Raising Steam (38 page)

Moist thought about whoever it was who had got into the compound to smash her up, who ended up dead, dead, dead. Wild
steam from a train that wasn’t running. Earth, fire, wind and rain all in one element of speed. And slowly Moist shut down, although a part of him was always listening to the rhythm of the rails, listening in his sleep, like a sailor listening to the sounds of the sea.

As Moist slept, the train barrelled like a very slow meteor through the night, climbing up through the Carrack Mountains. Almost the only light to be seen with the moon under a cloud came from the engine’s headlamp and the glow from the furnace when the door was opened to shovel in more coal.

The engine stokers of the Hygienic Railway were a breed apart: taciturn, perennially grumpy, seemingly only willing to talk to the drivers. In the unwritten hierarchy of the footplate the drivers were at the top, of course, and
then
the stokers and after the stokers there would be the wheel-tappers and shunters: lesser beings but acknowledged as useful. At times it appeared that the stokers considered themselves the most important component of the railway, keepers of its soul, as it were. When off duty they all messed together, grumbling, puffing their wretched pipes, and talking to nobody else. But shovelling coal all day built muscles of iron, so the stokers were strong and fit, and sometimes between shifts there were sparring matches with shovels, with the combatants cheered on by their fellows.

In fact, one of the stokers on the train was a bit of a legend, according to the others, although Moist had not come across him yet. Stoker Blake was said to be death on legs if he was aroused. The other stokers were fierce fighters, but it was claimed that none of them ever got to touch Stoker Blake. A stoker’s shovel, incorrectly used, was an illustration of Commander Vimes’s dictum that a workman’s tool used cunningly could give the average watchman a real headache.

And so the stokers laughed and danced as they sparred with their shovels and got drunk – but not when they were going to be on the footplate. They didn’t need telling about that.

Tonight, cocooned from the cool wind that flew around the cab,
Stoker Jim said to the train driver, ‘Here’s your coffee, Mick. Fancy a fry-up?’

Mick nodded without taking his eyes off the track ahead and so Stoker Jim carefully reached out and fried a couple of eggs on the back of his shovel, courtesy of the fiery furnace.

The houses hastily built for the railway workers were close to the water cranes and coal bunkers so that an eye could be kept on the precious coal and water supplies. They were quite small, which put some strain on the accommodation when there were children and grandparents as well, but everyone said that it was twice as good as what might be found in the big city and, after all, you were out in the fresh air, at least in between locomotives.

On this night, Mrs Plumridge, mother of Jack Plumridge the linesman, realized that her chamber pot was overflowing and cussed herself for not emptying it before twilight. She didn’t trust the gleaming porcelain in the ablutions. All her life she had gone outside to a designated private spot in the garden, taking care to remember which of her little plots to empty it in this time, and therefore things got rather receptacle-shaped when a dwarf jumped out in front of her, screamed, ‘Death to the railway!’ and tried to throw something at her.

In response, Mrs Plumridge hefted the chamber pot with a strength you might not have expected from such an old woman who, according to her son, was made out of teak. The pot was very large and remained regrettably very full and the scream woke up all the households near by … and when the miscreant delver came back to consciousness he was tied up and en route to Ankh-Morpork for judgement.

The railwaymen and their grannies were no-nonsense people, earthy, you might say, and they didn’t even allow the delver to wash himself, and that was a terrible thing in the circumstances.

When Moist awoke the following morning, he realized that he was hungry and was pleased to discover that there was breakfast (all-day breakfast it turned out) in the dining carriage.

He found the dining car empty but for Bashfull Bashfullsson and the Low King, sitting chatting like businessmen with a deal to make, taking advantage of the cornucopia.

Quietly, the King welcomed him and said, ‘Not seen much of the train so far, Mister Lipwig. Been in a planning session with Bashfullsson and the others since we boarded. Will you join us?’

As Moist sat down, Bashfullsson turned to him as if to an ally. ‘I’m trying to get Rhys here to tell us what he’s up to.’

The King merely smiled at this. ‘I intend to take Schmaltzberg with you, my friend Bashfullsson, and do it with as little bloodshed as possible. Believe me, although it’s vexing to remember it, I am the King of my enemies as well as my friends. There’s a certain
noblesse oblige
, see. It’s a bad king who kills his subjects. I would rather see them humiliated than dead.’

Bashfullsson said, ‘Really? After all the things they’ve done? And the things they’ve caused to be done? Finding young dwarfs and filling them with excitement and idiotic revelations …’

‘I have names,’ said the King. ‘Names of leaders, names of hangers-on. Oh yes, there will be a reckoning. Not an auto-da-fé.’

‘I fear you were too understanding with them last time, sire,’ Bashfullsson said, picking his words carefully. ‘Sad to say, but I’ve come to the conclusion that if you keep turning the other cheek they’ll go on slapping you in the face. I think there’s nothing for it but to go in, cut out and have done. No point in knocking politely this time, saying can I have the Scone of Stone back, please.’

To Moist’s surprise, the King said, ‘However much we disdain the word “politics”, one of its most useful aspects is the stopping of bloodshed. Oh yes, bloodshed there will be. But the generations stream away and people change and things thought of as totally impossible suddenly turn out to be everyday. Nay, essential. Just
like the railway is becoming, see. Apropos of that, Mister Lipwig, how
is
the railway progressing? How are your loggysticks going?’

‘Copacetic, sire. That’s an engineer term meaning all satisfactory.’

The King gave Moist a look. It wasn’t by the standard of looks a nasty one, but it was after all a King’s look, and the gaze of the King was subtly quizzical and testing.

‘We shall see, boyo, we shall see.’

And after breakfast, there was nothing for it but to watch the mountain scenery flow past as if on some endless winding belt: trees, rocks, more trees, bigger rocks, trees again, what was possibly a clearing where lumbermen were working, brief darkness as they reached a rock big enough to require a tunnel, and so on, and yet, Moist thought, behind all those trees and all those rocks and crags, there are homesteads and small villages that we don’t know about and so one day we will have to have a stop here … here … and here. And then one day, some kid from the settlement high up in that last lot of rocks will catch the train and end up in Ankh-Morpork, full of hope, and why not? Station by station we are changing the world. And he allowed himself a little glow of pride.

Apart from the Falls,
^fn70
the only place that was of any significance in Zemphis was Downsized Abbey. It was a ruin now, the monks long gone; these days it was more of a souk, a medina, a heaving bazaar which reminded Moist of the Shades of Ankh-Morpork on their holidays. Nothing was still. Silence was a rare blessing. And everyone was a trader and it seemed that sooner or later everything and everyone could be bought and sold. And, if necessary, disappeared.

Of the trading routes in Zemphis, the Aglet Road stood out, as caravans of camels arrived on their way to bring the people of the Plains the tiny little things on the ends of their shoelaces without
which civilized life would be unbearable and quite dangerous. There were spices from Klatch
^fn71
, materials from the Counterweight Continent which had arrived by slow barge, other mysterious delicacies, and unfortunately many ways to become very happy in a short space of time and stone dead shortly afterwards.

Alongside the legitimate goods traded at the front of the stalls, without doubt there was some contraband, as many traders luxuriated in the semi-lawless landscape. Cages of undomesticated imps were available in the back rooms of some more unscrupulous shops, and after dark the occasional camel slipped in or out of the town carrying barrels of crude treacle.

And even though most sensible people wishing to hang on to their personal possessions, or indeed their lives, would follow the advice of those who had been there and give it a wide berth, some possibly foolhardy tourists did come to Zemphis on their way to see the Paps of Scilla, a jagged mountain range which allowed the determined mountaineer an absolute smorgasbord of ways to be found upside down above a crevasse and hanging by one leg over white water that acted like the mother of all grinders. There were eight peaks in all, sharp and unforgiving, and if there were such a thing as the good ambushing guide it would be right up there with the winners.

Contemplating the Paps from a seat conveniently placed by the burghers of Zemphis as a lookout point for those admiring the view, Moist reflected that shortly their train would have to travel through those peaks. They didn’t look so bad on the map, but up close and personal they were awesome. Scilla must have been very proud eight times over.

A mist hung over the greenery clinging to the steep foothills of the Paps. The terrain looked impassable for a train, but Simnel’s sliding-rule boys had found a suitable way through. Track had been
laid and Moist knew that they’d had trolls hanging around there all week, keeping guard.

Just then, there was a shout from Commander Vimes. ‘Lipwig! Drop!’

Moist dropped, while whatever the commander had seen scythed overhead, and he was just picking himself up when Vimes tackled him back down to the ground as the missile whistled round for another slice before finally dropping somewhere near their feet.

‘And there you have it,’ said Vimes. ‘Really nasty fellows, delvers, but you’ve got to admire their workmanship.’

Moist, still at ground level, said, as if it mattered, ‘Was it really them?’

‘Quite likely, but there are other nuisances in these hills. You must know that where there are tourists there are also people eager for their dollars. Don’t touch it!’

Moist’s hand flew back.

‘It’s a boomerang,’ said Vimes. ‘You find something like this all over the world. You have to wave it carefully and suddenly your opponent gets it in the back. I’ve heard that there’s a lad in Fourecks who can throw a boomerang with such precision that it can get the morning paper and come back with it.’

Moist gave the commander a look of disbelief.

‘Well, that’s what they say, and you know those boys from Fourecks, they love to draw a long bow,’ Vimes continued, picking up the boomerang gingerly with a handkerchief. He sniffed it, grimaced and said, ‘The stuff the grags have put on this one might not kill you but you’ll wish that it had for a day or two, if you’re lucky. I’m going to have to talk to Vetinari about this place. They’ve got
something
like a government here, but their policing might just be adequate in a kindergarten. They’re not exactly bent, just not organized in the right way. Good grief, I could even send Nobby up here and the quality of the policing would go comparatively sky high.’

‘Surely Vetinari’s remit doesn’t stretch all the way out here? And you’re well out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?’

To Moist’s amazement Vimes laughed, and said, ‘I couldn’t speak for Vetinari, but we all know he has his … ways and his means. I think he allows this place to exist so that it doesn’t exist in Ankh-Morpork. And as for my jurisdiction, I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a number of people in this place who’d like to see some law in the streets. So if that were the case, well, it might be my duty to assist. But not today.’

He patted Moist on the shoulder and said, ‘Mister Lipwig, I’m sure there’ve been times in your life when you’ve seen a wonderful opportunity to steal something valuable and you’ve decided for various reasons not to? Well, I feel as you would then. This place is a sink. Who knows what dreadful things are happening behind closed doors.’ He shrugged and went on, ‘But you can’t kick down every door in the universe. And we have more pressing matters to attend to.’

Moist accepted this sad explanation and after a fruitless hunt around for their assailant they turned their backs on the Paps to head back to the station. As they left the lookout point, they heard a train whistle in the distance. Far away, climbing into Zemphis on the main line from the Plains, there was a streak of scintillating sunlight with a trail of steam.

Vimes looked at Moist and said, ‘What the hell is that? There isn’t another train due today, is there?’

‘Well, Dick said he was polishing up Iron Girder for the big event, and before we left he was talking as if his favourite locomotive had been getting a complete overhaul. That must be her.’

In fact, it wasn’t just an overhaul. When Moist had shown Simnel the micromail he had received as spoils of the battle with the dwarfs at the Quirm railhead, the young engineer had smiled and said, ‘Aye, I know what the secret is here. This is a metal stronger than iron, malleable and half its weight, and it never rusts. Its ore is rare but it’s the base of a new alloy I’ve made. I call it sorortanium,
which Mister Thunderbolt says means the sister of iron. It’s stronger even than steel! What boilers I could make with it if only I could get ’old of enough of the stuff! Thank you. It’s amazing and I know just what to do with it.’

As they watched the astonishing locomotive dealing with the steep haul into Zemphis, Moist noticed that the engine appeared to shrug off the load behind her. The Flyer they had come in on earlier had been creaking as it chugged up the last steep haul into Zemphis. This new train didn’t even seem to notice the gradient.

Vimes smacked his head and said, ‘Is that really Iron Girder? Last I saw of Iron Girder, she was providing a playground entertainment for grown-ups. If that’s Iron Girder,’ he said, pointing at the shimmering apparition, ‘surely she’s grown?’