Raising Steam (29 page)

Moist thought about the amount of gold accruing in the coffers of Harry King’s accounts and added, ‘And I’m sure we could arrange some remuneration …’

As Mrs Bradshaw settled into the journey and looked out of the window Moist took out his notebook and scribbled a memo to Harry King: ‘Please allow Mrs Georgina Bradshaw to travel anywhere she wants, even those little branch lines we haven’t fully opened yet. She went to one of the best girls’ schools I know of and understands language, and she is writing notes on all our destinations which may come in very useful. My instincts say that
she will do us proud. I have an inkling that she will be either meticulous or humorous or, hopefully, both. And a widow who wears the kind of gold and diamond ring that she is wearing to travel through Ankh-Morpork and is still wearing it when she leaves is not going to be a fool. She speaks as well as Lady Sybil; that’s Quirm College for you. Up School! Isn’t this what we’re after? We want people to widen their horizons on the train, of course, but why not day trips? You know what, there are people in Ankh-Morpork who haven’t even got as far as Sto Lat yet. Travel broadens the mind, and also railway revenue.’

A sample of the great work arrived on scented paper one week later.

High Mouldering, on the Sto Plains, boasts wonderful salt-water baths from a pleasantly warm spring, and the owner and his wife give hygienic massages to those who would like to enjoy the benefit. Ladies and gentlemen separately, of course; there is nothing here that could be considered insalubrious or that would shock the most delicate of sensibilities.

Near by, the Hotel Continental offers accommodation for trolls, humans, dwarfs and goblins; fifty rooms are available at present. People wishing to tour the area may be interested in the Sacred Glade of Shock Knee, which deserves to be noticed for its amazing echoes. A short distance away is a shrine to Anoia, patron goddess for people who have difficulty with things stuck in their drawers.

A welcome break for the tired at weekends, with excellent meals. Highly recommended.

Moist made a note to see Mr Thomas Goatberger when he could next get back to Ankh-Morpork. If he was any judge, the publisher would be ready to bite his hand off to get a share of the railway magic.

When Moist did next return to the city, the matter of the railway to Uberwald had to take priority. Pacing up and down in the big room where Harry and Dick Simnel presided over their charts and reports and blueprints, Harry was still clearly worried.

‘Now then, Moist, between ourselves and these four walls I’ve got the heebie-jeebies. We’ve taken gangs off the other lines, we’re putting in more and more work on the long haul to Uberwald. This is a hell of an undertaking. I’m more at home knee-deep in shit, which is what we’re going to be in here in this office if this doesn’t work, believe you me.’

‘Yes,’ said Moist, ‘but what you have to remember is that getting to Uberwald will mean getting to a whole load of other places on the way, and all of them’ll want the railway and that will help cover costs right there. It’s the tunnels and bridges that are a problem, but the best of it is that they’re old technologies. There are plenty of masons who can build good bridges for us, and as for tunnels, the trolls are just begging to do them if they can dig out a home near by.’

Harry’s only response was a grunt.

‘And the nice thing about the trolls,’ Moist added, ‘is that they bring the whole family with them, even their kids. It’s their way. If you don’t know your rocks, you’re no good as a troll. They just love changing the landscape. One of them asked me the other day if he could be a surveyor and I was just opening my mouth to say no when I thought, why not? He seemed like a bright lad, slow, yes, but quite bright. So I’ve told the boys to give him a bit of tuition, on the job, as it were.’

‘Are you going to give him one of Simnel’s special sliding slabs?’ said Harry, smiling.

Moist laughed and said, ‘Why not, Harry? I might just do that! No reason why a surveyor shouldn’t be strong enough to lift up a mountain to see what’s underneath!’

He took advantage of the lightened atmosphere to steer Sir Harry towards happier subjects, asking to be brought up to date on all the latest developments.

Every morning now the desk of Harry King was inundated by letters from people wanting no trains, some trains, or seriously wishing to have trains available right now. And then there were all the other helpful comments and suggestions: a Mr Snori Snorisson had written to say so many other people had arranged to meet under the station clock that his friend had taken four hours to find him … Shouldn’t the railway provide stepladders for the use of shorter citizens …? Help was requested for passengers with heavy luggage, and for the elderly or undead … With all the dangerous machinery involved, shouldn’t there be guards – not the City Watch, of course, but somebody with some sense – to act as guardian of the train and its passengers? And that meant uniforms, hats, flags, whistles and other exciting accoutrements.

And this excitement was presumably why the editor of the
Ankh-Morpork Times
had decided to employ a railway correspondent, Mr Raymond Shuttle, who was an unashamed and self-confessed train spotter. The glint in his eyes was unmistakable.

Alongside the main business of the railway, Harry confessed himself delighted to see the enthusiasts spending their dollars on railway souvenirs such as the little clockwork models that were even now being created under licence by those deviously cunning artificers who were making a small fortune from railway memorabilia.
^fn59
And the cannier artificers, always on the lookout for moneymaking opportunities, were constantly making additions to these playthings for children: a little shed and four tiny figures to wait for the train. A signal box with a waving goblin. And yes, a miniature turning table just like the one in the
compound, and so it went on. A lad with a doting parent could get his own tiny Iron Girder and oval track with straights and curves; and even miniature railway workers including a miniature Harry King.
^fn60

And once again, Moist marvelled at the power of the dream.

And then it was out into the grease-filled world of the compound to see the latest engines the lads were testing, and find out what the ingenious Mr Simnel had been up to since Moist had seen him last.

One thing he was sure of: even though Dick Simnel was forever coming up with blueprints for the next locomotive, every day would have seen him still hard at work on Iron Girder, which was probably why on every visit she continued to look a little different: a different boiler here, different wheels there, different paintwork and quite probably a host of integral things that Moist couldn’t see. She was Dick’s pride and joy, his first locomotive love, thought Moist, taking care not to say it aloud, the first test bed for every new innovation. No locomotive shone as brightly as Iron Girder. No locomotive got the next big improvement before Iron Girder. She was, indeed, the iron stalking horse for the railway and Simnel her willing slave.

Just as Moist was debating where first to look for Simnel, Emily King, in a very fine white cotton dress, came jauntily skipping through the compound towards the sacred engine shed as if completely unaware of the attendant muck and grease. But after all, he thought, she must have grown up with her uncle’s
other
business, against which the railway was a fragrant pleasure garden. And here she was, bouncing along cheerfully, and here was Iron
Girder, and suddenly Moist’s spine went cold, every sinew twanging, and he was near to biting his nails as the girl continued towards the locomotive in her pristine white cotton dress.

Moist moved like lightning across the compound as Emily skipped on and reached Iron Girder. He looked at Simnel, whose face had gone curiously grey even under the grease and grime, and he was ready for anything as Emily patted the engine and said, ‘Hello, Iron Girder, how are we today, you lovely girl?’ And while Moist was still gawping, Emily took out her handkerchief and buffed Iron Girder’s brass nameplate industriously until it sparkled to the heavens. And as Emily was talking to Iron Girder about how good she was looking today, Simnel turned to Moist and said, very quietly, ‘She wouldn’t have, you know, not Iron Girder.’

‘Good,’ said Moist. ‘And now you have
two
ladies, you lucky man.’ But in his head a voice said to him, ‘But you more than half expected it, didn’t you, Mister Lipwig? Oh, ye of little faith.’ And then there was a sigh of steam.

For the next two hours Moist sat at his desk in Harry’s compound, feeling as if he were a locomotive speeding along watching the scenery blur past. Every so often a boy came up with another pile of paperwork from some part of Harry King’s domain and towards the end of the afternoon he felt himself subtly drifting into a coma, quite a pleasant one at the start: he visualized himself in a pale pink mist and it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. And little by little Moist von Lipwig began to unravel, but just as he was sliding under Of the Twilight the Darkness dropped down in front of him out of the evening glow, though exactly where he had dropped
from
Moist couldn’t work out.

‘Must go to sleep, Mister Lipwig! Burning candle at both ends means man with egg on face and burning bum. When did Mister Lipwig last eat? Not snack! Serious munch! I have some dried mushrooms if you are feeling peckish. No? Acquired taste … more
for me, but you must sleep if nothing else. Mister Lipwig can’t do everything. If he can’t eat, can’t do anything. Making money is good, but there is no pockets in a shroud. Give it a rest, Mister Railway! And
this
will help you big time no mistake.’

The goblin handed Moist a little bottle on which a grubby label proclaimed the contents as ‘RAT POISON’.

‘Label one big lie, Mister Lipwig, bottle cleaned out and rats eaten, yes indeed, and filled with special goblin potion for tired person. Guaranteed no worms and it will give you refreshing sleep and you feel a lot better
if
you wake up in the morning! Guaranteed! Pure quill. None finer!’

It had been a long day and the heat of the smelters had made him as dry as the smelters themselves and so, what the hell, Moist took a long swig.

‘Well done, Mister Lipwig!’ chuckled the goblin. ‘It will make your hairs curl … everywhere!’

Later, after Moist had finished talking to the dancing toadstools and Mr Whoopee, the man who could amusingly eat his own face, it must have been Moist’s feet alone that found his bed, plodding along like a couple of old donkeys via the good offices of Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobby Nobbs, who apparently found him just outside his house talking to his knees. And, according to Nobby, listening intently to what they had to say.

He awoke lying on his bedroom floor. Somebody had put blankets over him and even tucked him up nicely. He grasped his head and thought Oh no! I drank
another
goblin concoction! His dismay dwindled when he realized that he felt absolutely fine and not just fine, either, but so full of beans that the world probably had no beans left. When he stepped outside on to the balcony for a breath of fresh air the birds were singing and the sky was a wonderful shade of blue.

The door opened behind him and Adora Belle said, ‘I know we have what might be called an unconventional marriage, what with our jobs and the pressure of work and so on, but I wouldn’t be doing my wifely duty if I didn’t ask you whether you have been firkydoodling with fast and loose women? No pressure. Answer in your own time.’

More or less spinning with the ecstasy of being alive and, of course, all those beans, Moist said joyfully, ‘Now then, just a minute, bear with me now, tell me, is it
loose
women or is it
fast
women? Is there a spotter’s guide or does one, as it were, cancel out the other?’

‘Moist von Lipwig, you are rascally drunk. Can you even walk?’

For an answer Moist jumped in the air, clicking his heels, and said, ‘Fast or loose, my girl, or why not both at once?’

Dragging him back into their bedroom and closing the door behind them, Adora Belle said, ‘Well now, husband of mine, in that case let’s find out.’

There was a thunderstorm over Schmaltzberg, but that was ever the case. Thunder rolled around the mountains, like the marbles of the gods. And in the privacy of his office, the Low King was discussing progress with Aeron who was looking more cheerful than usual.

‘Things appear to be calming down,’ Rhys said. ‘They argue and argue and then somebody remembers that he has business to deal with concerning his rat farms, or there’s some trouble over in his goldmine, water coming in, pit props buckling and so on and so forth, things they can’t leave to underlings, and then everything goes quiet.’

‘I know you’re worried,’ said Aeron, ‘but I think … no, I believe, that you have more friends than you ever thought possible. Even the goblins know that you were one of the first who signed up for goblin emancipation. They, whether we like it or not, are becoming the future, Rhys. It was the business with the clacks towers that
made even traditional dwarfs angry. The clacks is needed: everybody wants news. People are furious everywhere. After all, they say, goblins and trolls are minding their own business, so why not the dwarfs?’

‘No more news of Ardent?’ asked the King. ‘It’s been months, hasn’t it? No more towers down or idiots trying to destroy the railway? Can I believe that his firebrand has burned out?’

Aeron handed the King his coffee and said, ‘I believe Lord Vetinari said never do anything until you hear the screams. However, Ardent is not one to come back, helmet in hand, to say “sorry”. There is too much pride there by half.’

After a quiet moment while Rhys Rhysson considered the possibilities, Aeron continued.

‘So you will accept the invitation to the summit in Quirm? In these circumstances, Rhys, it does seem to me that it is
very
important that you are there and seen to be there.’

‘Of course. Diamond King will be chairing proceedings this year and I must mend fences. He’s helpful but I’m in no mood to try his patience. He has always been a most understanding ally.’