"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.

Tags: Terry Pratchett Discworld Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net