Railsea

“Not quite now,” Caldera said. She closed her eyes.

“Soon though,” Dero said.

“Not quite now,” Caldera said. “But now we know what happened, now you told us, we have a job to finish. Don’t look surprised, Sham. You heard what we’d been saying. You knew we’d have to. I think that’s why you came to show us the picture.

“You didn’t think we’d leave Mum & Dad’s work unfinished, did you?”

THIRTY-SEVEN

THE DUSTMAID WAS AS CROWDED AS MOST DOCKSIDE drinkeries, loud with the electronic chirps of games. Sham watched the salvors gathered by the bar. They weren’t wearing their salvaging clothes, but even their downtime outfits marked them out—reconstructed finery from ages of high fashion up to which humanity had long since failed to live. He got close enough to hear them spouting their Salvage Slang—they called each other Fren & Bluv, they talked about Diggiters & Spinecandy & Noshells. Sham mouthed the words.

“So,” Robalson said. “Your captain like her books, then?” He swigged from the drink Sham had bought him. It was called Trainoil—a concoction of sweet whiskey & stout & molasses that was simultaneously disgusting & rather nice.

“Yeah,” Sham said. “Thanks again for, you know, yesterday.”

“So, what’s your story, Sham? How long you been at rail?”

“This is my second trip.”

“There you go, then. People like that, they can sniff noobs. I don’t mean no offence, it’s just how it is.”

“So,” said Sham. “Are any of your crew here?”

“This ain’t the sort of place they drink.”

“They go to special pirate bars?”

“Yeah,” said Robalson at last. He said it quite deadpan. Raised an eyebrow. “Special pirate bars.”

MUCH LATER than he had intended, when the frenetic drumming of the song “Jump Up All You Train Ruffians” came on the jukebox, Sham shouted with pleasure & joined in the rumbustious chorus. Robalson sang, too. Other customers watched them with combined disapproval & amusement.

“Disapprovesalment,” Robalson suggested, when Sham pointed this out.

“Amduseapproval,” said Sham.

“Sham,” Robalson said. “If you keep up like this you’ll get us kicked out. What is it with those salvors, anyway? Ever since you come in you been eyeing them like they’re worm meat & you’re a badger.”

“I just, you know,” Sham said. He wriggled in his chair. “The way they dress, the way they talk. What they do. It’s—Well, it’s cool, ain’t it? I wish …”

“You was talking to one in that hall, weren’t you? That woman.”

“Yeah. Something Sirocco. She was lovely. Bought me a cake.” Sham grinned.

“Don’t you think,” Robalson said, “there’s someone out there on the railsea on a salvagetrain, & all the time when they pass moletrains they’re like, ‘They do such more exciting stuff than me.’ ”

“Don’t know,” Sham said.

“They’re like, ‘Oh, imagine being a doctor’s assistant on that train.’ ”

“Give me their address, I’ll call them to swap.”

“Plus, didn’t I hear that your captain has a philosophy?” Robalson said.

“So?”

“So ain’t that something to aspire to? I bet salvors are probably a boring bunch.”

A man & a woman in the corner of the bar were watching the two young men. Sham eyed them. Not salvors, he thought. They saw him see them, looked away. His whole body froze up, stiff with a sudden memory of hiding under the cart.

“I met a couple of people who I think might be,” he said. “Salvors. Sort of salvors.” He narrowed his eyes. “They weren’t boring. Believe me. A brother & sister.”

“Oh, that rings a trainbell,” Robalson said. “The Shoots? The Shrikes? Soaks?”

“How d’you know?”

Robalson shrugged. “I listen to stories. There’s enough of them about. There’s one about an oddball brother & sister heading out on some hunt to the land of bleeding Green Cheese or whatever, Engineday next. Whispers are that someone wants after them. On the lookout for imaginary treasure.”

Sham had crept away from the Shroakes, this time, by routes they had suggested, that took him away & back into the town without drawing the attention of the watchers that were undoubtedly there. He blinked at what Robalson was saying. Robalson himself seemed uninterested in the rumours of state attention he was, unthinkingly, recounting.

“I just don’t see it,” he said. “About you, I mean. You think you want to be a salvor, but I’m not even sure you do.”

“Funny,” said Sham. “That’s what they said. & what about you, then? What do you even do, Robalson?”

“What do I do? Depends on the day. Some days I wash decks. Some days I clean the heads & oh my oily hell I’d rather get smacked into the godsquabble. Some days I do better things. Know what I saw today? Something from the upsky fell, about a month ago. Onto a beach in the north. They keep it in a jar, charge a few coppers to see it.”

“It’s alive?”

“Sham. It fell out of the upsky. No it’s not alive. But they keep it in vinegar or something.”

“But anyway you know that ain’t what I meant,” Sham said. “Which is your train?”

“Oh,” said Robalson. “Never you mind.”

“Yeah,” Sham said. “Whatever.” Fine. Let him play his mystery-boy games. “The upsky,” Sham said distractedly. “The grundnorm. The horizon. All these edges. What stories d’you know about, y’know, the edge of the whole world?”

Robalson blinked. “Stories?” he said. “You mean, like, Heaven? Same as you, probably. Why?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know if they was true?” Sham said, with sudden fervour, an intensity that took him quite by surprise.

“Not really,” said Robalson. “For a start, they ain’t, they’re just stories. For a second, if they are true, some of them you don’t want to be. What if it’s true that you should shun it? What is it they say’s there? A universe of sobbing, is it? Or, a crying treasure?” He shook his head. “It don’t have to make much sense to know it ain’t good. Angry ghosts? Crying forever?”

THIRTY-EIGHT

THE OWNERS OF THE MEDES WANTED THE COIN & credit that molemeat & fur & oils would bring. They didn’t care whether or not Naphi caught this, that, or the other particular mole. Except just perhaps that certain events would mean an increase in the power of her name, & that kind of brand recognition might mean income for them.

They were passing rare, captains who not only had their ultimate quarries, their nemeses, but who actually snared them. Like all Streggeye youth, Sham had been to the Museum of Completion, seen the famous flatographs of women & men standing on the mountainous carcases of philosophies: Haberstam on his beetle; ap Mograve on her mole; Ptarmeen on the sinuous mutant badger Brock the Nihil, beaming like a schoolchild with his dead