Raising Steam (45 page)

As the train emerged from the tunnel, it came to a grinding stop. Moist scrambled to his feet and clambered back down across the flatbed to find out what had happened to the rest of the gang. He was relieved to discover the crew of the guard’s van all more or less unharmed, including Of the Twilight the Darkness and his group of goblins, Fred Colon, Nobby Nobbs, Cheery Littlebottom, Detritus and Bluejohn, who was still hanging on to the last carriage, keeping the train together. There were also a few rather bewildered engineers and train drivers, some of whom had been trying to catch up with their sleep when the attack came but had apparently done their best.

Moist hadn’t noticed Nobby and Colon in the mêlée but decided that he would not be surprised to hear that they had acquitted themselves with great derring-do and, of course, it was such a pity that it would turn out everyone else had been too busy to see them
doing it. Even so, looking around the few groaning grags still on the train, Moist acknowledged that Nobby and Colon, if given no alternative, could fight like tigers, especially tigers with the nasty weaponry of the streets where anything went and wherever it went it could be very, very painful. Colon, in particular, was master of the underhand, and some of the groaning was familiar to Moist as the famous Ankh-Morpork lullaby.

Moist never thought of himself as a leader of men, so he delegated in circumstances such as these. The chore of marshalling went to Fred Colon, known to all for his excellent shouty voice that turned his face an unusual shade of puce and was expelled at a volume that even Iron Girder would have envied.

Such grags as were alive or weren’t definitely dead were trussed up before being taken to the guard’s van, where, Moist suspected, Commander Vimes would have a little talk with them about this and that and names and places and who and when and what dreadful manners they had. Lovely.

And now a figure leaned out of the armoured carriage. It was Aeron.

‘The King is safe! Thank you all! Iron Girder came in for a hammering but the grags that managed to get on to the footplate were shown the furnace by Stoker Blake.’ Moist winced at that. He had been close to the furnace a great many times when it had been opened by the stoker and it was instant suntan time, but if you were standing in the wrong place at the critical moment it was instant fiery death.

The journey onward, with the couplings once more in place, was altogether a sombre ride, for the victors as well as for the surviving dwarfs awaiting their dreaded conversation with the Blackboard Monitor who, it was believed, could cause you and your family never to have existed. Rubbed away, as it were, in the chalk dust of the blackboard.

A little later Iron Girder gently kissed the buffers at the Bonk rail-head, and the first person to step down on to the hastily erected platform was Rhys Rhysson. He was greeted by a very large and extremely agitated rotund man, who had the word ‘burgomaster’ stamped firmly into his demeanour. He was sweating cobs and a fat man can sweat just as much as an engine. He genuflected to the King, an achievement considering his shape which was, not to put too fine a point on it, a globe.

‘Welcome back, sire,’ he said, panting. ‘The humans of Bonk have always had a good relationship with your countrymen and I sincerely hope that this amicable arrangement is going to continue.’

This invitation was uttered at a very high speed and Moist saw it for what it was: a plea saying, please don’t hurt us, we are fairly decent people and have always accepted your highness’s claim to the Scone of Stone. The unsaid codicil being, please don’t hurt us and above all, don’t interfere with the running of our mercantile activities. Please. Please?

Rhys gripped the proffered and rather sweaty hand and said, ‘I’m so sorry if you have been inconvenienced by the recent unpleasantness, Humphrey.’ A gesture which left the burgomaster all smiles.

‘Oh, it wasn’t too bad, Your Majesty. It was a bit of a nuisance when you … I mean the others started knocking down the clacks and all that. But you know how it is, it’s like a family squabble in the house next door where you know it’s not your business so you’re ready with tea, sympathy and possibly bandages and medicaments. And next time you meet the couple next door you don’t look too hard and mind your business and are still friends on the morrow.

‘And anyway, her ladyship got involved, and once she’d made a couple of examples … Well, thank goodness, we had our clacks back. She’s firm but fair is Lady Margolotta, and remarkably swift.’

The sweating Humphrey knew full well he was talking about the most influential vampire in the world whilst at the same
time giving her the appearance of an elderly lady who only had to bang her walking stick on the floor to get total respect.

‘Of course all families have their ups and downs,’ Humphrey continued, ‘those little spats so easily started and so quickly left behind with no real damage done.’

Behind the burgomaster the train was unloading its passengers while Iron Girder occasionally hissed or spat in the way a locomotive has of making it clear it is not entirely quiescent.

Moist could hear Vimes debriefing Captain Sally von Humpeding, the Watch’s only vampire member, who had been seconded to the Bonk Watch. They came over to report.

‘Sally tells me that even though all communication from within Schmaltzberg has been cut off, reports have been reaching the Watch that all is not well with the conspirators,’ said Vimes. He looked to Sally for confirmation.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘our sources indicate that the grag known as Ardent—’

She was interrupted by a snort of rage from Rhys and a rattle of axes from his assembled compatriots.

‘Him again!’ snarled Rhys.

‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘Him and a few others we’d been trying to locate after the massacre in Quirm. Well, it seems that Ardent and his followers are losing support; they’re not having it all their way. There is unrest—’

‘Good,’ said Rhys. ‘We can use that.’

‘And Albrechtson?’ asked Aeron.

‘Well,’ Sally smiled, showing a hint of fang, this being the most appropriate place in the world to let them get some air. ‘Well. And loyal to you, sire.’

A rather smart goblin messenger insinuated his way through the crowd and passed a message to Sally, who read it. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘It’s a message from Albrechtson. It seems the opposition know you’ve arrived, sire. Albrechtson would like you to know that he’s being
well treated and has been able to follow the progress of Iron Girder, thanks to the goblins.’

Rhys turned and looked at Simnel and Moist and said, ‘Thank you, and Sir Harry, for getting me here safely. And Iron Girder, too. At the appropriate time you will know my generosity and I’d like to talk to you further. But do excuse me. I have a kingdom to reclaim.’

Addressing the company of dwarfs now fully assembled on the platform and armed to the teeth, he proclaimed, ‘Let it be known that the Low King has arrived and will take his place on the Scone of Stone. Anyone wishing to deny him that trivial pleasure should be prepared to back up their coherent and well-founded objections with weaponry. It really is quite as simple as that. This message will be carried into Schmaltzberg by Bashfull Bashfullsson, a highly respected and knowledgeable dwarf known to all, accompanied by my trusted secretary, Aeron. We should also include Commander Vimes, the Blackboard Monitor, and one-time Ambassador, to see fair play. Remember that at all times tampering with the King’s Messengers is a matter of treason. Be aware, I’m not going to be a nanny about this. Insurgent dwarfs will get their just deserts.’

The sound of Vimes loudly lighting his cigar broke the silence.

‘Let the others go first, I’ll go along in a minute or two,’ he said.

Moist, of course, hadn’t been at Koom Valley but right now he wondered if he was about to see the ghost of Koom Valley’s second incarnation – except it would be dwarf against dwarf. He wanted to shout out ‘This is nuts!’, and realized that in fact he had said it aloud.

To his surprise, the King said, ‘Certainly so, Mister Lipwig. It beggars all reason, doesn’t it? But sooner or later there comes a time when you have to take names and crack skulls. I’m sorry, it’s at the other end of the spectrum from the little chat and it’s what happens when reason no longer holds sway.’

‘But you’re all dwarfs. What can you possibly achieve?’ groaned
Moist, who for the rest of his life would always remember the tone of the King’s voice …

‘Tomorrow. That, Mister Lipwig, is what we can achieve.
Tomorrow
.’

The arrival of the messengers sent an immediate buzz around the multiple caverns of Schmaltzberg, somehow the centre of the galaxy when it came to hubbub of all sizes and rumour mills that turned faster than the mills of the gods. Rumour flowed like quicksilver. The phenomenon might be called the dwarf clacks were it not for the fact that the clacks didn’t scramble the messages on a whim, thought Moist as he followed Rhys and the main band of dwarfs down into the honeycomb that was Schmaltzberg. The myriad noises flowing up from below through every tunnel and cavern were merging into a kind of audible mist or, he thought, fog. It simmered around the earlobe. The terrible sounds and confusions of war.

But now individual sounds were getting through. Raised voices, screams and the clatter of weaponry, punctuated with the occasional yell and dwarfish curses, which are known to have a life all of their very own. Further down, they came across Aeron, who was waiting with blood dripping from his sword. He noticed Moist’s look and shrugged.

‘There was a grag. He fought hard but would not submit, preferring death to ignominy … and so I accommodated him.’ That last phrase contained more emphasis than Moist had heard for a very long time. Aeron turned to Rhys and reported.

‘There have been certain clashes of opinion, your majesty,’ he said, pointing to several dwarfs being treated in what would have been an impromptu field hospital had it been in a field.

Swords, hammers and axes were being deployed below as the King carried on marching, until they came to what must be the great hall, the largest cavern of them all.

As they passed through the portal, Moist came to a halt, trying to get a grip on this subterranean landscape, lit by the enormous chandeliers of dribbling candles along with cressets and great vats of squirming vurms
^fn79
writhing in the corners; so there was light, he thought, but a strange light that was somehow negotiating with the eyes. You could see but what you saw was the darkness.

‘Well, it’s not a war any more,’ said Vimes, suddenly there beside him. ‘And not too many serious outcomes, except for the grags. That’s dwarf-on-dwarf war: a hell of a lot of shouting and accusing and spitting, a lot like cats really, but that’s dwarfs for you. They’re not that stupid. Bags of bravado and sabre-rattling, but no one really wants to get hurt. You fight hoping for a small wound that looks good afterwards. Something to show the grandchildren, but really, when it comes to it, dwarf against dwarf, it generally settles down.’

Vimes puffed his cigar and continued, ‘Mind you, if it were dwarf against troll this place would be running with blood. On the whole, it’s like the taverns in Ankh-Morpork on a Saturday night. Everyone is full of gumption and pissy bravery and beer. Much too much beer. And then afterwards it’s just a lot of groaning until they see the light.’

In fact, what Moist could see near by was dwarfs in small groups, some of them bandaged, in positions which suggested that war as such, if not over, had been set aside for a breather and maybe a decent quaff. And younger dwarfs were going between the hurt and wounded with flagons. And one by one the dwarfs got up, shook hands with the nearest dwarf and walked haphazardly to the next group, where perhaps they would sit and chat and make up stories
of near misses and clever parries and similar boozy boastings. Little by little, dwarf normality was flowing through Schmaltzberg once again.

‘Pissed as farts,’ said Vimes. ‘But at the bottom, not bad, just susceptible to rabble rousers.’ He sighed again. ‘Maybe this time they’ll have learned. And on that day Nobby Nobbs will be a shining hero!’

And that was all it took? Moist found himself wondering. After all the adrenalin of the train journey, the ambushes, the attacks … the bridge … the sleepless nights … expecting at every turn to hear the swish of a scythe and to find that this time his luck really had run out … and then Rhys gave a fine speech and just walked in and took back the kingdom?

‘I was expecting them to put up more of a fight,’ he said. ‘You know, more of a glorious battle that would become the stuff of legends.’

‘That’s a very foolish thing to say, Mister Lipwig,’ said Vimes. There’s nothing “glorious” about times like this … People have died, not necessarily good people and not too many, but nevertheless the face you wear on a battlefield should be a solemn one until the time when things are cleaned up and the real world drips its way in.’

Moist felt the shame welling up from his boots and said, ‘Commander, I stand abashed, quite sincerely.’

And instantly Vimes’s face was eyeballing his and the commander exclaimed, ‘Really? It seems it’s not just the railway breaking new ground here!’

For once short of a ready reply, Moist turned to see what had become of Rhys and his party.

Rhys Rhysson had entered the cavern at a run. He headed straight for its centre, where stood the Scone of Stone. Now he looked around and demanded, ‘Where is Ardent? I want him brought here,
and as many of his followers as still remain. Though doubtless most have run: this place is full of exits.’

Bashfull Bashfullsson shouted, ‘I have the scoundrel here, sire!’

The assembly of dwarfs went into the usual seemingly endless dwarfish hubbub, followed by a deep intake of breath from all concerned when Ardent was brought forward. His expression Moist couldn’t read. But Moist, the man for atmospheres, could tell that Ardent was already somewhere beyond sanity, whilst Rhys seemed as cool and calm as ever, however fearful he might have been on the inside. And Moist would have wagered the mint that the King wasn’t actually fearful at all. There was something in his demeanour that suggested an absolute assurance that this day was his (or indeed,
hers
, as he finally allowed the thought to creep back into his consciousness).