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

by Terry Pratchett

  Charlie went almost white and said, ‘Oh, no sir, we don’t want that.’

  ‘Well, we shan’t, shall we,’ said Drumknott. ‘Off you go and I’ll lock the door behind you.’

  When Charlie had disappeared, happy but in haste, Drumknott, after a moment’s thought, said to Dark Clerk Ishmael, ‘I’m sure his lordship will want to know that we’ve checked the location of this Mister Fornacite’s salon and the school that our friend’s children go to. Is it the same as last year?’

  And the clerk replied, ‘Yes, it is, sir, I checked again the other day.’

  ‘Well done.’

  As his lordship had pointed out: ‘If you take enough precautions, you never need to take precautions.’ It was just a matter of making sure that Charlie didn’t get … well, creative about his future.

  Never had Moist been more happy to see his front door than when he got home and his wife opened it before he did, saying, ‘Oh, it’s you. Not dead? Good. How did it go?’

  ‘Pretty well. The golems were incredible. Sad that we’ve had to leave Iron Girder there until the bridge is repaired. Still, we’ve got so many of Harry’s golems and workers on it now it’s not going to be long before Vetinari can have a special train of his own, if he likes.’

  ‘To make sure relationships between Uberwald and Ankh-Morpork proceed in a … cordial fashion, no doubt,’ said his wife with a smile.

  Behind him, Of the Twilight the Darkness said, ‘Already Uberwald goblins giving themselves railway name. Speaks funny, those ones, but quick clever, like all goblin.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Adora Belle, ‘that reminds me. We got reports while you were away from clacksmen along the road from the Shires about some rather odd occurrences. Strange rumblings, steam coming out of molehills, that sort of thing. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

  Of the Twilight the Darkness reassembled his features into the closest approximation of innocence that a goblin can muster. ‘No ideas, missus. Steaming molehill? Maybe cow eat bad grass. Course, maaany goblin interest in steaming things. Some even practises own little engine. Educational! Clever goblins.’

  It was clearly a conversation for another day. Moist headed for the fluffy pillows with a grateful sigh. ‘I’ll have a rest and tomorrow I’ll dally with the Bank. There must be some paperwork for me to sign. It would be nice to have a simple job for a while.’

  Adora Belle snorted. ‘How long would that be?’

  Moist hesitated. ‘Maybe a fortnight? There might be a lot of paperwork.’

  ‘Yes, and you won’t do it,’ said Adora Belle. ‘You know Mister Bent keeps everything shipshape. All you have to do is go around being friendly to everybody.’

  ‘And nobody’s trying to kill me, Spike.’

  And Adora Belle said, ‘We can but hope.’

  At breakfast, Lady Sybil said to her husband, ‘It sounds quite an adventure, Sam. I hear the Queen has changed her name to Blodwen. It means “fair flower” in Llamedos. Isn’t that nice? I must write to her.’

  ‘She’ll like that,’ said Vimes, whose wife’s capacity to remain in touch with everybody she had ever met was well known and sometimes quite useful. Especially in political circumstances. The commander looked down at his muesli and said, ‘You know, that Lipwig character isn’t quite as bad as I thought. Acts like a scoundrel, but reasonably helpful when the chips are down. Mind you, I’m not going to tell him so.’

  He pushed the healthy fibre around his bowl, wistfully recalling the stoker’s fry-ups. ‘But he does like being the centre of attention, of course.’

  ‘Yes, some men are like that, dear.’

  Lady Sybil was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Sam, I know you’re going to be busy what with the backlog and everything, but can I ask a favour?’

  ‘Anything, dear.’

  ‘When they have the line to Uberwald running, I’d love to go to visit the Queen, and most of all I’d like a holiday by the train. And Young Sam’s mad about trains, you know. He’s nearly filled up his first notebook already.’

  ‘Well,’ said Vimes, ‘you know if I have a holiday I walk into a crime.’

  Lady Sybil finished her egg and said, ‘Jolly good, dear, you’ll like that.’

  Harry King was not entirely surprised when Drumknott arrived at the compound the following day and said, ‘His lordship commands you and Lady King to present yourselves to him within the hour.’ And the secretary winked uncharacteristically at Harry, and his wife when he told her was, according to her, all of a tizzy at the news.

  ‘The palace in one hour! How can a girl look her best inside an hour?’

  ‘Come on, Duchess,’ said Harry. ‘You look a treat as always and getting younger every day.’

  ‘Oh, you teaser, Harry King!’

  But Harry said, ‘The coach is here and clean as a whistle and his lordship believes that punctuality is the politeness of Princes and that applies to you, too, young Emily. I expect your boy wouldn’t want you to be late. That’s not the railway … way.’

  Harry hadn’t told his wife what to expect, preferring to keep it as a surprise, and so as the coach arrived at the palace, his wife nearly had another tizzy to contend with because there were the great and good of Ankh-Morpork, and presumably some of the silly and nasty as well, just to see Harry King being turned into a Lord. Lord King of the Permanent Way. And in the wonderful ceremony that followed, Lord Harry’s old Dutch did indeed become a Duchess.

  Dick Simnel was made a knight, and a master engineer too, courtesy of the Chief Mining Engineer himself, and now stood hand in hand with the beaming Emily. Commander Vimes, resplendent in his ceremonial pantaloons and looking furious about them, was already burdened with every title it was his lordship’s pleasure to bestow, but was given another medal anyway, struck in sorortanium and featuring Iron Girder herself. In fact there was a medal for every watchman who had been on the train, and every crew member, goblins included.

  Later, there came the inevitable interview in the Oblong Office with Drumknott at a side table taking notes.

  ‘I understand, Mister Lipwig,’ said the Patrician, surveying the city below them from the window, ‘that there were some remarkable events along the journey.’

  Moist kept a straight face but around his neck he felt the prickle of a phantom noose.

  The Patrician continued. ‘A fog which became conveniently solid, a train which apparently flew across a gorge, and I’m still getting reports of subterranean phenomena all the way from the city to Bonk. The Archchancellor has assured me that no magic was involved in any of these events. You will recall, I am sure, Mister von Lipwig, that I expressly forbade the use of the buried golems in the railway enterprise, and that any evidence of their use would send you to the kittens?’ He moved towards the fire, which was getting low in the grate, and gave it a prod with the poker – rather too pointedly, Moist thought.

  ‘Excuse me, my lord, but did you find any such evidence?’

  Vetinari turned to his secretary. ‘Did we find any evidence, Drumknott?’

  Drumknott looked at Moist. ‘No, sir, we did not.’

  ‘Well then, there is nothing more to say,’ said the Patrician. ‘After all, strange and inexplicable things turn up around here almost every week.’

  Drumknott cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir. There was that fall of pianos in the Fish Market last week. It’s just a part of being Ankh-Morpork.’

  ‘Indeed, we are no strangers to strangeness. And frankly some things can be written down as phenomena without cause or issue,’ said Vetinari, looking as benevolent as it was possible to do whilst holding a red-hot poker, and whilst being Vetinari.

  ‘Incidentally, Mister Lipwig, your prowess in that fight on the train was excellent! Of course you needed a little assistance.’

  Moist looked up at the Patrician, silhouetted by the flames behind him, and inside his head there was the horrible tinkle of a penny dropping. He gulped.

  ‘You! You were Stoker Blake! That’s im
possible!’

  ‘Really?’ said the Patrician. ‘As impossible as a train travelling on free air? Do you not believe that I could throw coal into the fire box? After all, what is that compared to dealing with Ankh-Morpork with its myriad demanding problems every day? I assure you of this, Mister Lipwig, I am a man of many talents and you should hope never to encounter some of them. Compared with them, Stoker Blake was a mere babe in arms.’

  ‘What,’ said Moist, ‘fighting with shovels?’

  ‘Dear dear, Mister Lipwig, you are easily impressed. You surely remember that I was schooled in the Assassins’ Guild. After that experience, my predecessor on the footplate, Killer John Wagstaff, was, as they say, a pussycat in comparison. Indeed, I enjoyed my life as Mister Blake and all the new little skills it has taught me. Excellent implement, the shovel. And as for the other stokers, I think I made friends there, yes, there was a certain camaraderie among us. All said, a little holiday from the weighty business of the city, and I dare say I might be predisposed to travel on the footplate again when the mood takes me.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Why, Mister Lipwig? You of all people ask me why? The man who danced on the train roof, the man who actually looks for trouble if it appears to be the kind of trouble which is associated with the term derring-do? Though in your case a few more derring-don’ts might be a good idea. Sometimes, Mister Lipwig, the young you that you lost many years ago comes back and taps you on the shoulder and says, “This is the moment when civilization does not matter, when rules no longer hold sway. You have given the world all you can give and now it’s the time that is just for you, the chance to go for broke in the last hurrah. Hurrah!”

  Vetinari swung the poker against the fender, causing sparks to dance in the fireplace. He looked at the sparks and in whiplash fashion turned to Moist and said, ‘And if you, Mister Lipwig, ever tell anyone else about this, Mister Trooper will be very glad to see you again. Do we have an understanding? Excellent.’

  As if anyone would believe him if he did breathe a word about it! Moist was finding it hard enough to credit from the man’s own lips. Then as he tried to process what he had been told, the Patrician’s words about his own prowess sparked a renewed sense of grievance.

  ‘You’ve given everyone else on that train a medal, even Nobby Nobbs. Is there nothing for me, then, my lord?’

  There was a pause and Vetinari said, ‘Oh, there is, Mister Lipwig, there is, and it’s something wonderful: it’s the precious gift of staying alive.’

  And later, when he came to think about it, Moist thought that was, well, on the whole a good deal and, after all, he had danced on the speeding locomotive. That was living, all right!

  A few weeks later, Drumknott persuaded Lord Vetinari to accompany him to the area behind the palace where a jungle of drain pipes emptied and several mismatched sheds, washhouses and lean-tos housed some of the necessary functions without which a modern palace could not operate.fn81

  There was a young goblin waiting there, rather nervous, clasping what looked like two wheels held together by not very much. The wheels were spinning.

  Drumknott cleared his throat. ‘Show his lordship your new invention, Mister Of the Wheel the Spoke.’

  Vetinari’s face was unmoving as he watched the goblin put a leg over his creation and pedal the little machine around the washerwomen, who threw up their arms saying things like ‘Oh my! Whatever next?’

  And the oldest washerwoman said, ‘I reckon you could have a young lady on the pillion behind you.’

  Lord Vetinari said, ‘You’re going to want one of these, aren’t you, Drumknott?’

  ‘Well sir,’ said Drumknott, ‘this is not a mechanism, really. All it does is simply extend the parts of the body and look, no steam, no soot, just sweat.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said the Patrician. ‘One man, his own motor.’

  When the goblin eventually stopped in front of Lord Vetinari, he looked imploringly at Drumknott, who waited patiently for his master to decide.

  Vetinari finally did smile and said, ‘A remarkable velocipede, Mister Of the Wheel the Spoke. I do believe that Leonard of Quirm had a similar idea, but now we are in a world of motion, I see no problem here. It appears that every man could be his own horse. I commend you. May I suggest, young goblin, that you take your prototype along to Commander Vimes. An instrument that doubles one’s speed ought to be very useful to a hurrying watchman, or, indeed, an insufficiently hurrying one. Mister Drumknott, please write a note to the commander and I will sign it. After all, some of them could do with the exercise. And if I were you, sir,’ he added to the goblin, ‘I would make an appointment with a certain troll lawyer called Thunderbolt and do what he tells you.

  ‘The world is changing and it needs its shepherds and sometimes its butchers. And in this case, I’m its shepherd. Your enterprise has been noted. And all that anyone can say now is: What next? What little thing will change the world because the little tinkers carried on tinkering?’

  fn1 There were some salacious comments about this, but it appeared, alas, to the local and as yet unmarried girls that Mad Iron Simnel and his men had found something more interesting than women and apparently it was made of steel.

  fn2 Correctly pronounced Beyonk.

  fn3 Literal translation: ‘chief mining engineer’.

  fn4 Humans might have said ‘beef’ at this point, but not many dwarfs have a taste for cow, whereas rat is perennially dependable.

  fn5 Scouting for trolls, dwarfs and humans was brought in shortly after the Koom Valley Accord had been signed, on the suggestion of Lord Vetinari, to allow the young of the three dominant species to meet and hopefully get along together. Naturally the young of all species, when thrown together, instead of turning against one another would join forces against the real enemy, that is to say their parents, teachers and miscellaneous authority which was so old-fashioned. And up to a point, and amazingly, it had worked and that was Ankh-Morpork, wasn’t it? Mostly, nobody cared what shape you were, although they might be very interested in how much money you had.

  fn6 Besides being from the McSweeney dynasty and therefore frighteningly expensive. Although, he thought, when he looked at the porcelain shards on the floor, they didn’t look that expensive.

  fn7 A term, technically speaking, for dog muck, much prized by the tanneries.

  fn8 Unless they were a golem. During the dark days when the family clacks company had been usurped by businessmen, Adora Belle had diverted her energies into golem emancipation. She was still involved with the Golem Trust, but the pace of change in Ankh-Morpork, she was pleased to notice, meant that the golems were quite happily trusting themselves.

  fn9 Adora Belle was, as even she knew, a creatively bad cook, mostly because she thought cookery a waste of time for a woman with even half a mind; and since Moist took pretty much the same stance when it came to manual labour, the arrangement seemed to suit all parties.

  fn10 Which was his only name.

  fn11 Separate bathrooms of course being the key to any happy marriage.

  fn12 ‘Spike’ to her fond husband. Her brother had called her Killer, but he meant it in a nice way.

  fn13 The official collective noun for a bunch of goblins.

  fn14 The wonderfully colourful oak wood of the Effing Forest was much in demand for high-class joinery.

  fn15 Known by habitués as the Sticky Head.

  fn16 If you could give that name to somebody who had to deal every day with forms to sign, go to far too many meetings about meetings and handle the most petty of correspondence.

  fn17 This black crystalline compound was widely used by troll women as an anti-ageing cream. Dick Simnel had been thorough in his research and it was, apparently, a very efficient lubricant.

  fn18 The actual chairman being, in point of fact, Mr Fusspot, chairdog.

  fn19 A term meaning that the builder speculates about how far away he can be, and with how much money, before the buyer finds that the footings have,
in fact, no feet, the septic tank is one foot deep with a tendency to flow backwards, and the bricks owe a lot to that most organic and venerable of all building materials, cow shit. The whole business traditionally begins with a plot, in every sense of the word. Entire suburbs were being built with such beguiling names as Nightingale Valley and Sunflower Gardens which had never heard a nightingale or seen a sunflower in bloom, but nevertheless were on the market with CMOT Dibbler Practically Real Estate and Associates, currently doing a roaring trade.

  fn20 Oi Dong being not dissimilar to Shangri-La.

  fn21 ‘lawn ornament’

  fn22 Not to be confused with the fabled Nougat Knights, famed in dwarfish mythology as the ancestors who, at the beginning of the world, created the treacle mines and other subterranean sweets.

  fn23 Moist wondered whether it should be loti, but thought, well, what the hell.

  fn24 The term ‘specie’ requires the person asking for it to rub their thumb and forefinger together in a knowing way, if you know what I mean, guvnor?

  fn25 The moment Moist heard the name he went for the dictionary and was relieved to find that fornacite was a rare lead, copper chromate arsenate hydroxide mineral. The troll was a lovely bluey green colour.

  fn26 Humans would have said, ‘Put it where the sun don’t shine.’

  fn27 There had been some discussion about the word ‘hygienic’, and Moist had lost. Hygienic, everyone else thought, gave the project a certain tone, a sort of je ne sais quoi. Lady King said this herself and who was going to argue with the Duchess?

  fn28 Although in the eyes of her spouse she had always been the Duchess, a pet name he reserved for just her.

  fn29 The feared kitten torture was actually one dreamed up by Moist, and Vetinari had been impressed. In the dungeons of the palace there was a large iron maiden, seldom used. In these modern times the kitten torture regime was the punishment that would cause the miscreant to pause before doing anything that would place them in the dungeon again. The mechanism and the kittens were presided over by Cedric: not clever, but grateful for the pay packet every month, and he was very fond of kittens, with which the streets of Ankh-Morpork were overflowing. The kittens would be placed in the iron maiden in large numbers, along with the miscreant who could just about sit. At the bottom was a little hatch, large enough to push through a sizeable saucer of milk. Every time a kitten was in distress and made its distress noticeable, Cedric would open up the maiden and give the victim a whack with his cudgel, the amount of cudgelling being contingent on the state of upset of said kitten. There were some idiots who thought this laughable, but it worked, and after a certain amount of cudgelling visitors were said to be amazed at the general atmosphere of happiness inside the iron maiden, where the purring was so loud it resonated throughout the dungeon.