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

by Terry Pratchett

  Moist hesitated. He had a feel for this sort of thing, he was sure, and it hardly ever let him down.

  ‘Okay. We’ll take them with us. But first you must get us out of here.’

  ‘No, Marvellous von Lipwig is going to take the people out. Plucky goblin sidekick just bring up the rear.’

  ‘Really? Okay, then. Just point me in the right direction.’

  There was a track of sorts, and myriad little pathways in every direction. Moist and his unhappy but hopeful band were shepherded surreptitiously from behind by Of the Twilight the Darkness, who was becoming a great lieutenant, despite the fact that he brazenly considered Moist to be a bit of a tit. But a useful tit all the same.

  As they struggled back to what, in a fair wind, might have been called a proper track, Moist told himself that while it was true that Commander Vimes was the man who had been most prominent in the manumission of the goblins, he, Moist, could at least give them a job; you couldn’t have a profession as goblin, now could you? It just made no sense. And yet if there were such a thing as a professional goblin, then it was definitely Of the Twilight the Darkness, who was so goblin that you could imagine that other goblins would tap one another on the shoulder and say, ‘Blimey! Look at that goblin! Doesn’t he look like a goblin to you?’

  But jobs got things going, got people going, and raised their self-esteem. After all, goblins, quite apart from now being ubiquitous in the clacks industry, were also doing very well and picking up serious folding money in the ceramics business. Goblin pots were beautiful, extremely fine and as iridescent as a butterfly’s wing.fn44

  Moist’s reverie was broken by Of the Twilight the Darkness. ‘These poor herberts behind us think you need to know that dwarfs been asking after you, like sneaky one up tree I saw off. My, can’t the greedy buggers shift when need. Don’t like good flint edge! But still are some around. Reckon they waiting until we get to railway. Right place for ambush.’

  Moist had devoted considerable energies to being a non-combatant, words being his weapon of choice, but when words weren’t enough, in extremis he could deliver telling blows with his fists and feet. Right now he was wondering whether to surreptitiously drag said feet a little so that he would be surrounded by the band of goblins if there was an attack. After all, they all had stone weapons, didn’t they? And he didn’t, did he? Goblins acquired a fighting spirit with their mothers’ milk, if indeed their mothers had milk.fn45

  They continued cautiously into the ever-deepening dusk, now moving as silently as they could manage. Even the goblin toddlers were quiet as they walked towards the promised land.

  They skirted the grounds of the chateau and moved on through the woods in the direction of the railhead. A while later there came a crushed-gravel whisper at Moist’s elbow from Of the Twilight the Darkness.

  ‘I sending out some of swifter lads to scout ahead. Something not right at railhead. Couldn’t get close enough to see but says at least dozen dwarfs in the woods up there, maybe more. Could hear the buggers clanging. They trying to be surreptitious, but dwarfs has not first idea of surreptition. It’s all been hammer and tongues to dwarfs. Could try go round ’em – but the buggers might try go round us same time. Best, I say, to deal with bogeys today, right? No worry, some these lobster lads know how to fight and they proud you leading them … ain’t you!’

  It wasn’t a question, it was a demand. Moist was horribly aware of the whole refugee group clustered around him, their un prepossessing faces full of expectation and miscellaneous fragments of food. There were little ones, some no more than babes in arms. Moist could feel the pressure of their hope which, alas, he knew was unfounded and probably misplaced. He was no leader. Not like Commander Vimes. But what would Of the Twilight the Darkness do if he just ran away? He could outrun any dwarf, make it back to the chateau … but could he outrun a goblin …?

  He shivered and shoved that thought to the very back of his mind just as a small goblin woman came up to him.

  ‘Go into battle with nice cuppa tea!’ she said. ‘Special goblin tea! Very good for you! Boiled in sheep bladder! Excellent when always having to run! Got herbs! You drink! You drink now! Ain’t nothing like a nice cuppa tea. Medicinal it is!’

  Of the Twilight the Darkness handed Moist a large goblin club.

  ‘Many, many ways to die today,’ he said, with devastating humour. ‘Trust elderly goblin, this one very much the best, hang! We hang together.’

  Moist understood that last rather unfortunate suggestion. It was the traditional goblin-to-goblin greeting, as in, hang together or hang separately. He swigged the cold tea, which had a harmless accent of hazelnuts with a soupçon of wool, expecting at any moment either to be poisoned or to throw up. In fact, it was … pleasant and it also felt quite nourishing. If there were snails in it, like the wine, then, well, viva escargot! Although the secret ingredient, he was quite sure, was likely to be avec.

  The potion appeared to work because a few moments later he felt ready for anything, full of beans, or possibly full of avec. Why, in the face of all the gods, had he been so apprehensive when there was absolutely nothing to be frightened of, oh dear no!

  This cheerful state of mind continued right up until the moment they spotted the red lights of the railhead shining out like a beacon through the surrounding woodlands. Leaving the most elderly goblins with the twigsfn46 hiding in the undergrowth as only goblins could hide, Moist and the rest crept forward.

  The young men in the travelling work gang had crafted themselves cosy little shacks covered with oilskin. These were extremely portable and always a place where a friendly face could be certain of a hot drink, stirred with a spanner, of course. And if no gamekeepers were known to be about, a wild avec and rabbit stew might also be available for an al fresco meal.

  Indeed, the pot of stew still bubbling over the embers of the camp fire smelled as good as any Moist remembered. He had expected to see the young lads he had met only that morning, cheerfully tucking in after a hard day’s work. He had not expected to see corpses … but corpses were what he found. By the glow of the fire and the pale light of the lanterns, he could see that the workers had many things that could usefully have been employed as a weapon, but they had evidently been taken unawares. It had been a terrible encounter and most certainly they had lost. A quick assay of body parts indicated that there had been nine of them, cut down while having their meal outside their makeshift bothy.

  Of the Twilight the Darkness was instantly on the case, sniffing the corpses and the ground.

  ‘The damn dwarfs have been here, oh yes, can smell the naaaasty buggers! But some of them still here,’ he added quickly, pointing to a small piece of woodland in the distance and dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Hiding in the wood’ – sniff – ‘over there’ – sniff – ‘several, one injured.’ His beady goblin eye was glittering and Moist … Moist had a sudden sensation of being on fire.

  ‘Please,’ he managed to say, ‘please, tell me, what is the goblin for “Charge!”?’

  Much, much later, Moist remembered that he had heard the goblin say at least the beginning of the word and then the whole world was a crimson haze full of shouting and the dark fog of war. He felt his arms and legs going about their terrible business, especially his arms, and he was aware of noises, unpleasant noises, cracking noises, splatting noises, but they came as a kind of incoherent memory, as did the screams … Little parcels of recollection bobbing up and down like the bubbles in a bottle of home-made ginger beer, coming and going and never staying long enough to mean anything. But the bubbles were gradually drifting away now and, when he came to what was left of his senses, he was lying with his back up against a tree.

  The railhead camp fire had been relit and to Moist’s bemused amazement there were the signs of dawn on the horizon – but hadn’t they been in this place for only a couple of minutes? Of the Twilight the Darkness was sitting on a lump of wood near by, smoking a pipe and occasionally blowing smoke rings into the early blu
e sky. It was a sight that a painter would love to paint, were it not necessary to paint it in various shades of blood, and, to do justice to the scene, with several tubes of gore and a splash of whatever colour you needed for guts. Moist’s memory of the night before was now strewn with corpses.

  ‘Well now, ain’t you a dark horse, Mister Dripping!’ grinned the goblin. ‘Who ever would thought it? Tell you this: you ain’t half going to be sore later. You done a man’s job! Almost goblin job! Three! Count ’em! Well, count bits of ’em and work it out, but three dwarf crack fighters smash down like skittles. Two of ’em wearing first-class micromail armour, assassin grade, worth mint. Pillage. Here, take this as souvenir to show Miss Adora Belle. Good on mantelpiece!’

  The goblin threw over what Moist had thought was a lump of wood and which he could now see was the head of a dwarf, still inside its helmet.

  ‘That’s right! Get it out of system! Throw it up, throw it up and throw it up again. Very good for tubes, does world of good. Better out than in.’

  Moist staggered to his feet and said, through the winding mists, ‘I couldn’t have killed three dwarfs! I’m no fighter! Never! It plays havoc with your shoes.’

  ‘Reckon dwarfs would disagree. Mind you, I show the one over there bit of goblin disapproval, as you may say! Especially when I got him on ground. Most time, everybody keep out of your way, just in case. You was getting a bit … indiscriminate, oh yeees. Still, no harms done.’

  ‘No harm done?’ Moist wailed. ‘I just killed three dwarfs! Wouldn’t you say that counts as a little harm?’

  ‘Was fair fight, Mister Slightly Damp. One against many, like in best anecdote. Tell you already, most us lads climbing trees to get away from you. And you not a fighter. You said this, we all hear.’

  ‘It was that drink! That’s what it was! You’ve filled me full of goblin rot-gut! Who knows what it’s done to me!’

  ‘Me?’ said Of the Twilight the Darkness, trying to look hurt. ‘I keep you alive so you will see your very nice lady, who is always kind to goblins. Take from me, Mister Sopping, that drink just open up what’s there already.’

  ‘And what was here, may I ask?’

  ‘Rage, Mister Dripping. You let something off leash. Now you can help us clean bloody mess and get us out of here.’

  Moist looked at what remained of the railway workers who had just been doing their job, being no threat to anybody. Simple men who knew nothing whatsoever about politics and had wives and children and were now lying dead for a quarrel they had nothing to do with, and the rage swelled up again, almost lifting him off the ground. They hadn’t deserved it, nor had those goblins whose fallen corpses he now saw here and there across the battlefield.

  Of the Twilight the Darkness was staring at him and said, ‘Amazing, what things we learn, that goblins can be people and you, Mister Damp, has a heart and crying because of death of men you don’t know. World is full of miracle. Maybe I will see you singing in choir.’

  In the misty light of morning Moist stared at the grinning goblin: as evil-looking as anything in a picture book that was designed to give the little kiddies all the nightmares they would ever need, and yet reading him a lecture on morality.

  ‘What are you?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been listening to you for days, and you look like a goblin, no doubt about that, but every so often you come out with something I wouldn’t expect to hear from a goblin. No offence meant, but you are a smart one.’

  The goblin relit his pipe, which made him somehow more human, and said carefully, ‘Are you saying goblins not ever clever, Mister Lipwig? Goblins not ever brave? Goblins not ever learn? Me, finest learner. All things to all men and all goblins.’

  Moist looked at the little pile of micromail armour. It was treasure and a half. Light and strong. And easy to carry. And worth a fortune, lying there on the damp grass. He looked into the goblin’s eyes.

  ‘All yours, Mister Lipwig. To the victor the spoils,’ Of the Twilight the Darkness said cheerfully.

  ‘No. They can have it,’ said Moist, indicating the Quirmian goblins.

  ‘Don’t need it,’ said the goblin. ‘Take your spoils, Mister Lipwig. You never know when useful.’

  Moist looked at what remained of the dwarf fighters and thought, where’s Mr Chriek when you need him? And that thought prompted another: a reliable witness was essential. He asked Of the Twilight the Darkness to fetch the Marquis or any of his workers from the chateau, with an iconograph if they had one.

  ‘We need people to know about this.’

  After the Marquis, trailed by goggling servants, had inspected the scene, exclaimed his horror, organized the taking of iconographs, and departed back to the chateau, promising to send the news by clacks at once, the decencies could be attended to.

  The corpses of the railway workers and goblins who had fallen in the battle were carefully, even reverentially, placed on to the handcar. A few of the goblins disappeared into the scenery and returned with wild flowers to put on the bodies. It was one of those little observations that subtly turned Moist’s universe around. Goblins believing that those who fell in battle had paid their dues.

  After the solemn ceremony was over, the goblins took turns at pumping the lever of the handcar as Moist, the goblin band and their sad cargo headed back slowly along the track to the border, where they stopped to send out their own clacks. Moist arranged with the border guard for the bodies to be shrouded and put in a cold place until someone was sent to pick them up.

  One of the guards took umbrage that the dead goblins were being left alongside the bodies of what he called ‘real people’. And so Moist had a rather pointed little chat with him, after which the man was much better informed, although bleeding slightly from his nose. The memory of oh so many little bones hadn’t had enough time to be forgotten. And perhaps some of the potion was still alive inside Moist. It was that kind of day.

  That done, Moist looked at the ribbon of goblins trailing behind him and then looked up at the sign beside the Quirm turnpike which told the world that it was the well-known ‘Fat Marie’s’.

  There could be no mistake about how the proprietor got her name and like so many roadside eateries she sold hot food quickly and served reasonable coffee to travellers and that was that. Her clientele hadn’t even heard of cuisine, they just needed surety of carbohydrate and grease. However, she proved somewhat dubious about feeding goblins, and said, ‘I might lose my regulars if I let them lot in.’

  And once again Moist had to explain the facts of life, making it clear that refusing to serve goblins would very soon lead to her not feeding anyone else at all once Lord Vetinari had been informed. Fat Marie’s was on Ankh-Morpork land and Vetinari was strict.

  ‘After all,’ Moist said, ‘they’ll sit outside, they really don’t like rooms, and I’m paying, okay?’

  Suitably chastened, Fat Marie shovelled out rather bad fish and chips and a fried slice to every goblin and was amazed at how fast they ate, especially the fried slice. That was one thing about the goblins, they weren’t fussy.

  After their meal, Moist arranged for the goblins to travel on to Harry’s compound in the freight trucks of the utility engine that serviced the railhead, went to find the golem horse, still obediently rolling and galloping in the meadow, and headed back towards the city.

  Harry King was close to incandescent at the best of times, but the state of mind he was in when he heard the news of the massacre could only be described as volcanic: one of those slumbering volcanoes that suddenly go off pop and the calm sea is instantly awash with dirty pumice and surprised people in togas. Moist tried to calm him down, but that was like trying to put a cap on a geyser, and you can’t do that, especially not to a geezer like Harry King. Then the explosion became tears, the bubbling and sticky tears of a hard man who would never want anybody to see him cry.

  Learning that Moist himself had got rid of a few of the dwarfs responsible helped, but even so Harry continued to dribble snot on to a very expensive
tie while calling down the wrath of the gods on to the remains of the culprits, with a footnote that the gods had better get to them before Harry’s curses did.

  Moist offered to tell the workers’ next of kin, but Harry declared that he would do the job himself. He set off on this doleful task immediately, leaving Moist with nothing to do but collect Of the Twilight the Darkness and the band of Quirmian goblins who had meanwhile arrived at the compound and were being entertained by Billy Slick and his grandmother.

  When he arrived home in Scoone Avenue, Adora Belle opened the door herself. Moist, as ever, was impressed by her sang froid as she surveyed the motley group of Quirmian goblins he had in his wake. ‘So good to see you again, Spike,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought you some little presents. Say it with goblins, as you might say.’

  ‘How many are there, do you think?’ she enquired.

  ‘Two hundred or more,’ said Moist. ‘I haven’t really been counting.’

  ‘I suggest that Of the Twilight the Darkness takes them over to the Tump Tower where there’s enough room in the basement for them to sleep.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not. Quite a lot of my best goblins are taking holidays to the Shires and elsewhere. We’re very short. Well done, you!’

  As soon as Moist had seen the goblins on their way, the Ankh-Morpork Watch metaphorically felt his collar. As collars go, Moist’s was expensive, but a little the worse for wear after the fight with the dwarfs.

  In this case, the hand doing the feeling belonged to Captain Angua, who asked him to accompany her to the Yard in tones that did not allow for an argument.

  Once ensconced in an interview room, she took down his statement about the massacre in a deliberately methodical way, asking pointed questions, which was to say pointed at Moist.

  ‘So you, Mister von Lipwig, took down a bunch of dwarf terrorists with the help of a number of goblins, yes? You must like goblins, then?’