The Fifth Elephant (41 page)

It was the first coronation Vimes had attended. He’d expected it to be…stranger, touched somehow by glory.

Instead it was dull, but at least it was
big
dull, dullness distilled and honed and cultivated over thousands of years until it had developed an impressive shine, as even grime will if you polish it long enough. It was dullness hammered into the shape and form of ceremony.

It had also been timed to test the capacity of the average bladder.

A number of dwarfs read passages from ancient scrolls. There were what sounded like excerpts from the Koboldean Saga, and Vimes wondered desperately if they were in for another opera, but these were over after a mere hour. There were more readings by different dwarfs. At one point the king, who had been standing alone in the center of a circle of candlelight, was presented with a leather bag, a small mining ax, and a ruby. Vimes didn’t catch the meaning of any of this, but by the sounds behind him it was clear that each item was of huge and satisfying significance to the thousands who were standing behind him. Thousands? No, there must be tens of thousands, he thought. The bowl of the cavern was full of tier upon tier of dwarfs. Maybe a hundred thousand…

…and he was in the front row. No one had said anything. The four of them had simply been led there and left, although the murmurings suggested that the presence of Detritus was causing considerable comment. Senior, long-bearded and richly clothed dwarfs were all around them, and the troll stood out like a tower.

Someone was being taught something. Vimes wondered who the lesson was directed at.

Finally, the Scone was brought in, small and dull and yet carried by twenty-four dwarfs on a large bier. It was laid, reverentially, on a stool.

He could sense the change in the air of the huge cavern, and once again he thought: There’s no magic, you poor devils, there’s no history. I’ll bet my wages the damn thing was molded with rubber from a vat that had last been used in the preparation of Sonky’s Eversure Dependables, and there’s your holy relic for you…

There were still more readings, much shorter this time.

Then the dwarfs who had been participating in the endless and baffling hours withdrew from the center of the cavern, leaving the king looking as small and alone as the Scone itself.

He stared around him and, although it was surely impossible for him to have seen Vimes among the thousands in the gloom, it did seem that his gaze rested on the Ankh-Morpork party for a fraction of a second.

The king sat down.

A sigh began. It grew louder and louder, a hurricane made up of the breath of a nation. It echoed back and forth among the rocks until it drowned out all other sounds.

Vimes had half expected the Scone to explode, or crumble, or flash red-hot. Which was stupid, said a dwindling part of himself—it was a fake, a nonsense, something made in Ankh-Morpork for money, something that had already cost lives. It was not, it
could
not be real.

But in the roaring air he knew that it was, in the minds of all who needed to believe, and in a belief so strong that fact was not the same as truth…he knew that for now, and yesterday, and tomorrow, it was both the thing, and the whole of the thing.

Angua noticed that Carrot was walking better even as they reached the forest below the falls, and the shovel over his shoulder hardly burdened him at all.

There were wolf prints all over the snow.

“They won’t have stayed,” she said, as they walked between the trees. “They felt things keenly when he died but…wolves look to the future. They don’t try to remember things.”

“They’re lucky,” said Carrot.

“They’re realistic, it’s just that the future contains the next meal and the next danger. Is your arm all right?”

“It feels as good as new.”

They found the freezing mass of fur lying at the water’s edge. Carrot pulled it out of the water, scraped off the snow higher up the shingle, and started to dig.

After a while he took off his shirt. The bruises were already fading.

Angua sat and looked over the water, listening to the thud of the spade and the occasional grunt when Carrot hit a tree root. Then she heard the soft slither of something being pulled over snow, a pause, and then the sound of sand and stones being shoveled into a hole.

“Do you want to say a few words?” said Carrot.

“You heard the howl last night. That’s how wolves do it,” said Angua, still looking out across the water. “There aren’t any other words.”

“Perhaps just a moment’s silence, then—”

She spun round. “Carrot! Don’t you
remember
last night? Didn’t you wonder what I might become? Didn’t you worry about the future?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“It hasn’t happened yet. Shall we get back? It’ll be dark soon.”

“And tomorrow?”

“I’d like you to come back to Ankh-Morpork.”

“Why? There’s nothing for me there.”

Carrot patted the soil over the grave.

“Is there anything left for you here?” he said. “Besides, I—”

Don’t you dare say the words, Angua thought. Not at a time like this.

And then they both became aware of the wolves. They were creeping through the trees, darker shadows in the evening light.

“They’re hunting,” said Angua, grabbing Carrot’s arm.

“Oh, don’t worry. They don’t attack human beings for no reason.”

“Carrot?”

“Yes?” The wolves were closing in.

“I’m not human!”

“But last night—”

“That was different. They remembered Gavin.
Now
I’m just a werewolf to them…”

She watched him turn to look at the advancing wolves. The hairs were up on their backs. They were growling. They moved with the strange sidle of those whose hatred could just manage to overcome their fear. And at any moment that balance in one of them was going to tip all the way, and then it would be all over.

There was a leap, and it was Carrot who made it. He grabbed the lead wolf by its neck and tail and held on as it struggled and snapped. Its frantic efforts to escape resulted only in it running in a circle with Carrot in the middle, the other wolves back away from the whirl of gray. Then, as it stumbled, he bit it on the back of the neck. It screamed.

Carrot let go, and stood up. He looked at the circle of wolves. They shied away from his gaze.

“Hmmm?” he said.

The wolf on the ground whined, and got to its feet awkwardly.

“Hmmm?”

It tucked its tail between its legs and backed off, but it still seemed to be attached to Carrot by an invisible lead.

“Angua?” said Carrot, still watching it carefully.

“Yes?”

“Can you speak wolf? I mean, in this shape?”

“A bit. Look, how did you know what to do?”

“Oh, I’ve watched animals,” said Carrot, as if that was an explanation. “Please tell them…tell them if they go away now, I won’t harm them.”

She managed to bark out the words. It had all changed, in such a tiny handful of seconds. Now Carrot wrote the script.

“And now tell them that although I’m going away, I may be back. What’s the name of this one?” He nodded at the cowering wolf.

“That’s Eats Wrong Meat,” Angua whispered. “He was…he’s the leader now that Gavin’s gone.”

“Then tell them that I’m quite happy that he should go on leading. Tell them all that.”

They watched her intently. She knew what they were thinking. He’d beaten the leader. It was all Sorted Out. Wolves did not have a lot of mental space for uncertainty. Doubt was a luxury for species that did not live one meal away from starvation. They still had a Gavin-shaped hole in their minds and Carrot had stepped into it. Of course, it wouldn’t last long. But it didn’t need to.

He always, always finds a way in, she thought. He doesn’t think about it, he doesn’t plot, he simply slides in. I saved him because he couldn’t save himself, and Gavin saved him because…because…because he had some reason…and I’m almost, almost certain that Carrot doesn’t know how he manages to wrap the world around him. Almost certain. He’s good and kind and born to be a king of the ancient sort that wore oak leaves and ruled from a seat under a tree, and though he tries hard he never has a cynical thought.

I’m almost certain.

“Let’s go now,” said Carrot. “The coronation will be over soon, and I don’t want Mister Vimes to worry.”

“Carrot! I’ve got to know something…”

“Yes?”

“
That
might happen to me. Have you ever thought about that? He was my brother, after all. Being two things at the same time, and never quite being one…we’re not the most stable of creatures…”

“Gold and muck come out of the same shaft,” said Carrot.

“That’s just a dwarf saying!”

“It’s true, though. You’re not him.”

“Well…if it happened…if it did…would you do what Vimes did? Carrot? Would it be you who picked up a weapon and came after me? I know you won’t lie. I’ve got to know. Would it be
you
?”

A little snow slid down from the trees. The wolves watched. Carrot looked up for a moment, at the gray sky, and then nodded.

“Yes.”

She sighed.

“Promise?” she said.

Vimes was surprised at how quickly the coronation became a working day. There was a flourish of echoing horns, a general flow of the crowd and, gradually, a queue in front of the king.

“They haven’t even given him time to get comfy!” said Lady Sybil, as they headed toward the exit.

“Our kings are…working kings,” said Cheery, and Vimes detected a dash of pride in her voice. “But now is the time when the king awards favors.”

A dwarf caught up with Vimes and tugged his cloak respectfully.

“The king wishes to see you now, Your Excellency,” he said.

“There’s an almighty queue!”

“Nevertheless,” the dwarf gave a polite cough, “the king wishes to see
you
now. All of you.”

They were led to the front of the queue. Vimes felt many eyes boring into the small of his back.

The king dismissed the previous supplicant with a regal nod as the Ankh-Morpork party was deftly inserted at the top of the line, supplanting a dwarf whose beard went down to his knees.

He looked at them for a moment, and then the internal filing system threw up a card.

“Ah, it’s yourselves, good as new,” he said. “Now, what was it I was going to do? Oh, I remember…Lady Sybil?”

She curtsied.

“Classically, we give rings at this time,” said the king. “Between ourselves, many dwarfs consider this a bit…well, bath salts, see. But I believe they are still welcome and so this, Lady Sybil, is, perhaps, a token of things to come.”

It was a thin silver ring. Vimes was taken aback at this parsimony, but Sybil could graciously accept a bunch of rats.

“Oh, how wond—”

“We normally give gold,” the king went on. “Very popular, and of course you can sing about it. But this has…rarity value, see. It is the first silver that had been mined in Uberwald in hundreds of years.”

“I thought there was a rule that—” Vimes began.

“I ordered the mines reopened last night,” said the king, pleasantly. “It seemed…an auspicious time. We shall soon have silver for sale, Your Excellency, but if Lady Sybil doesn’t get involved in the negotiations and bankrupt us, I for one shall be very grateful,” the king added. “Miss Littlebottom, I see, has not graced us with a sartorial extravaganza today?”

Cheery stared.

“You’re not wearing a dress,” prompted the king.

“No, sire.”

“Although I do notice a few unobtrusive touches of mascara and lipstick.”

“Yes, sire,” squeaked Cheery, on the point of death through shock.

“There’s nice. Do be sure to let me know the name of your dressmaker,” the king went on pleasantly. “I may have some custom for her in the fullness of time. I’ve thought long and hard—”

Vimes blinked. Cheery had gone pale. Had anyone else heard that? Had
he
?

Sybil nudged him in the ribs.

“Your mouth’s open, Sam,” she whispered.

So he
had
heard it…

He heard the king’s voice again.

“—and a bag of gold is always acceptable.”

Cheery was still staring.

Vimes shook her gently by the shoulder.

“Th—thank you, sire.”

The king held out his hand. Vimes wobbled Cheery again. Completely hypnotized, she extended her hand. The king took it and shook it.

Shocked whispers were spreading, behind Vimes. The king had shaken the hand of a self-declared
female…

“And that leaves…Detritus,” said the king. “What a dwarf should give a troll is of course a bit of a puzzle, but it occurs to me that what I should give you is what I would
give
a dwarf. A bag of gold, then, for whatever purpose you choose to put it, and—”

He stood up. He held out his hand.

Dwarfs and trolls were still fighting in the farther regions of Uberwald, Vimes knew. Elsewhere, there was at best the sort of peace you got when both sides were busy rearming.

The whispering stopped. Silence spread out in a widening circle, all across the floor of the cave.

Detritus blinked. Then he took the hand very carefully, trying not to crush it.

The whispering started again. And this time, Vimes knew, it’d go for miles.

It occurred to him that in two handshakes the white-bearded, elderly dwarf had done more than a dozen devious plots could have achieved. By the time those ripples reached the edge of Uberwald, they would be tidal waves. Thirty men and a dog would be nothing by comparison.

“Hmm?”

“I said, what can a king give a Vimes?” said the king.

“Er…nothing, I think,” said Vimes absently. Two handshakes! And very quietly, smiling, the king had turned the customs of the dwarfs upside down. And so gently, too, that they’d spend years arguing about it.

“Sam!” snapped Sybil.

“Well, then, I shall give something to your descendants,” said the king, apparently unperturbed. A long flat box was brought to him. He opened it to reveal a dwarf ax, the new metal glinting on its nest of black cloth.