Raising Steam: (Discworld novel 40) (Discworld Novels) Read online

  That was the spell of the clacks, and it wasn’t only goblins who felt it. Adora Belle knew and didn’t mind that the clacksmen and clackswomen would fraternize along the wonderful scintillating lines of light. After all, quite a few marriages had been brokered through the unsuspecting ether in the small hours of the night and sooner or later little clacksmen and women would be born.

  Adora Belle had once told Moist, ‘You know that it takes a special kind of person to be a clacksman and especially a clackswoman, and it’s important that they marry and have children with the right kind of blood. They’re our future, and heaven help them if their spouse doesn’t also work on the clacks. Clacks people are a type and like attracts like.’

  When Moist told her the news of the accident in the Effing Forest she disappeared into her office, and Moist could hear the goblins stampeding towards it and then a rattle of the clacks on the roof. Before long she sent down another goblin with a flimsy that said, ‘News from Scrote. Stop. It’s a boiler that burst. Stop. Not a train. Stop. Horrible deaths of two people, but no engine as such. Stop.’

  That latest discovery made Moist doubly sure of himself and he clamped his hand on Harry’s shoulder and said, ‘Please, don’t worry, Harry. I know how this one is going to go. All I need is for you and Mister Simnel to meet me in the Effing Forest as quickly as you can. And, oh, I think we might need Thunderbolt.’

  It was time to talk to the golem horse once more. Moist was rather concerned about taking it on another long journey so soon, but the horse said, ‘Sir, I am a horse. Being a horse is my passion in life, and getting to the Effing Forest will be a breeze. Saddle up, please, and let’s be off.’

  Moist had found something like a sweet spot in the gait. No muscle and bone horse could possibly gallop at this speed without legs getting tangled, but even so he covered the fifty miles to the Effing Forest by sunrise without much in the way of groinal sprains.

  He immediately sought out the nearest pub to the accident, which was the premises of Edward Forefather, purveyor of fine beers, stouts and ales. At least that’s what it said on the rather large plaque behind the bar and Moist was not going to argue.

  The publican, already up and dressed, looked him up and down and said, ‘I’ve been expecting somebody like you. You’re from the city, aren’t you? It’s about the explosion, isn’t it? Are you one of them reporters? Only I wants money if you’re a reporter.’

  Moist said, ‘No, I’m not, I’m with the railway. I heard about the explosion and came to see what had happened.’

  Forefather looked him up and down again and said, ‘We know all about it. It was them Wesley brothers. How good is your stomach, young man? Of course, I’d leave the bar to help you, but that means I’d have to get my wife up to start on the early shift for the miners. They’ll be coming up for their breakfast soonish.’

  Moist understood the unspoken request and handed the man a reasonable sum, then followed him outside where he was led along a path into the forest. This part of the forest was quite pleasant, not too dark, the kind of place where people would go for a picnic, but as they got in further, Moist could see that whatever they were going to find next, it wasn’t going to be a picnic.

  In a clearing just a short walk from the pub the trees were stripped of their leaves, tangled wood was everywhere and the remains of the forge were embedded in various trunks. And there were fragments of the stricken boiler, too, some of them driven so hard into mighty oaks that Moist couldn’t pull them out. The haze in the clearing sent a chill down his spine.

  He took a deep breath and said, ‘What happened to the bodies, Mister Forefather?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. I’ve got them back in my cellar, it being quite cold down there. They’re in a bucket. It isn’t a big bucket, either. It was two brothers, strapping great lads. Crucible was the brains and Jed was the blacksmith. Although in the bucket I couldn’t tell you which bits were whose. Jed was boasting about building a railway engine one day, and to tell you the truth, sir, he was a very good blacksmith, but what he knew about locomotives I wouldn’t dare think of. But he thought he could do it and all his mates were egging him on.’

  He hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘I was the first one to arrive here and mostly all there was was a mist, and I didn’t like that at all. It was clammy and hot and made you want to puke. And that’s it, sir. Not much more to be said, sir.’

  Moist looked up and said, ‘Should there really be an anvil up in that tree?’

  The publican looked at him and then at the tree and said, ‘You’re a man with his eye on the business, aren’t you? Generally speaking, the anvil has always been on the ground, by and large, but it was a most powerful bang.’

  Moist brightened up as best he could and said, ‘Thank you, Mister Forefather. Pretty soon there’ll be a lot of journalists coming to see all this and I’m sorry about that, but they turn up like flies.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir. Good for business. Journalists drink twice as much as anyone else and for twice as long. We had them around when the mine fell in and they really can take their liquor.’ Mr Forefather was rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  In fact, it was mid-morning before most of the journalists put in an appearance. But well ahead of the pack was Otto Chriek of the Ankh-Morpork Times, who was always first on the scene.fn50

  As for the rest of the press gang, they arrived at cross purposes, all of them expecting the others to tell them what was going on.

  Mr Forefather was making hay by making bacon butties while his wife was frying eggs and the obligatory slice.

  Moist put the word out that, while of course the railway was in no way involved, the owners were coming to see the accident site for themselves and would be happy to answer questions. By the time Harry King, Simnel and Thunderbolt arrived, Moist could see Forefather carefully raising the prices on his beers as, gradually, the pub filled from across the Sto Plains.

  Moist had already gleaned from Mrs Forefather that the brothers’ old mum was being comforted by friends back in her own home, a short walk from the pub, and he was careful to see that no mention of this or the current whereabouts of the unfortunate Wesley brothers was made to the gang of journalists. And he surprised himself by realizing that this was a sensible and humanitarian thing to do, some of the press gang being the sort who would most definitely say things like, ‘Well now, Mrs Wesley, how did you feel when you found out that both of your sons had been melted?’

  As the press seized on the new arrivals, Moist, like a chess grandmaster, tried to keep his king, that would be Sir Harry King, away from the worst questions and instead played his shining knight, Mr Dick Simnel. He was learning a lot from Mr Simnel. They faced him with questions like, ‘What do you say to people who think that live steam will kill everybody in the end?’

  To which Dick’s answer was, ‘I don’t know, sir, I’ve never met anyone who thought that. Steam is very dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing and I feel sorry for them poor boys.’

  Hardwick of the Pseudopolis Daily Press said, ‘I hear your own engine killed someone the night before last. What do you have to say about that, Mister Simnel?’

  Before Dick could speak Thunderbolt came down like a judge and said, ‘The person in question was clearly trying to sabotage the locomotive and while we naturally regret the fatality he was in a place where he shouldn’t have been, doing something that he shouldn’t have done. It is evident that he entered the engine shed through a skylight, which seems to show lawful business was not on his mind. His death, alas, was self-inflicted.’

  ‘And what about Mister Simnel senior?’ said Hardwick. ‘Was his death self-inflicted?’

  Simnel took the floor once again. ‘It just goes to show you have to treat steam with respect, and yes, I learned t’hard way when me dad died and that’s why I measure and test and measure again. It’s all about t’little numbers. It’s all about taking care. It’s all about getting the knowledge. Steam has its rules. After
all, we call it live steam for a reason. It’s dangerous in t’wrong hands, but my hands, sir, have spent a long time building boilers and static engines, just to see ’ow far I could go. That generally meant me hiding behind a stone wall while bits of engine whistled over me ’ead. You learn by your mistakes, if you’re lucky, and I tried to make mistakes just to see ’ow that could be done, and although this is not the time to say it, you ’ave to be clever and you ’ave to be smart and you ’ave to be ’umble in the face of such power. You have to think of every little detail. You have to make notes and educate yourself and then, only then, steam becomes your friend. Like Iron Girder, you’ve all seen her. Yes, miss?’

  Moist recognized Sacharissa Cripslock. She said, ‘You speak so caringly of your locomotive, Mister Simnel, and so I have to ask, do you have a sweetheart?’

  There was a certain amount of tittering from the hacks, but Simnel barely blinked. ‘Why, thank you for asking and yes, there is indeed a young lady who is looking at me kindly.’

  Simnel turned towards another waving notebook and said, ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Grievous, sir, Grievous Johnson from the Big Cabbage Gazette. Is it your intention to share your knowledge with others trying to build their own engines? That might save a lot of lives.’

  Simnel glanced at Moist and Moist looked at Harry King, who dropped an eyebrow, which Moist knew he could take as a yes.

  Simnel knew it too and had spotted the signal. He said, ‘Oh, yes, sir, we will do. At least the basics, safety and so forth. But it’ll cost. Research and development has to cost. But I’ll tek apprentices, show them t’ropes, and generally make them safer workers. In fact we’re planning regular classes, a Railway Academy, you might call it.’ His smile dropped as he continued, ‘O’course I’m reet sorry about those lads, sir, but learning is hard and failure is sharp. I’d hate that kind of thing to happen again, but it’s got to be done proper like. No scrimping. No cutting corners.’

  Mr Simnel had won again. The press couldn’t deal with a straightforward man. The certainty in his face simply disarmed them and possibly, thought Moist, made them wish they were better people. There wasn’t an inch of politics in him and that stunned them.

  Simnel was still beaming at them. ‘Aye, if any of you’d like to come back to t’works at Ankh-Morpork at any time I’ll gladly show you around. I’ll show you everything.’

  Far away from Moist and certainly from common sense, the grags took counsel, if it could be called that. Things in the outside world were changing so fast.

  ‘We are losing, you do know that?’ said a voice in the darkness.

  ‘It can’t be helped. It’s the zeitgeist, it’s in the air,’ said another voice, sounding somewhat more cracked.

  ‘And what do we care about the air, or any kind of geist? We are the justified, the stalwarts, the kings and servants of the darkness. Our people will come back.’

  ‘No, they’re leaving! Burning clacks towers was stupid! I say stupid! Everybody wants their news and it makes us look like criminals, which we are. And that’s not justified.’

  A dwarf who had been silent during the conclave in the cavern was remembering the old Djelibeybi legend about the way to get an ass down from the minaret, and of course the answer was you first have to teach it not to be an ass. But in what world could that ever happen when you’re dealing with grags? It was, she thought, time to see for herself just how life was in the lands of the Troll King. She had been very careful, oh dear, so very careful and so she had survived, she hoped, to be the jackass that got out of the minaret, but alas, the idiots were still encouraging impressionable young dwarfs to attack the clacks towers. Whoever had had that idea had doomed them without dialogue.

  Rhys Rhysson was right, she thought. We’ve lost all balance. We have to get out of here, out of everything that is here, out into the light. Surely, she thought, they wouldn’t suspect her. She had been forensic in her search for unbelievers.

  Nevertheless, when at last she ran the knives got her before she stumbled. And then there were eight left in the cavern and those watching in the darkness watched more closely to see who would be next. The time would be coming when the purity of darkness could not be mocked!

  The terrible fact was that when dwarfs schism, they schism … every deviation from the norm was treated as an attack on all that was truly dwarfish.

  Others had already fled and died, and who could say they knew how many more were left, not only in this cavern but in other caverns all the way to Uberwald. And the trouble with madness was that the mad didn’t know they were mad. The grags came down heavily on those who did not conform and seemed not to realize that this was like stamping potatoes into the mud to stop them growing.

  Everywhere one looked there were committees nowadays, mostly because, by arrangement and with the blessing of Lord Vetinari, other principalities, large towns and city states saw no reason to wait for the completion of their slice of the magic of the train, and, seizing these opportunities, new companies were entering the railway business with rather more success than the Wesley brothers. Drumknott was in his element as the paperwork mounted and his files multiplied; he contrived to be everywhere and into everything, ably supported by Mr Thunderbolt.

  There were committees discussing industry standards, public safety, passenger welfare, whether one company’s freight truck could be hitched to another company’s train to complete its journey without need to offloadfn51 – and all the knotty financial and legal arrangements that would entail.

  The whole proposition of other businessmen launching their own railways had made Harry call for Thunderbolt.

  After hearing Harry’s complaints, the lawyer said, ‘It’s a matter of patents, Sir Harry. You know, all that fiddly stuff that you said you paid other people to get their heads around? Well, Mister Simnel and I have filed applications for every one of his innovations. But I am sure there is more than one way of building a machine to run on rails. You cannot patent the idea of a railway as such, and if you take a walk down the Street of Cunning Artificers you will find someone quite bright enough to discover how to make a train that will run on rails without infringing any of the patents I have been able to obtain for you.

  ‘The idea of steam locomotion as such has been there for all to see and we all know that a boiling kettle will try to lift its own lid. Being clever, some young man watching the fire will work out that if he builds a bigger kettle he will be able to lift a bigger kettle lid. Although, as we saw at Effing Forest, he soon learns that it’s not as simple as that. They’re not all as bright and clever as Dick Simnel.’

  Harry snorted. ‘Stupid hayseeds. Not a patch on our Dick and his lads. All they’ve done is leave their old mum bound for the poorhouse.’ And Sir Harry harrumphed. A full-blown harrumph.

  Unaware that his client was temporarily distracted by the thought of a destitute lady living in the Effing Forest, bereft of her boys, her pride and joy, Thunderbolt continued. ‘Take Mister Simnel’s pressure gauge. Once the principle is proved and understood, the Cunning Artificers, extremely cunning as they are, might well find some way of achieving the same results without breaching patent. It’s what they do. Cunning by name and nature.’

  Thunderbolt had got Harry’s attention now. ‘And before you explode, Sir Harry, it is all within the law.’

  ‘What? After all I’ve done and the money I’ve put in!’ Harry’s face was as red as a beacon. He looked as though he needed one of Dick’s pressure gauges himself.

  Moist decided to intervene. ‘Harry, the whole point of trains is that they’re universal. Put them on the tracks and away they go.’

  In his mellifluous tones, the lawyer continued. ‘If I were you, Sir Harry, I would simply leave it to me to keep an eye on such things as patents and licences and regulation whilst you and Mister Simnel fill the world with steam. And remember, Sir Harry, the important thing is that you were the first. Nobody can take that away. You, Sir Harry, are on what I believe is called the hog�
�s back, the top of the heap, the founder of the railway. The Ankh-Morpork and Sto Plains Hygienic Railway Company is as solid as the bank.’

  The troll smiled and said, ‘Or, indeed, as me – and I am diamond.’

  Business for the Hygienic Railway Company was indeed booming, and the workforce ever expanding. The goblins from the Quirmian maquis had passed news back to their friends about the opportunities in the Big Wahoonie, which they seized with alacrity. And once Dick’s announcement of his Railway Academy had been splashed across the papers, in the wake of the Effing Forest incident, there were queues of people every day wanting to be taken on as apprentices. Simnel was heavy on the lads he accepted, telling them they had got to let the iron into their soul. And it was not unknown for him to kick someone straight out again if he felt they weren’t up to scratch.

  Returning from another trip to review progress on the Quirm line, Moist paused to take in the latest changes to the compound. There were the apprentices … engrossed in their own little mechanical world with Wally and Dave tutoring them and making sure they had got their caps sufficiently flat. Moist watched them in their blissful mechanical dream and he could not help but notice that they were surrounded by goblins, most definitely paying attention, seriously so, as if their lives depended upon it, and gathering up any discarded greasy rags, which to goblins were like haute couture, and the mark of a real swell back in the burrows. And near by the train spotters were comparing numbers. And there was Mr Simnel, equally engrossed in his latest contraption.

  As Moist crossed the compound towards him, Mr Simnel, with his greasy hat and his grubby shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to his elbows, wiped his grinning face with a rag, leaving a greasy smear on the grease.

  ‘Mister Lipwig! Grand to see you! I have something to show you! We brought this beauty down from Sto Lat yesterday and built it last night!’ He was shouting even louder than normal. ‘Essential equipment! It’s my design! I built it and I call it t’turning table!’