The Iron Ship (59 page)

“Nearly there, goodmage!” cried out his coachman.

Sure enough, not five more minutes passed before he found himself deposited by the side of stone docks a bare decade old, full of oily water. He climbed down from the coach with his battered carpet bag, and placed his top hat on his head. Vols’ footman jumped from the back of the coach and made himself busy taking down his master’s bags; a trunk Vols had thought looked suitably nautical when he had bought it, but now worried looked like a silly affectation, and two suitcases.

“Sorry about the weather, master,” said the driver. “The smogs are bad and getting worse, but they are not found often on days other than these. Cold, and still. A bit of wind off the ocean will blast it all away.”

“Thank you, Gerrymion,” said Vols. His voice was high, somewhat lispy thanks to his prominent incisors. While at school, he had encouraged his classmates to name him ‘Red Fox’. They chose ‘Red Rabbit’ instead. It had stuck.

He tossed a purse up to his man. “Stay a night in the city if you wish before heading back, although I ask that you find somewhere of cleaner air for the sake of the poor hounds.”

Gerrymion, whose face was wrapped twice about and tightly in a thick scarf, nodded in agreement. “Aye master.”

“Now,” said Vols, to both the footman and the driver. “You all have your instructions. I will direct a sending to Goodwife Meb if I require collecting. Make sure she rests after taking it! I do worry for her. Tell her not to exert herself in my place. Any enchantments requested or that fail can wait, please do make that very clear to her. She tries to do too much.”

“That I will, master,” said Gerrymion.

“Where should I put your bags, master?” asked his footman.

“Put them by the door.” Vols pointed to the entrance to the shipyard, big as a pair of castle gates. “Have some of Kressind’s men deal with it. Then get yourselves out of this fog.”

“Like the hellgods themselves are breathing all over us master, if your illustrious ancestry had not driven them all away.”

“Just like that, Gerrymion,” said Vols wearily. “You and the rest take care, keep Holywend well for me. With luck and fortune I will return home in no more than eighteen months.”

“I’ll be here and waiting. If you says, then that’s what’ll be.”

“The future is not for me to see, Gerrymion,” said Vols. “It is not for anyone.”

“Right you are, master. Is that it, master?”

Vols looked glumly about the city. He clutched his carpet bag tighter. “Yes, yes it is, I suppose.”

“Don’t much like the look of it.”

“The ship probably looks better. You may go in and see it, if you wish.”

“No thank you master, it’s not for me,” said Gerrymion.

“Then goodbye, Gerrymion.”

“Gods’ speed, master.”

Gerrymion clambered down from the carriage and went to a small dock officer’s box by the quayside. They could only see it at all because it was painted a bright white. Yellow lamplight shone from its windows, blurring its outline into the fog.

Why, wondered Vols, as he walked to the hideous, high-sided shed looming over the docks, did people still persist in using such turns of phrase as “Gods’ speed”. There were no gods. There had been no gods for two hundred years, not what any right-thinking man would think of as gods, at any rate.

Although, he reflected angrily, if it had been down to him and not his great-grandfather, they would all be overrun by the bloody divine bastards. Of that there was no doubt.

He rapped on the door with his cane, and presently was admitted by a man who was expecting him, and greeted him with many smiles.

The high door rolled shut. The building, wrought of stout girders and crinkled sheets of metal, must have been three hundred feet high from footing to roof; a boxy crane hanging from rails rolled overhead, a cargo net full of bulging sacks descending toward the unseen deck.

The city had been noisy, but deadened. Inside the shed the sound of industry threatened to break Vols’ head open like a hammer hitting an egg. Scaffolding, mainly it appeared to his untrained eye to facilitate access for painters, climbed up the side of the ship. Three-quarters of the craft was painted white and black, the rest was the dull grey of uncoated metal.

He dropped his carpet bag and stared up at the ship. His neck arced back to an uncomfortable angle before his gaze reached the gunwales high above. Never in his entire life had he been in the presence of so much cold, magic-killing iron. The sheer presence of it was almost more than he could bear. The taste of rust crawled down the back of his nose.

“If you’ll wait here, master, I will fetch foreman Tyn Gelven,” said the man. “There is another magister here at the moment, perhaps it would be pleasant for you to become acquainted? I am sure they might break their tour so that you may join them.”

Vols gave the man a long stare by way of reply. He coughed uncomfortably into his hand.

“I will be right back sir.”

“Master Vols Iapetus?”

Vols followed the voice toward the floor. A male greater Tyn, one of the water clans he thought, looked back.

“Hello? My friend! Are you alright?” A man in the robes of a magister stood behind the Tyn. He appeared pained but cheerful.

“So much iron,” Vols croaked. The taste of it made him cover his mouth.

“Aye, it is difficult. You’ll get used to it,” said the Tyn. “And there’s shielded quarters aboard for those as are sensitive to it.”

He held out his hand. Vols took it limply. He felt the jolt of the Tyn’s etheric presence. The handshake of the magister was similarly charged, although less powerful.

“Tullian Ardovani,” the magister introduced himself with a bow. He had pale brown skin and a clipped accent, something of a song to it. Cullosantan, or Vols was a Tyn himself. “I find it a little too much myself,” said the magister. “But I cannot depart! I have been here many times, but I have never seen it so close to completion. Such vision to apprehend. I must see it all. It is a fascinating machine, with much resourceful application of the magisterial engineering arts. So impressive!”

Vols ran his eye over the ship again. “It is not finished?”

“No, goodmage, but it shall be soon, mark my words,” said the Tyn.

Vols would rather take the word of a dog over a Tyn.

“Stocking of the vessel is well underway,” said the magister. “Do you have more bags? Is there anything more I can do? Forgive me, master Tyn, I have been here only a day and yet I feel comfortable. I do not mean to overstep the bounds of my position.”

“No harm done, Goodmagister Ardovani. All hands on deck, as I am sure you will grow used to hearing.”

“You have been to sea before?” asked Vols. His soul felt leaden, his skin clammy. His stomach churned. He leaned on his cane.

“No, goodmage, have you? We Tyn are not great voyagers.”

Shifty little bastard, thought Vols. Never trust a Tyn! His mother had said over and over again.

“And there have been no sea trials, no testing? I was told we are to depart in a month.”

“Everything has been tested. Sea trials are due to begin next week. Goodfellow Kressind has been assured of a positive outcome in his pursuit of a licence. All in the national interest,” said the magister.

“Whose nation?” said Vols suspiciously.

“I am afraid there was little else we could do,” said Tyn Gelven. “But we will be prepared once the time comes.”

Vols nodded dumbly. “I... I am afraid I feel a little faint. Could you perhaps find me a glass of water?”

Gelven called for water. It was swiftly brought.

“My dear fellow! You do appear ill.” said Ardovani. “Perhaps I should take you to our lodgings? Until the vessel is ready to set sail, we are lodging at the Blue Dracon. It is well situated for our kind, on the edge of the docks. Water is on three sides. The clientele can be a little rowdy, but the positioning lessens the strain of being around quite so many people.”

“And so much iron,” said the Tyn. In spite of his own nature, the Tyn appeared unaffected by it.

“We are not of a kind, you and I,” said Vols. He intended to speak haughtily, but it came out as a feeble croak. “I am the scion of the house of Iapetus. You are a magister.”

“He is mageborn, as are you,” said the Tyn. “All of us here feel the weight of this ship, beautiful though he is.”

“Of a lesser quality,” insisted Iapetus. “Magisters are not mages.”

“Some could be, but I could not. You are correct, goodmage. This vessel is a greater problem for you than I. The might of the individual dictates the effect of iron.” Ardovani bowed. “I bear you no ill will. The relations between our orders are testy, ours need not be. Perhaps over the course of our coming acquaintance I can convince you of the beauty of rational magic, for industry is a magic of itself, and the efforts of such as I only help to gild it, as this ship demonstrates so finely.”

“Will is the master of reason, not vice versa,” said Vols. He winced inwardly at the weakness of his voice.

“Another article of faith to debate. But we shall leave all that for later. We will have plenty of time to talk. I see you must rest.”

“Will we now,” said Vols, who had no intention of society with either Tyn or magisters.

“Oh yes,” said Ardovani pleasantly. “We are to bunk together, as the sailors say.”

Vols’s made a quizzical face.

“We are sharing quarters, you and I,” said Ardovani. “With the Tyn.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Winter is Over

“T
UVACS
! T
UVACS
! G
ET
up, you lazy little prick!”

The door rattled to Julion’s pounding. The flimsy frame of the building shook, the canvas of the roof rippled.

Tuvacs yawned and opened his eyes.

“Get up! We’re late.”

Suala stirred next to him. She smiled sleepily and reached for him. Tuvacs pushed her hand off. “I’ve got to go,” Tuvacs said. Five months at Gate Town and he had gained a good grasp of her language.

“Get a move on!”

“Will you cut that out?” he shouted, switching to Karsarin. “You’ll have the door off the hinges!”

“If that gets you up quicker, so be it,” said Julion. But the pounding stopped, and he retreated away from the door, his footsteps crunching on ice.

Tuvacs hauled himself out of bed. He was warm under his coverlet and blankets beside Suala. Outside the bed the cold made him wince. He dressed quickly.

The residual heat of last night’s fire radiated from the small stove at the back of the tent. Here his clothes were arranged around it so they at least were passably warm. He pulled them on quickly over flesh already goosebumped. Undertrousers, thick overtrousers, two layers of socks, a linen tunic, over that a woollen and then a fleece coat with the hair turned inwards. He felt as big as a cow under all the clothes, but he’d freeze without them.

He emerged under a sky so clear his eyes watered at the sight of the stars.

Gate Town and Railhead in winter were half the size they were in summer. Miners and railworkers from the Black Sands came off the desert to wait out the snow in better climes. Many of them went home for the winter. Enough stayed to make it worthwhile for the likes of Boskovin to remain. It had been a good time for Tuvacs, and a stable one for Boskovin’s trade. His mobile saloon miraculously found a semi-permanent place on a siding close to the centre of town. Firebowls and a canvas roof on poles had made it bearable to sit outside, even as breath froze into beards. Boskovin’s aggressive pricing strategies helped business be brisk, if not exactly profitable.

“About bloody time!” said Julion. “Have fun last night?” he leered.

“None of your business. Thanks for the gentle wake up.”

“You are getting later.”

“I was working until four this morning. What were you doing?”

“None of your fucking business.” Julion had grown a beard. All of them had, it being nigh on impossible to find water hot enough to shave with, and it kept the wind from their faces. Tuvacs’ was a poor, wispy effort. Julion mocked him for it daily.

“Boskovin wants the dogs fed. He’s got another shipment of brandy and whisky coming on the three o’clock.”

“I know, Julion.”

“Good for you, you little smartarse. You’ll be wanting to come down and look over the boxcar, we’re moving out today, back to Railhead.”

That did surprise Tuvacs.

“Yeah, you heard right. Near Mine is reopening. There’s talk of the rail crews going back out to begin the spur out to the Deephollow deposit. Can’t you see?” He nodded to the sky. A pure blue line gathered over the mountains, morning preparing to storm the walls. “It’s getting warmer. No snow clouds over the mountains for a week. That’s the way it is out here. When that happens, you can be sure as sure no more is coming. Get out from the mountain shadow, you’ll see the first green shoots in the plain. Real pretty it is,” he said sarcastically. Julion was not a man for the glories of the natural world.

“In Mohacs-Gravo, winter is not over for another month.”

“Yeah, well you’re not in Mohacs-Gravo now, are you?” Julion was delighted to know something that Tuvacs did not, and was not about to let the opportunity to enjoy his ignorance go by. “Further north here, eh, you little shit.”

He clapped Tuvacs on the back, a rough action that was half shove.

“You’ve got half an hour. We’ve a lot to do. Boskovin wants us out at the railhead on the first train before the crew arrive. Get the best spot. Kiss your little girlfriend goodbye. Winter is officially over. It’s time to get back to work properly.”

A day of work was what Julion promised, and he delivered. Tuvacs spent his time hacking ice from the box car’s wheels. By noon, the sun shone and water trickled from icicles on the bottom of the car that had lasted the winter out. That done, Tuvacs and Julion went to feed the dogs. They yipped and howled when they saw the two men, Rusanina greeted them with dignity, nuzzling Tuvacs affectionately, and giving Julion a cold, dismissive stare.

“She doesn’t like you,” said Tuvacs. “They smell bad. Are they alright?”