Moist had lost all track of time after the excitement of the ambush, but what he thought must be teatime refreshment was interrupted by the squealing of brakes followed by a jerk that caused crockery to scatter all over the floor as the driver leaned on his emergency brake lever, which did little more than pit screaming metal against metal. And then the train came to an abrupt stop, overturning anything that was left upright, followed by the voice of Bluejohn from the rear of the train saying, ‘I reckon it needed pullin’. Sorry if I was wrong.’
Moist hurried towards the troll’s flatbed. ‘You appear to have stopped the train all by yourself,’ he said, and waited. You waited a lot when you were talking to Bluejohn.
And at last when Bluejohn had assembled his words to his satisfaction he said, ‘Oh, sorry, Mister Lipwig, if I broke anythin’ take it outta my wages if you like.’
Moist said, ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He leaned out to look down the track towards the front of the train. Simnel had jumped from the footplate to investigate.
‘It’s a load of kids!’ he shouted back.
Moist jumped down on to the track and ran towards Simnel.
‘Leave it to me, Dick, I can handle this,’ he said as he reached the engine. In the fading light he could see some children on the track a short way ahead, who, it appeared, had flagged down the train with their pinafores.
The eldest of the children was female and well dressed and almost in tears. She said, ‘There’s a landslide, mister.’
‘Where?’
‘Round the next bend, sir,’ gasped the girl.
And sure enough, when Moist strode along the track and looked into the gloom beyond, he saw a load of old timbers and rocks surrounded by other debris. And then the situation dawned on him. He carefully set his face like thunder and said, ‘What’s your name, young lady?’
‘Edith, sir,’ she simpered, but not properly, and he could tell that she wasn’t used to a life of crime.
Moist beckoned the girl to come closer. ‘Edith, pardon me for being suspicious, but my instincts tell me that your charming little scheme was devised so that you brave young people could save the train from derailing and then be heroes, am I right?’
The girl and her smaller chums looked miserable, but the scound rel in Moist urged him to say, ‘Well, it’s an ingenious idea, but if Lord Vetinari were to hear about this you’d be having the kitten treatment.’
And the girl smiled and said, ‘Oh, that’s nice. I like kittens.’
‘I dare say you do, but I don’t think you’d like Cedric who comes with them … Now, I admire the resourcefulness of your little plot, but people could have been hurt.’ He raised his voice. ‘Can you imagine a railway accident? The screaming of the rails and the people inside and the explosion that scythes the countryside around when the boiler bursts? And you, little girl, and your little friends, would have done all that. Killed a trainload of people.’
He had to stop there because the girl looked like death. And, if his instincts were right, somewhat damp around the legs, not weeping for effect this time but traumatized, her face white.
Moist lowered his voice and said, ‘Yes, you’ve seen it in your head now, and probably, when you think about it again, you’ll remember that you very nearly killed lots of people.’
Edith said in a small voice, ‘I’m really very sorry, it won’t happen again.’
Moist said, ‘Actually, it hasn’t happened once. Still, I’d like you to see to it that it doesn’t happen around here or anywhere else. Have I made my message clear?’
Damp and scared, Edith managed a weak, ‘Yes, sir.’ And Moist recognized true contrition.
He looked into her hopeful face and said, ‘I’ll square this with the engine driver, but if I was you I’d get my pencil and turn any clever ideas you have like this into a book or two. Those penny dreadfuls are all the rage in the railway bookshops. I hear there’s money in it, and you won’t meet Cedric that way. Oh, and don’t keep waving your pinafores at people. It could give quite the wrong idea in the dark. Now, where do you live, young lady? I haven’t seen any settlements round here, it’s all woodland.’
She curtsied. She actually curtsied. And still red-eyed, she said, ‘We live in the railway houses, just back by the water crane and coal bunker.’
‘And is your father likely to be at home?’
The girl went white again but gamely managed, ‘Yes, sir, if you please, sir.’
‘In that case, while the gentlemen back there are settling things down, I’d like to see him, please.’
And uncertainly Edith led him to, yes, the railway houses and introduced Moist to a burly but cheerful-looking man who was sitting at a table devouring bread and cheese with half a pint of beer in his hand.
‘This is my dad.’
The man put down a large slab of cheese and said, ‘Can’t shake hands, sir, I’m all over cheese, apart from what’s not all over grease. Nesmith is the name.’
‘Well, Mister Nesmith, perhaps your children might go off and play while I have a little chat with you.’
When Edith and the others had made themselves scarce at the speed of sound, Moist said, ‘You must have heard the squealing?’
‘Oh, yessir, I did, and our Jake and Humphrey were sent off to see what was going on, what with me just home after a long shift.’
‘Well, Mister Nesmith, I congratulate you for your clean and well-spoken children, but I’m sorry to say they came very close to at least disabling the new express to Uberwald.’
Nesmith’s face went grey as he contemplated a future with no work and no pension and quite probably a criminal record. Greasy tears flowed out of his eyes and he said, ‘Anyone hurt, sir? If anyone’s hurt I’ll tan their hides.’
‘Some broken crockery, and there’s work to be done to get the track cleared before we can leave.’
The big round face was contorted. ‘I can help there, sir, I can help, but I’ll tan their hides for them, you see if I don’t.’
‘No, you will not, Mister Nesmith, I’ll see you pay for it if you do, indeed I will. Look, they could have caused a terrible accident, but the important thing is that they didn’t. They wanted to appear brave, as far as I can see, and you can’t blame kids for that. However, the railway isn’t a playground. Do you understand me, Mister Nesmith? Now, if I were you I’d get out my jim crow, off shift or not, and help clear the rails. Oh, and treasure your eldest daughter: you might be grateful for her imagination one day.’
Ohulan Cutash beckoned. Moist knew it as a likeable kind of place: a little market town with the usual hinterland of farmers and lumberjacks. Some mining too, dwarfs and humans quite often these days working on the same mine and even the same seams. It was big enough to have a mayor and sensible enough to have a very good tavern called the Fiddler’s Riddle. And apparently it was a place where the current unpleasantness had not yet reached.
What Moist hadn’t expected to find, as they pulled up to the platform just past midnight, was the brass band and the flags and the Morris dancing and the fun-fair, which it appeared had been organized to welcome the first proper train to arrive at the newly constructed station and had been going on for hours.
And as soon as Iron Girder came to a stop with her last hiss, Mr Skiller, the landlord of the Fiddler’s Riddle, who turned out also to be the town mayor, began an address offering the freedom of his little town to everyone on the train. Although of course it wasn’t a little town, oh indeed not, to its mayor. It was chasing Ankh-Morpork. A little part of Moist’s brain laid a bet with itself that very shortly the words ‘on the map’ were going to be uttered.
And indeed, the mayor, large and florid as a proper mayor should be, said as Moist stepped down, minding the gap, ‘This will put Ohulan Cutash on the map and no mistake. We’re already breaking ground for a much bigger tavern with facilities.’ He looked at Moist solemnly and said, ‘You have to have facilities, these days, you know. We paid for our own clacks tower. We’re very modern
here, that’s for sure.’
Moist looked around at the cobbled town square that lay a short distance from the platform. It would have been better if it hadn’t been the middle of the night, but the mayor saw no problem with this and cheerfully pointed out to the now clustering passengers the locations of the wonderful things they would be able to see when it was daylight.
And it nearly broke Moist’s heart to say to the man, ‘I’m afraid we have to go very soon. Schedules, you know.’
And indeed, he could see the water crane pumping and could hear the rattle of the coal being delivered to the engine, but nothing could stop the mayor in his rampant hospitality.
‘But we’ve arranged for a mayoral banquet.’
‘Ah … will you excuse me for a moment, mister mayor?’
Moist had a private word with Simnel about arrangements for the next leg of the journey and then with Vimes, who nodded and said quietly, ‘Sensible. I wouldn’t mind eating off a plate that wasn’t rattling. There’s no harm in pandering to a little civic pride. The mayor is a decent cove and they’ve got a Watch of sorts. Two watchmen, not too bad in the circumstances, and I know that because I trained them.’
Moist came back to the reception committee, put his arm around the ebullient red-faced mayor and said, ‘Well, sir, I’m sure we can spare the time for a modest banquet before the dreadful pressures of the timetable force us onwards.’
They left Simnel at the station with his fellow engineers to await the arrival of the back-up Flyer, which had left Zemphis a few hours after Iron Girder. The King and Aeron remained ensconced on the train, safely guarded in the armoured carriage, busy with paperwork and plans for their arrival in Uberwald. The rest of the party followed the mayor across the square to his hostelry.
The town really had tried. Something about the mayor’s conviction that the world revolved around their town, or would do if it ever came there, had dribbled into the minds of his ratepayers, who now set to warming up marvellous dishes they had expected to be serving several hours before. And were very understanding, especially after Moist’s description of the fight along the Paps. Admittedly he had put a certain amount of shine on the episode; surely that was what shine was for? And it permeated, even into the consciousness of those who had travelled, and at one point Of the Twilight the Darkness actually stood up and made a bow.
And Moist couldn’t help himself and pointed at the goblin, saying, ‘Of the Twilight the Darkness and his gallant fellows fought alongside Commander Vimes, with great courage.’
And then Moist glanced at the commander, who puffed his cigar and said, ‘Excellent fighters, to a goblin.’
‘Oh, we like goblins,’ said the mayor. ‘They run our clacks tower. And do you know, the snail infestation in my Porraceous Sprouter patch has completely gone since they moved in.’
And there was another toast to the clacks at this point with a side order of goblins. By the time they had all processed back to Iron Girder, she had been covered with petals by the virgins of the town.fn74 The Flyer had been and gone some time before, with its crew of engineers supplemented by Cheery Littlebottom – once more playing decoy – and other good fighters. It was even now on the track to Slake, acting as a pathfinder for Iron Girder to confuse the enemy.
As Iron Girder steamed out of Ohulan Cutash, most people headed off to sleep. Moist had loaned the sleeping compartment assigned to him to two of those wounded in the battle and was now bunking down in the guard’s van, comfortable enough when you were dog-tired and Detritus wasn’t snoring. All Moist’s life he’d managed to find a way of sleeping in just about every circumstance and, besides, the guard’s van was somehow the hub of the train; and although he didn’t know how he did it, he always managed to sleep with half of one ear open. And now he savoured the familiar sounds of the journey, the rocking soothing him right up until somewhere down the line when he was catapulted into the real world by the screech once more of the locomotive’s wheels in distress, and the squealing of brakes in torment.
It was still dark outside. Moist drowsily stumbled across the flatbed as doors were being opened and feet were running in the carriage ahead and reached the armoured compartment of the King. It was empty.
There was a dwarf guard, who said, ‘The King went to the footplate.’ The dwarf looked ashamed. ‘I tried to persuade him to let me go with him, but what can you do? He is the King.’
Moist said, ‘Don’t worry, just keep this station. I’ll go and see what’s happening.’
There was a drill for this, he knew, and where was the King? That was the trouble with royalty. However decent they were, and understanding, they were also likely to think that such things as security arrangements were for other people.
Frantically searching, Moist finally dropped down on to the track and ran along to the engine, where he found the King talking to Dick Simnel on the footplate and getting covered in smuts.
Pale flames were visible ahead on the track and Simnel’s expression was grave.
‘It were just as well the King were ’ere because the decoy Flyer has been derailed ahead of us and so would we ’ave been if it weren’t for ’im. He can see in t’dark!’
‘Ah, Commander Vimes,’ said the King to Vimes, who had arrived at speed. ‘You should know about the dark-accustomed eye if any human does. There’s a long straight ahead and Dick hadn’t seen the derailment, but I did, just in time. Now, there may be injured people up there.’
And then the King was running towards the flames, adopting the traditional dwarf strategy of running at the enemy with as much weaponry as you could swing. But Vimes caught up with him and rolled him to the ground just as an explosion rattled the trees and bounced off the mountains. The Flyer’s boiler had blown up. Ahead of them now was just a warm mist and the occasional clink of stricken metal.
Vimes got the King upright and said, ‘Apologies for the lèse-majesté – though you must know that we Vimeses have gone a lot further than that in the past. You should have listened. The whole deal for the crew of the decoy Flyer was to run away as fast as possible if attacked, but not before making sure that the emergency bung in the boiler was strapped right down.’
‘Ah, yes, Blackboard Monitor, how easily we revert to type in an emergency. I’m sorry to have put you to extra trouble.’
‘That’ll teach the buggers a lesson,’ said Dick, panting as he caught up with them. ‘They’ll think twice about messing with one of my engines again.’
The crew of the Flyer were up a little gully, into which they had dived for shelter. It had once been home to frogs. Regrettably, it still was, and several of the designated bodyguards rose from the little swamp with nothing more than torn clothing and a lot of mud, some of which was hopping, but Cheery Littlebottom was as cheery as her name suggested.
There seemed to be no grags, but even as Moist looked around, an arm dropped out of a tree, still holding a club in an iron grip. And hereabouts, if you cared to look, and frankly nobody cared to do so but did nonetheless, there were several signs that grags and delvers and many others of the dark underworld had passed away in this spot, resting at peace and, thanks to the exploding boiler, in pieces.
Detritus appeared out of the gloom, saying, ‘One or two of dem was still out dere. Not any more.’ He slammed down a breastplate with a resounding clang.
‘You all right, lads?’ said Simnel to the engineers. ‘Shame about the Flyer. It hurts, killing a locomotive, and it means we’ve not got either a pathfinder or a back-up engine no more. We need to clear the track now, then we’ll pick up the scrap when we come back, to go towards a new Flyer. After all, we’re getting reet good at building these things. But any bits of micromail you find, like this here’ – he pointed at the arm holding the axe – ‘I’ll have now, mind, call it tit for tat. It’ll be another trophy for Iron Girder.’
In the grey light of dawn the trolls made quick work of clearing the track ahead. As Moist watched, he suddenly saw creatures moving in the shadows, and th
en a sad little voice in the vicinity of his foot said, ‘Please don’t hurt us, please! We live here, we’re gnomes, we’re cobblers, it’s what we do in these woods. We make charcoal and other things for sale, turned wood, excellent wooden furniture, and we try not to be in anyone’s way, but the dwarfs have been marching and we think the bad times are coming again and we’re scared.’
There was a sigh, then the voice went on, ‘You must know it’s the little people who’re the last to be thought of when great tribes go to war. My name is Slam, I’m the speaker for all the rest who are in hiding in these hills because we know how to hide. It’s a skill we’ve perfected over the years. May we be of assistance?’
‘Gnomes!’ said the King at Moist’s side. ‘I haven’t heard of them for ages. There used to be a lot of them once upon a time.’
And Moist thought, yes, these are the little people who get trodden on and left behind like the goblins! If they had a cheeky champion like Of the Twilight the Darkness, or Tears of the Mushroom and her wonderful harp, they’d become known gnomes. But the face of Slam suggested to him that the gnomes had been through the mill and come out as a very fine grist, and had been content to slip into obscurity and somehow were now drifting into a kind of sad oblivion.
He realized that the King was staring at the spokesgnome. Rhys said, ‘I knew you were around here, in the forests. What can I do for you?’
‘You could leave us alone, your majesty. Your absence. That’s what everybody needs. To be left alone. Left alone to get on with their lives and, indeed,’ said the little gnome more sharply, ‘to be allowed to live at all.’
The King stepped back along the track and put one hand on Iron Girder, still spluttering and steaming, and, like somebody taking an oath, which he possibly was, said, ‘I’ve known of you people since my childhood and right now, boyo, you may live as you like in these woodlands, and I’ll be the first to defend your right to do so.’