The Iron Ship (25 page)

Zhinsky took a deep breath with evident pleasure. The air was clear and pure.

“Is this where you are from?”

“Farside? No. I come from Great Khushashia, not this province,” said Zhinsky, his eyes still closed. “But I spend much time here. It is my home now.”

“Zhinsky, tell me. Where is the fort?”

Zhinsky’s eyes snapped open. He looked at him in astonishment. He said something to Jovankic, and the dogs broke into a trot, then a gallop, barking for the pleasure of the run. They went out from the mountain for half a mile or so, where the driver brought his animals around in a wide loop, sending the cart into a lean. They carried on, riding back towards the mountains.

The rock containing the gap extended out from the mountainsides in a wholly unnatural way, square as a block of ashlar, so that the slot resembled a gate in a castle wall. Zhinsky pointed upward.

“There,” Zhinsky said. “There are the forts of the Gates of the World, the last great fortress of the Morfaan people, and mightiest castle of this or any age.” He spoke with respect, his accent, once again, suspiciously less thick.

Either side of the gap atop the squared-off mountain were twin fortresses. The base of their walls blended indistinguishably into the cliff face as if grown from it. Of the southerly one, ruins were all that remained. The walls were reduced to half their original height and riven through, the towers tumbled into heaps of bubbled slag. Where the finish to the seamless stone remained, it was pitted and dull. The tangled wreckage of the Morfaan’s imperishable metal fouled the cliff top about it, as shiny as if newly placed, although it was not. Far from it. The magister-archaeologists could not agree when it fell, only that it was many thousand years ago. The fort on the other side was yet whole. A grand edifice of dark towers and soaring ramparts. The walls quickly shed the dullness of the rock as they climbed, taking on the glassy sheen that gave the fort its name. There were seven bastions on the wall towards the desert, each faced with a giant statue; slender, alien beings that looked out onto narrow steppe of Farside and over it to the Black Sands. They were the Morfaan, the builders of the Gates, once rulers of the Earth. Identical roads climbed the cliff face to dark entrances in the rock, three switchback turns to each. A lone, two-dog cart climbing toward the intact fort gave scale. It appeared tiny, a model from a flea circus.

“Ah,” said Rel.

“Ah indeed, my friend,” said Zhinsky. “You give me much amusement.” He shook his head. He spoke to Jovankic rapidly, telling him of Rel’s question if the laughing was anything to go by.

“Do not worry! Do not feel shame!” Zhinsky grabbed his shoulder, for what must have been the fifteenth time that day. “It is easily done.”

Zhinsky shouted some more in his unintelligible tongue. Jovankic cracked his reins and the dogs sped toward the road that led to the Gates of the World.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Desert of Some Opportunity

O
NCE THE MONEYED
passengers had disembarked, the train pulled away from the platform toward the goods yard. “Get ready!” shouted Boskovin. “Boy, you’re coming with me.” Boskovin’s men were hauling out cases and duffel bags from the luggage racks over the benches. The few people still in the carriage and not working for Boskovin stayed out of the way. Tuvacs dodged between them as best he could, going to stand by the carriage door with his master.

The train went slowly, stopping again three quarters of a mile down the track in a goods yard lined with stark buildings of grey stone. Here there was no platform at all, only the black spoil from the glimmer mills. Iron pegs were set every three feet in a diamond pattern, strung together with rust-red wire. The doors opened, and people jumped out straight onto the track side. A crowd sprang up from nowhere as the passengers on the roof clambered down, and townsfolk arrived to tout for work. At first it was chaotic, but Tuvacs noted that they all headed for the defined paths back to town. No one, he saw, stepped over the wires.

“Bloody beggars!” shouted Boskovin. “Tell them we don’t have any money for them, Tuvacs.”

Tuvacs tried, but the gaggle of cripples dogging his master spoke no Mohacin. He tried the little Khushashian he knew, then Low Maceriyan. If they understood, they did not relent.

“Away! Away!” shouted Boskovin. Lem and Marko came up, batons swinging, bashing the poor from their path.

Boskovin surprised Tuvacs, digging into a pocket and hurling a handful of coins at the beggars.

“Hit them, curse them, push them away,” said Boskovin to Tuvacs. “But never forget that one day that could be you.”

A myriad languages came at them. Khushashian in the main, and there were a fair number of Mohaca here too. But there were people from all over the Hundred, and all words were swept up into one, incomprehensible babble.

There were others there, hucksters calling out the names of lodgings, whores smiling yellow-toothed smiles framed by poppy red lips, agents promising work on the railway or in the mines on fair conditions. Boskovin pushed his way through them all, his men following. They came to the box cars where their goods and animals were transported. The door to the first rattled open as they approached, and Julion popped his head out.

“How do they fare?” shouted Boskovin. He was an energetic presence, his own excitement and urgency galvanising his men.

“One’s sick, boss. I’m going to have to kill it, I reckon.”

The faintest frown flickered over Boskovin’s forehead. “And Rusanina?”

“She’s fine. Won’t stop complaining, it’s doing my head in.”

Relief then, bright in Boskovin’s smile. “Let it, Julion, she’s worth four of you. Get them out!”

He strode on to the other two cars, Marko and Lem came after, shoving people away. Gordan jumped down from the one carrying their trade goods. A group of customs officials in poorly dyed blue uniforms were moving up the train, consulting with gang chiefs and bossmen at each boxcar. All manner of goods were being unloaded from the train’s long freight tail. Boskovin’s men worked quickly, stacking their own materials for inspection.

The customs men reached them. One was obviously Mohaci, and Tuvacs addressed him.

“Goodman, please give my master advice as to the process here. It is his first venture into Gate Town.”

The Mohaci man stopped and watched Boskovin bellowing orders. “He seems to know what he’s doing.” His attention fixed on Tuvacs. “You’re new to this. Never tell someone like me you do not know what is going on. I could have charged you four times the rate and you’d never know.”

“I...” Tuvacs’ prepared speech stumbled to a halt.

“Take the lesson to heart, but not the shame. Learn fast here, or die quicker. What has your master got?”

Tuvacs pulled out a manifest.

“This is in Low Maceriyan. What does it say?”

Tuvacs pulled it back, this was not going to plan. “I cannot read.”

“Good job I can speak Low Maceriyan, isn’t it?” One of the customs man’s fellows came to his side. “I’ll deal with this, you move on up the train, or we’ll be here all fucking day,” he said. The second man went on. The customs official shook his head as he read the manifest. “I tell you, I’ve been doing this for seven years. You get all sorts, on and off the train. Excuse me!” he called, switching to Low Maceriyan. He spoke it with only a slight accent. “Yeah, you, big merchant man. You, goodfellow!”

Boskovin came over.

“Good day,” he said.

“Explain this. What’s your business? Bit odd bringing all this material here if you ask me. A lot of it we produce here.” He went down the list. “Shovels, lanterns. And the dogs. You could have three teams by lunchtime if you wanted.” His eyes went to Rusanina. “Although you’d be hard pressed to find the likes of her. Why buy them in Mohacs-Gravo?”

“Bringing the dogs all the way from Karsa was too expensive. Buying the dogs here would have cost a fortune, and they work them hard here. Poor quality. Everything costs a lot here. So, easiest and cheapest to bring the dogs out from Mohash-Gravu.” Boskovin mispronounced the name. The official and Tuvacs glanced at each other in amusement. “All my goods are Karsan made. Karsan make, Karsan premium.”

“No doubt you’ll be selling the same shit as everyone else once you’ve got yourself a name.”

Boskovin inclined his head in way that could have meant anything.

“Fine. It’s all in order.” The official took up a wooden paddle that dangled by a loop from his belt. He put the papers onto it and rolled a stamp across them. “You got trading papers? A licence?”

“Aye, right here,” said Boskovin. He reached inside his coat.

“I don’t need to see it. Get it verified at the station in Railhead. They manage trade licences there. Show them your stamped manifest.”

“Even if I plan to set up here?”

“Even if you plan to set up here. They have the appropriate machinery to verify the document, and a telesender to check with Kasub and the Mohacs-Gravo rail office if it doesn’t check out. Do you have an issue with that sir?”

“Of course not.”

The guard flashed crooked teeth in a not altogether friendly smile. “Well that’s alright then, isn’t it?”

He pushed the manifest back at Boskovin. Boskovin went back to his men, speeding up as he walked as if freed from some peculiar kind of bureaucratic spell. The customs man finished filling out his own records. He handed Tuvacs a wooden chit with a number on it. “Tell your master to keep this. It’ll tally with our records. Congratulations, you are now entitled to apply to conduct business in and around the property of the Mohacs-Gravo Kasub Railway. You want to do business further out west, you need to clear it with the Maceriyans, got that?”

Tuvacs looked at the chit. Boskovin would need this to do business. He had been passed a small measure of power.

“What is all this?” asked Tuvacs. He kicked at one of the wires. It thrummed like a harp string.

“Don’t do that boy,” said the customs man. “Bad idea for us all. Iron lines. Stops random magic. Lot of glimmer in those warehouses, in this sand. We’re careful here, but the stuff gets everywhere. Once it accumulates, there’s a danger of discharge. Doesn’t happen often, not like in the desert. You’ll see far bigger webs out there. Got to pin the world down out in the desert.”

“What do you mean?”

The stationmaster squinted at him. “When you get out there, don’t stray from the webs, not for any reason, not even for a few yards, do you hear? They’ll bang on about it when you get to Railhead, but you have to know, they are not spinning you any yarns. You get more than a few steps from the web, you might never find your camp again. Do not venture too far out into the sands. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, goodman.”

The customs man looked over at Boskovin. He was directing his men as they assembled the dog wagons, two this time. “And don’t trust these outlanders. Just you watch yourself, alright boy?”

“Yes, goodman.”

The man winked at him. “Good. I hope you make your fortune. Good luck. Try not to get yourself killed. You seem quite pleasant.” He sauntered off.

“Thank you!” called Tuvacs. The official raised his hand over his head without looking back.

Their dog carts assembled and loaded, Boskovin’s expedition put five dogs to each and set out from Gate Town. The din of the place dropped away with suddenness, and they were into the great square-sided chasm that was the Gates of the World.

Timeless silence there, whose damp and muffling reign could not be interrupted by the talk of men or huffing of running dogs. A small locomotive filled the gates with a drawn out whistle, end to end and back again. Iron wheels clattered on iron rails. Men seated on open carts at the rear of it shouted down at Boskovin’s crew. Even their noise perturbed the stillness of the place only as much as a smooth pebble tossed into a mountain lake; an insignificant break in the skin, swallowed by the vastness beneath.

The train outpaced them, obscuring the path with glimmer-shot steam. Then it was away, hooting again. The voice of the machine muted by the scale of the cut.

The exhaust cleared. The way through the mountain revealed itself. The dogs burst through into sunlight. Warmth hit Tuvacs and he blinked against the sudden brightness.

Grassland of rich variety stretched away from them north and south. Ahead, lay an endless expanse of the black sands, dark grey and twinkling in the sun.

“Look, my boy, look!” said Boskovin, placing one hand at the small of Tuvacs’ back and pointing with the other. “The Black Sands. Here the greater part of the world’s supply of glimmer is extracted. It draws the hopeful and the hopeless, the rich and the poor. All with money to spend.” He smiled happily. “We arrive at a desert of some opportunity.”

Tuvacs had little time to reflect on the fact that this was his new home. They hit Railhead, and the rest of the day was a rushed set of meetings, haggling, arguing and frontier bureaucracy. Tuvacs could not credit that the withered crone propped up in the corner of the railway office at Railhead could manage so much as a card trick, let alone a long distance sending. In the end it did not matter, they had their licence.

Boskovin made right for a vendor of similar implements to those stacked upon their dog carts.

The trader, a grizzled man of Birestinia, was unimpressed with their wares.

“A couple of generations back, you could pole glimmer rocks right out of the desert from the edge of the grass. All that’s gone now, we’re forced to go deeper and deeper into the desert. The tracks, trains, supply depots. And the damned ironweb. It all costs money. Do you have any idea how much the ironweb alone costs to maintain? Should be spun of gold, wouldn’t be any dearer. No my friends, you make your money while you can. The days of the independent prospector are coming to an end.”

“This one looks like a vagrant but speaks like a stockbroker,” mumbled Julion to Tuvacs.

“That’s disrespectful,” said Tuvacs.

“I’ll start being respectful when I find someone worthy of my respect.”

“The world will always need glimmer,” said Boskovin.