‘Mister Lipwig, I am the King, surely, and I am still alive because of whom I know and whom I can trust, see. I appreciate your thoroughness in this matter.’ The King turned to the dwarf by his side. ‘Aeron, some privacy, if you please.’

And the dwarf called Aeron, who seemed to Moist to be a trusted assistant, a dwarf version of Drumknott, cleared the room of hangers-on, leaving only himself, Bashfullsson and a few other obviously senior dwarfs.

‘Thank you,’ said the King. ‘Now, Mister Lipwig, in this small room, I trust everybody. And, boyo, I might just trust you because you are Mister Lipwig and I know your reputation. You’re a survivor, quite possibly a plaything of the gods or, perhaps, the most handsome bag of wind that there has ever been. You get away with it, and thus I hope I will too, because more than our lives depend on us getting me to Uberwald and the Scone of Stone before those bastards wreck everything I stand for.’ He smiled and said, ‘I hope that doesn’t feel like pressure?’

‘Your majesty, pressure is where I start,’ said Moist.

There was a noisy party with lots of quaffing and dwarf songs in full swing as the Low King and his commanders left the chateau quietly from the servants’ entrance a short hour later. Several coaches had come and gone already that morning and the departure of a few more was unremarkable.

‘Tagwen Tagwensson is doing a grand job of playing King today,’ Rhys noted to Moist as their carriage swung down the long gravel driveway. ‘That song has over a hundred verses. They can keep that up for days!’

When they arrived at the Quirm terminus they were met by the extremely large form of Sergeant Detritus of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, who was standing guard by Iron Girder, hefting his piecemaker, which had what might be called a wholesale capability.

The Low King’s eyes lit up when he recognized the sergeant and he exclaimed, ‘Detritus! If you’re on board, then perhaps I don’t need any other bodyguards.’

This was said laughing, but Moist couldn’t help thinking that it might just be true.

‘Good to see you, King!’ Detritus roared. He looked around sharply and said, ‘Dere any grags here? If yes, please line up.’

Behind the King, always present, Aeron was carefully busying himself getting people and weapons on board. He opened the door and quickly ushered Rhys into the gleaming carriage.

Bashfullsson tapped Detritus on the knee. ‘I am indeed a grag, sergeant, and lining up as requested. What next?’

Detritus scratched his head. ‘But you is okay, Mister Bashfullsson. Der commander knows you, and his lady.’

‘Ah, so I’m lining up to get on the train, then?’ said the dwarf. ‘It’s pleasant to meet you again, sergeant, but please remember there are grags and grags.’ And he turned to follow Aeron into the carriage.

Once the whole retinue was safely aboard, Moist stood watch while Detritus heaved himself into the guard’s van, which gave a tremendous creak and groan; but everything seemed to hold, so with a signal to the footplate Moist scrambled up into the van and they were off.

The train pulled away with the usual jerk of the couplings and as the long journey back to Ankh-Morpork began Moist suddenly realized that he was, as it were, not required on this voyage.

In the coaches the Low King, his bodyguards and councillors huddled together and were speaking very quietly, their thoughts deep in planning. On the footplate, the driver was focused on getting his royal cargo to its destination and was in a world of concentration. You could see it dripping off him like snow; listening to the wheels, listening to the rails, watching the lights, checking the gauges and driving the train in such a positive way that possibly even without Iron Girder herself they might just get there on willpower alone. And the stoker made it clear he had no need of Moist’s assistance. So Moist now had nothing to do except sleep and … worry so much.

If the King was a target, if the grags got to hear that he was on the train, then the train was bound to be a target although, as it happened, Moist hoped they had run some interference.

For his part Moist thought attacks would surely come out in the wilderness, later, on the long lonely haul up to Uberwald. Despite everything he’d said to Lord Vetinari, he knew it was oh so easy to derail a locomotive. The ever diligent Mr Simnel had told Moist that he’d tried it at low speed at the back of the compound in a place where Iron Girder couldn’t see, with impressive effects. Once derailed, it required the combined efforts of several trolls and golems over many hours with a clever system of pulleys to get the engine back on the track. If it happened to an engine travelling at speed under full steam … And this, Moist thought, is a man who lives by the sliding rule and the sine and cosine, not forgetting the tangent. Moist never challenged Dick’s proclamations regarding his sliding rule; he could make the numbers dance and Moist was yet to see him get things wrong. It was like … like wizardry, but without the wizards and all their mess.

And indeed, as Dick was finding out, you could even have a girlfriend … an intriguing thought that seemed to echo at the back of his mind. And it was common knowledge now that Dick and Harry’s niece were, as they say, walking out. He had apparently one night driven Emily around the compound by starlight and that had to mean something, didn’t it? And Dick had told Moist, in the voice of somebody having found a strange and attractive new world, that she was very good at handling the fire box, without ever getting her dress dirty. And he’d added, ‘I reckon Iron Girder likes her. You never see a smut on her. I come out every time looking like a dustman and when we’ve finished she looks like she’s one of them ballerinas or something.’

But right now there was so much else to think about. This most important of trains was moving its priceless cargo, and Moist knew that the whole business relied on fairly simple things being done properly, at the precise time and in exactly the right way. There were people who made certain there was coal in the coal bunkers along the route and by now he knew how much water would be needed and who would make certain that it would be there when and where it was required. But how did you make certain that the person who made certain actually did these things? It had to be someone’s responsibility!

And these tasks seemed to Moist like a great big pyramid whose every stone had to be laid in place before one wheel turned. In some ways it frightened him. For most of his life he had been mostly alone and as for the Bank and the Mint, well, Vetinari had got it right. He did have a knack for finding and keeping people who liked their jobs and were good at them, and since everything was delegated, why, then he could be Moist von Lipwig, a catalyst in the world. And now he could see why people had anxiety attacks, the kind of people who would lock their door and halfway up the garden path would come back to see if they’d locked said door and unlock it to make sure and lock it again then set off up the path only to go through the whole terrible procedure once more.

The fact of the matter was you had to hope and assume that a lot of capable people had done lots of capable things in a capable way, and double-checked them frequently to make sure everything was right. So worrying was stupid, wasn’t it? But worrying was never quite like that. It sat like a little goblin on your shoulder and whispered. And suddenly that kind of worried person, in the strange world of mistrust, was now entering the stuff of nightmares, and right now he, Moist von Lipwig, for heaven’s sake, was worried, yes, really very worried. What had been left in? What had been left out? I can hear the wheels just down there and I know the journey is going to take four days, at least, not counting breakdowns, dreadful weather and the storms up in the mountains, they can be ferocious, and all this without mentioning some lunatic dwarfs hell-bent on ruining the party for everybody.

It has to be said that this was an inner monologue. Yes, it was an inner monologue’s own personal inner monologue, but outside Moist’s skin absolute stone-cold certainty reigned: nothing could possibly go wrong. After all, Dick would be dealing with the technicalities, and he was a genius. Not in the same way that Leonard of Quirm was a genius, but, Moist thought loyally, in a reassuring, solid, Simnel sort of way. Leonard would probably get distracted halfway through the journey by an idea for using cabbages as fuel, or using the waste from the fire box to grow better cabbages, or painting a masterpiece of a nymph clad in cabbage leaves and coal. But Dick had his flat cap on straight. Vimes would be coming too, and although part of Moist – the part that still thought of coppers as people to avoid even in your best disguise – got the willies when the commander looked him in the eye or any other part of his anatomy, the rest of him was very grateful that Blackboard Monitor Vimes would be on his side if the grags came calling …

In fact, Moist was full of little monologues, chasing one another around, but afterwards, because they were his monologues, they decided that they would come together again as one whole Moist von Lipwig and would therefore maintain and get through no matter the circumstances.

Everything is going to be mar … vell … ous, he assured himself. When has it ever not been – you’re the lucky Moist von Lipwig! Right in the centre the hypothetical goblin of uncertainty twisted itself into a tiny quivering mush. Moist wished it well, smiled and said goodbye.

Harry King’s vast mansion was well protected and a perfect place for a private dinner where the Low King and Vetinari could meet while preparations were being made for the long haul to Uberwald. It was widely considered that Harry’s … undertakers had the jump on your average soldier or policeman when it came to a scrap, because those people had been taught to have rules while most of Harry’s boys couldn’t even spell the word. Any intruder foolish enough to be found lurking in the shrubbery of Harry’s extensive estate in the dark and the dripping rain would be pruned in no short order.

Even though this was a private dinner, Effie King was not going to let the side down. She had begun her preparations for the meal with a headache and then moved on to a dither before segueing into an organization of military prec

ision and dimensions, bullying the cooks on the way and frantically looking up such things as what spoon you used with what soup.

Effie genuflected deeply to the Low King as he arrived in her oak-panelled dining room. And Effie was in a more expensive and acceptable version of hog heaven.

Tags: Terry Pratchett Discworld Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net