The Iron Ship

by K. M. McKinley

  “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

  THE 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 th
e 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.

  Hammers rang across the dockyard. Box cranes clunked along overhead rails, miniature glimmer engines puffing hard. Chains rattled. The Prince Alfra sat waist-deep in an empty stone dock barely big enough to hold it. The shed caught the noise of industry, concentrating it. The racket within was deafening, all-pervasive, and not easily defeated. Trassan and Vand had to shout. Doing so made Trassan’s nervousness worse, and he was nervous at his master’s visit, despite Vand’s evident glee at his progress.

  “As you see, master, we have finished the main superstructure and are in the process of applying the hull plating.” Trassan pointed at a steam tractor that whistled as it approached the side of the ship. It held a slab of iron in its delicate claws. Men and Tyn shouted, waving the driver on. The iron made a dull boom as it met the ship’s ribs. Wooden beams were braced against the top, men set iron poles along the bottom edge to lever it in. With a tremendous hooting, the tractor reversed. The men shouted, and worked their poles free. The plate slipped into its final position.

  Seven teams of three riveters ran forward, one of the three in each team carrying an iron bucket full of glowing rivets in gloved hands. Half of their number ran around the side and into the vessel. They set to work immediately, one placing a glowing rivet into the pre-drilled holes around the plate’s edges, the other two, one inside the ship and one outside, placed to hammer them flat. They sang as they worked to synchronise their blows. In five minutes, all eighty rivets were in place. Tyn iron whisperers came forward, to ask of the metal if it were sound.

  “Do we not have more whisperers?” asked Vand.

  “We have nine, but so much iron affects them. I have them working in shifts, otherwise they fall sick.”

  Vand nodded. “You are still making remarkable progress, Trassan. I am impressed.”

  Vand looked upward to the high roof. The ship’s side rose sixty-five feet over them. “Very fine work, very fine work indeed.”

  Veridy, Vand’s daughter, smiled at Trassan behind her father’s back. “Stop it,” he mouthed. Her smile widened. Trassan could not help but grin back.

  Vand turned around. “Is something amusing?”

  “No, master.”

  “It is a very fine ship, Pappa. I was merely trying to attract Goodfellow Kressind’s attention in order to inform him of my sentiment.” She coughed and put a hand to the hollow of her neck. “This clamour is quite destroying my voice, and there is a fearful amount of smoke here.”

  “Yes my dear, of course,” shouted Vand. “No place for a woman this, but she insisted on coming. I’m not surprised.” He looked back over his shoulder. “My ship is as beautiful as I envisaged.”

  Trassan’s smile became fixed. The ship was primarily of his design. Not that that would stop Vand from taking the lion’s share of the credit.

  “Perhaps we should retire to my office? It is a little quieter in there, and we can see the whole of the vessel from there,” Trassan said, gesturing to the ugly pressed iron box atop a gantry from where he could observe the entire site.

  “Lead on, Goodfellow Kressind.”

  VAND UNROLLED A chart and held it up to the light. He scrutinised it carefully. “Damn eyes aren’t getting any better,” he said. He peered down his nose.

  “Pappa spends far too much time reading in his study,” said Veridy.

  Vand shot his daughter an admonishing glance. “Please, Veridy. Have you solved the problems of attaching the inner skin?”

  “I have,” said Trassan. “I have men going inside the hull space; cramped, but they do a good job.”

  “Good,” said Vand, he rolled up the sheet and went to the windows which ran around three sides of the office, allowing the occupant to look to the bow and stern of the ship. “The world’s first oceangoing iron ship.” He sighed contentedly. “In truth, it’s the fourth,” he said looking back at Trassan. “But this will be first successful one.”

  “I am sure it will,” said Veridy. “Trassan is very skilful, Pappa.”

  “Oh, oh, yes, he is, he is! Why else would I choose him as my student. And,” he said looking between the two of them, “potential son-in-law. No! Silence, the pair of you. I’m not blind. I might be getting old, but nobody takes Arkadian Vand for a fool.” He looked back at the ship. “Amity broke its back rolling down the slipway,” said Vand, “Sunbright of thirty-nine. The Penalopy foundered, her seams split, and she sank.”

  “Gannever of forty-two.”

  “Forty-three,” corrected Vand. “And lastly the Grand Ruthenian. Boiler explosion. No one has dared tried since. But I dare. Arkadian Vand dares.”

  That they were Trassan’s plans he was daring with, and that the Grand Ruthenian had been Vand’s own vessel went unremarked upon. Triumph glowed from Vand’s every pore. One did not interrupt a man such as Arkadian Vand in a mood such as that. Especially, thought Trassan, when one owes him everything one has, and is bedding his daughter besides.

  “Right then.” Vand rapped his knuckles on the window. “I’m very impressed by all this Trassan. You have my permission to court my daughter.” He looked back at him. “Not that you will have time. You will prepare the site for a visit from the worthies of Karsa.”

  “I see,” said Trassan.

  “I’m glad you are taking it on the chin. Money for all this doesn’t just fall from the air, young man. We’re going to need more cash. I’ll need to do a once over with your foreman, Hannever, to make sure the bloody thing isn’t going to go the way of the other ships, but it’s time to announce to the world that the Prince Alfra is almost ready. There will be a lot of interested parties, of that I am sure. Military, too. Think of what a navy could achieve with a ship such as this. It need fear nothing on the waves.” He looked meaningfully at Trassan. “Or under them.”

  “We’re not really ready.”

  Vand slapped his palms together. “I’ll be the judge of that. You are a capable engineer, Trassan, but you have inherited little of your father’s talent for business. Leave that side of things to me.” Trassan shrank inside a little. Vand had this effect on him, and many others. “We don’t have much choice, do you see my boy? If you could have secured us an early licence, then raising the capital for completion would be so much easier. With Persin openly declaring for the South, we’ll have to win them over with the technological wonders here, to prove we can beat him to the prize.”

  “There is nothing I can say against that.”

  “Quite so.”

  “Can we at least make sure that the paddlewheel assemblies are in place?”

  “Why?”

  “I think it will look the more complete.”

  “Your estimated time of completion to that phase, Goodfellow Kressind?”

  Trassan did a quick mental calculation. “The 33rd of Frozmer, master? I could make it ready in time to be a part of the half-winter celebrations. Surely there is merit in that
?”

  “Possibly,” said Vand. He considered a moment. “Very well. That gives you nigh on twelve weeks, the best part of two months. Seventy-four days. A generous portion of time. We shall see what we can do, but be warned, I will be starting the funding drive for the completion soon, like it or not. You will perform the presentation of the ship; I have little appetite for speaking to crowds. Still, it may do no harm to stoke interest now, but keep our hand concealed. Play coy, that’s what I’m always saying to Veridy. Not that she ever listens.”

  Veridy slipped her arm into the crook of her father’s elbow. “Papa!”

  “Veridy, go outside a moment and wait. There’s a good girl. Don’t worry, I shall give you a few minutes to exchange breathless words with Trassan once I have had my time with him.” He stood tall. “Less breathlessly than you are accustomed to, naturally, now that you know I know.”

  Veridy nodded to Trassan and went out. Trassan tried very hard not to watch her go. She had a habit of swaying her hips in her skirt just so that...

  “Trassan!” Vand snapped fingers in front of Trassan’s face. “What are you doing, man? Pay attention.”

  “Master, sorry.” He cleared his throat. “My apologies.”

  “Tell me why your attempt to secure the Licence Undefined failed.”

  “I had hoped my brother would provide me with one without question.”

  “And he did not.”

  “No, master. He proved to be annoyingly diligent in his duties. He seemed to be quite open to the idea initially, but he is being groomed for advancement by Duke Abing, and will not issue a licence without a full run through the Three Houses. He says it is a formality, but formality is the devil where the unbreathing lord is concerned.” Trassan would not speak the name of the Drowned King near the ship, to do so was to invite misfortune.

  “Well, well, that’s something,” said Vand. “But it’s the time that will take; not insurmountable, but with Persin on us like a dog after a chop it makes it all the more ticklish. Have you tried your father?”

  “I have. That rather put Garten’s back up. He’s my brother, but I think I might have misjudged him.”