There was water, oh yes, but mostly underground, and prospectors and rock hounds were said to send down buckets to dredge water from the depths of the caves.
It was slightly easier to find water on the uplands hubwards of the tundra, where there were icy streams courtesy of the Everwind glacier, making it possible to raise goats there. And so goats were what young Knut’s family had bred and milked and minded down the centuries. And when the goats were eating what passed as grass on these highlands, he would sleep and dream of not chasing goats over a near-barren landscape. He had liked it at first but he was growing older and something was telling him that there was a better life than watching goats eat their lunch … once, twice and sometimes thrice. Sometimes the faces they made were an entertainment and sometimes he laughed. And yet a yearning in him told him that goats were not enough.
And so it was, when the long sound echoed across the tundra, that he hurried to see what was making the wonderful noise and saw a shining streak snaking its way over the landscape in the early morning light; and it was heading his way. He wondered if it was anything to do with the strange bars of metal laid carefully on the tundra below by the gangs of men some weeks before. He had run errands for them and sold them his mother’s cheese, but he couldn’t really understand what it was they were doing and since the goats stepped carefully over the metal strips without harm he had given up wondering. But as far as he could make out from what the men had said, it was all for a wondrous thing that could go around the world on a flash of steam, and now he wanted to know more about this singing beast coming over the tundra, occasionally spitting fire.
Knut scrambled down off the hillside to where the air was warmer, leaving the goats, and ultimately traced the noise to a kind of big shed. And just as he got to it, the creature, carrying people inside it, broke out of the shed and hurtled away along the metal rails. He watched it until it had entirely disappeared. And later some of the townspeople told him it was what they called a ‘locomotive’, and in his heart the yearning started and began by degrees to grow. Yes, there truly were other things than goats.
Having spent a long afternoon and evening alert for anything un toward while Simnel and his lads lay dead to the world, Moist in his turn had slept soundly all night and now dozed right through the morning, rocked by the motion of the train as she steamed on from Slake across the valley of the Smarl, dreaming of the bridge over the gorge at the Wilinus Pass, never a picnic at any time, that was looming up fast like a tax demand.
Anything could happen before they entered that dry-land maelstrom of sliding rocks, falling rocks and, well, rocks full of bandits of all disciplines. To coin a term that might fit the circumstances: it was like running a gauntlet with no shoes — a gauntlet full of rocks. And even pebbles had bad attitudes at that altitude. Moist winced at the thought of the place.
The train hurtled on through the vast landscape. A huge amount of space, oh yes, but not many towns, just the occasional settlement. There was so much space everywhere and Iron Girder ate it up like a tiger, attacking the horizon as if it were an affront, stopping only if it was known that water and coal were available. You could never have too much of either.
By the middle of the day, the mountain ranges of Uberwald were getting closer and the air was getting colder and Iron Girder’s pace had settled to a steady climb through the foothills towards their destination.
Lonely goatherds could be seen on the trackside, and amongst the people staring at this new mechanism there was a definite outbreak of dirndls. In every township they passed people were ready for them with flags and, above all, with bands that wheezed and oompah’d as the crowds cheered Iron Girder on her way. And, yes, as the train came past slowly and carefully you had to watch out for the little boys running after her, following the dream. It was a sight to yodel for.
And now Moist noticed that Simnel was looking increasingly worried and took the opportunity of one of the engineer’s rare breaks from the footplate to speak to him privately.
‘Dick, Iron Girder is the best locomotive you’ve ever built, right?’
Simnel wiped his hands on a rag that had already seen too many greasy hands and said, ‘She surely is, Mister Lipwig, we all know that, but it’s not Iron Girder I’m fretting about. It’s that bridge over t’gorge. We’ve done everything we can, but we need more time. There’s no way the bridge will hold with all the weight of the train an’ all.’
‘Well now,’ said Moist, ‘you have the loggysticks and the knowledge of the weights and the stresses and all the other sliding rule business and that’s telling you one thing, but I’m telling you now that if the bridge is still not secure when we get there I propose that Iron Girder will fly across the gorge with you and me on the footplate. You might call it a sleight of hand, even a trick, but we will fly.’
The engineer looked like a man who has been challenged to guess under which thimble the pea is, and knows deep in his boots that it will never, ever be the one he selects.
‘Mister Lipwig, are you talking about magic here? I’m an engineer, I am. We don’t ’old wi’ magic.’
And suddenly Moist’s voice was as smooth as treacle. ‘Actually, Mister Simnel, I think you’re wrong in that. You believe in the sunshine, although you don’t know how it does it. And since we’re on or near the subject, have you ever wondered what the Turtle stands on?’
Dick was cornered and said, ‘Ee, well, that’s different. That’s just how things are meant to be.’
‘Pardon me, my friend, but you don’t know that. Nevertheless you go to bed at night quite happy in the belief that the world will still be there when you get up in the morning.’
Once again, Dick tried to get a grip on the proceedings, still wearing the look of a man certain that whichever thimble was going to be picked up it wouldn’t be his. A given in the scheme of things.
‘So we’re talking about wizards, then, Mister Lipwig?’
‘Well … magic,’ said Moist. ‘Everything is magic when you don’t know what it is. Your sliding rule is a magic wand to most people. And I know some kinds of magic. And so I’ll ask you, Dick, have I ever let you down in any way during our time on Harry King’s business?’
‘Oh no, Mister Lipwig,’ said Simnel, almost affronted. ‘I see you as what my old granny called full of fizz.’
Moist caught the fizz in the air and juggled it.
‘There you are, Dick. I believe you when you say that the numbers on the sliding rule are telling you things. In return I’d like some trust from you. No, please don’t use your sliding rule for this. It’s the wrong tool for the job. I know something … Not exactly magic, but extremely solid … and with what I have in mind, by the time we get to the bridge you’ll think we’re riding through the air.’
Simnel once again looked as if he was about to cry. ‘But why won’t you tell me?’
‘I could,’ said Moist, ‘but Lord Vetinari would have me dead.’
‘Eee! We can’t ’ave that, Mister Lipwig,’ said Simnel, shocked.
Moist put an arm round Simnel and said, ‘Dick, you can perform miracles, but I propose to give the world a spectacle that’ll be remembered for a very long time.’
‘Eh up, Mister Lipwig. I’m just an engineer.’
‘Not just an engineer, Dick: the engineer.’
And as Simnel cherished that thought he smiled nervously and said, ‘But ’ow? There just isn’t enough time and there aren’t enough men, neither. Harry King has brought out all his ’eavy-duty workers from the city and the plains and so I don’t know where you’ll get more support from.’