Raising Steam (Discworld 40)

‘Of course, that is news, but when you do indeed get hold of a newspaper you might notice a small apology from the editor of the Times to the effect that the crossword has been removed, as the compiler is stepping down for a while owing to the pressures of keeping up the standard of achievable games that are nevertheless sufficiently taxing. Of course, as a rule I do not gloat, but I fear she has met her match. I shall ask Drumknott to arrange for a box of chocolates to be sent to her, from a secret admirer. After all, I am generous in victory!’

Lord Vetinari cleared his throat again and said solemnly, ‘Alas, Drumknott has taken the morning off to go and have another look at the engine. A morning off. Whoever heard of such a thing? I have to say that I’m somewhat surprised, as the only other time he has ever requested time away from my service was to attend the paperclip, stapler and desktop aids symposium three years ago. He got very excited about that one, too. One wonders what the attraction of this engine can be. Does it not seem rather strange to you?’

Moist was a little nervous of the use of ‘strange’ and ‘Drumknott’ in the same sentence, and instead volunteered to visit the site of the train to escort Drumknott back to the palace.

‘Since you will be there, Mister Lipwig, I shall be pleased to hear your … impressions on the economic opportunities for my city.’

Ah-ha, thought Moist, so that’s why he’s dragged me out of bed … again. Nothing to do with the crossword, nothing to do with Drumknott, but everything to do with his city getting an interest in the railway.

His lordship gave Moist a brisk nod and waved the paper, suggesting that it was time for him to be on his way.

It took Moist a long time to push his way through the throng anxious to see the modern miracle of the age. Harry King’s business compound was at the very end of the queue that seemed to straggle halfway back to the city. There was no sign of Drumknott but Moist wasn’t surprised. When Drumknott was standing in front of you, he was so retiring as not to be there.

There were guards on the gates all round the compound, Harry’s own and City Watch, watching like hawks as one by one the citizens queueing up parted with a whole dollar a time to ride behind the locomotive. And a dollar was a dollar, possibly a day’s food for a family, and yet, as far as Moist could ascertain, flying over the rails on the wonderful train was worth tightening your belt for. It was better than the circus, better than everything, to be speeding along with the wind in your face and black smuts that made the eyes water, but were, well, the badge of the train riders, who nevertheless didn’t seem to notice it, given the amount of unpleasantness that could slap, splat, spit or fly into your face when you stepped into the street, or even when you walked into your own house, if you lived anywhere near the Shades.

Moist was well versed in the people of Ankh-Morpork’s love of novelty, and, he had to admit it, Iron Girder, pulling her train like the queen she was, was novelty in the extreme. She came trundling around the corner with people in the carts behind screaming and waving to friends still waiting in the queue. And as a connoisseur of the madness of crowds he watched carefully, and noted that some passengers disembarked and scuttled away to the man who was handing out little tokens in exchange for another dollar, and then ran all the way to the back of the very, very long queue for another go.

There was a click near by and then a flash, and he turned to see the perennially cheerful face of Otto Chriek, lead iconographer of the Ankh-Morpork Times, who gave him a friendly wave.

‘Vell now, Mister Lipvig, surely you’re behind zis in your cheeky little vay?’

Moist laughed and said, ‘No, not me, Otto, but it’s very popular, isn’t it!’ And I want to be at the very centre of it all, he said to himself.

He noticed that periodically the man collecting the money hurried away carrying huge leather pouches, with a troll bodyguard fore and aft, and was instantly replaced with another showman ready for the moneys of the mob. And so Moist, as he told himself in his own cheeky vay, followed the money. He followed it in between the great noisome heaps and stinking lagoons of Harry’s empire until the man with the large pouches of coin walked into a large shed. He followed him inside and froze, because he was immediately surrounded by the kind of men who have their noses splashed against one side of their face, little in the way of conversation and, he noticed now, very bad halitosis.

Fortunately, the shed also contained Sir Harry, who was bright enough to wave a hand in the air and say, ‘Okay, boys, loosen those sphincters. It’s only Mister von Lipwig, my old chum and bank manager. He’s practically one of us, ain’t you, Moist?’

Moist grinned, thankful that sphincters were, right now, not in play, and said, ‘Well now, Harry, you know, as your bank manager I of course make it my duty to look after your interests, and I gather that you’re looking after the interests of Mister Simnel too?’

That hung in the air like a sickle, a sharp one at that, and he watched Harry’s face, which hadn’t moved one single muscle. And then, abruptly, Harry burst out laughing and said, ‘Oh my, Mister Lipwig, I always said you was a sharp card and, if it comes to that, a card sharp!’

He nodded to his bodyguards and said, ‘Go and have a little break, lads. Me and my old friend here’ll be having a little chinwag, such as old friends do. Go on, bugger off, the lot of you.’

And indeed they did, all except one, the very largest, a troll who glittered strangely and was watching Moist most intently, but not as intently as Moist watched him. And, Moist thought, the troll was … a gentleman. He couldn’t think of him in any other way; he was well dressed, which was remarkable in itself as most trolls viewed clothes as optional.

Somewhat embarrassed at this interest, Moist felt rude enough to say, ‘Okay, Harry, but there’s one bodyguard still here. D’you think I’m going to try anything?’

Harry King guffawed. ‘That, Mister Lipwig, is my lawyer. His name is Mister Thunderbolt, got the letters after his name and everything, ain’t you, Thunderbolt?’

Lawyer! Bingo!

Harry was laughing all the way from his belly now and said, ‘Mister Lipwig, the look on your face! Don’t worry, though. Mister Thunderbolt takes everybody that way. That isn’t to say I ain’t glad to see you, but you could be of service to both me and our friend the engineer. Shall we go somewhere a bit more private? Coffee?’

Harry waved at a clerk, who bustled away swiftly, and then ushered Moist and Thunderbolt up to his office overlooking the compound. Harry sat down and beckoned to Thunderbolt and Moist to do the same.

‘Now then, you know me, Mister Lipwig, like I know you. We’re a pair, eh? Not exactly crooks, not exactly, well, not now anyway, ’cos we’ve grown up and know how to do business properly, don’t we?’ He concluded with a wink. ‘And we both know a once-in-a-lifetime deal when we see it, I’m s

ure. Tell me if I’m wrong, yes?’

There was somebody who was a lawyer in the room, moreover a lawyer who could presumably kill you with one punch, and it was always worth thinking about anything that you were going to say in front of a lawyer because you never knew if you really could trust the weasels, but Moist nodded at Mr Thunderbolt and said, with careful diction, ‘Sir Harry, Lord Vetinari has set me the task of assessing this wonderful new invention on behalf of the city.’

Harry King opened a box of big cigars, sniffed them and chose one before proffering the box to Moist and Thunderbolt. The troll declined, of course, but Moist was never one to turn down one of Harry King’s finest cigars. They came from far-off places and were truly excellent. Harry puffed out a big cloud of smoke, leaving him for a moment looking just like Iron Girder, and it occurred to Moist that Harry, who knew that symbols were important, was definitely hoping to be the first railway baron.

‘Mister Lipwig, Iron Girder is peacefully, for want of a better word, transporting eager citizens around the track regular as clockwork. Round and round they go, happy as you like, you must agree? Mister Simnel says he built her as a proof of concept and he needs a lot of money to build a full-size version that can pull even more people and, above all, freight, because he reckons that’s where the money is to be made, although looking out of the window at all those smiling faces I’m not so sure of that.’

Sir Harry sent another plume of smoke into the air and looked smug, which, Moist considered, was probably the case, before adding, ‘Since I know you, Mister Lipwig, and I know that you can read me, yes, I’m prepared to bankroll the lad in exchange for a slice of the profits, a big and fair slice. I understand that he’s now all but skint, totally boracic, with the arse nearly out of his trousers, and if he’s ever going to get his ambition to run bigger trains to here, there and bloody everywhere then he needs a partner with experience of the world, and I have that experience from the bottom up, as it were.

‘But, you know how it is, gents … when a man gets older and he’s made his pile he starts caring a bit more about what people think about him, so I ain’t no dwarf, I won’t steal an advantage on a young man with prospects. That’s why I’m happy to say that with the help of Mister Thunderbolt here I’ve struck a fair deal with the young lad. Ain’t that so, Mister Thunderbolt?’