“You have a lot of children here,” said Katriona.
“Many,” said Tyn Lydar. Nothing could be read from her voice.
“They are given schooling four days of the week until they are seven. They only work two days, and have one day free every threeweek.”
“Surely everyone has the Freeday free, weekly?”
Holdean pursed his lips regretfully. “Oh no, goodlady, that is not so, but we are progressive here.”
“He means,” said Tyn Lydar, leaning in close to her, “that they are as progressive as they need to be.”
Demion laughed uneasily. “You see! It is as I said, the workers may indicate with their feet as to their preference of employer. It is not like the old days.”
“Do you have any difficulty with labour associations?” asked Katriona.
“It is precisely why we provide so much care to our workforce!” spluttered Demion. “To avoid that sort of thing.”
“But the associations have been agitating a great deal in the last three months, have they not?” Katriona was looking around the factory carefully.
“What kind of a woman have you married, cousin? Is she a yellow band?”
“She is a Kressind,” said Morthrock. Katriona glanced round at the pride in his voice.
“There are some,” conceded Holden. “But not as much as some of our competitors have suffered. Indeed, our enlightened policies to both Tyn and human worker are being blamed in some quarters for the recent disturbances.”
“You have suffered none here. I have not read of any in the papers.”
Holdean drew himself up. “We keep an eye out for agitators, we’ll have none of that here.”
“You are very interested in it all,” said Demion. “You are putting me to shame.” He tried to sound jocular, but it came across as forced.
“My father taught me to keep careful account of my investments,” Katriona said.
“My factory is your investment?”
“Marriage to you in my investment. It is to our mutual benefit that you succeed.” She watched over the humans and Tyn working at the benches. “What kind of shift pattern do you employ?”
“I am sorry?” said Holden.
“The shift patterns,” she repeated. “What kind? I did read in last month’s Engineering Digest that a greater efficiency can be achieved through staggered shift patterns.” The two men stared at her. “I read it, that is all. I am quite sure I understood it,” she said. “I am the daughter of Gelbion Kressind, he has a long interest in modern manufactory. My brother is Trassan Kressind, who they already suggest may succeed Arkadian Vand as the world’s foremost engineer. Why should I be any different? This,” she said, looking again around the workshop, “is in my blood.”
“I am surprised that a woman would be so interested in all this clatter,” said Holdean. The look on his face was annoying her. He was looking at her as if she were a pet who had performed some unexpected and wholly delightful trick.
She gave him a stare that made him step back. “It is a great surprise to me, cousin, that a man would not,” she said. “Your Tyn here are ruled by a woman, why do you find it so surprising that I, a woman also, would take an interest in the male’s world? And why, for that matter, is manufacturing and industry regarded as the sole province of men?”
Tyn Lydar chortled.
“Now, surely you have seen enough? Perhaps you agree that a mill is no place for a goodlady of your refinement?” ventured Demion.
“Five generations ago, my family was sailing cargoes of pickled fish on a single floatstone barge across to Lesser Macer and back. Any refinement I may have has been beaten into my soul by industry.”
“I see,” said Demion. He blinked in that way he had when wrongfooted. It annoyed both himself and Katriona.
“How many individual workshops are there in operation here, Master Holdean?” she asked.
“Over forty, cousin.”
“Not more? What of the others? There is redundant capacity at Morthrocksey?”
“There have been some difficulties. Competition,” he said. “We have had to let some become idle.”
“How many buildings are currently out of commission?”
Holdean looked uncomfortable. Demion coughed and flexed his spine. He looked at the roof.
“Mills three through seven, madam.”
Katriona drew in a slow breath. “What is your total number of workshops, assuming a workbench density such as I see here?”
“One hundred.”
“Very well then. Still forty then, including glimmer blend and foundry, smelters and furnaces?”
“About that, yes.”
“You see, my dear, too much to see,” said Demion, somewhat desperately.
“On the contrary, husband. I wish to see it all. Come along then,” she said when none moved. “We better be quick about it if we want to be back in time for dinner.”
Tyn Lydar gave a long, gravelly purr that turned into a chuckle. “Of course, goodlady, of course.” She fixed Katriona with a knowing eye. Katriona coloured, sure that the creature could read all her plans as if they were plainly written upon her face.
The Tyn smiled and slipped a hand into hers. It engulfed her own fingers and palm entirely. Warm, more leathery than a human hand and covered in calluses. Tyn Lydar patted her fingers with the other hand. Perhaps she could read her mind. Perhaps she did see what Katriona intended, for the abilities of the Tyn were varied. Then Tyn Lydar looked at her in a way that clearly conveyed a sentiment that made her heart skip.
Ally.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At the Gates of the World
GRAVO WAS DIRTIER, poorer, and set lower in the local topography than Mohacs, as if the landscape were commenting on their relative status. The south-eastern lip of the canyon was, owing to some quirk of geology, some hundred feet lower than the north-western.
The station had grown since Tuvacs and Lavina had fled the city. There were many more platforms, and a great number of engines. There were hundreds of people there, dozens of trains by platforms of wood and heaped earth. Pleasantly carved though the woodwork on the platform’s seats and facings were, the structures were open to the elements. There were no grand buildings. Gravo’s station evinced a marked contrast to that of its sister.
Dawn was not far broken, the light still had the brassy cleanliness of very early morning, and yet already the smokestacks of the glimmer refineries circling Gravo’s north belched out black smoke speckled with glowing motes of blue. Tuvacs drew satisfaction to see the factory’s exhaust drifting out over the richer half of the twin city.
“These are new,” he said to Boskovin. He dared conversation with his leader. Most other men who had power over Tuvacs in the past, Travnic excepted, would have struck him down for the impertinence, but Boskovin was not of that ilk. Karsans were classbound, but there was a species of easy humour that greased interactions between rich and poor. Perhaps that was why Boskovin did not rebuke him. Tuvacs was forming the impression that Boskovin was simply a decent man.
“When was it again you left this place?”
“Three years, master.”
“Yes, yes, mostly new. Boom time here in Gravo. The Mohaca try to muscle in on the refinery of the glimmer here in the east. The Maceriyans aren’t happy about it, but what can they do? ‘One Hundred as one, equal in all,’” he quoted from the Treaty of the One Hundred. “Gods know most get around all that, but the Mohaca are still powerful, and they’re putting a lot into this line. Before this, there was only the west-east mainline from Perus to the Gates, via Kasub in Khushasia, but this poses serious competition. I’ve heard it said that Gravo could outstrip Maceriya’s production of refined glimmer within five years or so.”
“We could have gone through Maceriya?” said Tuvacs.
Boskovin nodded. “That’s right. You did not come that way yourself?”
Tuvacs looked down. “I do not know, master. I was young, the journey was long.”
>
“It is much quicker, not such a detour to the south.”
“Why not then?”
“Tolls, boy. The Maceriyans slap a big fat tax on anyone heading out to the Black Sands. Damn fools are too short-sighted to see that that’s playing right into the Princes of Mohaca’s hands, they’re driving the trade south-east. In fact, if Maceriya wasn’t so central it’d be happening quicker. Still, there’s a lot of trade down this way, and if the Khushasians can get the Croshashians to agree, then they’ll continue the track up as far as Ocerzerkiya. If they can get it across the Red Expanse, we’re talking real foreign trade then.” He spat. “Actually, I’m sure the Maceriyans can see what a balls up they’re making of it, but the Rail Guild’s overly powerful in Maceriya. They won’t give up such a large part of their income easily, no matter who puts pressure on them. But they are fools. They can’t see the bank for the penny in front of them. It is very complicated.”
“I understand, master.”
Boskovin smiled broadly at him again and ruffled his hair. Tuvacs repressed his flinch. He was too old for that. He was nearly a man. Men did not ruffle other men’s hair.
“You are a bright boy. Still, best not think too much on it. That sort of thing can drive you mad. Best keep our eyes and minds on our own business.”
“There was a time when one of the gleaner gangs would not join with us to work, even though we would have made money.”
“This is similar.” Boskovin was pleased with the comparison. “Self-interest and suspicion, you see, often trump the greater good. That’s why I’m off to the Gates. Make some money, but that’s just the start. I’ll show them how it’s done. Now, let’s see if you can figure this out, bright boy. Why tools? Why don’t I just go and get a stake in a mine train, start importing glimmer sands myself?”
Tuvacs thought a moment. “Because you will be one among many, will have great distance and many strong men to contend with. Offer equipment, you can remain in one place. Those who work need tools to work with.”
“Exactly so! My, you are a rare find!” He threw a companionable arm around Tuvacs’ shoulder and hugged him close for a second. “Now, enough education for one day, let’s get our dogs on this damn train.”
Tuvacs translated as Boskovin dickered with marshalling yard men and train guards over fees. They chartered three box cars for the dogs, goods and their gear. Boskovin put one of his men on each; the luckless and ever complaining Julion moaned about having to watch the dogs again; Gordan doubled up with Marko to watch the goods. Boskovin smiled wickedly at Tuvacs as Julion grumbled his way into the dog car.
“He complains so much, I enjoy aggravating him,” said Boskovin. Tuvacs found himself grinning back.
They made for the passenger cars. People were already boarding, two hours ahead of departure. Those with fourth class tickets clambered onto the roof and staked out the best spots.
“Don’t worry lad,” said Boskovin when he saw Tuvacs looking. “We get to go inside.”
Tuvacs climbed up the boarding steps with a last nervous look over the platforms back at Gravo and shining Mohacs on the cliffs beyond. He had come back without incident. When he had arrived the day before, he had half expected Markovitzski or Kostarno to be there on the platform of Mohacs station waiting for him. Of course they were not. What did he matter to them? He had left Mohacs-Gravo behind before, and was leaving it again. He touched his hand to the folded promissory letter in his pocket. Boskovin was a good man. His sister was safe. He felt nothing for Gravo. Coming back proved to him that he had left Gravo behind.
REL’S HEAD HAD more or less stopped throbbing by the time the train departed Gravo. The carriage he was in was supposedly first class, but was as mean as any he’d ever ridden; no compartments, every inch packed with people. Those here had at least the semblance of respectability, as Guis would doubtless have put it. Guis was a fucking snob, but Rel found himself in agreement with his absent brother; this was no place for goodfolk. Narrow, uncomfortable seats upholstered with threadbare velvet faced each other and were jammed too close together. There were blinds on the windows which could be closed; for that his head would be forever grateful. And it was at least clean. He groaned and leaned his head on the cool glass. Getting through the horrendous press at Gravo was almost more than his hangover could take.
After an interminable wait, the train departed. He settled into the rhythm, trying to ignore the bodies jammed around him and find an equilibrium between being soothed and nauseated by the carriage’s movements. He had little recollection of the night before. Zhinsky had a seemingly endless supply of fiery liquor that he supplemented their drinks with. They had been to a show, something with a lot of singing that had gone on too long, and bare-breasted women. Something erotic involving a snake. Then at least four different drinking establishments. There had been a... a restaurant? He remembered food so spicy it made his mouth burn. Zhinsky had laughed at him because of that, but then he had quickly realised fucking Zhinsky laughed at him for fucking everything. There had been women too, paid for in a brothel whose dirtiness made him shudder in retrospect. Early morning, predawn, and they were howling like wolves into the great chasm of the Olb dividing the cities and pissing daringly from the edge. An overall picture of the evening then, if lacking the details.
Did he have a good time? Probably. He hoped so, because he was paying the full price.
Rel groaned. He let the train rock, let it rock. The wheels clack-clacked over the rail joins. Clack-clack. The pain in his head receded. He was left with a tight feeling in his eyes and a rolling gut, bitter saliva in his mouth. He cleared his mind, let it fill with the profundities that foreshadow sleep but flee from wakefulness unremembered.
At least Zhinsky wasn’t there.
He did not dream.
“LITTLE MERCHANT’S BOY!” boomed a voice. Rel jerked awake. His mouth was sticky and disgusting. He couldn’t remember where he was for a moment; the rocking of the train he took for an internal dysfunction brought on by drink. But that was responsible only for his head, now feeling as vast and inhospitable as a desert.
“Let me sleep,” he groaned.
“You sleep all day! We two hundred miles from Mohacs-Gravo already. You sleep it all away, farting and mumbling in your sleep! You should apologise to these good people.” Zhinsky grinned around the carriage. “I sorry for the little merchant! He had a big night.”
“Leave me be, will you?”
“Oh! Oh! The little merchant’s boy shows his teeth.”
“I’ll show you a damn sight more than teeth if you don’t lay off.”
“You think you can use this?” He kicked Rel’s sabre, then sat down next to Rel. He leaned in close. His breath smelled of the spicy food they ate last night. “Never make threats to a Khushashian sauralier, my friend, if you do not intend to carry them through.” The sauralier moved his hand under his coat. Hard metal dug into Rel’s side.
“Is that a knife, Zhinsky?” said Rel.
Zhinsky laughed. “Oh, a good jest. A good jest! I warn you, not terrify! You in foreign lands now, little merchant. I your guide, you learn culture or you be in big trouble.” He shook his head, still laughing, his beaded moustache rattling. “I give you this!” He held out his little flask, made of tin chased with geometric hunting figures. Rel recognised it from the night before. “Cure for poison is more poison.”
“That’s nonsense,” grunted Rel.
“Yes, nonsense,” said Zhinsky with an encouraging nod. “Drink, it make you feel better anyway.”
Rel took the flask. “Very well.”
He unscrewed the cap and slugged back a measure. He gasped, it was even rougher than he remembered.
“You feel better no?”
“Not really. Excuse me.” Rel lurched to his feet, slaloming toward the door at the end of the carriage as it swayed. He yanked it open, sending a blast of steam down the carriage. There was a narrow balcony at the end of the carriage. He rushed to the railing along its e
dge and was noisily sick over the side.
“Gah,” groaned Rel. He wiped his mouth with the back of his shaking hand.
Rel stood up straight. Wherever they were, it was colder than in Mohacs-Gravo, and drier and sharper than the air in the islands of Karsa. The train was moving slowly, pulling itself up a steep incline. Rel leaned out and looked forward. The hill seemed to go on and on, so long that his mind tricked him into seeing it flat.
The door banged. “We go up! Up!” said Zhinsky.
“Right. Thanks for that.”
“Do not complain little merchant boy. You feel better, no?”
“Well, well. Actually...” Rel took a deep and shaky breath. “I do.”
“Good! Good! Have another drink. You feel better still.”
Rel gestured to his mouth. “I, you know, the...” He made a little vomiting gesture.
“Ach! It do not matter. Drink!” He thrust his flask at Rel. “Properly now!” admonished Zhinsky as Rel raised it delicately.
Rel took a big pull. He flapped his hand, gulping when it threatened to return, but the liquor stayed down.
“You feel even better now, yes?”
“Yes. Thank you, goodman Zhinsky.” Rel held up his hands to ward off the flask, proffered a third time.
“Suit yourself.” Zhinsky glugged back four times as much as Rel had and let out a pleased sigh.
“We travel north now for more than two thousand miles,” explained Zhinsky. “These great plains of Mohaca, many battles here once between Khushash and old Imperium of Mohacs. But they never conquer us!” he said proudly. “When we cross River Mohak, then we are in my country.” He gave a satisfied nod that encouraged agreement. “There is no better place in all the world!”
The Iron Ship Page 18