The everlasting fog that filled the vertiginous gorge created deep swirling shadows in the fading light as they approached the final bridge before the Wilinus Pass. And the fog itself seemed to be alive as it moved and twisted, leaving the watchers with the feeling that they were teetering at the edge of the world.
The far side of the bridge was barely visible as Simnel stood in earnest conversation with the head engineer in charge of the bridge works. A bit of darkness in the fog near Moist turned out to be Commander Vimes, grinning.
‘A rickety bridge, a heavy train, a terrifying drop to certain death below, with a pressing deadline and no back-up plan?’ said Vimes. ‘You must be in your element, Mister Lipwig. I’m told the engineers say it can’t be done. Are you really planning to risk the Low King and the future peace of this region on one throw of the dice?’
Behind them an engineer said, ‘I wouldn’t travel over that for a pension.’
As Rhys and Aeron joined them, the creaks and groans of the ancient bridge structure intensified, and seemed almost alive, like some demon daring them to chance their fate. The less fanciful of the engineers might talk of natural movement caused by the drop in temperature as night approached, but it was hard to ignore the ominous atmosphere of the place which was almost … eldritch.
Then Iron Girder snorted steam, panting like a dog ready to be unleashed. Moist took a deep breath, stuck his fingers into his jacket and smiled with a confidence which had blossomed just a second before when he had finally heard the subtle sound he had been waiting for.
‘It’s a little-known fact, my friends, that these fogs have remarkable solidity. Allow me to demonstrate.’
He stepped off the edge of the cliff beside the track and stood there with the fog swirling around his ankles. He heard gasps from behind. He turned and faced his fellow travellers with a huge grin and a silent sigh of relief before stepping back on to what might be called solid ground.
‘You see. Would you like me to run to the other side and back again while this mystical phenomenon continues, as I believe it will, or shall we all go over now, while the time is ripe?’
‘D’you mind if I try?’ said Vimes.
There was a twinkle and Moist said, ‘By all means, commander.’
And Vimes disappeared into the swirling fog, lighting his cigar, saying, ‘Just like standing on a pavement. Amazing. I suggest you make steam, Mister Simnel! I’m in some doubt about how long such a, as you say, mystical phenomenon will last. So I think alacrity is our motto here, gentlemen.’
Simnel, resisting the natural temptation of a scientist to examine the phenomenon more closely, looked around and said, ‘Oh aye. All aboard, everybody!’ And after a moment, he added, ‘Quickly … please.’
Moist looked at Simnel and said, ‘Do you now believe, Dick?’
‘Yes, Mister Lipwig.’
‘But do you really believe?’
‘I surely do, Mister Lipwig! I believe in the sliding rule, the cosine and the tangent and even when the quaderatics give me gyp, yes, I still believe. Iron Girder is my machine, I built ’er, every last rivet carefully forged by ’and. And I reckon if I could bolt rails on to the sky, Iron Girder would take us to t’moon.’
Moist whistled and heard a signal from below. He raised his voice and said, ‘Forward, please, Mister Simnel!’ And immediately there was the familiar chugging sound of a train anxious to be travelling and getting up steam. Moist loved the moment as the power built up slowly and by degrees until there was a rolling thunder, taking charge of the universe, and they were moving into the villainous fog and on to the bridge.
It was difficult to see anything from the footplate, but Moist could just make out Simnel’s white face as the vibrations and swaying intensified. Despite Moist’s dramatic demonstration earlier, he could tell that Simnel and his crew were terrified and even he began to doubt whether the bridge would in fact hold under the pressure. And then the vibrations suddenly ceased and there was a strange sensation as Iron Girder left the rails and she flew.
Down below, the fog curled into even stranger shapes, spiralling vortices, stirred up by the passage of the train, and after a strangled few minutes there was a thump of wheels on rails as Iron Girder consented to exchange flight for the sensible permanent way once more and then Dick blew the whistle and kept blowing, and she was bowling along again as if nothing uncanny, mystic or even eldritch had happened.
It wasn’t until Moist found time to himself after all the backslapping he had received that the enormity of what he had done hit him like a jack-hammer: a whole train under steam, full of passengers! And a king apparently flying through thin air! And he sweated again as the next thought said, ‘So many things could have gone wrong.’ In fact so many things could have gone wrong and he began to feel certain that history might just slam backwards to ensure that they did. And the sweat ran down his whole body but he wouldn’t have been Moist if he couldn’t recover from this sort of thing. Just as long as Vetinari never got to hear about it.
The thought of Vetinari was still proving hard to banish later that evening when Moist finally bunked down in the guard’s van. As the motion of the train lulled him into a tired and relieved doze, an image of the Patrician swam into Moist’s mind. He shuddered at the recollection of his recent encounter. Vetinari had been at his desk reading reports of what looked suspiciously to Moist like other people’s clacks messages.fn77 He had frowned when he saw Moist and said, ‘Well now, Mister Lipwig, is the train already cleared for Uberwald, by any chance?’
Moist had assumed an expression that would not have deceived a child, which was, of course, part of the game. ‘Not quite yet, my lord, but I think the prospects are getting rosier by the hour.’
‘Long-winded. Very long-winded indeed. Come to the point, if such a thing exists, please? After all, I do have matters of state to deal with.’
‘Well, sir, I’m sure you recall, we have buried within the city limits a number of very ancient golems, and you vowed that they would only be deployed in the event of a threat to national security, and right now I think I could use several dozen of them, sir, that is of course if you don’t mind?’
‘Mister Lipwig, you surely try my patience. I’m quite well aware that both you and your wife have the tools that would allow you to enter said vault and, indeed, give said golems instructions, but nevertheless I strictly forbid you to try anything of the sort. This has to do with the railway, I am assuming.’
‘Yes, my lord, a minor little problem on the train to success, as it were.’
‘Let me make myself entirely clear. If I find any evidence that you have removed city golems from their proper place and moreover have taken them outside the city limits, you will be thrown to the kittens. Is that understood?’
Vetinari’s expression was as flat and impenetrable and as placid as a sea of pitch, and Moist had bowed and said, ‘I assure you, sir, no such evidence will ever be found.’ While overhead, the words ‘If I find’ floated like a sly invitation.
Uncomfortably alert again, with Vetinari’s voice echoing in his head, Moist drew out the clacks flimsy he’d had from Adora Belle about the progress of the golems. He tore it up and threw the pieces out of the nearest window, from where he watched them disappear in the wake of the wonderful train.
From the gloom of the guard’s van behind him someone coughed, pointedly. Vimes emerged with a little smile and said, ‘Plausible deniability, eh, Mister Lipwig? But well done, anyway. Just between ourselves: those golems that’ll never be used … What do you suppose they’re doing right now?’
Moist opened his mouth to deny all knowledge of the golems, then thought better of it. Something in Vimes’s eyes dared him to try. ‘Digging their way back home, I trust,’ he said. ‘Rather more easily since they tunnelled their way up here in the first place.’
And in the distance behind the train, the rickety bridge was falling bit by bit into the valley in a curious kind of mechanical ballet. It would be some time before it could be used
again, thought Moist – but now we’ve got Rhys this far we can throw everything into getting this damn bridge built properly.
And a few hours later, as the golems tunnelled under his tavern, the Grosszügig Stein, Herr Muckenfuss noticed the floor dancing and every glass and stein in the building shook rapidly. Plump though he was, he scooped up every falling stein and glass with great determination until there was a sudden settling in the air and the tavern was eerily silent. He looked at Herr Bummel, his solitary customer, who stared at the dregs in his stein of the new cask of Old Blonk they had been sampling before whispering in impressed tones, ‘I think I’ll have the same again.’
As Bonk came ever closer and the horizon was now eaten by the mountains – looming outlines visible against the night sky, steep slopes occasionally catching the moonlight – Commander Vimes called a council of war in the guard’s van, the centre of operations. With the experience of the attacks at the Paps and the destruction of the Flyer to draw upon, careful plans were laid for the defence of the train and the King.
‘Well now, look around, all of you. What you see is canyons and trees. If I was a grag I’d probably see this next stretch as my last available opportunity to derail Iron Girder.’
Vimes’s face was grim as he outlined his proposals and Rhys nodded his approval, interrupting now and then to add a refinement.
‘We must also take care of attacks from above,’ the commander continued. ‘As we’ve seen, Iron Girder is well protected. She has her corsets on now, thanks to Dick’s new alloy, but we might have to fight on top of the carriages. I see you grin, Mister Lipwig. So, smart boy, if that happens I invite you to join me and the others on the roof when the time comes. Are you game, sir? It’s likely to be very dangerous up there.’
The inner Moist patted himself on the back as he thought of his illicit adventure on top of the Flyer. He could dance on the train, jump and spin and twirl, because he had the measure of the moods of every part of the train.
‘I’ve wanted to do something like this ever since I saw my first locomotive, commander,’ he said to Commander Vimes.
‘Yes,’ said Vimes, ‘that’s what I’m afraid of. So I must tell you that we work as a team or we become separate corpses.’ He pointed at the trees towering overhead in the deep cutting they were travelling through. ‘There is very little space in this damn cutting. Trees? Nothing but stiff weeds – remember that!’
‘I’m sure we could do it,’ said Moist. ‘Why not bring Detritus up top as well?’
‘No, he’s good on the ground, but he isn’t limber. Anyway, with Detritus on top of it I’m afraid the roof would pretty soon become the floor.’
The commander looked around and said, ‘The rest of you know your stations. Remember, we’re on this train to get the King back again. Guard him! Don’t bother about us on top.’
When he could speak to Vimes with nobody else listening, Moist said, ‘I know the rhythm of the train, but I’m no fighter, commander. Why choose me?’
‘Because, Mister Lipwig, you’d pay a king’s ransom in order to say that you fought on the roof of a train and I’ve seen you, you’re a bastard in close combat, worse than Nobby and he tends to bite their knees. I saw the corpses of the grags from that incident at the Quirm railhead. You can fight, if only in terror, but it’s true that the coward can often be the best fighter of all.’
As the sky grew pallid in the pre-dawn, the atmosphere on the train changed. The whole crew knew that they were now heading at top speed right into unfriendly territory. On every crag in the mountains of Uberwald you could see the lights of the Igors twinkling and wobbling in the darkness of the canyons, and green lightning flashed from gargoyle to gargoyle like spectres.
Moist had generally always kept away from the place. You got the occasional werewolf or zombie in Ankh-Morpork, of course, but in Uberwald they were commonplace. This was their place, with their rules – and that included the black ribboners, the slightly weird types who had sworn to shun the temptation to drink people’s blood and similar … But they were still weird, possibly even more so, drinking only cocoa and marching with banners and drums on every possible occasion. Arguably that was better than being taken to the crossroads and staked … again. The hand of Lady Margolotta was visible everywhere, and Moist knew that where you found her hand you would also find the hand of Vetinari.
But now there was menace in the air. Although Moist was, in fact, okay with menace, it was the thought of dying that was uppermost in his mind, and his little internal demon was shouting, ‘Hahaha! Remember that a life without danger is a life not worth living!’ And valiantly he stood by that assertion … though quite frankly he would rather have been standing on a beach in Quirm, if possible eating one of those really nice ice creams they made with a wafer-thin cone that crunched so beautifully as you bit into it. With strawberry sauce. And sprinkles.
Moist stood in the middle of the guard’s van letting his body understand the motions of the train. He rocked when it rolled and concentrated on staying upright. After all, he reasoned, if there was going to be a fight then your legs had to know what was waiting for them. Vimes was puzzled about what he was doing, but when Moist tried to explain, the commander snorted in derision.
‘In general, Mister Lipwig, I try to disable those who’re trying to do the same to me as quickly as I can. It’s a simple little approach. Not very complicated, but it helps me stay alive … that and the understanding that almost everything has a groin and every foot has a boot.’
The sound of metal and stone bouncing off the carriages came as a relief. Like an expected shoe dropping.
The train was travelling through a cutting that had once been used by wagons, and Iron Girder almost touched the rocky sides as she passed through at less than half speed. The guard’s van was in a state of siege and only later did Moist learn that grags had swung down from the sides of the cutting.
An unfortunate few dwarfs had landed on Bluejohn’s flatbed and while the biggest officer of the City Watch was at heart a pussycat, two grags trying to hack lumps out of him was clearly causing him to become somewhat acerbic and so the pussycat was now fighting like a lion. He hurled curses in trollish which actually shone red in the air as they were cast.
Quelling his nerves, Moist grabbed a jim crow and opened the trap door on to the roof of the guard’s van, to the initial amazement of the grag who had been trying to force his way in. But any sense of achievement the dwarf might have felt was knocked away by the vicious metal bar hitting his jaw with a satisfactory clang.
Moist wasn’t surprised to hear Commander Vimes scrambling up after him. And now, surrounded by grags in a state of disarray, Vimes tore off his shirt and as other dwarfs approached him Moist saw them suddenly realize that their futures were in the hands of the legendary Blackboard Monitor. Once freed, the brilliant scar on the commander’s wrist was almost throbbing in the half-light. The grags stared at it and that was the first of their many mistakes, because the commander went, as they say in Ankh-Morpork, totally librarian on them.
As Vimes charged towards the far end of the van he smacked away one distraught grag so that he landed on top of another, making it look almost balletic as they twisted and fell on to the rails below. And now the goblins joined in to make the grags’ day just a little bit more interesting: goblins in your armour was definitely not an aid to fighting.
The trap door and an adjoining panel had been torn away from the top of the guard’s van and, while battling a particularly ferocious dwarf,fn78 Moist saw Detritus levelling his enormous crossbow through the hole and heard the troll shout, ‘Piece Maker!’, a signal to anyone of sense to take extreme cover immediately. The darts that the piecemaker fired were hardwood and therefore horribly dangerous. And if Detritus was really feeling fit, the weapon spat the wood so fast that the darts ignited as they flew. Not metal, only wood, but wood going so incredibly fast that it splintered into a thousand more darts all travelling at terrible speed.
W
hen the thunder had died away, Detritus yelled up to him, ‘Hey, Mister Lipwig! Dis van is goin’ backwards! Der gritsuckers knew jus’ where to take der engine off!’
Moist turned and saw, to his horror, Iron Girder pulling away at speed from the now stranded guard’s van. He looked down at Bluejohn who was holding a grag in each hand and there was screaming as he banged their heads together and tossed them into the darkness between the tracks.
‘We’re going backwards, Bluejohn!’ yelled Moist. ‘Take us forward, could you!’
There was a jerk as Bluejohn stopped the guard’s van dead, quite possibly with his feet, and Moist jumped down on to the shuddering flatbed.
‘Nice work, Mister Bluejohn. Now get out that thing Mister Simnel’s lads made for you, please.’
In his curiously childish voice, Bluejohn said, ‘Oh yes, Mister Lipwig, I can do dat and I can tow der guard’s van as well.’
Vimes dropped down from the roof where he had been making life difficult for the grags on top – who were now essentially on the bottom – shouting ‘What the hell’s going on! Why’ve we stopped and where’s the rest of the train?!’
‘Those buggers have uncoupled us!’ yelled Moist. ‘But it’s no problem … there’s a handcar on Bluejohn’s flatbed … for emergencies!’ And, indeed, when the pedals of the handcar started to turn, the guard’s van accelerated and shot like an arrow towards the disappearing Iron Girder.
Bluejohn’s big face was aglow as he pedalled like, well, Bluejohn, because nobody else could have made that flatbed fly along the rails. It rattled and screeched and complained, but the troll’s huge feet oscillated up and down in a blur and the inner demon of Moist von Lipwig whispered to himself, ‘A little treadle machine to help somebody travel fast? Might be an idea to remember that.’
The whistle of Iron Girder echoed around the canyons, and Vimes shouted, ‘Get me up close to that train, officer!’
Trolls don’t sweat as such. A kind of blooming takes place instead. Bluejohn grunted, ‘Gettin’ a bit outta puff now, commander … but I’ll do my best.’
Raising Steam: (Discworld novel 40) (Discworld Novels) Page 34
