"All about Vimes? Sent yesterday morning morning? Before Before I-?" I-?"

"My lord?"

"Tell me," said the Patrician, "this...message from Uberwald...it yields no clue at all to the sender?"

Sometimes, like a ray of light through clouds, Leonard could be quite perceptive.

"You think you might know the originator, my lord?"

"Oh, in my younger days I spent some time in Uberwald," said the Patrician. "In those days rich young men from Ankh-Morpork used to go on what we called the Grand Sneer, visiting far-flung countries and cities in order to see at first hand how inferior they were. Or so it seemed, at any rate. Oh yes...I spent some time in Uberwald..."

It was not often Leonard of Quirm paid attention to what people around him were doing, but he saw the faraway look in Lord Vetinari's eye.

"You have fond memories, my lord?" he ventured.

"Hmm? Oh...she was a very...unusual lady but, alas, rather... lady but, alas, rather...older than me," said Vetinari. "Much older, I have to say. But...it was a long time ago. Life teaches us its small lessons, and we move on. The world changes." There was the distant look again. "Well, well, well..." than me," said Vetinari. "Much older, I have to say. But...it was a long time ago. Life teaches us its small lessons, and we move on. The world changes." There was the distant look again. "Well, well, well..."

"And no doubt the lady is now dead," said Leonard. He was not much good at this sort of conversation.

"Oh, I very much doubt that," said Vetinari, coming back to the present. "I have no doubt she thrives." He smiled. The world was becoming more...interesting. "Tell me, Leonard," he said, "has it ever occurred to you that one day wars will be fought with brains?" "Tell me, Leonard," he said, "has it ever occurred to you that one day wars will be fought with brains?"

Leonard picked up his coffee cup.

"Oh dear. Won't that be rather messy?" he said.

Vetinari sighed again.

"Not perhaps as messy as the other sort," he said, trying the coffee. It really was rather good.

The ducal coach rolled past the last of the outlying buildings and onto the vast, flat Sto Plains. Cheery and Detritus had tactfully decided to ride on the top for the morning, and leave the duke and d.u.c.h.ess alone inside. Skimmer was indulging in some uneasy cla.s.s solidarity and riding with the servants for a while.

"Angua seems to have gone into hiding," said Vimes, watching the cabbage fields pa.s.s by.

"Poor girl," said Sybil. "The city's not really the place for her."

"Well, you couldn't winkle Carrot out of it with a big pin," said Vimes. "And that's the problem, I suppose."

"Part of the problem," said Sybil.

Vimes nodded. The other part, which no one talked about, was children.

Sometimes it seemed to Vimes that everyone knew that Carrot was the true heir to the redundant throne of the city. It just so happened that he didn't want to be. He wanted to be a copper, and everyone went along with the idea. But kingship was a bit like a grand piano-you could put a cover over it, but you could still see what shape it was underneath.

Vimes wasn't sure what the result was if a human and a werewolf had kids. Maybe you just got someone who had to shave twice a day around full moon and occasionally felt like chasing carts. And when you remembered what some some of the city's rulers had been like, a known werewolf as ruler ought to hold no terrors. It was the b.u.g.g.e.rs who looked human all the time that were the problem. That was just his view, though. Other people might see things differently. No wonder she'd gone off to think about things. of the city's rulers had been like, a known werewolf as ruler ought to hold no terrors. It was the b.u.g.g.e.rs who looked human all the time that were the problem. That was just his view, though. Other people might see things differently. No wonder she'd gone off to think about things.

He realized he was looking, unseeing, out of the window.

To take his mind off this he opened the package of papers that Skimmer had handed him just as he got on the coach. It was called "briefing material." The man seemed to be an expert on Uberwald, and Vimes wondered how many other clerks there were in the Patrician's palace, beavering away, becoming experts experts. He settled down glumly and began to read.

The first page showed the crest of the Unholy Empire that had once ruled most of the huge country. Vimes couldn't recall much about it, except that one of the emperors once had a man's hat nailed to his head for a joke. Uberwald seemed to be a big, cold, depressing place, so perhaps people would do anything anything for a laugh. for a laugh.

The crest was altogether too florid for Vimes's taste and was dominated by a double-headed bat.

The first doc.u.ment was ent.i.tled: THE FAT-BEARING STRATA OF THE SHMALTZBERG REGION THE FAT-BEARING STRATA OF THE SHMALTZBERG REGION (" ("THE LAND OF THE FIFTH ELEPHANT").

He knew the legend, of course. There had once been five elephants, not four, standing on the back of Great A'Tuin, but one had lost its footing or had been shaken loose and had drifted off into a curved orbit before eventually crashing down, a billion tons of enraged pachyderm, with a force that had rocked the entire world and split it up into the continents people knew today. The rocks that fell back had covered and compressed the corpse and the rest, after millennia of underground cooking and rendering, was fat history. According to legend, gold and iron and all the other metals were also part of the carca.s.s. After all, an elephant big enough to support the world on its back wasn't going to have ordinary bones, was it?

The notes in front of him were a little more believable, talking about some unknown catastrophe that had killed millions of the mammoths, bison and giant shrews and then covered them over, pretty much like the fifth elephant in the story. There were notes about old troll sagas and legends of the dwarfs. Possibly ice had been involved. Or a flood. In the case of the trolls, who were believed to be the first species in the world, maybe they'd been been there and seen the elephant trumpeting across the sky. there and seen the elephant trumpeting across the sky.

The result, anyway, was the same. Everyone-well, everyone except Vimes-knew the best fat came from the Shmaltzberg wells and mines. It made the whitest, brightest candles, the creamiest soap, the hottest, cleanest lamp oil. The yellow tallow from Ankh-Morpork's boilers didn't come close.

Vimes didn't see the point. Gold...now that that was important. People died for it. And iron-Ankh-Morpork needed iron. Timber, too. Stone, even. Silver, now, was very... was important. People died for it. And iron-Ankh-Morpork needed iron. Timber, too. Stone, even. Silver, now, was very...

He flocked back to a page headed NATURAL RESOURCES NATURAL RESOURCES, and under SILVER SILVER read: "No silver has been mined in Uberwald since the Diet of Bugs in AM1880, and the possession of the metal is technically illegal." read: "No silver has been mined in Uberwald since the Diet of Bugs in AM1880, and the possession of the metal is technically illegal."

There was no explanation. He made a note to ask Inigo. After all, where you got werewolves, didn't you need silver? And things must have been pretty bad if everyone had to eat insects.

Anyway...silver was useful, too, but fat was just...fat. It was like biscuits, or tea, or sugar. It was just something that turned up in the cupboard. There was no style style to it, no to it, no romance. romance. It was stuff in tubs. It was stuff in tubs.

A note was clipped to the next page. He read: "The Fifth Elephant as a metaphor also appears in the Uberwald languages. Depending on context it can mean 'a thing which does not exist' (as we would say 'Klatchian mist') 'a thing which is other than it seems' and 'a thing which, while unseen, controls events' (in the same way that we would use the term eminence gris eminence gris)."

I wouldn't, thought Vimes. I don't use words like that.

"Constable Shoe," said Constable Shoe, when the door of the bootmaker's factory was opened, "Homicide."

"You come 'bout Mister Sonky?" said the troll who'd opened the door. Warm damp air blew out into the street, smelling of incontinent cats and sulfur.

"I meant I'm a zombie," said Reg Shoe. "I find that telling people right away saves embarra.s.sing misunderstandings later on. But coincidentally coincidentally, yes, we've come about the alleged deceased."

"We?" said the troll, making no comment about Reg's gray skin and st.i.tch marks.

"Doon here, bigjobs!"

The troll looked down, not a usual direction in Ankh-Morpork, where people preferred not to see what they were standing in.

"Oh," he said, and took a few steps backward.

Some people said that gnomes were no more belligerent than any other race, and this was true. However, the belligerence was compressed down into a body six inches high and, like many things when they are compressed, had an inclination to explode. Constable Swires had been on the force only for a few months, but news had gone around and already he inspired respect, or at least the bladder-trembling terror that can pa.s.s for respect on these occasions.

"Don't ye just stand there gawpin', where's yon stiff?" said Swire, striding into the factory.

"We put him in der cellar," said the troll. "And now we got half a ton of liquid rubber running to waste. He'd be livid 'bout that...if he was alive, o'course."

"Why's it wasted?" said Reg.

"Gone all thick and manky, hasn't it. I'm gonna have to dump it later on, and dat's not easy. We was supposed to be dipping a load of Ribbed Magical Delights today, too, but all der ladies felt faint when I hauls him outa der vat and dey went off home."

Reg Shoe looked shocked. He was not, for various reasons, a patron of Mr. Sonky's wares, romance not being a regular feature of the life of the dead, but surely the world of the living had some some standards, didn't it? standards, didn't it?

"You employ ladies ladies here?" he said. here?" he said.

The troll looked surprised.

"Yeah. Sure. It's good steady work. Dey're good workers, too. Always laughing and tellin' jokes while dey're doin' the dippin' and packin', 'specially when we're doin' der Big Boys." The troll sniffed. "Pers'nally, I don't unnerstan der jokes."

"Dem Big Boys are bludy good value for a penny," said Buggy Swires.

Reg Shoe stared at his tiny partner. There was just no way no way that he was going to ask the question. But Swires must have seen his expression. that he was going to ask the question. But Swires must have seen his expression.

"After a bit of work wi' yon scissors, ye won't find a better mackintosh in the whole city," said the gnome, and laughed nastily.

Constable Shoe sighed. He knew that Mr. Vimes had an unofficial policy of getting ethnic minorities into the Watch,* but he wasn't sure this was wise in the case of gnomes, even though there was, admittedly, no ethnic group that was more minor. They had a built-in resistance to rules. This didn't just apply to the law, but to all the invisible rules that most people obeyed unthinkingly, like "Do not attempt to eat this giraffe" or "Do not head-b.u.t.t people in the ankle just because they won't give you a chip." It was best to think of Constable Swires simply as a small independent weapon. but he wasn't sure this was wise in the case of gnomes, even though there was, admittedly, no ethnic group that was more minor. They had a built-in resistance to rules. This didn't just apply to the law, but to all the invisible rules that most people obeyed unthinkingly, like "Do not attempt to eat this giraffe" or "Do not head-b.u.t.t people in the ankle just because they won't give you a chip." It was best to think of Constable Swires simply as a small independent weapon.

"You'd better show us the d-the person who is currently vitally challenged," he said.

They were led downstairs. What was hanging from a beam in the cellar would have frightened the life out of anyone who wasn't already a zombie.

"Sorry 'bout dat," said the troll, pulling it down and tossing it into a corner, where it coiled into a rubbery heap.

"What d'heel wazzit?" said Constable Swires.

"We had to pull der rubber off'f him," said the dwarf. "Sets quick, see? Once you get it out in der air."

"Hey, dat's a' biggest Sonky I ever saw," chuckled Buggy. "A whole-body Sonky! Reckon that's the way he wanted to go?"

Reg looked at the corpse. He didn't mind being sent out on murders, even messy ones. The way he saw it, dying was really just a career change. Been there, done that, worn the shroud...And then you got over it and got on with your life. Of course, he knew that many people didn't, for some reason, but he thought of them as not prepared to make the effort.

There was a ragged wound in the neck.

"Any next of kin?" he said.

"He got a brother in Uberwald. We've sent word," the troll added. "On der clacks. It cost twenty dollars! Dat's murder!"

"Can you think of any reason why someone would kill him?"

The troll scratched his head.

"Well, 'cos dey wanted him dead, I reckon. Dat's a good reason."

"And why would anyone want him dead, do you think?" Reg Shoe could be very, very patient. "Has there been any trouble?"

"Business ain't been so good, I know dat."

"Really? I'd have thought you'd be coining money here."

"Oh yeah yeah, dat's what you'd fink, but not everyfing people calls a Sonky is made by us, see? It's to do wid us becomin'-" the troll's face screwed up with cerebral effort, "jer-nair-rick. Lots of other b.u.g.g.e.rs are jumping up and down on the bandwagon, and dey got better plant and new ideas like makin' 'em in cheese-and-onion flavor an' wid bells on an' stuff like dat. Mister Sonky won't have nothin' to do wid dat kind of fing and dat's been costin' us sales."

"I can see this would worry him," said Reg, in a keep-on-talking tone of voice.

"He's been locking himself in his office a lot."

"Oh? Why's that?" said Reg.

"He's der boss. You don't ask der boss. But he did say dat dere was a special job comin' up and dat'd put us back on our feets."

"Really?" said Reg, making a mental note. "What kind of job?"

"Dunno. You don't-"

"-ask the boss," said Reg. "Right. I suppose no one saw the murder, did they?"

Once again the troll screwed up its enormous face in thought.

"Der murderer, yeah, an' prob'ly Mister Sonky."

"Was there a third party?"

"I dunno, I never get invited to dem things."

"Apart from Mister Sonky and the murderer," said Shoe, still as patient as the grave, "was there anyone else here last night?"

"Dunno," said the troll.

"Thank you, you've been very helpful," said Shoe. "We'll have a look around, if you don't mind."

"Sure."

The troll went back to his vat.

Reg Shoe hadn't expected to find anything and was not disappointed. But he was thorough. Zombies usually are. Mr. Vimes had told him never to get too excited about clues, because clues could lead you on a dismal dance. They could become a habit. You ended up finding a wooden leg, a silk slipper and a feather at the scene of a crime and constructing an elegant theory involving a one-legged ballet dancer and a production of Chicken Lake. Chicken Lake.

The door to the office was open. It was hard to tell if things had been disturbed; Shoe got the impression that the mess was normal. A desk was awash with paperwork, Mr. Sonky having followed the usual "put it down somewhere" method of filing. A bench was covered with samples of rubber, bits of sacking, large bottles of chemicals and some wooden molds that Reg refrained from looking at too closely.

"Did you hear Corporal Littlebottom talking about that museum theft when we came on duty today, Buggy?" he said, opening a jar of yellow powder and sniffing it.

"No."

"I did," said Reg.

He put the lid on the sulfur again and sniffed the air of the factory. It smelled of liquid rubber, which is very much like the smell of incontinent cats.