The Fifth Elephant (36 page)

“
Says
that,” said Lady Sybil sharply.

“Yes.”

Carrot opened his eyes.

“What…happened back there?” he said.

“Wolfgang hit you,” said Angua. She wiped his brow.

“What with?” Carrot tried to push himself upward, winced, and fell back.

“What have I always told you about the Marquis of Fantailler?” said Vimes.

“Sorry, sir.”

Something bright rose from the distant forests. It vanished, and then a green light expanded into existence. A moment later came the
pop
of the flare.

“The signalers have got to the tower,” said Vimes.

“Can’t this damn thing go any faster?” said Angua.

“I mean, we can contact Ankh-Morpork,” said Vimes. After everything, he felt curiously cheered by this. It was as if a special human howl had gone up. He wasn’t floundering around loose now. He was floundering on the end of a very long line. That made all the difference.

It was a small public room over a shop in Bonk and, since it belonged to everybody, it looked as though it didn’t belong to anyone. There was dust in the corners, and the chairs that were currently arranged in a ragged circle had been chosen for their ability to be stacked neatly rather than sat on comfortably.

Lady Margolotta smiled at the assembled vampires. She liked these meetings.

The rest of the group were a pretty mixed bunch, and she wondered what their motives were. But perhaps they at least shared one conviction—that what you were made as, wasn’t what you had to be or what you might become…

And the trick was to start small. Suck, but don’t impale. Little steps. And then you found that what you really wanted was power, and there were much politer ways of getting it. And then you realized that power was a bauble. Any thug had power. The true prize was
control
. Lord Vetinari knew that. When heavy weights were balanced on the scales, the trick was to know where to place your thumb.

And all control started with the self.

She stood up. They watched her with slightly worried yet friendly faces.

“My name, in the short form, is Lady Margolotta Amaya Katerina Assumpta Crassina von Uberwald, and I am a vampire…”

They chorused: “Hello, Lady Margolotta Amaya Katerina Assumpta Crassina von Uberwald!”

“It has been five years now,” said Lady Margolotta. “And I am still taking one night at a time. One neck would always be one too many. But…there are compensations…”

There were no guards on the gate of Bonk, but there was a cluster of dwarfs outside the embassy as the cart slid to a halt. The wolves in the traces jerked nervously and whined at Angua.

“I’ll have to let them go,” she said, getting out. “They’ve only come this far because they’re frightened of me…”

Vimes wasn’t surprised. At the moment, anything would be frightened of Angua.

Even so, a squad of dwarfs was hurrying to the sledge.

It’d take them a few seconds to get a grip on things, Vimes realized. There were uptown guards here, and an Igor, and a werewolf. They’d be puzzled as well as suspicious. That should give him a tiny crack to lever open. And, ashamed as he was to say it, an arrogant bastard always had the edge.

He glared at the lead dwarf. “What is your name?” he demanded.

“You are under—”

“You know the Scone of Stone was stolen?”

“You…what?”

Vimes reached around and pulled a sack out of the sleigh.

“Bring those torches closer!” he shouted, and because he delivered the command in a tone that said there was no
doubt
that it’d be obeyed, it
was
obeyed. I’ve got twenty seconds, he thought, and then the magic goes away.

“Now look at this,” he said, lifting the thing out of the sack.

Several dwarfs fell to their knees. The murmuring spread out. Another howl, another rumor…in his current state he could see, in his mind’s bloodshot eye, the towers in the night, clicking and clacking, delivering to Genua
exactly
the message that had been sent from Ankh-Morpork.

“I want to take this to the king,” he said, in the hushed silence.

“
We
will take it—” the dwarf began, moving forward.

Vimes stepped aside.

“Good evenin’, boys,” said Detritus, standing up in the sleigh.

The tortured noises the bow’s springs were making under their preternatural stress sounded like some metal animal in extreme pain. The dwarf was a couple of feet away from several dozen arrow points.

“On the
other
hand,” said Vimes, “we could continue talking. You look like a dwarf who likes to talk.”

The dwarf nodded.

“First of all, is there any reason why the two wounded men I have here couldn’t be taken inside before they die of their wounds?”

The bow twitched in Detritus’s hands.

The dwarf nodded.

“They can go inside and be treated?” said Vimes.

The dwarf nodded again, still looking into a bundle of arrows bigger than his head.

“Capital. See how we get on when we simply talk? And
now
I suggest that you arrest me.”

“You
want
me to arrest you?”

“Yes. And Lady Sybil. We place ourselves under your personal jurisdiction.”

“That’s right,” said Sybil. “I demand to be arrested.” She drew herself up and out, righteous indignation radiating like a bonfire, causing the dwarfs to back away from what was clearly an unexploded bosom.

“And since the arrest of its ambassador will certainly cause…difficulties with Ankh-Morpork,” Vimes went on, “I strongly suggest you take us directly to the king.”

By blessed chance, the distant tower sent up another flare. Green light illuminated the snows for a moment.

“What’s that mean?” said the dwarf captain.

“It means that Ankh-Morpork knows what’s going on,” said Vimes, praying that it did. “And I don’t reckon you want to be the dwarf who started the war.”

The dwarf spoke to the dwarf beside him. A third dwarf joined them. Vimes couldn’t follow the hurried conversation, but right behind him Cheery whispered: “It’s a bit beyond him. He doesn’t want anything to happen to the Stone.”

“Good.”

The dwarf turned back to Vimes.

“What about the troll?”

“Oh, Detritus will stay in the embassy,” said Vimes.

This seemed to lighten the tone of the debate somewhat, but it still appeared to be heavy going.

“What’s happening now?” whispered Vimes.

“There’s no precedent for anything like this,” muttered Cheery. “You’re supposed to be an assassin, but you’ve come back to see the king and you’ve got the Scone—”

“No precedent?” said Sybil. “Yes there bloody well is, pardon my Klatchian…”

She took a deep breath, and began to sing.

“Oh,” said Cheery, shocked.

“What?” said Vimes.

The dwarfs were staring at Lady Sybil as she changed up through the gears into full, operatic voice. For an amateur soprano she had an impressive delivery and range, a touch too wobbly for the professional stage but exactly the kind of high coloratura to impress the dwarfs.

Snow slid off roofs. Icicles vibrated. Good grief, thought Vimes, impressed, with a spiky corset and a hat with wings on it she could be ferrying dead warriors off a battlefield…

“It’s Ironhammer’s ‘Ransom’ song,” said Cheery. “Every dwarf knows it! Er, it doesn’t translate well, but…‘I come now to ransom my love, I bring a gift of great wealth, none but the king can have power over me now, standing in my way is against all the laws of the world, the value of truth is greater than gold’…er, there’s always been some debate about that last line, sir, but generally considered acceptable if it’s a really big truth—”

Vimes looked at the dwarfs. They were fascinated, and one or two of them were mouthing along to the words.

“Is it going to work?” he whispered.

“It’s hard to think of a bigger precedent than this, sir. I mean…it’s the song of songs! The ultimate appeal! It’s built into dwarf law, almost! They
can’t
refuse. It’d be…not being a dwarf, sir!”

As Vimes watched, one dwarf pulled a fine chain-mail handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose with a wet, jingling noise. Several others were in tears.

When the last note died away there was silence, and then the sudden thunder of axes banging on shields.

“It’s all right!” said Cheery. “They’re clapping!”

Sybil, panting with the effort, turned to her husband. She gleamed in the torchlight.

“Do you think that was all right?” she said.

“By the sound of it, you’re an honorary dwarf,” said Vimes. He held out his arm. “Shall we go?”

News was going on ahead. Dwarfs were pouring out of the entrance to Downtown when the duke and duchess arrived.

There were dwarfs behind them now. They were being swept along. And all the time, hands would reach out to touch the Scone as it passed.

Dwarfs crowded into the elevator with them. Down below the roar of conversation stopped abruptly as Vimes stepped out and raised the Scone above his head. Then the rock echoed and re-echoed to one enormous cheer.

They can’t even see it, said Vimes. To most of them, it’s a tiny white dot. And that was what the plotters had known, wasn’t it? You don’t have to steal something to hold it hostage…

“They are to be arrested!”

Dee was hurrying forward, with more guards behind him.

“Again?” said Vimes. He kept the stone aloft.

“You attempted to kill the king! You escaped from your cell!”

“That’s something about which we could hear more evidence,” said Vimes, as calmly as he could. The Scone was getting heavier. “You can’t keep people in the dark all the time, Dee.”

“You shall certainly not see the king!”

“Then I will drop the Scone!”

“Do so! It won’t—”

Vimes heard the gasp of the dwarfs behind him.

“It won’t what?” he said, quietly. “It won’t matter? But this is the
Scone
!”

One of the dwarfs that had accompanied them from the embassy shouted something, and several others took it up.

“Precedent is on your side,” Cheery translated. “They say they can always kill you
after
you’ve seen the king.”

“Well, not exactly what I was hoping but it’ll have to do.” Vimes looked at Dee again. “You
said
you wanted me to find the thing, didn’t you? And now, how fitting that I return it to its rightful owner…”

“You…the king is…you may give it to me,” said Dee, pulling himself up to the height of Vimes’s chest.

“Absolutely not!” snapped Lady Sybil. “When Ironhammer returned the Scone to Bloodaxe, would he have given it to Slogram?”

There was a general chorus of dissent.

“Of course not,” said Dee, “Slogram was a trait—”

He stopped.

“I think,” said Vimes, “that we had better see the king, don’t you think?”

“You can’t demand that!”

Vimes indicated the press of dwarfs behind them.

“You’re going to be
amazed
at how difficult it’s going to be for you, explaining that to them,” he said.

It took half an hour to see the king. He had to be roused. He had to dress. Kings don’t hurry.

In the meantime, Vimes and Sybil sat in an anteroom on chairs too small for them, surrounded by dwarfs who weren’t themselves sure if they were a prisoner escort or an honor guard. Other dwarfs were peering around the doorway; Vimes could hear the buzz of excited conversation.

They weren’t wasting much time looking at him. Their gaze always fell on the Scone that he held in his lap. It was clear that most of them hadn’t even seen it before.

You poor little sods, he thought. This is what you all believe in, and before the day’s out you’re going to be told it’s just a bad fake. You’ll
see
it’s a forgery. And that about wraps it up for your little world, doesn’t it? I set out to solve a crime and I’m going to end up committing a bigger one.

I’m going to be lucky to get out of here alive, aren’t I?

A door was rolled open. A couple of what Vimes thought of as the
heavy
dwarfs stepped through and gave everyone the official, professional look which said that for your comfort and convenience we have decided not to kill you right at this very moment.

The king entered, rubbing his hands.

“Ah, Your Excellency,” he said, pronouncing the word as a statement of fact rather than a welcome. “I see you have something that belongs to us.”

Dee detached himself from the crowd at the door.

“I must make a serious accusation, sire!” he said.

“Really? Bring these people into the law room. Under guard, of course.”

He swept away. Vimes looked at Sybil, and shrugged. They followed the king, leaving the hubbub of the main cavern behind.

Once again, Vimes was in the room with too many shelves and too few candles. The king sat down.

“Is the Scone heavy, Your Excellency?”

“Yes!”

“It is weighted with history, see? Put it down on the table with
extreme
care, please. And…Dee?”

“That…thing,” said Dee, pointing a finger, “that
thing
is…a fake, a copy. A forgery! Made in
Ankh-Morpork
! Part of a plot which, I am sure can be proven, involves milord Vimes! It is
not
the Scone!”

The king lifted a candle a little closer to the Scone and gave it a critical look from several angles.

“I have seen the Scone many times before,” he said at last, “and I would say that this appears to be the true thing and the whole of the thing.”

“Sire, I demand—that is, I advise you to demand a closer inspection, sire.”

“Really?” said the king mildly. “Well, I am not an expert, see? But we are fortunate, are we not, that Albrecht Albrechtson is here for the coronation? All of dwarfdom knows, I think, that he is
the
authority on the Scone and its history. Have him summoned. I daresay he is close at hand. I should say just about everyone is on the other side of that door now.”

“Indeed, sire.” The look of triumph on Dee’s face as he swept past Vimes was almost obscene.