Raising Steam (Discworld 40)

By the time they got back to the compound the goblin Billy Slick, who had worked for Harry for many years, was in a tizzy – although he didn’t know that, not knowing the word existed – and he was at the gate waiting for them when the carriage drew up.

Frantically, he said, ‘I closed the gate, Sir Harry, but it looks like they’ll climb over anything to see this … this … this thing! I keep telling ’em we ain’t running no fun house here.’

The light was fading and yet still the eyes of the onlookers were following Iron Girder as she travelled around the track while Simnel’s team put her through her paces, throwing off sparks in the twilight like signals to the universe that steam was here to stay. And when most of the sightseers had reluctantly left to go home for their supper, some of Harry’s goblins slunk into the compound to see the marvel of the age. They did indeed slink, Harry thought, not exactly like a burglar, but simply because the average goblin carcass was born slinking, except that right now they were dancing around Iron Girder, and the lads had their work cut out to keep skinny little goblin fingers out of dangerous places.

Iron Girder sat and occasionally gave out a puff of steam or smoke while all the time, in the twilight, Harry heard tiny staccato voices interrogating the engineers: ‘What does this one do, mister?’, ‘What happens if I push this, mister?’, ‘I see, mister, that this one connects to the blastpipey armature.’

Harry and Dick joined Dave and Wally as they stood by Iron Girder answering the barrage of questions. To Harry’s surprise, instead of the complaints he was expecting to be issuing from the lads’ mouths, he saw they were smiling happily.

‘They seem to get it, sir! Oh, aye!’ said Wally. ‘They’re into everything! We’re ’aving to keep an eye on them, but they seem to understand without being told, can you believe that?’

And Harry marvelled. He quite liked the little buggers, as any employer would quite like somebody who worked hard, but how does a goblin get the understanding of steam engines? It must be something in their nature. Their scruffy little faces were wreathed in smiles at the sight of something metallic and complicated. It was a sign of the times, he thought, and it looks like time for the goblins.

Simnel was silent for a moment as if waking up the internal steam for the next thought, then said, in a careful kind of voice, ‘You really would think they were born to it!’

‘I can’t say I’m surprised, Dick,’ said Harry. ‘The clacks people say the same thing. It’s uncanny but it seems that t

hey automatically understand mechanisms, so be careful as they like to take things apart on the fly just to see what they do. But once they understand how whatever it is works they seem to put it all back together again. There’s no malice, they just like to tinker with the best and, you know what, sometimes they improve things. How can you explain that? But if I was you I’d have one of you three sleeping under Iron Girder of a night just so they don’t get creative.’

The following day Moist von Lipwig was gently awakened by Crossly, who as yet had failed to grasp his master’s attitude to sleep, a fact which was reinforced by Moist turning over in bed and saying, ‘Mumble mumble grunt mumble groan mumble off!’ The sequence was repeated three minutes later, with the same response, this time with the emphasis on the last syllable, uttered three times with increasing volume.

Subsequently – in fact and to be precise, fifteen minutes later – Moist von Lipwig was pulled out of the arms of Morpheus by the none too gentle prodding of a blade belonging to one of the Ankh-Morpork palace guards, a species he didn’t like very much in any case because they were stolid and dumb. Admittedly, so were the majority of the City Watch, in Moist’s opinion, but at least they were by and large creatively and, at least, humorously dumb, which made them a lot more interesting. After all, you could talk to them and therefore confuse them, whereas with the palace guards, well, all they knew was how to prod, and they were quite good at it. It was wise not to put them to any trouble, and so Moist, fully conversant with how this sort of thing worked, dressed grumpily and followed them to the palace, and undoubtedly an audience with Lord Vetinari.

The Patrician was, unusually, not at his desk, but paying attention to something on the large polished table that filled one half of the Oblong Office. He was, in fact, playing. It seemed ridiculous, but there was no denying it: he was watching a children’s toy quite intently, a little cart, or trolley of some sort, on a little metal rail, which allowed it to scuttle continuously in a circle for no readily apparent reason. He straightened up after Moist coughed loudly and said, ‘Ah, Mister Lipwig. It’s so kind of you to come … eventually. Tell me, what do you make of this?’

Somewhat perplexed, Moist said, ‘It looks like a children’s plaything, sir.’

‘In fact it is a very well crafted model of something much bigger and far more dangerous.’ Lord Vetinari raised his voice and said, as if talking not only to Moist but to the world in general, ‘Some might say that it would have been easy for me to prevent this happening. A stiletto sliding quietly here, a potion dropped into a wine glass there, many problems solved at one stroke. Diplomacy, as it were, on the sharp end, regrettably unfortunate, of course, but not subject to argument.

‘People might say that I wasn’t paying attention and through neglect of my duties allowed the poison to seep into the imagination of the world and change it irrevocably. Perhaps I could have taken some action when I first saw Leonard of Quirm doodle something very much like this little toy in the margins of his drawing of the “Countess Quatro Fromaggio at her Toilette”, but of course I would rather shatter the most priceless antique vase than see any harm come to one hair on that most useful and venerable head. I thought it would go the way of his flying machines, nothing more than a toy.

‘And now it has come to this. One simply cannot trust the artificers; they design some terrible things for the sheer love of doing so, without wisdom, foresight or responsibility, and frankly, I would like to see them chained up where they can do no harm.’

And here Lord Vetinari paused and added, ‘And I could have made that happen in an instant were it not for the fact, Mr Lipwig, that the wretches are so damn useful.’

He sighed, causing Moist to worry. Moist had never seen his lordship so discomfited, staring intently at the little truck as it went round and round on its little rails and filled the room with a smell of methylated spirits. There was something hypnotic about it, for Lord Vetinari, at least.

A silent hand dropped lightly, and eerily, on to Moist’s shoulder. He turned around quickly and behind him was Drumknott, smiling gently.

‘I suggest you pretend you didn’t hear anything, Mister Lipwig,’ he whispered. ‘It’s the best way, especially when he has one of his, er, sombre moments …’ Still whispering, Drumknott continued, ‘A lot of this is to do with the crossword, of course. You know how he is about that. I intend personally to write to the editor. His lordship considers elegant completion to be a test of his integrity. A crossword is meant to be an engaging and educational puzzle.’

And then, his normally pink face reddening, Drumknott added, ‘I’m sure it’s not intended to be a form of torture, and I’m certain that there is no such word as lagniappe. However, his lordship has terrific powers of recovery, and if you care to wait while I make you some coffee I’d wager he’ll be his old self again before you can say “death warrant”.’

In fact, Lord Vetinari stared at the wall for only eight minutes more before he appeared to shake himself down. He beamed at Drumknott and, less warmly, acknowledged the presence of Moist, who had been surreptitiously looking at the unfinished crossword lying prominently across the table.

Moist said, brightly but with the best of intentions, ‘My lord, I’m sure you know that lagniappe is spelled differently than it sounds. Just a thought, of course, only trying to be helpful, sir.’

‘Yes. I know,’ said Lord Vetinari, in dark tones.

‘Can I be of any other assistance, my lord?’ said Moist, reckoning that he hadn’t been prodded out of his bed for an undone crossword, or to admire a child’s toy.

Lord Vetinari looked down his nose at Moist momentarily and said icily, ‘Since you have finally decided to join us at this difficult time, Mister Lipwig, I will tell you that there was once a man called Ned Simnel who made a mechanical device, propelled in some arcane way, for taking in the harvest. The present difficulties might have begun there, but fortuitously his device didn’t work, tending, apparently, to explode and burst into flames, and so the balance of the world was maintained. But, of course, the men who are drawn to tinkering continue to tinker in their little sheds! And not only that, they find ladies, good sensible ladies, who inexplicably agree to marry them, thus breeding a race of little tinkerers.

‘One of them, a scion of the aforesaid Simnel, has apparently been scratching about in his father’s shed and most certainly wondered if he, with his infinite curiosity, could achieve what his father, alas, had not. And now this young man has created a machine which devours wood and coal and spews out flames, polluting the sky, undoubtedly scaring every living creature for miles around, and making the gods’ own noise. Or so I am told.

‘Finally, young Mister Simnel has found his way to our good friend Sir Harry King. And apparently the two of them are now dreaming up an enterprise, which I believe is called … the rail way.’

Vetinari paused only briefly before continuing. ‘Mister Lipwig, I feel the pressure of the future and in this turning world must either kill it or become its master. I have a nose for these things, just as I had for you, Mister Lipwig. And so I intend to be like the people of Fourecks and surf the future. Giving it a little tweak here and there has always worked for me and my instincts are telling me that this wretched rail way, which appears to be a problem, might just prove to be a remarkable solution.’