The Fifth Elephant - Terry Pratchett [126]
And it doesn’t even leave a mark.
“Tell me about the death of Longfinger, the candle captain,” said the king, after Dee, with a look of hollow apprehension, had touched the Scone.
The words rushed out. “Oh, as I told you, sire, he—”
“If you do not keep your hands pressed upon the Scone, Dee, I will see to it that they are fixed there. Tell me again.”
“I…he…took his own life, sire. Out of shame.”
The king picked up his ax and turned it so that the long point faced outward.
“Tell me again.”
Now Vimes could hear Dee’s breathing, short and fast.
“He took his own life, sire!”
The king smiled at Vimes. “There’s an old superstition, Your Excellency, that since the Scone contains a grain of Truth it will glow red-hot if a lie is told by anyone touching it. Of course, in these more modern times, I shouldn’t think anyone believes it.” He turned to Dee.
“Tell me again,” he whispered.
As the ax moved slightly, the reflected light of the candles flashed along the blade.
“He took his own life! He did!”
“Oh yes. You said. Thank you,” said the king. “And do you recall, Dee, when Slogram sent false word of Bloodaxe’s death in battle to Ironhammer, causing Ironhammer to take his own life in grief, where was the guilt?”
“It was Slogram’s, sir,” said Dee promptly. Vimes suspected the answer had come straight from some rote-remembered teaching.
“Yes.”
The king let the word hang in the air for a while, and then went on: “And who gave the order to kill the craftsman in Ankh-Morpork?”
“Sire?” said Dee.
“Who gave the order to kill the craftsman in Ankh-Morpork?” The king’s tone did not change. It was the same comfortable, singsong voice. He sounded as though he would carry on asking the question forever.
“I know nothing about—”
“Guards, press his hands firmly against the Scone.”
They stepped forward. Each one took an arm.
“Again, Dee. Who gave the order?”
Dee writhed as if his hands were burning.
“I…I…”
Vimes could see the skin whiten on the dwarf’s hands as he strained to lift them from the stone.
But it’s a fake. I’d swear he destroyed the real one, so he knows it’s a fake, surely? It’s just a lump of plaster, probably still damp in the middle! Vimes tried to think. The original Scone had been in the cave, hadn’t it? Was it? If it wasn’t, where had it been? The werewolves thought they had a fake, and it certainly hadn’t left his sight since. He tried to think through the fog of fatigue.
He’d half-wondered, once, whether the original Scone had been the one in the Dwarf Bread Museum. That would have been the way to keep it safe. No one would try to steal something that everyone knew was a fake…The whole thing was the Fifth Elephant, nothing was what it seemed, it was all a fog…
Which one was real?
“Who gave the order, Dee?” said the king.
“Not me! I said they must take all necessary steps to preserve secrecy!”
“To whom did you say this?”
“I can give you names!”
“Later, you will. I promise you, boyo,” said the king. “And the werewolves?”
“The baroness suggested it! That is true!”
“Uberwald for the werewolves. Ah, yes…‘joy through strength.’ I expect they promised you all sorts of things…You may take your hands off the Scone. I do not wish to distress you further. But…why? My predecessors spoke highly of you, you are a dwarf of power and influence…and then you let yourself become a pawn of the werewolves. Why?”
“Why should they be allowed to get away with it?” Dee snapped, his voice breaking with the strain.
The king looked across at Vimes.
“Oh, I suspect the werewolves will regret that they—” he began.
“Not them! The…ones in Ankh-Morpork! Wearing…makeup and dresses and…and abominable things!” Dee pointed a finger at Cheery. “Ha’ak! How can you even look at it! You let her,” and Vimes had seldom heard a word sprayed with so much venom, “her flaunt herself, here! And it’s happening everywhere