A riotous geometry of colourful stone and bronze made up Mohacs station. Just before they passed under a soaring glass roof, the double track split into eight separate sidings, the platforms either side gloriously decorated. The shades were all suggestive of autumn to Rel. Either he was influenced by the season, or the Mohaca had a sense of irony regarding their current place in the world.
The people outside were dressed in clothes from all over the Hundred, their skins were all hues: blue, black, brown, white, pink. Every sort of human being, though no Tyn. Having grown up in Karsa, Rel found their absence odd. The people were mostly wives, excitable children and their servants. Behind them an army of porters marshalled their barrows, like some pre-Maceriyan army arraying its chariots for the charge. He decided to wait for the crowd to subside before alighting.
A man bounded across the platform. Such was his exuberance that he was impossible not to notice, and Rel followed his progress until he lost him by the train. He didn’t expect him to come bursting unannounced into the carriage. Rel’s heart flipped, and his hand leapt for the sword lying on the seat.
“Mester Rel Kressind?” the man said in heavily accented Karsarin. “You are he. I have it here, marked. Your carriage, your number, your description.”
“Who the fifteen hells are you?”
“You were not informed, not told?” the man was aggrieved by this news, in the manner of men the world over who believe their colleagues to be idiots. “I am Zhalak Zhinsky! Khusiak, and honoured servant of the Glass Fort.” He clipped his heels together, and bowed sharply, snapping back up so quickly he was in danger of wrenching something.
Rel could see the man’s origins plainly. He had the ruddy skin and folded eyes of Khusiak, drooping moustaches that terminated in paired sets of three ceramic beads. Physically, he was precisely as a Khusiak should look, at least according to his storybooks, but was dressed in a keenly tailored five-piece suit, this year’s Perusian fashion. He wore it well, but the combination of man and gear was a double dose of outlandishness.
“Your journey was good?” asked Zhinsky.
“A few spectacles, a lot of boring scenery, one swift dalliance with a young woman that almost ended in a duel. It’s been a really uneventful trip. Fifteen days. If I never see another railway again, I think it will be too soon.”
This elicited a gale of laughter.
“Did I say something amusing?”
“Forgive me! Forgive me. You might change your tunes, as you say, after a few days in the saddle of a dracon. They are not quite so comfortable as all this. No room service!” he wagged a thick, calloused finger.
“I can ride.”
Zhinsky raised his eyebrows. “Maybe you think you can.”
“We are leaving as soon as possible, I suppose.”
“Yes, yes we are. You are eager for your posting? That is good!”
“Not really,” said Rel. “An unlucky guess as to our timing. My life has become that kind of parade.”
“Ah, that is unfortunate. Well, we will see how you find the Glass Fort. There is some adventure there, if one is in the mind.”
“Marvellous,” said Rel insincerely.
“Come now!” admonished Zhinsky. “I get your bags collected. I have dinner booked, very good officers club. Very fine food, very fine women. We get to know one another, you and I. We have long journey ahead of us.”
Rel stifled a yawn. “If it’s all the same to you, I would like to go to my lodgings, please.”
“This is Mohacs-Gravo my friend! Capital of the old Imperium. There is much to see here. A shame not to, a shame for you. You regret it in one month maybe, definitely after two. Much cold and boredom awaits you.”
“Thank you for your efforts on my behalf, but I am very tired.”
Zhinksy’s face darkened. “You, it is as I thought. You are spoiled, and soft! As soon as I get the summons to embassy here I decide this.” He made dismissive gestures at Rel’s clothes. “New man, new money. No nobility in your sort. You go to the Gates of the World my friend, is there any fire in you merchants’ sons? I see your sort many times heading to the Glass Fort. You are the... the...” he struggled for the Karsarin word.
Rel was so taken aback by the Khusiak’s sudden change in manner, and the accompanying insolence, he did not become angry. He stared, boggle-eyed at him, as he continued.
Zhinsky face’s was becoming an uncommon shade of purple. “Cast-offs of the world!”
“Have I transgressed some custom regarding hospitality? I have, haven’t I? Father always said I was clueless.”
Zhinsky ceased his tirade. His mouth shut. He stood back. “You have. I offer you great service, you turn it down, this grave affront to me. This not Karsan way?”
“Not really. My brother Garten is the diplomat. I’m not much good for that kind of thing I’m afraid,” said Rel. “You have my apologies.”
Zhinsky grunted, and looked Rel up and down like he was seeing some unusual specimen for the first time. “I wish to ease your journey, is all. You should enjoy this place, where we are going there is much to be bored. No women, no good drink, no theatres, shadowplay, or restaurants. If I in your boots, friend, then I enjoy civilisation like I never see again.”
“The way you say that suggests it might be a possibility.”
The Khusiak roared with laughter. “I like you! I do! Always with the joking. This is a good attitude!” His smile vanished as quick as it had come. “You will need it.”
“Very well, I suppose you are right, let us go and see the sights a little. Did you say something about women?”
“I did! I did!” said Zhinsky. He smiled expansively. His teeth were off white, slightly crooked. Two of the lower set had been replaced by gold.
“Well, lead on. But tell me, if you’re on the way to the Gates, doesn’t that make you a discard as well?”
“No my friend, it does not. We of Khushash take the Gates very seriously. We live by the Black Sands and see what live there. All Khusiaks you will meet there are warriors, not spoiled merchant boys, be sure of it! Now come, let us see how little merchant boy drinks!” He pulled a serious face. “You can drink, can’t you?”
THE TRAIN WHISTLED and slid to a jerking halt. Tuvacs was shaken awake. Thin bars of sunlight let in by gaps in the planks striped the interior of the boxcar. The others were up and muttering, gathering their belongings. Boskovin was nudging the last sleepers awake with his toe. Marko was already awake, but Lem and Julion, younger men, were fast asleep.
“Up! Up, you laggards! Get up! We’re here! Mohacs-Gravo! Mohacs-Gravo! Last stop on the line, now the real journey begins.
Whistles sounded from outside and the door slid open. A field of arms waved for attention, dozens of pauper porters. A group of them, fully laden, passed behind the clamour at the car door. Starvelings, they nevertheless bore huge loads on straps tight about their foreheads. They walked, eyes at the floor, hands clutching at ropes securing the bundles and boxes, following in single file after a fat outland merchant.
Tuvacs’ own language was being spoken. Everything was overwhelmingly familiar after so long away.
“Boy! Boy! Tell them to get away from the car. Shake yourself out of your daze and do your job!” Boskovin waved at the desperate porters.
“Go away!” shouted Tuvacs in Mohacin. “There is not work here for you, my master has his own men. Go away!”
“Please please please little brother!” they shouted. “We need work, we shall work cheaply. Tell your master, let his men rest! We have families that wish to eat.”
“I am sorry big brother,” said Tuvacs. “He will not spend his money. Begone! He is ready to use his stick,” he said, not knowing if it were true.
The porters broke up, some visibly distressed. Tuvacs’ heart was heavy. These men of Gravo were his own kind.
“Well done boy,” said Boskovin. “Men!” he shouted. “Unload!” He turned back to Tuvacs. “Are there holding areas for cargoes here?”
“Yes, I think so. I am sorry master, I have been here only once, on our journey away.”
Boskovin clasped Tuvacs’ shoulder. “Very well. I am sure there must be. You and I will find out where, and then we shall visit a kennelmaster. Do you know of one?”
“I know where they can be found.”
“Excellent.” Boskovin winked at Tuvacs. “An excellent purchase you were. Marko! Marko! Get Rusanina out. She’ll be wanting a walk.”
Boskovin jumped out of the car, then stood a moment in the bustle of the platform rubbing his legs. Tuvacs joined him. “Fair long trip, addles the head, then to be straight out into this! Still, boy, time cannot be bought, only freely traded. Marko! MAR-KO! Get me my bloody dog!” He yelled. He slapped Julion’s back. “Not there! Stack it there! I want the four of you around it all the time, this place will be thick with foreign thieves. The boy and I are going to find secure warehousing. Get it ready to move out.”
Tuvacs found a harassed looking official. The man looked down his nose at Tuvacs.
“Get on your way, urchin,” he said.
“Goodman, goodman, it is not for me I approach you. My master, from Karsa, he has business here.”
Boskovin was dealing with an altercation at the edge of the small space his men had carved out on the platform, porters trying to grab work, possibly thieves among them. His men shoved them back and Boskovin, seeing Tuvacs waving, pushed his way through the crowd.
“My master, Goodfellow Boskovin of Karsa,” said Tuvacs.
There followed a lengthy debate about the customs worth of Boskovin’s possessions. “Tools, kitchenware for the Gate and the railway there.”
“Trade goods are taxed at one in five of expected worth,” said the official. Tuvacs translated.
“No, no! Tell this blasted idiot that they’re not for sale. We’re the damned victuallers! They’re artisanal equipment, not trade goods.”
Tuvacs translated the lie.
It went back and forth like this for a while. Eventually they reached agreement, and Boskovin handed over a heavy purse of coins.
“Daylight robbery,” he muttered through an insincere smile. “I’ll bet half of it’ll end up in his pocket, bloody foreigners.”
“Please goodman,” asked Tuvacs of the official. “We need storage for our equipment. Where is there space?”
The official pointed over the heads of the crowds, out past the rail terminus. “There, down toward the east end.”
“Thank you.” Tuvacs relayed the information to Boskovin. He felt lightheaded, the noise and smell of the station dizzied him after so long in the car. And to be home...
“Come on boy! Keep it together. You’re the only thing between me and a damned fleecing at the hands of your filthy countrymen.” Boskovin spat on the marble tiling, drawing looks of ire from the Mohaca. He dragged Tuvacs back toward the train. The engine whooshed loudly, letting out clouds of steam that glittered with residual glimmer. Clouds boiled in the high glass ceilings. The wind shifted, blasted a wall of warm, sharp-smelling fog across the platform.
Tuvacs coughed, instinctively batting at the sparks of exhausted magic settling on his clothes.
The steam cleared. The men were rearranging the equipment on baggage carts, haggling heatedly in broken Low Maceriyan with the cart handlers.
Boskovin was talking to his dog. Rusanina was a magnificent dray bitch, very tall, her withers level with Boskovin’s shoulders. Her head was three times the size of Tuvacs’, her mouth full of ivory spear tips.
“Bad place, much noise,” she said. “Too much scent. Can’t think.” The dog growled out its clumsy words with patient effort, swallowing hard between every sentence. She looked over the tumult with canine disdain. Her consorts were afraid. The two smaller males stood behind her, heads bowed and tails between their legs. One let out a grating whimper.
“Sorry old girl,” said Boskovin, ruffled the beast’s thick fur. Rusanina leaned into the caress and half-closed her eyes with pleasure. “Can’t sleep yet. I need you to come with me to see the other dogs.”
“I come now?” she asked.
“Yes. We’re moving the gear first, then the boy here will take us where we need to go.”
She glanced over the heaps of material. “I not pull. Not enough dogs to pull.”
Boskovin rubbed under her chin. “No need to pull yet, my love. The men’ll pull the gear.”
Rusanina growled. Tuvacs stepped back.
“She’s laughing, boy; she finds it funny that she doesn’t have to work, don’t you my lovely?” He scratched harder under her jaw. “Don’t you be afraid of old Rusanina. She’s a gentle one.”
“I deadly when needed,” she said.
Boskovin laughed. Tuvacs did not find it funny at all. The dog looked like it could tackle a dracon and come off better.
“Come on,” said Boskovin. He laid his hand lightly on Rusanina’s shoulder. Tuvacs fell in behind him, sheltered from the chaos by the dog to the side and the merchant to the front. The crowd, dense as it was, parted magically in front of her. No one wanted to get in the way of a dray her size.
Trains hooted, there were scents of spiced Mohaca food that had Tuvacs’ mouth watering. He had been too long eating bland, rotten Karsan fare. They passed the engine at the head of their train. Steam hissed from its pistons, water dripping from spill pipes. The engineers were checking it over, noting down readings from gauges. There was a loud crack and a blaze of blue light as one of them opened the door to the glimmer chamber. Uncanny heat blasted Tuvacs in the side of the face. Rusanina barked nervously and sidestepped, her mates slunk away from the machine, walking parallel with Rusanina so that Tuvacs was walled in by high, furry flanks.
The dogs walked stiffly. They radiated animal tension.
“I want to run,” grumbled Rusanina, as if she had read Tuvacs’ mind. “Too long on train.”
“Soon my love, soon,” soothed Boskovin.
They turned right, walking now perpendicular to the trains. Tall trees grew from pots the height of a man, their leaves blackened with soot and discoloured with glimmer burn.
There were five locomotives arrayed at the terminus of the tracks. The heat of them made Tuvacs sweat. Hot metal stank up the air. The power of the glimmer throbbed from their boilers in pulses. Caught in the interference patterns created between them, a pressure built in Tuvacs’ head.
An engine blasted magically-heated steam from its pistons, sending up roaring billows either side of itself. With an ear-splitting shriek it started backwards, clanking and huffing like a dragon hauling itself from its lair. Rusanina’s mates howled and yipped. She barked at them, barely stopping them from bolting. The engine’s huffing increased in volume. It strained backwards against its load. Sounding a long, mournful note, it disappeared into a hot mist of its own making.
“This way, goodfellow,” said Tuvacs. He led them off the platform area into a less crowded part of the station. The went through a gateway whose metal scissor grille was folded back.
The cargo area was cool. After the hurly-burly of the platforms the silence was welcome. Men came and went, dropping off and picking up goods, some were merchants, others agents. Tuvacs asked one of the servants where they should go. Once there, he negotiated with a man for lockable storage. Tuvacs bargained well. The man pulled a pained face when given his payment, muttering loudly that it wasn’t enough, that he had been robbed, but he took them off down a side way. Cast-iron pillars supported many arches on either side, each gated by a folding, lockable grille. He brought them to an empty bay where he had Boskovin sign papers—Tuvacs was no help to him here, for he could not read—and handed over a key. The Mohaci narrowed his eyes resentfully at the Karsan party and strode off. The men unloaded the carts, and the cart handlers went away. Tuvacs translated, and he managed to get a deal that satisfied everyone.
“Tuvacs and I are going on a little adventure,” proclaimed Boskovin. “The rest of you’ll wait here near the station until we get back
. Julion, you’re staying with the gear for the first two hours.”
Julion groaned.
“You’ll not be here long. You’ll be relieved, you miserable whoreson! Improve your attitude, or you can sit the whole day out here.”
“Alright, Mather, alright!” he said.
“Marko, Gordan, find a tavern. Stay in it. Lem, go with them and bring Julion a drink and some food. Rusanina, have your husbands stay here with Julion. If they have to piss or take a shit, they’re not to do it on anything important.”
“There is an area for it, master,” said Tuvacs.
“Lem, find where it is, take the dogs, bring them back here.” Now it was Lem’s turn for disappointment. “You’ll be in the tavern soon! None of you are to get drunk or wander off, do you hear? No fighting, no whoring. I plan for us to leave as soon as we can. I’ll not be chasing you out of cathouses. If you’re not here when we leave, you’ll stay here. There’s a train setting out from Gravo tomorrow, and I want us to be on it. The boy here’s going to take me to find a draymen, Rusanina will choose us a good team. We’ll be back soon.”
Boskovin, Tuvacs and the dog set off. Rusanina barked harshly at her consorts when they tried to follow; they sank lower into themselves, and went to stand by Lem.
“This is all going swimmingly,” said Boskovin happily as they left the station.
“HERE SIR! HERE, the finest dogs!”
Tuvacs shook his head. “Not this one. I do not trust his face.”
“How so?” asked Boskovin.
“It is his manner, he is too desperate. He looks like he has nothing to lose.”
Boskovin nodded. “I’m getting gladder by the minute I bought your crime out, boy. What about here?”
They stopped by a kennels with an ostentatious archway made of punched metal. There was no barker outside to drag people in.
The Iron Ship Page 15