Raising Steam: (Discworld novel 40) (Discworld Novels) Page 27

  The King’s party split up when they arrived at the station. Rhys, now disguised as a rather disorientated, elderly dwarf, was accompanied at a distance by three other disreputable-looking characters, while the rest of his party disposed themselves in small, innocuous-looking groups along the platform.

  Bashfull Bashfullsson had gallantly volunteered as another bodyguard, but both Moist and Commander Vimes had considered him too recognizable to other dwarfs, here in his native Ankh-Morpork, and suggested his special skills could be made better use of elsewhere. The dark clerks, however, had been trained by Vetinari who, as he had so recently proved, could stand in a room full of people without being seen: it was a technique. And there were others. Quite probably overhead. Whatever happened, Commander Vimes was not going to have the Low King of the Dwarfs killed on his watch.

  Moist sighed as he walked, dragging one leg pitifully, but not too pitifully, to the rear of the train. There he found a station guard berating a well-dressed man who had sat down firmly in the Third Class carriage among sleepy workers with greasy hands and bags of tools, and chimney sweeps with, of course, their sacks of soot, inevitably leaking. Moist was all for the common man, and most especially the common man who could have afforded at least one bar of soap over a lifetime, and possibly didn’t spit all the time, great hawking globs of spit, the ones with a personality of their own. And the toff, who reeked and dribbled best brandy, was holding up the train while the guard was dithering, derailed by a haughty voice.

  And so Moist put an arm around the wretched man and went straight into his infuriating-drunk routine, complete with explosive belches, a surefire winner guaranteed to work every time. First there was the spittle in the corner of the mouth, and a nasty smell, which Moist was king of, and the conversation in which every word was shredded and mistreated and misapplied unto death while Moist leaned inappropriately and spat and dribbled.

  The wretch hurried for the sole First Class compartment at the front of the train after less than a minute. A personal best for Moist, who, still in dribbling and stinking character, staggered and weaved his way to a seat just before the whistle was blown and the train moved in the half-hearted way trains always did as the engine got its act together. He was very proud of it and he’d only used up half of his Boffo’s best artificial vomit with lingering smell.

  It was a cold night for travelling. The King was on board somewhere, but this wasn’t the time to show any interest in him. Moist’s ragged clothes had been, well, adequate, and everybody in the compartment with the wind whistling underneath them had wrapped themselves up and tried not to exist until the train had reached its destination. Somewhere, he thought, there should be a statue erected to Effie, who had clearly tongue-lashed her husband into making the lower class coaches at least waterproof.fn67

  The leader of the delvers watching one of the main routes out of Ankh-Morpork smiled as the large coach bearing the Low King’s insignia came into view. Rain splashed over the coach as the horses galloped hubwards and the leader of the delvers smiled at the raindrops. How easy it was going to be. He gave the signal to the waiting dwarfs and within minutes they were grabbing harnesses and bridles and bringing the coach to a shuddering halt. He kicked the coach door open.

  ‘Bring out the King and you will not be harmed,’ he commanded.

  There was silence inside the coach and then he heard a voice say, ‘We ain’t got no king apart from Harry King and we ain’t the ones that are going to get harmed. Consider us as the King Preservation Society, and Sir Harry King don’t like his friends being put to any trouble. And you, my son, you are a lot of trouble, but thankfully not as much as we are. Come on, lads!’

  The fight was fast and methodical and the coach drove away with the victors singing and drinking in the storm and the water on the cobbles was tinged with red.

  Meanwhile, a few miles away, another group of delvers was having a remarkably similar experience with a remarkably similar coach, which had turned out to contain amongst other horrors a very fierce, very female dwarf in a watchman’s helmet …

  The train pulled in to the station at Sto Lat Junction, and Moist watched as the guard helped a grubby and pitiful old dwarf down from his carriage. The Low King clearly had some skill as an actor. Moist noticed one of the old dwarf’s equally decrepit companions in adversity take pity on him and give him a piece of dwarf bread, breaking it in half with his axe. To his horror, Moist saw the King dribbling his thanks to the bread giver.

  As he came up to the King, Moist whispered, ‘Excellent … Where did you get that stink? It’s got a life of its own.’

  The King put a finger to his lips and said, ‘Not me, it leaked from the man in front. I don’t think he could have washed for years. But remember, a king has to cope with a lot worse than a little stink.’

  There were a few hours to kill before the fast train left Sto Lat for Zemphis, as yet the furthest point hubwards to enjoy a Hygienic Railway service. Getting the Low King out of sight was a priority; even in disguise, there was a risk.

  Leaving Simnel and Vimes in charge at the station, Moist and the Low King limped their way outside. Moist looked around for people he knew had to be there because he couldn’t see them. Suddenly one of them was right in front of him, so close that they were almost touching. He hadn’t seen him until that moment. It was as if he had shot up from below.

  ‘Godfrey, Mister Lipwig – dark clerk. Lord Vetinari has arranged for a safe house to be available to your party. Mister Simnel suggested his mother’s house, which isn’t far away. We’ve met the lady and she is a royalist through and through. Any royalty, and sensible, too. Nothing to worry about there. Clerk Mavis says the old girl is quick on the uptake and understands the position. She is a good cook and there will be clean sheets.’

  Moist looked at the dripping King, who smiled and said, ‘It sounds like a gift from Tak on a night like this.’

  As they walked the short distance through the rain-drenched and deserted streets to Mrs Simnel’s house, Moist was always aware of their escorts because the little hairs on the back of his neck were telling him they were there, showing them the way. Before long, they reached a cheerful little house near the centre of town, the kind that was always referred to as a ‘little palace’, the kind a lad might buy for his widowed mother so she could be close for doing the shopping.

  A discreet knock at the door caused some shuffling within before a lady who could only be Mr Simnel’s mother stood in the doorway quietly ushering them inside. Once they were in her small but immaculate house, she paused and looked down at the Low King, then curtsied.

  ‘Thank you so much, my dear Mrs Simnel,’ said the King, who had clearly dealt with these things many times before. ‘No need for that from the mother of the genius engineer.’ And Mrs Simnel was suddenly awash with maternal pride.

  ‘Oh, yes, your majesty. He’s a good lad, our Dick. Did you know that when he were quite young he made me an iconograph, caught the imp himself, so ’e did, and trained it with butter. They really like butter, do imps. And it’s ever so useful, yes indeed.’

  While Clerk Godfrey, on flannel feet, quickly checked the rest of the house, Mrs Simnel turned to Moist and said, ‘I know you, too. You’re Mister Lipwig. Dick speaks very highly of you. I saw your picture in the paper only yesterday and I’ve seen our Dick in there, too. Makes an old mum reet proud, so it does. Of course, I don’t buy it, the Reverend Amusable comes round and reads the paper to me, what with that tiny print an’ all. I don’t get around as much these days, but now my lad is in the money he has all kind of food delivered up fresh every day on the train and sees his old mum all right. The other day, ooh, it were a lobster in a bag of ice. I ’ad to go all the way up to t’posh restaurant to find out how to cook it, but it were gradely and toothsome and so much on it there was enough for Mrs Pankweather who’s bedbound and can’t digest most things, but you should’ve seen her tooth light up when she saw a plate full of lobster. Well, you ’ave to, after all. N
ot every elderly lady has a good strong lad to see she’s all right.’

  Mrs Simnel suddenly looked sombre and said, ‘But he sends me money every week regular, so much I don’t rightly know what to do wi’ it, so I give some of it to the poor. You are a friend of his, aren’t you, Mister Lipwig?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Simnel,’ said Moist. ‘You can’t imagine how much.’

  At this point Clerk Godfrey said, ‘We are now going back to the marshalling yard to assist Mister Vimes and other members of the Watch who will be travelling with us on the long haul to Uberwald. Clerks Columbine and Silkworm will remain outside and will escort you back to the station in time to catch the train to Zemphis.’ And then he was gone.

  Mrs Simnel looked again at the bedraggled King, and said with unconscious informality, ‘You look famished, pet. I know it’s late but I’ve got some pease pudding in t’pot … not much, but it keeps you going and it’ll build up your strength when you most need it.’

  As it turned out, Mrs Simnel’s pease pudding was the queen of pease puddings and even though the dinner at Harry’s had only been a few hours earlier Moist noticed that the King almost sucked it up. When they’d eaten, Mrs Simnel put the lid back on the pot.

  ‘I’ve got to leave some for my lad,’ she said, ‘out in all this weather. Mind you, he likes his pease pudding cold.’

  And then the King settled into a comfy chair for a snooze. While he slept and Mrs Simnel busied herself clearing the dishes, Moist looked around at the walls and noticed carefully arranged pictures of smiling babies, or was it just one baby taken over and over, because, he thought, at that age all babies look like, well, babies, and only mothers could fathom which one was which. It was amazing.

  ‘My word, Mrs Simnel, what wonderful children,’ Moist commented when she returned to wish him goodnight. ‘All yours?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, dear me, no! Our Dick’s my only one, but I were trained as a midwife before I met my late ’usband and you know ’ow it is, I were right good at midwifery and especially when events were going badly.’

  And here she looked sternly at Moist and said, ‘I’m sure you know what I mean, Mister Lipwig? I only ever lost one because they couldn’t find my whereabouts until it were too late. Any road, ever since then people call me out and you know ’ow it is, my lad says I don’t have to do it any more, but once you’ve got a reputation for something it clings. Especially when the young lass is desperate.’

  The look of Mrs Simnel was that of the put-upon, but in her eyes pride flashed a fin.

  Snoring heavily in the huge armchair, the King turned over. Mrs Simnel adjusted the deep cushions to make him more comfortable and then there was a fleeting stillness as her attention seemed to be caught by something. She sent a quick, surprisingly sharp glance in Moist’s direction and gave the cushions a final pat before straightening up and smiling sweetly. The moment, whatever it was, most definitely had passed. Moist’s brain was soggy with tiredness, and the natural ability to read tiny signals that had kept him alive on so many occasions had deserted him hours before. Even so, he had to ask.

  ‘Mrs Simnel … Is something wrong?’

  She cut him short. ‘Nay, lad. I were just thinking how strange it is that someone so small and, well, hairy could be … a king. But ’appen that’s the disguise. I’m sure he’ll look reet fine in his crown and glitter when he’s back on his scone. Now, you need a bed, my lad.’

  Tired though he was, Moist could recognize a deflection tactic, and carried on. ‘Mrs Simnel, is there something you’re not—’

  ‘Nay, there’s nothing, nothing for you to worry about at any rate.’

  Moist’s thoughts were in a whirl, but then further thoughts were blown away by the sound of the front door being blown open as Dick arrived with water streaming off his gabardine, and greeted his mother. He was carrying so many bundles and boxes that he had to deposit them all in the little hallway where a shiny clock told the time, the days of the week and quite possibly the phase of the moon for that night, but most of all it was there to show the world that Dick Simnel’s mother got the very best things he could buy for her. She was in his arms immediately, scattering parcels, but he managed to shake her off, laughing.

  Seated in the still warm kitchen of the little house, Dick scoffed the congealed pease pudding while she unpacked some of the parcels.

  ‘That’s gradely, our ma! It’s blowing up something cruel out there.’

  Moist suddenly realized he was dog tired.

  Mrs Simnel said, ‘I’ve made up a bed for you, Mister Lipwig. I had made up one for t’King, but he looks comfortable where he is and I don’t want to disturb him now. Will you be stopping for the night, our Dick?’

  ‘Sorry, Mother, no, too much to do. We’re all on double shifts.’

  Mrs Simnel looked at Moist proudly. ‘That’s my lad. He’s a worker, my boy, what with his tiddling stick.’

  ‘That’s a sliding ruler, Mother,’ Simnel said, grinning at Moist.

  ‘Aye, well,’ said the proud parent, ‘he’s making his way in the world, is my lad, working for that Harry King.’ And she went to kiss Dick, who picked her up and kissed her in mid air, and put her back down again, leaving her slightly more wet and greasy than before.

  ‘Oh, Mother,’ he said, ‘don’t make me out to be some kind of saint, I’m just another working man with filthy ’ands. Any road, I ’ave to get going, you know ’ow it is.’

  On his way out, Dick looked in at the King and said, ‘Is he okay, Mother?’

  Moist watched Mrs Simnel’s face very carefully.

  ‘He’s gradely, lad,’ she replied. ‘He just needs his sleep, such a shame to wake him up.’

  Dick flashed a glance to Moist as his mother said that and seemed to be entertaining a thought and then shrugged like a man who had thought better about it. He handed Moist a parcel of clean clothes for himself and the King and then kissed his mother again.

  ‘You will see to it, won’t you, Mother, that they leave in time for the Zemphis express?’

  And she did, after a bowl of porridge, hot and sugary, just the kind Adora Belle totally disliked. Moist could feel it sticking to his bones as he and the King, smiling and rejuvenated after their nap, left the haven of Mrs Simnel’s little house as the sun began to rise over Sto Lat.

  In a cavern somewhere near the gloomy, somewhat twisted metropolis of Slake the grags were discussing the railway menace, and ways of stopping it. They had found an artificer who liked working iron, and since he was a dwarf from Ankh-Morpork he was in a position to explain matters to them.

  Sitting nervously in the dimly lit cavern and trying to appear to be very much on the side of the grags while, of course, being on the side of the money, the artificer explained that locomotives are heavy, and derailing them might be best left to when a train was heading through gorges or near the mountains. And he suggested that an alternative would be to deprive the engines of the basic necessities – fuel and water – and then attack them when they were most vulnerable. He had fortuitously come across a map that showed the locations of all the coal bunkers and water cranes and towers, and this he now produced.

  ‘And just supposing we set our sights on stopping a particular train … how many people do we need to take down these … water cranes?’ croaked an anonymous grag in the darkness.

  ‘You’ll need plenty of you on this,’ said the helpful dwarf. ‘The opposition is probably bright enough to realize that you’ll be focusing your efforts on disabling the engines, and will have the cranes and bunkers well guarded. Of course,’ he added, ‘when you’re up high in the mountains you have the advantage on ’em.’

  The artificer looked hopeful after this, in so far as he could be seen in the dark cavern, and said, ‘Well, that’s about it, sirs. It’s not very difficult, but you know where to contact me if you need me.’

  In truth, the cavern was giving him the heebie-jeebies, and he wanted to be out of there as soon as possible. He heard the voice of the le
ader saying, ‘Well done, my friend. Please take this gold as a token of appreciation and, yes, we do know where to find you and every member of your family as well.’

  The artificer looked into the heavy leather bag and was delighted. ‘Very kind of you, sirs. I hope to help you again at some time in the future.’

  And he went away happy with such big wages for so little real work. The grags didn’t know anything! It was like taking money off children, but he kept smiling and said goodbye and had his throat cut in the darkness by a delver before he’d even left the dripping chamber. After all, what grag would hand over gold to an Ankh-Morpork dwarf? To a grag they were all unbelievers.

  Moist was aware, as he and the King made their way hurriedly from Mrs Simnel’s house back to the station, of the dark clerks keeping an eye on them, invisibly tracking them on either side. Yesterday’s clothing had gone, and after a quick wash and brush-up the King had the appearance of a dwarfish businessman while Moist was scruffier, looking like an engineer hurrying on his way to work.

  The cry from the porter announced, ‘Shortly to depart from platform one the Altiplano Express, stopping at Big Cabbage for Brassica World and Zemphis for Zemphis Falls. Sleeping compartments at the front of the train. All aboard, ladies and gentlemen!’

  Moist whispered to the King, ‘You know what to do, sire.’

  The King showed his ticket to the guard, who looked at it very carefully before saying gruffly, ‘Middle Class, middle of the train.’ Moist walked off as fast as he could and didn’t look around. Looking around pegged you as a nervous person. You had to rely on instinct alone. Everybody knew what to do.

  He had to manoeuvre to get out of the way of crates of chickens and he thought, why are there always crates of chickens? By the sound of it they didn’t really want to be there. And now it seemed that chickens were going everywhere. A mother with a child hurried past. A goblin waved to presumably his wife, although it was quite hard to tell with goblins, and Moist glanced at the guard and savoured, just for one moment, the silence before the train came alive.