Raising Steam: (Discworld novel 40) (Discworld Novels) Page 21

  Moist almost had to put his hands over his ears as the engineer stepped closer. It’s because he works with the trains all day, he thought, he has to be heard among all the hissing and clanking, but I wonder how he talks to his Emily?

  And as for the turning table, it was, well, it was a table and it turned: a huge metal table with a pair of rails running across the centre, which was turned around by means of a large handle attached to a ratchet mechanism being wound by a troll with a look of intense concentration. Moist watched while Dick gave his demonstration.

  ‘Great! That’s brilliant, Dick, but … for the sake of the hard of thinking, what in hell’s name is it for?’

  Dick looked at Moist as if he was an infant and said, ‘Can’t you see it, Mister Lipwig? You drives your engine on to t’turning table and, here’s the clever bit, you turn the whole thing around and it’s now facing t’other way!’

  And then Mr Simnel danced on the circular iron table in his clogs as it slowly revolved, and shouted, ‘Grand! Gradely! We’re nearly there!’

  The triumph was emphasized with a hiss like Iron Girder at the end of a long run, which would have been a fitting end to the experiment, except that it took some time to get the troll to stop turning the handle so that Dick, who was starting to look a little green from the continued revolutions, could get off.

  Happy that the tussle of wills between the other companies operating on the Sto Plains was being ably managed by Thunderbolt and Drumknott, no doubt with assistance from the dark clerks, Moist was looking forward to a period of domestic harmony, when he was summoned to the palace.

  He was not surprised to see his lordship staring at the day’s crossword puzzle. Drumknott whispered from behind Moist, ‘There’s a new compiler, you know, and I’m sad to say that it looks like an improvement. However, his lordship is doing his best.’

  Lord Vetinari looked up and said, ‘Mister Lipwig. Can it be that there is a word quaestuary?’

  Actually, Moist knew exactly what it meant because of his misspent youth and so he girded his metaphorical loins and said, ‘I think you might find, sir, that it means someone doing business simply for profit. I remember coming across the word once upon a time and it puzzled me because I thought profit was what business is all about.’

  His lordship’s face didn’t move a muscle until he said, ‘Quite so, Mister Lipwig.’ And he pushed the paper aside and stood up. ‘I hear that the line to Quirm is all but completed … If the Quirm Assembly is still dragging its feet I shall have to have a word with Monsieur Jean Némard … one of my special words. I have to say, Mister Lipwig, that your contribution to the development of the railway has been most gratifying to observe and I am sure we are all in your debt.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Moist. ‘Does that mean I can get back to my day job and see my wife more than once every week or so?’

  ‘Of course you may, Mister Lipwig! You have, after all, been acting in an entirely voluntary capacity. However, my business now concerns the railway to Uberwald. So I have to ask you, how soon can we have a locomotive run all the way there? Nonstop.’

  Moist was taken aback. ‘You couldn’t do it, sir. Not non-stop. You have to take on water and coal and it must be more than a thousand miles up there!’

  ‘Twelve hundred and twenty-five miles exactly from Ankh-Morpork to Bonk by coach, although I am aware that the train would have to take a different route.’

  ‘Yes sir, but non-stop—’

  ‘Mister Lipwig. If you’re going to tell me that it’s impossible you will be down with the kittens in short order. After all, you are the man who gets things done.’

  ‘What’s the hurry, sir? The lads are doing a great job, but it would be a rare day if they could lay more than three miles of track, even with all the money Harry King is throwing at it. And then, of course, there’s all the unforeseen obstacles along the way and on top of that you know that every city along the Plains wants to be a part of the network. We’re spread wide, sir. Any further and we’d split down the middle.’

  Vetinari walked around his desk at speed and said, ‘Good, then you could both work more efficiently! It appears, Mister Lipwig, that you do not understand the nature of our relationship. I ask, very politely, for you to achieve something, bearing in mind that there are other ways I could ask, and it is your job to get things done. You are, after all, a man who can apparently do anything, the great Mister Lipwig, yes? And my advice to you is to cease all the work that does not assist in getting from here to Uberwald in the quickest possible time. Everything else can, and will, wait.’

  He held up his hand. ‘Do not tell me what the problems are, just tell me the solutions. Indeed, you do not need to tell me the solutions, you merely have to achieve them.’

  Moist said, ‘Do you mind if I sit down, sir?’

  ‘By all means, Mister Lipwig. Do get the man a drink, Drumknott. He looks a little hot.’

  ‘I have to ask, sir … Why does it have to be done like this?’

  Vetinari smiled. ‘Can you keep a secret, Mister Lipwig?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. I’ve kept lots.’

  ‘Capital. And the point is, so can I. You do not need to know.’

  Moist tried. ‘Sir! Even now the trains are part of life to a lot of people, especially to those on the Plains who commute! We can’t just drop everything, sir!’

  ‘Mister Lipwig. Is there something in the word “tyrant” you do not understand?’

  In desperation Moist said, ‘We don’t have enough workers, sir! Not enough people to man the foundries! Not enough people to dig the ore! We’ve probably got enough stock now to get halfway, but it’s all about the workers.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘It is. Isn’t it. Think on that, Mister Lipwig.’

  ‘What about the wizards? Can’t they get up off their fat backsides and help their city?’

  ‘Yes, Mister Lipwig, and you know and I know it will rebound on us. Live steam is friendly compared with magic going wrong. No, Mister Lipwig, we will not look to the wizards. You just need to get the train to run to Uberwald on time.’

  ‘And what time would that be, sir?’

  ‘As I say, Mister Lipwig, any time soon.’

  ‘Then I haven’t got a prayer. It’s going to take months, a year … or more …’

  And suddenly the atmosphere turned to ice and his lordship said, ‘Then I suggest you get going.’ Vetinari resumed his seat. ‘Mister Lipwig, the world lives between those who say it cannot be done and those who say that it can. And in my experience, those who say that it can be done are usually telling the truth. It’s just a matter of thinking creatively. Some people say “Think the unthinkable”, but that’s nonsense – although in your case, sir, I think you have the nerves for it. Think about it. Now, don’t let me detain you.’

  The door closed behind Moist and silence enveloped the Oblong Office as the Patrician returned his attention to the crossword. Eventually he frowned, filled in a line and laid down the paper.

  ‘Drumknott,’ he said, ‘how’s Charlie’s Punch and Judy business going these days? Is he doing well? I wonder whether he might consider a short holiday. Just a short one, that is.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Drumknott. ‘I’ll go and see him this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s the way to do it,’ said Lord Vetinari.

  While he was still reeling from the Patrician’s latest demand, Moist found himself riding back to the Effing Forest on a mission for Harry.

  ‘Go and see the old girl and send her my sympathies,’ Harry had said. ‘Tell her I was impressed at how her boys tried to harness steam and I salute them as pioneers. Have a look around and see what she’s got and since it would seem as if I have got gold coming out of my ears then I reckon we can give her a little pension, though for heavens’ sake don’t let anyone else know. Oh, and tell her that I’ll make it certain that her lads will be up frontline when the history of the railway is written down, and say she can call on me at any time.’

&nb
sp; The old homestead in the forest was all that Moist had expected, and Mrs Wesley burst into tears when he told her about Harry’s offer. She was determined to think of Sir Harry as a saint or angel and if Moist knew anything about the ways of the world Harry’s gesture would be all over the forest within hours; and because news spreads, it would get as far as Ankh-Morpork by the end of the day. Moist knew Harry the man as he was: extremely sharp with a heart of gold and tears of soppy. Harry’s gesture was entirely Harry, with no ulterior motive, but nevertheless once the news had got around, he would be in all the papers as a benefactor of the poor and therefore a celebrity. Not for the first time Moist deplored his own tendency to see the angles in whatever happened, good or bad.

  ‘How much?’

  The simple question sounded like a declaration of war, which it almost was, as Harry was presented with the costings for the express line to Bonk.

  Moist stood his ground. ‘Dick says there’s iron everywhere, Harry, but it needs digging out and then it’s the making of the steel that uses up the money,’ he put in hastily, before Harry could throw anyone down the stairs.

  ‘You’ve got to put the gold in to get t’steel out, Harry,’ said Simnel calmly. ‘We’ve been getting a good deal from the lads down at the smelters, but it’s twelve hundred miles to Uberwald, and that’s a lot of steel.’

  ‘Harry,’ Moist said patiently. ‘I know very well that when you and your lady first married you used to cut the matches in half to make them last longer. But you are not that man any more. You can afford this.’

  They watched Harry’s face. In truth, Moist knew Harry had kicked his way up from the gutter and was proud of it, but he had made his money cheaply – since minions, on the whole, don’t incur much of an overhead – and looked at every suggestion that he should pay for anything as evidence that something was wrong in the world.

  Dick Simnel had got the measure of the man and said, ‘If I was you, sir, I’d look at my money box and buy as much steel as I possibly could while I can, not making a big fuss about it, otherwise it’ll suddenly get more expensive, if you know what I mean. Supply and demand.’

  Harry still looked as if he thought people were trying to get something of a move on him, which was his ground state of being, and Moist thought, well, what does Harry spend his mountains of money on?

  And so he plunged on. ‘Go on, Harry, as a customer in good standing, the Royal Bank’ll definitely give you a loan, if indeed you ever need one. Though frankly, I know your balance is more than enough to get rails all the way to the moon and back and that’s including a fleet of locomotives as well.’

  There was a rumble from Mr Thunderbolt. ‘Of course, Sir Harry, you could sell shares: that means you share some of the outlays but, alas, you also have to share some of the dividends. It’s up to you.’

  Moist saw his cue right there and said, ‘You see, Harry, everybody who buys your railway shares would then be dead keen on their railway and on your side. It’s what the trolls call a no-brain. When the smoke is making you rich, it’s your smoke and you don’t complain about it. And,’ Moist took a deep breath, ‘if you share the risks you can afford to build houses for the railway workers, too. That way they’ll live close to the railway, right alongside it, so they’ll always be ready—’

  ‘I don’t need any telling on that score, Mister Lipwig. The lads that work for me on the conveyor belts all live on the doorstep. Difference is they built their own.’

  ‘The buildings don’t have to be little palaces,’ Moist said, ‘just comfortable, with a bit of a garden, which is nice for the kiddies, and then everyone is happy and you’ve got it made. After all, who doesn’t like to have a place close to their work? Nice and warm with all the coal you need thrown in.’

  Harry King would probably punch anyone who called him a philanthropist, but beneath the grumbling there was an undercurrent of curious softness. Elderly employees, no matter their species, ended up with a pension, a rare beast in Ankh-Morpork as a whole, and Moist, as Harry’s bank manager, was aware that expensive hospital bills had a habit of disappearing when he got to hear about them. And most certainly at Hogswatch, Harry, grumbling like an elderly troll with a headache, nevertheless made sure all employees had actual named meat on their tables, and lots of it.fn52

  Moist, who knew his man, continued, ‘Look at it like this: I know that as a self-made man, sharing would be anathema to your soul, and so you could take all the risk and become as rich as Creosote. However, it seems to me, Harry, that you’re already as rich as Creosote and so, as a scoundrel, I’d suggest that another fortune is not exactly what you need right now! As your bank manager I’d like to suggest that sharing both the risks and the profits would be the most prudent and socially acceptable way.’

  For a moment Moist saw the psyche of Harry King putting together a retort that social acceptability could go and get its hands dirty by doing a proper day’s work rather than interfering with honest entrepreneurs who were working their guts out day and night. But Moist also saw the grin, and realized that Harry knew this was all part of the solution. After all, Lord Vetinari liked the people of Ankh-Morpork to feel they had a stake in their city.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, to clinch it, ‘Vetinari wants the Uberwald route and he’s the ultimate boss. Who knows, the city might be very generous with its level of funding. The trains go round and round and so does the money.’

  The main line to Quirm was completed with a ceremony at the Ankh-Morpork terminus in which, regrettably, alcohol played a major role. The new engine was launched and named Fierté d’Quirm with an especially good bottle of champagne smashed across its boiler by the Marquis des Aix en Pains and his wife who, Moist noticed, was now very cheerfully, as they say in Quirm, enceinte.

  And amid all the celebrations, it seemed that it was only Moist who noticed that Simnel had wandered away from the party to wipe the engine clean of sizzling champagne with his handkerchief, which immediately became a greasy rag. He gave Moist a severe look.

  ‘We can’t have this kind of thing going on, Mister Lipwig, interfering with the engine … not when I’m determined to get us up to forty miles per hour across the flat of the maquis, just to show those lobsters what we can do.’

  On the maiden journey, Moist rode with Simnel and the stoker on the footplate as the maquis passed away behind them at terrible speed, with goblins waving from every rock and ancient tree. He thought at one point that he had spotted Of the Twilight the Darkness, waving, but to his surprise found the egregious goblin waiting when they pulled into the Quirm city terminus. It seemed to Moist that the little bastard had channels through the world that weren’t available to humans.

  In the carriages behind, a good time was had by all, with avec galore and lashings of the famous entente cordiale. The smart new passenger carriages were much admired. A highlight for many was the dapper gentleman looking after the First Class gentlemen’s facilities, who was adept at handling towels and explaining the workings of the glass cistern – which contained goldfish that appeared to revel in the rush of the flush but were, in fact, kept from going with the flow by a concealed sieve of some kind.

  There was a big parade to greet them at Quirm Central, heralding another round of civic and political razzmatazz, all punctuated with more alcohol and ending with a huge dinner in the engine shed. And there were yet more toasts before the locomotive was turned around on the new-fangled turning table to take the Ankh-Morpork contingent home, where they had to be decanted from the train.

  And so it was that one fine summer evening shortly afterwards, Moist and Adora Belle sat down to an excellent dinner of fresh lobsters from Quirm brought up on the new Fruits de Mer Express. They were good, and cheaper now than he ever remembered, and the dish went very well with the watercress, which burned all the way down as they ate it.

  And afterwards there were fresh strawberries and a soft bed with fluffy pillows and somehow it made all the running around worthwhile.

  It began i
n Higher Overhang in the Shires. People locally were saying they could hear noises in the night … metallic noises, clanking, and the occasional scream of metal straining in torment. Of course everybody said, Well, goblins, what can you expect?

  And all this came to the notice of Chief Constable Feeney Upshot, attached to the Ankh-Morpork constabulary. Feeney liked the attachment. It meant that anyone getting stroppy with him would sooner or later have to deal with Commander Vimes or even Sergeant Detritus, whose appearance in this sleepy hinterland had caused such a big stir a couple of years before. So Feeney got on his horse and headed to the Overhangs, so called because in the flaming distant past the landscape had been twisted all over the place with unfathomable caverns and a jagged unforgiving terrain.

  Feeney was a decent and sensible copper and such men made friends because they never knew when they would need one, especially when they were a copper all alone, although in theory Feeney had the support of Special Constable Of the Chimney the Bones. There had to be a law, and law applied to everyone, and now the law had decreed that goblins were people and therefore protected by the law in these parts, which, in fact, was made incarnate in Chief Constable Feeney and his constable. Amazingly, the constable allowed his superior officer to call him Boney on the sensible basis that if there was some mêlée or other and you needed help you’d want a simple word to scream.fn53

  Feeney had been to Ankh-Morpork and was proud to have undertaken his basic training in Pseudopolis Yard under Sergeant Detritus. He recognized that Boney was slightly more intelligent than the notorious Corporal Nobby Nobbs and so he didn’t grumble. And now he was glad to see his constable waiting for him just outside the main goblin cave where he had an office, regarded by the local goblins as something of a shrine.

  These days there was a flourishing colony of goblins in Overhang Minor. The goblins were purveyors of fine pots, and Feeney knew that the production of pots was generally a quiet pastime and didn’t involve very much banging. The small cave that passed as an office was, and you have to be careful about this sort of thing, definitely not manned but goblined. And the sound coming from the great cavern beyond it was not about pots, that was certain. It was metallic, heavy metal. Well – and Feeney stumbled here slightly, mentally at least – goblins were free, and if people wanted to bang metal around in the privacy of their great caverns, then they could. He blinked. It was the new world. If you didn’t get your head around it, it could turn you upside down.