Raising Steam (Discworld 40)

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.’