The Iron Ship (11 page)

Guis shrugged. The accompanying smile was a little sour.

“Well!” said Garten with forced cheer. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “We’re all here now, that’s the important thing. Three Kressind brothers in one place at one time, that’s worthy of celebration.”

“We’ll all be together tomorrow,” said Trassan ruefully. “Rel’s getting kicked out of the country. I assume you’re coming to see him off?”

“I did hear,” said Guis. “Any idea why?”

“Ah,” said Trassan dismissively. “He fucked the wrong man’s wife, is what I heard. They’ve had him banged up for a fortnight in the regimental prison. Big fuss about nothing if you ask me.”

“He’ll be missing Katriona’s wedding.”

“I can’t help but think that was intended,” said Trassan. “Alanrys is a sod, no matter what father thinks of him. There’s something going on there. Father pulled some strings,” said Trassan. “Apparently it was before the wedding or fighting Ocerzerkiyan corsairs.”

“He’ll be halfway across the continent in a week,” said Garten.

“Katriona will be livid,” said Guis.

Trassan huffed in agreement. “She is.” He picked up a pewter salt cellar and fiddled with it. There were few objects Trassan would not worry at. He was a devil with knickknacks.

“Leave it be!” Guis scowled; it settled into deep lines worn into his face by its many predecessors.

“Have you still got it then?” asked Garten. “Let’s say hello.”

“It’s not a pet,” said Guis sharply. “It’s a fucking great pain in my arse.”

“If you were nicer to it, then it might not be,” said Garten.

“Are we getting drinks here or not?” said Guis, desperate to change the subject.

“No sign of that girl,” said Trassan. He dropped the salt cellar. It rolled on its bulbous side in a slow arc, spilling white grains upon the wood. “Hang on.” He stood up and shoved his way out of the booth.

“Tyn! Tyn!” said Garten softly. “Are you there? Come out. It’s me, Garten. Come and take some salt.”

“Name not Tyn,” said a small, papery voice, somehow managing to make itself heard. A patron, sat at the head of a nearby table, glanced over uneasily.

“I’ve got to call you Tyn. If you don’t like it, tell us your name.”

“Name not tell,” said the voice. “Name not mine to tell. Not yours to know. Name not tell. Geas.”

Garten tugged off his glove and licked his fingertip, dabbing up salt from the table. He held it up near Guis’s shoulder. “Come on, I’ve got salt. Come out.”

The thing in Guis’s hair blew a raspberry, but came forth nonetheless. First a spindle-fingered hand parted Guis’s hair like a curtain. Then a face emerged on a neck as delicate as a grass stalk. He was as ugly as could be, a hairless bat crossed with some goggle-eyed ape. Its nose was all twitching folds and frills. A roar of laughter from a nearby table sent it darting back. It emerged again, ever so timidly. Then with a sudden rush it scampered off Guis’s shoulder and ran down his arm, hopping from the table onto Garten’s outstretched hand. It was tiny, the size of a small rat, yet possessed of humanoid anatomy in miniature. It wore no clothes but for a tattered mouse fur loincloth and a pair of pointed boots. A topknot tied in a bow of red thread was the only hair on his scalp. The arms were disproportionately long, the hands and feet big. A delicate chain ran from a twist of iron wire at its neck to a fastening on Guis’s necklace.

Tyn stood in Garten’s palm for a moment. He flinched at every sound. It looked up at Garten, asking for approval. Garten nodded encouragingly. In a flurry of movement Tyn pounced on his finger to lick greedily at the salt. Garten laughed at the sensation.

A gasp at Garten’s shoulder. He turned to see the serving girl, her hand to her mouth, lips and eyes wide and white. Tyn spun around in fright and shot up Guis’s arm.

“My brother’s pet,” explained Garten.

“It is not a pet,” said Guis darkly.

The girl continued to stare.

“Can we order, do you think?” said Garten gently. The girl nodded.

“Where is Trassan?” said Guis.

“Who knows. Let’s get him a drink and some food.”

“And what if he’s already on his way back here with some drinks?”

“Then we’ll have two drinks apiece. That’s a lot less than I intend to drink. I have children, a wife, and a patron who demands I be available at all hours. I don’t get out much,” said Garten.

“How is Charramay?”

“I don’t get out much,” repeated Garten flatly.

Guis laughed.

“Oh do fuck off,” said Garten, which only made Guis laugh more.

T
RASSAN FORGOT ALL
about finding the girl. The god was watching him, ruddy cheeks split by a knowing smile. In the museum Eliturion seemed smaller. Out in public he was immense. His drinking cronies followed his gaze, and soon Trassan was being stared at by a table’s worth of drunken men.

“Good evening, Trassan Kressind!” boomed the god, waving his arm in an arc over the heads of his friends. “You sought me at the museum today. Here I am. You wish to ask me something, so why do you not ask it?”

His fellows made loud noises of agreement. “Ask him, go on! Ask him! We’ve been hearing all about you!”

Trassan ignored them. If there was anything to be offended about, he could be sure Guis would have become offended by it on his behalf. Trassan put on his most confident smile, and stepped nearer.

“They tell me you know all that is to be known.”

Eliturion inclined his head. “One might say such a power lies within ambit of the god of drama. For what is history but a story done, the present a story in the telling, and the future a story yet to be told?”

“‘Drama is truth, not fact’,” quoted Trassan.

“So said Damarteo of Hethika,” said Eliturion.

Trassan smiled back and bowed slightly.

“Very pithy,” said the god. “But balls. Damarteo of Hethika was an enormous tosser, and I knocked him on his backside for it two thousand years ago. There is no such thing as absolute fact, only truth. Truth is to be found only in story. I am therefore, the master of what is to be known.”

“Tale-telling more like!” shouted one of the braver bravos.

“That is exactly what I said, dunderhead. Hush now.” Eliturion clucked irritably at the man.

“That is nonsense,” said Trassan. “Damarteo has it quite the other way around.”

“And as I said, Damarteo of Hethika was a tosser. Go on then, Trassan Kressind. Are you going to ask me or not?”

“If you are the master of truth, by your own reckoning, then surely you know what I wish to ask you?”

Eliturion snorted. “Of course, of course.” He let out a godly belch, thunderous and pungent. “But you have to ask. There are rules, even for me.”

“Then I shall ask. Will I be successful in my venture?”

“And why do you ask that?”

“You know why I ask. You are being evasive.”

The god essayed a sly smile. “Perhaps.”

“Will I be successful?” pressed Trassan.

Eliturion stared at Trassan for an uncomfortably long moment. The god looked right through him and out the other side, like his head was hollow and his eyes glass windows.

“That very much depends on your definition of success, young man.” The god sat back. “There you go, one question, one answer. You got what you wanted.”

“I beg to differ,” said Trassan hotly.

“Well then, you got what you asked, which is what you get if you don’t phrase your questions to a god right. If you do not have what you wanted, choose your words more carefully next time,” Eliturion smiled benevolently at his cronies as they roared with laughter. Trassan did not think it so funny.

“Such a thing, when a god requires toadies,” he said.

Eliturion barked out a laugh. “When did a god not require toadies? What is a worshipper if not the worst toady of all? These men at least are honest in their sycophancy. They ask nothing of me but to drink with me and hear my stories! Gods take and give little in return, and what their caprice furnishes their worshippers with is often very far from what they desired. As you, my friend, have just discovered. You are fortunate, to badger me in the pub. No entrails or priest’s fees or other humbug to be dealt with. Why do you think old Res Iapetus chased out my brothers and sisters? No man likes to bend his knee for no reward.”

“You remained, and you still have your worshippers.”

“Do not provoke me, Trassan Kressind.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Only if you hear it so, I am not one for threatening. If you don’t like my sooth speak to my cousin. He might prove more enlightening, if you survive the experience. All I want is a good time. Forever. I don’t like to be annoyed. It prevents me from enjoying myself.”

Trassan gave a wide and mostly sincere smile. He bowed deeply. “And I merely jest, for it is known far and wide that of all the creatures who walk upon the shivering earth, Eliturion, last of the gods, enjoys jesting most.”

“You know your mythology. It’s all bollocks. Still.” Eliturion sniffed and raised his giant cup. “Your health sir.”

“And yours,” said Trassan.

Trassan rejoined his brothers. Their drinks had arrived and Garten was tipsy.

“Where you been then?”

“Talking to a god!” said Trassan grandiosely.

“We ordered you some food,” said Garten.

“I hear you’ve some mysterious project on,” said Guis.

“Not mysterious, but freely known!” said Trassan. “I have been engaged by Arkadian Vand in the construction of the world’s first oceanic iron ship.”

“Ah yes, I did hear. But brother, will it not sink?” said Guis archly. “Being made of iron?”

“Floatstone doesn’t sink,” said Garten. “And that’s made of, you know, stone.” He hiccupped. “Excuse me.”

“Floatstone’s full of holes,” said Guis.

“Ah, then it should sink the quicker,” said Garten.

Guis and Garten clanged their tankard and glass together.

Trassan shook his head. “Funny. An iron pan will not sink when placed in water, but displaces the water, allowing it to float. We are harnessing this phenomenon to create a ship of unsurpassed size and power. It is nothing new. There are several smaller vessels plying the Olb on the mainland made solely of metal. Only this is of unsurpassed scale.”

“Unsurpassed excepting the three that sank.”

“Details,” said Trassan. “And mine is still bigger.”

“How are you going to power it?” said Guis, genuinely intrigued. “Glimmer engines? How’d you get enough to make it move? How do you keep it fuelled?”

“Could just use normal steam,” pointed out Garten. “Like Tallyvan Landsman, he’s making quite the fortune on coal-fired steam, so I hear.”

“Got to get the coal, got to carry it. How do you manage that? It’d require a whole new supply network,” pointed out Trassan.

“True,” said Garten. “You could make one.”

“Logistics bore me.” said Trassan. “There is a new procedure. A new type of engine, that will carry enough fuel and enough power to drive a ship the size of a town.” He leaned in close. “I designed it.”

“How’s it work?” asked Garten.

Trassan’s eyes flicked back and forth between his brothers, as if debating whether to reveal his secret. “Iron.” He said finally. “Iron that holds a glimmer charge.”

Guis slapped the table “Now I know you’ve gone crazy. They’re inimical to one another.”

“Not if the iron and the glimmer are treated and combined in precisely the right manner, not if the iron is married with silver iodide. Silver is the glimmer metal. Iron can be encouraged to hold a charge if alloyed with silver iodide under strictly controlled circumstances. Strike the alloy, upset the patterning, and it produces a steady stream of glimmer energy as the iodide decays.” Trassan became animated, sketching the process in the air with his gloved hands. “The glimmer is released slowly. As it encounters the iron, it is annihilated, generating great heat. Hot enough to make the iron cells glow red hot. If you array them in battery, introduce water... Well, I need not describe the potential of superheated steam.” He went on to do so anyway. “Imagine, the force generated by water heated not to evaporation, but to three or four times that. Even five. I believe we can reach as high as six, but it puts a terrible strain on the machinery.”

“Seriously?” said Guis, placing his glass back on the table.

“I can say no more. There will be an announcement soon. Vand wanted construction underway before the methods are revealed. We can’t hope to keep it secret forever, but we can keep it secret long enough to be the first to use it.”

Guis looked at him for a long moment. “You haven’t actually got it to work properly yet, have you?”

“Well...” said Trassan reluctantly.

“I know you,” Guis said. “You’re playing a longshot. Does Vand know?”

“Of course he knows!” said Trassan, his face sharp. “Look, the technique works. The hypothesis has been proven. I’ve had fifteen alchemists replicate the results, not charlatans mind, but proper magisters. There is a problem in scaling up the production, but such things only remain problems for a short while. You should see the power you get out of these devices, gentlemen! It’s going to change the world.”

“Once you crack the problem,” said Guis speaking his gently mocking words into his wine glass. “Good luck.”

“Does this have to do with what you want to talk to me about?” said Garten.

Trassan became uncomfortable. “Yes, but I cannot discuss it here, I’m sure you understand.”

He said this to Garten, but truly it was addressed to Guis. Too late, for the elder had already taken offence. Trassan would tell one brother, but not the other. From such things spring discord among siblings.

Guis struggled to shrug it off. Trassan would have a perfectly good reason, he told himself. One that would come out once whatever deal he needed to do with Garten was done. But a nagging sense that his brother did not trust him to keep silent soured his mood, if only because he would not trust himself to keep a secret either. His good mood blackened. He retreated within himself, a snail withdrawing from insult within his shell. His grin froze, becoming something wolfish. His eyes would not meet theirs. From this alone it was hard to tell he was offended, but his manner changed, losing its diffidence, becoming caustic. This was not an impression gained from his words or his actions, but rather something felt, like a switch in the wind, and was all too obvious to his siblings. The conversation dragged on for a while, family matters, jokes that fell flat. The others probed Guis about his doings in the Stoncastrum, but this most verbose of men bit his words hard when upset and they were reluctant to leave his mouth.