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‘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.’
‘Well,’ said Moist, ‘I’ll have to be like Iron Girder. I’ll just whistle.’
Simnel laughed nervously. ‘Ee, Mister Lipwig, you’re a sharp one!’
‘Good,’ said Moist, with a confidence he wasn’t entirely feeling. ‘We should be ready by dusk.’
Just then Iron Girder let loose a little bit of steam and Moist wondered if it was a good omen, or possibly a bad one, but it seemed to him to be an omen anyway, and that was enough.
That afternoon, in an attempt to distract his thoughts, Moist decided to tackle something that had been niggling at the back of his mind ever since they had left Sto Lat. And for that he needed to talk to Aeron.
The King’s secretary was slim for a dwarf, almost nimble and quick, and decidedly ubiquitous, his long beard following him like a banner as he went about on the King’s business. He carried a sword, not traditionally a dwarf weapon, and had acquitted himself well during the attack on the train at the Paps of Scilla.
Choosing his moment carefully, Moist waylaid Aeron in a place where they could talk privately.
‘Mister Secretary, I have to ask whether all is quite as it seems with the Low King.’
