and measured on the Ironcrust scale. I have some doubt about the long-term quality of the Big Tusk wells.'

Vimes tried to focus on his wife. She seemed, inexplicably, a long way away. 'Wha'?'

'Er, I caught up with some reading when I was in the embassy, Sam. Those notebooks. Sorry.'

'Would you beggar us, madam?' said the King, throwing up his hands.

'We may be flexible on delivery,' said Lady Sybil.

'Klatch would pay at least nine for grade one,' said the King.

'But the Klatchian ambassador isn't sitting here,' said Sybil.

The King smiled. 'Or married to you, my lady, much to his loss. Six, five and fifteen.'

'Six, dropping to five after twenty thousand, three and half across the board for grade two. I can give you thirteen on tallow.'

'Acceptable, but give me fourteen on white tallow and I'll allow seven on the new pale suets we're finding. They're making an acceptable candle, look you.'

'Six, I'm afraid. You haven't plumbed the full extent of those deposits, and I think it may be reasonable to expect high levels of scrattle and BCBs in the lower layers. Besides, I think your forecasts about the amount of those deposits are erring on the optimistic side.'

'Wha' BCBs?' murmured Vimes.

'Burnt crunchy bits,' said Sybil. 'Mostly unbelievably huge and ancient animals, deep fried.'

'You astonish me, Lady Sybil,' said the King. 'I did not know you were trained in fat extraction.'

'Cooking Sam's breakfasts is an education in itself, your majesty.'

'Oh, well, far be it for a mere king to argue. Six, then. Price to remain stable for two years—' The King saw Sybil's mouth open. 'All right, all right, three years. I'm not an unreasonable king.'

'Prices on the dock?'

'How can I refuse?'

'Agreed, then.'

'The paperwork will be with you in the morning. And now we really must go our separate ways,' said the King. 'I can see his excellency has had a long day. Ankh-Morpork will be swimming in fat. I can't imagine what you'll use it all for.'

'Make light,' said Vimes, and, as darkness fell at last, fell forward gently into the welcoming arms of sleep.

Sam Vimes awoke to the smell of hot fat.

Softness enveloped him. It practically imprisoned him.

For a moment he thought it was snow, except that snow wasn't usually this warm. Finally, he identified it as the cloud-like softness of the mattress on the ambassadorial bed.

He let his attention drift back to the fat smell. It had... overtones. There was a definite burnt component. Since Sam Vimes's spectrum of gastronomic delight mainly ranged from 'well fried' to 'caramelized', it was decidedly promising.

He shifted position and regretted it immediately. Every muscle in his body squealed in protest. He lay still and waited for the fire in his back to die down.

Bits and pieces of the previous two days assembled themselves in his head. Once or twice he winced. Had he really gone through the ice like that? Was it Sam Vimes who'd stepped up to fight the werewolf, despite the fact that the thing was strong enough to bend a sword in a circle? And had Sybil won a lot of fat off the King? And...

Well, here he was in a nice warm bed and by the smell of it there was breakfast on the way.

Another piece of recollection floated into place. Vimes groaned and forced his legs out of the bed. No, Wolfgang couldn't have survived that, surely.

Naked, he staggered into the bathroom and spun the huge taps. Hot pungent water gushed out.

A minute later he was lying full length again. It was rather too hot, but he could remember the snows, and maybe from now on he could never be hot enough.

Some of the pain washed away.

Someone rapped on the door. 'It's me, Sam.'

'Sybil?'

She came in, carrying a couple of very large towels and some fresh clothes.

'Good to see you up again. Igor's frying sausages. He doesn't like doing it. He thinks they should be boiled. And he's doing slumpie and fikkun haddock and Distressed Pudding. I didn't want the food to go to waste, you see. I don't think I want to stay for the rest of the celebrations.'

'I know what you mean. How's Carrot?'