Raising Steam

  It was said that they had many ways of killing in the darkness and even had ways of moving from darkness to darkness without being apprehended by the intervening light. Oh, so much was said of them, although generally it was whispered. And he had done so many bad things, like eating beef and buying his wife colourful earrings and, worst of all, he had become friends with Rocky Debris who was, horror of horrors, a troll, and also quite a decent bloke, who he quite often sat next to when they were going to work and who, like him, was a supporter of Dolly Sisters United and generally went with him when there was a match on, and surely anyone who cheered for your side was a friend, wasn’t he?

  And yes, he was, but down in the base of his brain was the bogeyman of his childhood, and subtle whisperings, curdled fragments of old songs sung on special occasions, little observances made holy by repetition with the right people sitting at the same fireside, in those cosy days when you were not really old enough to understand and didn’t have your wretched brain stuffed full of ideas that part of you thought you shouldn’t ever obey, like not shaking hands with a troll and now he had been seen and now they had him and now they stood between him and his chances of a new life after death. They held the keys to the next world and, on a whim, could have him floating in the ultimate darkness of the Ginnungagap where there were … things, tormentors, creatures of indefinite invention and patience.

  He shifted because of the cramp in his legs, and said, ‘Please, I know I’ve got into bad ways and I’ve strayed from the path and indeed may be unworthy to call myself a dwarf, but if you allow me I can make recompense. Please, I’m begging you, remove my shackles and I promise to do whatever you ask.’

  The silence in the room grew thicker, more dense, as if it was pulling itself together. How long had he been in here now? It might as well have been years, or merely seconds … That was the difficulty about darkness; it encompassed everything, turning it into an amorphous substance in which everything got twisted, and remembered and then lost.

  ‘Very well,’ said the voice. ‘We have looked into your wretched soul and are minded to give you one last chance. Be aware there will be no other.’ The voice softened a little and said, ‘Tak is watching you. Now you can eat your meal, which is right in front of you, and go from this place and be assured that Tak will be with you. Remember, for those who turn away there is no redemption. And when Tak needs you, you will be contacted again.’

  After a rare, well-earned evening with his wife, Moist set off the next day on the golem horse with Of the Twilight the Darkness clinging on behind him.

  As they galloped along, there was something about the golem horse that was troubling Moist von Lipwig. A golem horse was incredibly useful if you needed to get somewhere fast, that is if you liked a ride where you spent a lot of the time finding that stirrups just didn’t do the job. You merely hung on until you got there, it was as simple as that. No need to steer, NagNav did the trick: if you told it where you wanted to go it took you there. The creature made no sound, required no water or oats and simply stood patiently when it wasn’t in use.

  And then it dawned on Moist what the problem was. It was all give and no take. Generally speaking, he didn’t have much to do with the concept of karma, but he had heard of it and felt that a ton of it was dropping on him right now. The horse was all give and he was all take … But that was nuts, he told himself. A spoon doesn’t want you to say please and thank you, does it? Ah yes, he thought, but a spoon is a piece of metal and the golem horse is a horse. He hesitated, pondering. And thought, I wonder …

  Shortly before the border crossing they reached the head of the finished railway track. He and the goblin thankfully slid off the horse and a sudden impulse prompted Moist to ask the creature a question.

  ‘Can you speak?’ he asked, feeling more than faintly ridiculous.

  And the answer came back out of the air rather than from the horse’s mouth, as it were.

  ‘Yes, if we want to.’

  The goblin sniggered. Moist ignored him and pressed on with his line of inquiry.

  ‘Ah, we’re getting somewhere. Would you like to run around in meadows and generally cavort in pastures and so on?’

  Out of nowhere came, ‘Yes, if you wish.’

  Moist said, ‘But what do you wish?’

  ‘I don’t understand the concept.’

  Moist breathed in and said, ‘I saw a little stream not far back, and some green pastures and, for the sake of my soul, I would like you to go over there and gallop in the meadows and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Yes, enjoy myself, if you want me to.’

  ‘For heavens’ sake, this is manumission we’re talking about here!’

  ‘That would be horseumission, sir. And I must point out that I don’t need to enjoy myself.’

  ‘Well, do so for my sake, will you, please? Roll around on the flowers and neigh a bit and gallop about and have some kind of fun. If not for your own pleasure, then for my sanity, please.’

  He watched the horse disappear into the meadow.

  Behind him Of the Twilight the Darkness cackled. ‘What a piece of work you are, Mister Slightly Damp, freeing the slaves and all. What you think his lordship will say about that?’

  Moist shrugged. ‘He might be acerbic, but a little acerbic isn’t all that bad. He’s quite a one for freedom is Vetinari, though not necessarily mine.’

  Turning his attention to the railway, Moist was pleased to see that the work gangs, under the tutelage of Mr Simnel’s young men, were evidently making steady progress laying down the next stage of track towards Quirm.

  To travel onwards, Moist and Of the Twilight the Darkness hitched a ride on a handcar operated with gusto by two young railway workers, a curiously amusing contraption whose wheels ran along the newly laid rails still waiting to be fully bedded in.

  They passed the border with only a brief stop to deal with the formalities which were, in fact, nothing more than nodding at the guards and saying, ‘Is it okay if we cross, lads?’ Whereupon they briefly stopped digging their respective allotments and waved him through.

  Where the handcar ran out of track, they found an old man with a horse and cart waiting, as arranged, to take them the rest of the distance to the chateau. He was clearly very sniffy about having a goblin in his nice clean vehicle, even though it was only a cart.

  The Marquis was waiting for them at the chateau and beamed at Moist. His nose wrinkled at the sight of Moist’s companion.

  ‘Who is this?’ he asked in a tone a society lady might take upon finding half of something bristling in her soup.

  ‘This is Of the Twilight the Darkness.’

  Of the Twilight the Darkness gave the Marquis a smart salute. ‘Of the Twilight the Darkness, Mister Mar-keee. Nice place you got here. Veeery nice. Don’t worry about smell. I’ll get used to it.’

  After an awkward silence, the Marquis said, ‘Mon Dieu.’

  ‘Not a god, Mister Mar-keee,’ said Of the Twilight the Darkness, ‘just goblin, best there is, oh yes. Very useful, you know.’ The goblin continued in ringing sarcasm, ‘And not only that, Mister Mar-keee, I’m real. If you cut me, do I not bleed? And if you do, I bleeding well cuts you too, no offence meant.’

  The Marquis’s laughter bounced off the scenery. There was no doubt about it. The goblin knew how to break the ice. Even an iceberg.

  The Marquis held out a hand and said, ‘Enchanté, Monsieur Of the Twilight the Darkness. Do you drink wine?’

  The goblin hesitated. ‘Are there snails in it?’

  As they climbed the wide stone steps up to the terrace, the Marquis said, ‘Regrettably we don’t include snail. I know your people like snail wine but I’m afraid I ’ave none to offer you.’

  ‘Never mind, squire, will have it as it comes, please. And for record, Mister Mar-keee, they ain’t my people, they your people. I’m an Ankh-Morpork lad. Have seen the big horsefn42 and all that stuff.’

  The view in the late afternoon sun over the maquis from the ter
race was wonderful.

  ‘You have many goblins in Ankh-Morpork, Mister Lipwig?’ the Marquis asked as he poured Moist a glass of chilled wine. ‘I’ve ’eard, of course, of Milord Vetinari’s famous melting pot. And yet I am informed zat many people in Ankh-Morpork still feel very unsure about them and think that getting involved with goblins shows that ze owner is dirty! So much for the prejudices of your countrymen who are, one ’as to say, a fairly dirty lot in any case. Whereas ’ere in Quirm notre logique points out that we are cleaner. After all, Quirm is the ’ome of Monsieur Bidet! Yet another apparatus for keeping clean and yet you in Ankh-Morpork sneer at us for being dirty.’

  ‘Yes, I know, it’s deplorable,’ said Moist. ‘I did meet Monsieur Bidet, although regrettably I didn’t shake him by the hand. Excuse me? Is something wrong?’

  The Marquis suddenly looked preoccupied. ‘Someone was watching us from the tree over zere. I must ’ave spoken too loudly because ’oever it is has made ’aste to get down to the cover of the ground. He’s small, but larger than a goblin; you ’ardly ever see zem in ze trees.’

  There was a movement in the air as Of the Twilight the Darkness vaulted over the parapet and disappeared into the landscape below. He reappeared almost as quickly, saying, ‘Dwarf bugger. Have it away on toes. I spit me of him!’

  The Marquis topped up Moist’s glass and said, ‘A dwarf? Something to do with you, Mister Lipwig? Industrial espionage? One would expect the dwarfs to be keen on something like a railway … they are, after all, metalworkers and traders in ore.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Moist. ‘The clacks saw a bit of trouble a few months ago with extremist factions knocking down some of their towers, but that seems to have died down now. And there don’t seem to be many dwarfs interested in working on the railway. Something to do with the grags, I expect. The grags don’t seem to like anybody of importance in Ankh-Morpork.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the Marquis. ‘The famous Koom Valley Accord and all zat business. I believed it to be sorted out.’

  ‘So did everybody else. You must know how it is. Can’t please absolutely everybody. And you certainly can’t please the grags, however hard you try.’

  Fully refreshed, Moist and Of the Twilight the Darkness set off into the maquis to find the goblin denizens, who even if they did not, strictly speaking, own the land through which the railway would go, needed to be informed and consulted. As squatters on unclaimed land, Moist thought, they surely must have some claim to it.

  As they made their way into the scrubby and thorny landscape, Moist pondered the significance of the dwarf who had been spying on him, right here in Quirm, where you didn’t normally see dwarfs. This meant he had been followed, and that almost surely meant more than one person. During his misspent youth and, not to put too fine a point on it, his largely misspent early middle age, he’d reckoned to be conversant with the methodology of spying, and one person alone couldn’t ensure reasonable tracking of the target. What was the dwarf doing there? Where had he come from? And, more important, where did he go?

  His reverie was interrupted when Of the Twilight the Darkness stopped suddenly by a rocky outcrop which, as far as Moist could tell, was indistinguishable from several other similar outcrops they had passed already. It was hot. Very hot.

  ‘Wait here,’ said the goblin. ‘Will be back in a shake.’

  In fact it was another sweaty hour and the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon before the goblin came back along the track, trailed by a large crowd of Quirmian goblins, their numbers swelling all the time as even more of them emerged from the undergrowth.

  When it came to looks the Quirm goblins seemed exactly the same as the ones over the border in Ankh-Morpork. However, unlike the Ankh-Morpork goblins, the Quirmian goblins were dressed in a way that could only be called snazzy. They had a certain panache unavailable to their Ankh-Morpork brethren, and a whiff about them of what was probably eau de snail.fn43 Admittedly, the materials on show were effectively the same – bits of animal skin or indeed the animals themselves, birds, feathers – all embellished with sparkling stones. It was as if goblins had discovered taxidermy, but hadn’t quite got the important, nay, essential point of scooping out the messy bits first. But trust Quirm goblins to make their own haute couture.

  Moist smiled. He could see that somehow the goblin lads here in Quirm were trying to do it better, possibly because they had a better class of shaky swagger and a certain cheerful up yours look in their eyes.

  Nevertheless, they looked like a people who had been hammered hard on the anvil of fate and had been laminated with a natural bravado, which did not entirely hide their wounds.

  Moist was glad he had Of the Twilight the Darkness on his side, because the goblins of this part of the maquis clearly had no liking for humanity. Of the Twilight the Darkness now sidled up to him in his bandy-legged and sneery little way and said, ‘These people hurting oh-so bad it is. People gone. Little ones gone. Pots gone. Gone. But put big faces on it, yes. Can no more be truly goblin. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Now I give speech.’

  Of the Twilight the Darkness turned out to be the goblin equivalent of Moist himself.

  Moist wasn’t fluent in goblin, but you didn’t need to know what was being said as you watched the faces and the way Of the Twilight the Darkness waved his hands. He was, in fact, doing a number.

  Moist couldn’t make out the words, but assumed it was something like, ‘New life in Ankh-Morpork with all the rats you want and wages.’ For there they were, ideas and promises curving through the air.

  And so certain was Moist that he had picked up what was going on that he leaned down and said, ‘Don’t forget to say that in Ankh-Morpork goblins are now citizens with rights.’

  Moist was extremely pleased to see the goblin pause and look at him. ‘How you know I was talking of Ankh-Morpork, Mister Lipwig?’

  ‘Takes one to know one.’

  While Of the Twilight the Darkness delivered his speech, the goblins stared at Moist. As stares went, their eyes were not baleful or angry, they were just … hopeful, in the grudging way of people who had had to learn pessimism as a survival tactic.

  One of the goblins then stepped forward and beckoned, clearly wanting to show him something. Of the Twilight the Darkness was also nudging him to follow. As Moist gingerly threaded his way through the network of almost invisible paths in the wasteland of thorns, pools of poisonous water and occasional blockages caused by old rock falls, he noticed a crackling underfoot. Bones, he realized – mostly small bones – and in his ear were the words of Of the Twilight the Darkness: ‘Young goblins! Veeeeery tasty! A lot of good eating. Bandits thought so. But we hang, Mister Lipwig, we hang. We hang on.’

  The horror tripped its way icily over Moist’s backbone. Of the Twilight the Darkness continued.

  ‘Those bandits was hungry. Small goblins. Easy to catch.’

  ‘Are you saying they were eating the goblins?’

  The vehemence of Moist’s cry was picked up by Of the Twilight the Darkness immediately.

  ‘Sure. Easy meat. The bandit men eat anything they can catch. Rats. Moles. Shrews. Birds. Even stinky bird like raven. Eat it up. Yum. Yum. Shit out nasty poisonous stuff. Goblin meat like chicken. Miracle of nature may be not, but no use to goblin when bandits around. They don’t want much, mister, and good job, ’cos they don’t get, but like me will do any job in free air. Place to live not being killed. Yes! Hunky-dory. And no need food in Ankh-Morpork. Big Wahoonie! Rats everywhere!’

  ‘Okay, Mister Twilight, where do we go from here?’

  The goblin gave Moist a cynical look, something which is very easy to do when you’re a goblin, because you learn cynicism early and you learn it fast.

  ‘You give me half name, Mister Damp. I forgive, have mercy. This time. I ask you. Don’t do again. Is very important. Half name is shame. Challenge to fight. Know you hasty. No understanding. Will forgive you. Will forgive once, Mister Lipwig! This by way of friendly information. No c
harge incurred.’

  Whatever Moist von Lipwig was, he knew the use of the right word at the right time.

  ‘Mister Of the Twilight the Darkness, thank you for your forbearance.’

  It was beginning to rain. Sticky, lazy rain but the goblins seemed to be oblivious to it. These people are the world’s most stoical of stoics, Moist thought, albeit with a sting in their tail. I wonder what they are like when they decide, and they will decide, not to take everything on their greasy chins.

  Of the Twilight the Darkness grinned at Moist again and declared, ‘Hey you, mister big hero, mighty warrior, except, hah, these dumb buggers really think you is bee’s bollocks, think sun percolate out your arse.’

  Moist realized that Of the Twilight the Darkness’s presentation to the goblins of the delights of Ankh-Morpork and his status in the city might have been somewhat exaggerated.

  ‘What did you say to make them think that?’

  ‘These goblins need hope, Mister Lipwig. You ain’t genuine good guy, but you can pretend like no bees’ nest. I have already explained to them that you are great citizen of Ankh-Morpork and dreadful fighter.’

  ‘Well,’ said Moist, ‘at least you got one bit right. But the bandits have surely been scared off now. The goblins can stay here, can’t they? There’ll be jobs on the railway when it comes through here. They’d like that, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Bandit men come back in time. Always is bandits. These goblins can’t fly, Mister Soggy. Long way back to Ankh-Morpork line! Looks for you to get them out of here. Me? I ain’t just fallen off Hogswatch tree. You don’t carry knife, and now it night-time and you are still in maquis. Worse here than just bandits! Bad worse! Everything bad end up in the maquis and you still with no weapon. What are your orders, Mister Big Man?!’