Free Iron Winter (Northland 3) by Stephen Baxter Page A

at the boy’s marvelling reaction. ‘We will be transported by Northlander ingenuity,’ he said, ‘but on the way we will live in a yurt that the Great Khan in
Daidu might not be ashamed of.’ For that, it seemed, was the basis of the design of the shelter, the portable houses of the nomadic tribesmen of the plains of Asia. ‘There was a scheme
to build a new caravan line east into the heart of Asia itself, perhaps all the way to Daidu. The representatives of the Khans travelled west to try out the technology.’
    ‘And so to snag their attention,’ Rina said cynically, ‘the engineers built these fake yurts on the back of caravan carriages, just to make the Khan’s people feel at
home. A blatant bit of salesmanship, Uncle.’
    Pyxeas was grumpy. ‘One must take the world as it is,’ he snapped back. ‘And anyway it worked. The pan-Asia line would have been built by now if not for the weather, and you
and I, Avatak, would be travelling to Daidu in heated comfort all the way.’
    Rina snorted.
    Avatak, his imagination snagged by the idea of crossing an unknown country in a tent as if he was a Mongol warrior himself, could barely wait for the journey to begin.
    It took a full day and night to load up the caravan. Pyxeas’ party spent the final night in their carriage, the three of them bundled up on their couches, separated by partitions of
embroidered cloth. The yurt was comfortable, though not yet heated as the engine was idle. They lit their lanterns, and they had a water tank topped up by servants, even a small stove and a food
store; it was a home from home, and Avatak enjoyed exploring more of its little gadgets. He slept badly that night, however, such was the racket of the loading.
    Not long after dawn the caravan was ready to go. As the great engine built up its head of steam the protective leather shells were stripped off and the yurts were revealed as vividly coloured
pods, scarlet and green and purple, studded between the huge grey freight cars. The passengers stuck heads out of doors to see what was going on as servants loaded final bits of luggage into the
carts, and engineers checked the strapping of the cargo bundles and the coupling between the carriages, and priests of a dozen faiths blessed the great caravan and those who would ride in it.
    The Parisans turned out too, men and women and many grubby-looking children, and vendors selling drink and food and little wooden toy caravans. The departure of such a great caravan was rare
enough that it was an event for the folk of the city. Pyxeas told Avatak that more people could travel on a single one of these huge continental caravans than lived in all of Coldland, and Avatak,
who didn’t believe everything the sage told him, believed that.
    At last there was a mighty shriek of a steam whistle that made the children clap their hands to their ears, and a growl like some huge beast, and the engine clawed its way along the track, the
carriages bumping after it. Steam and smoke billowed from the engine stack, and Rina and Pyxeas retreated inside. But Avatak hung out of the yurt as the city receded, and he looked back at the
shining curve of the caravan as it followed a great arc of rail across flat, chalky countryside, and the smoke streamed back in the bright air.
    Once in motion the yurt was even more comfortable, steam-warmed now they were under way. The first stop came at about midday, beside a small service building in the middle of dried-up farmland.
Servants hurried off the caravan and set up a kind of yurt much larger than the rest. This was a kitchen, an eating hall, and soon the passengers were served a healthy meal of fish from Parisa,
wine from Greater Greece and pickled eel from Northland. The country around the stop seemed empty enough, but there were guards, a troop of soldiers from Parisa, others from Hantilios. Their
officers set up a perimeter and kept careful watch until the caravan was loaded and on the move again.
    The