Raising Steam (26 page)

Moist had already gleaned from Mrs Forefather that the brothers’ old mum was being comforted by friends back in her own home, a short walk from the pub, and he was careful to see that no mention of this or the current whereabouts of the unfortunate Wesley brothers was made to the gang of journalists. And he surprised himself by realizing that this was a sensible and humanitarian thing to do, some of the press gang being the sort who would most definitely say things like, ‘Well now, Mrs Wesley, how did you feel when you found out that both of your sons had been melted?’

As the press seized on the new arrivals, Moist, like a chess grandmaster, tried to keep his king, that would be Sir Harry King, away from the worst questions and instead played his shining knight, Mr Dick Simnel. He was learning a lot from Mr Simnel. They faced him with questions like, ‘What do you say to people who think that live steam will kill everybody in the end?’

To which Dick’s answer was, ‘I don’t know, sir, I’ve never met anyone who thought that. Steam is
very
dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing and I feel sorry for them poor boys.’

Hardwick of the
Pseudopolis Daily Press
said, ‘I hear your own engine killed someone the night before last. What do you have to say about that, Mister Simnel?’

Before Dick could speak Thunderbolt came down like a judge and said, ‘The person in question was clearly trying to sabotage the locomotive and while we naturally regret the fatality he was in a place where he shouldn’t have been, doing something that he shouldn’t have done. It is evident that he entered the engine shed through a skylight, which seems to show lawful business was not on his mind. His death, alas, was self-inflicted.’

‘And what about Mister Simnel senior?’ said Hardwick. ‘Was
his
death self-inflicted?’

Simnel took the floor once again. ‘It just goes to show you have to treat steam with respect, and yes, I learned t’hard way when me
dad died and that’s why I measure and test and measure again. It’s all about t’little numbers. It’s all about taking care. It’s all about getting the knowledge. Steam has its rules. After all, we call it
live
steam for a reason. It’s dangerous in t’wrong hands, but my hands, sir, have spent a long time building boilers and static engines, just to see ’ow far I could go. That generally meant me hiding behind a stone wall while bits of engine whistled over me ’ead. You learn by your mistakes, if you’re lucky, and I tried to make mistakes just to see ’ow that could be done, and although this is not the time to say it, you ’ave to be clever and you ’ave to be smart and you ’ave to be ’umble in the face of such power. You have to think of every little detail. You have to make notes and educate yourself and then, only then, steam becomes your friend. Like Iron Girder, you’ve all seen her. Yes, miss?’

Moist recognized Sacharissa Cripslock. She said, ‘You speak so caringly of your locomotive, Mister Simnel, and so I have to ask, do you have a sweetheart?’

There was a certain amount of tittering from the hacks, but Simnel barely blinked. ‘Why, thank you for asking and yes, there is indeed a young lady who is looking at me kindly.’

Simnel turned towards another waving notebook and said, ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Grievous, sir, Grievous Johnson from the
Big Cabbage Gazette
. Is it your intention to share your knowledge with others trying to build their own engines? That might save a lot of lives.’

Simnel glanced at Moist and Moist looked at Harry King, who dropped an eyebrow, which Moist knew he could take as a yes.

Simnel knew it too and had spotted the signal. He said, ‘Oh, yes, sir, we will do. At least the basics, safety and so forth. But it’ll cost. Research and development has to cost. But I’ll tek apprentices, show them t’ropes, and generally make them safer workers. In fact we’re planning regular classes, a Railway Academy, you might call it.’ His smile dropped as he continued, ‘O’course I’m reet sorry
about those lads, sir, but learning is hard and failure is sharp. I’d hate that kind of thing to happen again, but it’s got to be done proper like. No scrimping. No cutting corners.’

Mr Simnel had won again. The press couldn’t deal with a straightforward man. The certainty in his face simply disarmed them and possibly, thought Moist, made them wish they were better people. There wasn’t an inch of politics in him and that stunned them.

Simnel was still beaming at them. ‘Aye, if any of you’d like to come back to t’works at Ankh-Morpork at any time I’ll gladly show you around. I’ll show you
everything
.’

Far away from Moist and certainly from common sense, the grags took counsel, if it could be called that. Things in the outside world were changing so fast.

‘We are losing, you do know that?’ said a voice in the darkness.

‘It can’t be helped. It’s the zeitgeist, it’s in the air,’ said another voice, sounding somewhat more cracked.

‘And what do we care about the air, or any kind of geist? We are the justified, the stalwarts, the kings and servants of the darkness. Our people
will
come back.’

‘No, they’re leaving! Burning clacks towers was stupid! I say stupid! Everybody wants their news and it makes us look like criminals, which we are. And that’s
not
justified.’

A dwarf who had been silent during the conclave in the cavern was remembering the old Djelibeybi legend about the way to get an ass down from the minaret, and of course the answer was you first have to teach it
not
to be an ass. But in what world could that ever happen when you’re dealing with grags? It was, she thought, time to see for herself just how life was in the lands of the Troll King. She had been very careful, oh dear, so very careful and so she had survived, she hoped, to be the jackass that got out of the minaret, but alas, the idiots were still encouraging impressionable young
dwarfs to attack the clacks towers. Whoever had had that idea had doomed them without dialogue.

Rhys Rhysson was right, she thought. We’ve lost all balance. We have to get out of here, out of everything that is
here
, out into the light. Surely, she thought, they wouldn’t suspect her. She had been forensic in her search for unbelievers.

Nevertheless, when at last she ran the knives got her before she stumbled. And then there were eight left in the cavern and those watching in the darkness watched more closely to see who would be next. The time would be coming when the purity of darkness could not be mocked!

The terrible fact was that when dwarfs schism, they
schism
… every deviation from the norm was treated as an attack on all that was truly dwarfish.

Others had already fled and died, and who could say they knew how many more were left, not only in this cavern but in other caverns all the way to Uberwald. And the trouble with madness was that the mad didn’t know they were mad. The grags came down heavily on those who did not conform and seemed not to realize that this was like stamping potatoes into the mud to stop them growing.

Everywhere one looked there were committees nowadays, mostly because, by arrangement and with the blessing of Lord Vetinari, other principalities, large towns and city states saw no reason to wait for the completion of
their
slice of the magic of the train, and, seizing these opportunities, new companies were entering the railway business with rather more success than the Wesley brothers. Drumknott was in his element as the paperwork mounted and his files multiplied; he contrived to be everywhere and into everything, ably supported by Mr Thunderbolt.

There were committees discussing industry standards, public safety, passenger welfare, whether one company’s freight truck could be hitched to another company’s train to complete its
journey without need to offload
^fn51
– and all the knotty financial and legal arrangements that would entail.

The whole proposition of other businessmen launching their own railways had made Harry call for Thunderbolt.

After hearing Harry’s complaints, the lawyer said, ‘It’s a matter of patents, Sir Harry. You know, all that fiddly stuff that you said you paid other people to get their heads around? Well, Mister Simnel and I have filed applications for every one of his innovations. But I am sure there is more than one way of building a machine to run on rails. You cannot patent the idea of a railway as such, and if you take a walk down the Street of Cunning Artificers you will find someone quite bright enough to discover how to make a train that will run on rails without infringing any of the patents I have been able to obtain for you.

‘The idea of steam locomotion as such has been there for all to see and we all know that a boiling kettle will try to lift its own lid. Being clever, some young man watching the fire will work out that if he builds a bigger kettle he will be able to lift a bigger kettle lid. Although, as we saw at Effing Forest, he soon learns that it’s not as simple as that. They’re not all as bright and clever as Dick Simnel.’

Harry snorted. ‘Stupid hayseeds. Not a patch on our Dick and his lads. All they’ve done is leave their old mum bound for the poorhouse.’ And Sir Harry harrumphed. A full-blown harrumph.

Unaware that his client was temporarily distracted by the thought of a destitute lady living in the Effing Forest, bereft of her boys, her pride and joy, Thunderbolt continued. ‘Take Mister Simnel’s pressure gauge. Once the principle is proved and
understood, the Cunning Artificers, extremely cunning as they are, might well find some way of achieving the same results without breaching patent. It’s what they do. Cunning by name
and
nature.’

Thunderbolt had got Harry’s attention now. ‘And before you explode, Sir Harry, it is all within the law.’

‘What? After all I’ve done and the money I’ve put in!’ Harry’s face was as red as a beacon. He looked as though he needed one of Dick’s pressure gauges himself.

Moist decided to intervene. ‘Harry, the whole point of trains is that they’re universal. Put them on the tracks and away they go.’

In his mellifluous tones, the lawyer continued. ‘If I were you, Sir Harry, I would simply leave it to me to keep an eye on such things as patents and licences and regulation whilst you and Mister Simnel fill the world with steam. And remember, Sir Harry, the important thing is that you were the first. Nobody can take that away. You, Sir Harry, are on what I believe is called the hog’s back, the top of the heap, the founder of the railway. The Ankh-Morpork and Sto Plains Hygienic Railway Company is as solid as the bank.’

The troll smiled and said, ‘Or, indeed, as me – and I am diamond.’

Business for the Hygienic Railway Company was indeed booming, and the workforce ever expanding. The goblins from the Quirmian maquis had passed news back to their friends about the opportunities in the Big Wahoonie, which they seized with alacrity. And once Dick’s announcement of his Railway Academy had been splashed across the papers, in the wake of the Effing Forest incident, there were queues of people every day wanting to be taken on as apprentices. Simnel was heavy on the lads he accepted, telling them they had got to let the iron into their soul. And it was not
unknown for him to kick someone straight out again if he felt they weren’t up to scratch.

Returning from another trip to review progress on the Quirm line, Moist paused to take in the latest changes to the compound. There were the apprentices … engrossed in their own little mechanical world with Wally and Dave tutoring them and making sure they had got their caps sufficiently flat. Moist watched them in their blissful mechanical dream and he could not help but notice that they were surrounded by goblins, most definitely paying attention, seriously so, as if their lives depended upon it, and gathering up any discarded greasy rags, which to goblins were like
haute couture
, and the mark of a real swell back in the burrows. And near by the train spotters were comparing numbers. And there was Mr Simnel, equally engrossed in his latest contraption.

As Moist crossed the compound towards him, Mr Simnel, with his greasy hat and his grubby shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to his elbows, wiped his grinning face with a rag, leaving a greasy smear on the grease.

‘Mister Lipwig! Grand to see you! I have something to show you! We brought this beauty down from Sto Lat yesterday and built it last night!’ He was shouting even louder than normal. ‘Essential equipment! It’s my design! I built it and I call it t’turning table!’

Moist almost had to put his hands over his ears as the engineer stepped closer. It’s because he works with the trains all day, he thought, he has to be heard among all the hissing and clanking, but I wonder how he talks to his Emily?

And as for the turning table, it was, well, it was a table and it turned: a huge metal table with a pair of rails running across the centre, which was turned around by means of a large handle attached to a ratchet mechanism being wound by a troll with a look of intense concentration. Moist watched while Dick gave his demonstration.

‘Great! That’s brilliant, Dick, but … for the sake of the hard of thinking, what in hell’s name is it for?’

Dick looked at Moist as if he was an infant and said, ‘Can’t you see it, Mister Lipwig? You drives your engine on to t’turning table and, here’s the clever bit, you turn the whole thing around and it’s now facing t’other way!’

And then Mr Simnel danced on the circular iron table in his clogs as it slowly revolved, and shouted, ‘Grand! Gradely! We’re nearly there!’

The triumph was emphasized with a hiss like Iron Girder at the end of a long run, which would have been a fitting end to the experiment, except that it took some time to get the troll to stop turning the handle so that Dick, who was starting to look a little green from the continued revolutions, could get off.

Happy that the tussle of wills between the other companies operating on the Sto Plains was being ably managed by Thunderbolt and Drumknott, no doubt with assistance from the dark clerks, Moist was looking forward to a period of domestic harmony, when he was summoned to the palace.

He was not surprised to see his lordship staring at the day’s crossword puzzle. Drumknott whispered from behind Moist, ‘There’s a new compiler, you know, and I’m sad to say that it looks like an improvement. However, his lordship is doing his best.’