The Iron Ship (26 page)

“Aye, it will. But only those with serious capital behind them can afford to get at it. Getting the glimmer has become a major operation. Sure, you might stumble on a small vein in the desert still, sometimes even in the mountains, and it’s a lot safer there. Nobody is disputing that. But there are two issues with that. The amount of glimmer being traded is so big that the price has come down. You make a small claim, it’s not the paydirt it once was. And the real reserves are out here in the desert, the big mines. And only business has the resources to get to that. These new men here? They’re coming for a pay cheque. There are no more lucky strikes to be had. And I don’t know if you seen them, goodman, but there are five forges putting out tools almost as good as these.”

“From what you are saying, I am out of luck,” said Boskovin. He put on a performance of despondency a child could have seen through, although the merchant seemed blind to it. He moved in, feigning sympathy equally badly.

“Well, I don’t know. But then,” he tutted, “things are getting worse, not better for the likes of us.”

“The same old story!” said Boskovin theatrically.

“Rumour has it the Cullozzi brothers are setting up a foundry; the price will crash. If I were you I’d get rid of them quick.”

“There will be some market for my tools?” Boskovin brightened.

“Sure there is. Sell them to me, I’ll see what I can do.”

Boskovin smiled and wagged his finger. “You nearly had me! You very nearly had me there.”

“I don’t get your meaning.”

“If there is no market left, you would not offer to buy my tools. I am no newcomer to business.”

“Just hang on a minute...” said the trader.

“What would you offer me for them?”

“Deal’s off.”

“Just tell me.”

The old man rubbed the back of his neck. “Four copper a piece.”

“Well then, if I were fleecing a naive incomer, I would want to at least double my profits. So you are probably selling yours for ten copper?” Boskovin snatched up a shovel.

“Yeah, around that,” said the merchant grudgingly. “A little less, a little more. Depends on the day and the trade.”

“Well thank you, but no deal. I appreciate the information.”

“If you say so.”

They left. Outside the shop—little more than a wooden platform with three canvas sides and a shingle roof—Rusanina waited. She got to her feet and trotted at her master’s side, her consorts walking meekly by her.

“He’s right,” said Boskovin quietly to his followers. “He’s selling at five less than I was hoping to make. Looks like we’ve arrived one or two summers too late.”

“It’s been a waste of time then,” said Julion. Tuvacs had already learned a hearty dislike for his long-suffering air.

“What will we do?” said Tuvacs.

“Shame on you there, Julion! Making the boy fear for his employment, when there is nothing to worry about! In business, my boy, one must take notice of the changing ground, see where the flood will strike or new land rise from the water. This is one of these moments.” Boskovin put an arm around Tuvacs. “These businesses still need tools. If we are smart, we can strike a better deal. Mass supply, lower item price, that is unfortunate, but much large volume of sale. And it just so happens I have contacts with mills back home. Now what do you think of that?” Boskovin grasped the back of Tuvacs’ neck and shook it.

“It sounds very clever, master,” said Tuvacs.

“It is! This will not be the first fortune I have won, my boy.”

Behind him, Julion muttered. “It won’t be the first he lost either.”

“Patience now, Julion! There are other ways to turn an honest coin. So, the miners do not require tools with such urgency as they did any longer. A shame, but they always require something else. What is it?”

“Food?” said Tuvacs.

“Indeed! But more than that, my boy, they need entertainment. Specifically, they need
liquor
.”

Gate Town had appeared shabby and impermanent. In comparison to Railhead, it was a metropolis to rival Perus. ‘Building’ was too grand a word for Railhead’s collection of shacks, framed tents and lean-tos. The smell of the desert was sharp on the air, a dryness that prickled the inside of the nose. The wind coming of the sands was cold, winter’s herald.

“It’s fucking freezing here,” said Julion.

“I like,” said Rusanina. Tuvacs started when she spoke. He was never going to get used to that.

“Yeah? You spend most of your time lying in front of the nearest fire!”

Rusanina growled. Her consort’s ears pricked and they stared with yellow eyes at Julion.

“Steady!” Julion said, holding up his hands. Rusanina grumbled deep in her chest, a sound Tuvacs had learned was her version of a laugh.

“What do you expect?” said Boskovin. “This is not the Hethikan riviera!”

“I don’t see why we couldn’t keep our base in Gate Town,” said Julion.

“Because the money is here, Julion. Six years this one has been with me, Tuvacs, and what has he learned! I suspect nothing. You my lad, seem a far brighter spark.”

Julion’s lips curled.

“Marko! What news?”

Boskovin’s headman fell into step with them, Gordan with him. “I think we’ve got what we need.”

“The dogs?”

“They’re being fed.”

“We mightn’t be needing them. See if anyone’s buying,” said Boskovin.

Marko lips pulled thin. “A change of plan?”

“Since when are plans something to be kept to?”

Marko shrugged. “This way, Mather.”

They ducked tent guy ropes and squeezed past tuns overflowing with rubbish.

“When this place is a little more established, I might offer to establish a refuse collection service. A lot of useful material is going to waste here,” said Boskovin. “There is always money to be made. Even in shit, there is gold.”

They came to the rail line. It split as it entered Railhead, then split and split again into a small goods yard. A single line fought its way free of the sidings to cross from grass to sand. They were only twenty or so yards from the edge of the desert. The iron web, began some ten yards out either side of the track, red oxide against black sand.

They crossed the track. The plume of a train rose skyward far out in the desert.

“How far do you reckon that is?” said Julion.

“I don’t know,” said Tuvacs.

“I thought all you foreign types were good at such things.”

“I grew up in a canyon, that could be the other side of the world for all I know.”

“Huh,” said Julion. “Maybe it is.”

Boskovin, his dogs and Marko had gone a little further ahead, into a fan of sidings.

“There you are,” said Marko. He nodded at a boxcar.

“That’s it?” said Julion. “That’s the best you could do?”

“Julion, I am truly growing tired of your constant moaning,” said Boskovin. “A lick of paint, some elbow grease, we’ll get this looking grand. Can you not see it? A rolling saloon! You and Gordan can take the dog teams out to the outlying mines, sell off our tools, while I’ll have Tuvacs staff it...”

“Why him?” said Julion.

“How many languages do you speak, Julion?”

“Two.”

“Yes, and your Low Maceriyan is awful. Whereas Tuvacs here is quite the linguist. Having him on hand will make the clients happy. You don’t need to know the local lingo to carry an armful of shovels.”

“Bloody foreigners,” said Julion.

The others went to inspect the boxcar. Tuvacs wandered away. The black sands enticed him, and he found himself drawn over to them. The line between the steppe and the sand was remarkable. If one looked closely between the blades of grass grains of black and quartz winked back, blown in by the wind. But there really was a line delineating the landscapes, sharp as if cut by shears.

He passed by one of the pylons lining the edge, an ancient edifice of iron pitted with corrosion. A newcomer to town had pitched his tent against it, and a trio of troopers from the fort in gaudy uniforms were shouting at him to take it down. Tuvacs crossed the tracks again to distance himself from their quarrel.

He came to the very edge of the grass. He stood with his toes hanging off the turf. There was a drop of six inches of so, yellow grass and green grass atop a bluff of brown soil giving way to the sand. A single sod grew three feet out, and crumbs of soil patterned the black close to the edge. Past that there was nothing but sand. Within the confines of the ironweb were various pieces of half-buried rubbish. Beyond it the sand was pristine, not a footstep on it.

An urge came over him. He stared at his toes. One step, and he would cross into a world alien to his own.

“Do not step onto the sand.” A voice, female, speaking accented Low Maceriyan. Startled, Tuvacs turned. A girl of around his age leaned against the sun-bleached side of a boxcar. An old woman squatted at her feet. Both wore layered robes in varying shades of cream and brown that covered every part of them but their faces. Coins on short lengths of chain fringed her face. The old woman had a similar headdress made of twists of bright thread.

“You are watching me?”

“We are resting,” said the girl. “My grandmother tells fortunes to the outsiders in this village.”

“You translate?”

She nodded.

“That is also my job,” he said.

Tuvacs took a step back from the desert edge, its spell broken. Unaccountable relief swept through him.

“The desert had you. Do not look long at it, and never step on it. Even here it is not safe.”

“Are you from here?” he asked. “I don’t see anywhere other than this place.”

“We are Zashub,” she said. “From mountains to the south.”

“I can’t keep track of all the tribes there are here.”

“It is the same for all foreigners, they are stupid. Ignorant.”

“I am not as foreign as some.”

“You are,” she said.

“I am Mohaci, from Gravo. That is not far.”

“That is a long way from here.”

“My friends are from much further, from the far west, from the islands.”

“The lands of the little ones?”

It took Tuvacs a moment to understand. “The Tyn? I suppose.”

“We have stories about them, that they do not hide in secret places, but live like men in houses. Is this true?”

“Yes. It is true. We told the same stories in my city. But it is not as the stories say. There are not many, and I never saw one. Not close, anyway.”

She looked disappointed. “Did you see the sea?”

“Yes I did.”

“You have really seen it?”

“I have,” he said. Here was a novelty, there were a few places untouched by the ocean in Ruthnia, even Mohacs-Gravo witnessed its power. But they were no longer in Ruthnia, he thought.

“What is it like?”

He nodded at the desert. “Like that. Only wet. And... angrier.”

She smiled. “That is very fine.”

The old woman snapped something at the girl, then gestured at Tuvacs.

“Grandmother wants to know, why do you worship the rails?”

Tuvacs was taken aback. “Worship them?”

“Yes. You spend much time laying them and riding about on them. That is worship.”

She was so sure of what she said, he wanted to laugh. He swallowed it, fearful of causing offence.

“I don’t, really. It’s for transport. That’s all.”

“That is all?” she said. “There is something arrogant about it. It ignores a boundary that everything else on the plain respects. The foreigners do not respect much.” She looked at the man arguing with the fort troopers. One repeated himself over and over as the man bawled in his face. The other two soldiers were kicking down his tent, freeing the iron obelisk of canvas and rope.

“Have you been here long?”

She shook her head. The old woman was muttering to herself. Her granddaughter ignored her.

“Why are
you
here?”

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“To make money. Because I have to be.”

“That is why we are here also.” Something attracted her attention. Tuvacs started as a wet nose was pressed into the back of his neck.

“You,” said a gruff canine voice. “Master wants. Too much dawdle.”

Rusanina’s eyes were level with his own. She stared at him hard. He reached out a hand and gave her an experimental pat. She whiffled, then took his affection and returned it, almost knocking him from his feet as she nuzzled him.

The girl giggled. “That is very fine.”

“We go now,” said Rusanina. “You work.” She circled him and poked at him with her muzzle, forcing him back towards the boxcar.

“Goodbye, Mohaci boy,” said the girl.

“My name is Tuvacs!” he called. “What is your name.”

“I am Suala the Zashub.”

“Perhaps we will see each other again?”

“Perhaps,” she replied.

At her feet, her grandmother grumbled and shook her head.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Iron Ship

T
HE SITE OF
Arkadian Vand’s venture occupied one third of the New Docks. Upon taking possession of the site, the first thing he had done was construct a spur line from the railway that ran from the industrial districts. That had taken a lot of money, and a lot of politicking, and a small adjustment to Per Allian’s plans. An enormous shed of corrugated iron had followed. In itself, the Vand Shipyard was a wonder, larger than the largest cathedrals to the banished gods. Such things were common in the foundries and mills of the city, of course, but to see its like rising above the centre caused quite a stir. Prince Alfra himself, who had intended the docks to bring commerce to the heart of the capital, but who had also wished to prettify the third ward with water and the graceful rigging of ships, was said to be thrown into something of a personal turmoil.

What was inside, though smaller, was a far greater marvel: the
Prince Alfra
, the world’s first ocean-worthy iron ship. Trassan hoped that calling his ship as he had might calm his royal highness down.

“They said we were mad to build a ship up here. ‘How will they get the stone in?’ they said.” Arkadian Vand, the self-proclaimed greatest engineer in the world, thrust his hands into his pockets. “The bastards aren’t laughing now, are they?” He chuckled, his expression inviting Trassan to join in.