Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Three more descending switchbacks bring them to a narrow canyon that seems to wind due west, although it is so narrow that the three ride in shadows, ice still filling the crevices on the left side of the road, and the light of the midday sun only apparent on the clifftops when Dorrin looks straight up. Kadara wraps her cloak about her more tightly.

  “Up ahead are the guard towers. Keep your hands away from your weapons,” explains the trader.

  “Guard towers? We’re still in the mountains,” Kadara says.

  “Who said a town had to be on the plains?” asks Liedral.

  Shortly the canyon widens to reveal a stone wall rising nearly a hundred cubits, punctuated by an iron-bound gate. A handful of soldiers with crossbows are stationed on the ramparts, and several weapons are trained on the travelers. Outside the gate, beside a stone sentry box, stand two men in quilted gray uniforms.

  Liedral reins up the cart and waits. So do the three from Recluce.

  “Ah… Trader Liedral. Who are your companions?” The tall man with the high-pitched voice and shoulders even broader than Brede’s marches over to the trader, who has climbed from the cart seat.

  “Two guards and a healer.” Liedral nods to Dorrin.

  “Well, he does have a staff and that look about him. And they are definitely guards. And you, and your father before you, have always been truthful. Such a pity. It has been a such a long time since my men were able to practice on real targets. Even the White guards do not venture down our canyons.”

  “They will, sooner than you think, Nerliat.”

  “So said your father.”

  “He was a little premature. They took Hydlen first, and Kyphros.”

  “There are no mountains to block their passage into Spidlar.”

  “True. We will see. May we enter the secure haven of Axalt?”

  “There is the matter of the road tariff, trader.”

  “Ah, yes. The tariff.” Liedral’s hands do not move toward a purse.

  “Since the guards are armed, that would be two coppers each. A copper for you, and nothing, of course, for the healer.”

  “Could I claim the guards were students?”

  “Liedral… even as students of the blade, it would be two coppers.”

  “Ah, well, Nerliat. Five coppers it must be, I suppose. Did you know that the great wizard of chaos is raising mountains in the high plains between Gallos and Kyphros?”

  “Tales without substance,” snorts the squad leader.

  “I wish it were so. I have seen the new mountains, smoking lumps of black rock, burning on the horizon.”

  “Kyphros is far from here.”

  Liedral shrugs. “The Kyphrans thought Fairhaven was far, too.”

  “Five coppers, trader.”

  “As you wish.” Liedral removes the coins from the purse.

  Nerliat gestures, and the outer gate rumbles open to reveal an inner portcullis, which, in turn, lifts almost silently. Liedral climbs back onto the cart and flicks the reins. Dorrin follows the trader, and Kadara and Brede follow Dorrin through the fifteen-cubit-high gate.

  Once through the walls, nearly forty cubits thick at the base, Dorrin looks at the third set of gates, already swung open. Behind them the portcullis drops and the outer gate closes.

  “How long has that stood?” asks Dorrin. “No army could take that wall.”

  “Longer than my family has been trading, and the western gate is just as imposing. But it doesn’t matter. How could it stand against a wizard who could raise or topple mountains?”

  “I don’t understand that,” asks Brede. “Why would a White Wizard waste all that power raising mountains? What’s the purpose?”

  “Who knows?” snorts Kadara.

  Dorrin frowns. “That would take a great deal of ability and power. Anyone with that much ability probably wouldn’t do it frivolously.”

  “Perhaps it’s to prove his power,” suggests Liedral, turning the cart to the right and down a stone-paved and inclined road. Beneath them, still a hundred cubits lower, the town sits in the midst of a valley still covered primarily with patches of snow punctuated with gray and brown.

  “It’s just because he’s more evil, and wants to destroy things. At least that’s what your father would claim, Dorrin,” suggests Kadara.

  “I suppose so.” Dorrin gently rubs his cheek, which aches from where his staff thumped him. Why does his father insist that the Whites are so evil? Certainly the White Wizard who tracked them is powerful-so powerful that Dorrin felt almost like a fly about to be squashed. But… there hadn’t been an evil presence, just the white of chaos. And is chaos evil-or merely chaotic?

  “So would Lortren,” adds Kadara, shifting in her saddle as the four ride around another descending turn in the wide stone road that leads downward into the valley.

  Only a hundred or so dwellings dot the wide valley surrounded by the steep cliffs. To the west there is a single gap in the cliffs. “This place looks like it was created by magic.”

  “I know!” exclaims Brede. “It makes perfect sense.”

  “What does?” The squeak of the cart wheels punctuates Kadara’s question as Liedral guides the cart around another wide descending turn.

  “The wizard. Why would a wizard want to show his power, but not use it on a town?”

  “I don’t know,” snaps Kadara. “I’m hungry. Just answer your own question.”

  “If he uses it on a town, then he’s destroyed the town.”

  “So what else is new?”

  Liedral and Dorrin grin at each other.

  “The White Wizards have enough problems with chaos spilling over and tearing down things. You can’t run a kingdom if you have no kingdom to run. What happens if he raises mountains and shows that he can level a city-and then asks the Spidlarians or whoever to submit to Fairhaven? They still have the city and the taxes or goods or whatever.”

  “Hmmmmm…” muses Liedral.“That’s fine for the Kyphrans, but the Spidlarians are pretty stiff-necked. So are the people here.”

  “Still-whatever battles the Whites don’t fight…” suggests Brede.

  Brede has a point. Then, Brede has always been quick to understand.

  “This is mighty Axalt?” asks Kadara.

  “This is Axalt,” affirms Liedral, “and, believe it or not, it will only cost a few coppers for a good room at the inn-and they’ll have enough rooms. They like to encourage travelers.”

  “What about drink?” inquires Brede wryly.

  “Wine, mead, brandy-probably half silver a mug.”

  “That’s more than the cost of the room.” Dorrin flushes as he realizes he has declared the obvious.

  “There had to be a catch,” Brede muses. “And I suppose everyone’s thirsty? What about water?”

  Liedral grins, and Dorrin smiles at the trader’s expression. “The water’s free, and good. But neither blades nor traders are fond of water.”

  Liedral turns the cart through the last switchback and directs ‘it toward the pair of two-storied buildings ahead. The one on the right side of the road bears a sign with the image of a tan mountain panther. The one on the left bears the image of a horned black mountain goat. “We’ll stay at the Black Ram. It’s quieter.”

  “Is there any real difference?” Kadara rides up alongside the trader.

  “Not much-except the clientele. Even the stables are similar.” She drives the cart past the stable and turns into the yard behind the Black Ram.

  Two stableboys bounce out onto the clay.

  “Is the front corner stall free?” The trader’s light baritone is hard.

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I’ll take it, and anything near for my party’s horses.”

  “Would you like grain, too, for the horses?”

  “How much?”

  “A copper a cake, ser.”

  “Two cakes a copper, and we’ll take four cakes.”

  The two look at each other, then nod. “In advance, if you please.”
<
br />   Liedral climbs from the cart. “You bring the cakes, and I’ll come up with the coppers.”

  The cakes appear almost as quickly as the trader speaks, even before Dorrin can dismount, although Brede and Kadara are already following the one stableboy toward the stalls.

  “Saddles you can leave,” advises Liedral.

  Dorrin leads Meriwhen after the others, toward the stalls. He manages to get her unsaddled and the saddle and blankets racked not much after the others, just in time to gather his gear and staff up and trudge after the trader into the inn.

  Inside the pine-framed doorway is a foyer ten cubits square. On one side is a counter that sits before a curtained arch, and behind the counter stands a bald man with a long face and a white pointed goatee. The goatee and white eyebrows are the only hair upon his head.

  “Trader Liedral. You would like your usual room? Alas, that corner is taken, but the north corner is available.”

  “The north would be fine. What do you have for the healer, here, and a room for two blades?”

  “Two or three rooms?”

  “Two,” states Brede.

  Dorrin purses his lips.

  “Two more I can do. Three would be hard.”

  “You’re that crowded? Since when, Wistik?”

  Wistik raises his eyebrows. “It does happen. Some Sligan shipwrights are here.”

  “Timber?”

  “Rumor has it that Fairhaven is commissioning another fleet, perhaps two.” Wistik looks at the three from Recluce, then inclines his head to Dorrin. “Your pardon, healer.”

  I Dorrin inclines his head to Wistik. “No offense taken, innkeeper.” »

  “In any case, trader Liedral, as you know, one must sell what one has to sell. Oh, and the room charges?” Wistik smiles politely.

  “Two for each room.” Liedral sets two coppers on the desk.

  Dorrin adds his two, as does Brede. Wistik lifts an eyebrow, then adds, “Your party has the north side, trader.”

  “Thank you, Wistik.”

  “And I would recommend the lamb stew. The goat pies are a trace strong.”

  Dorrin shifts his pack and saddlebags, lowering his staff to follow Liedral through the archway to the right of the counter and up the narrow stairs. He tries to ignore the handholding between Brede and Kadara and concentrate on hanging on to his gear.

  As Dorrin stumbles off the stairs, Liedral smiles sadly for an instant at him before turning down the hall toward the north corner.

  XXXI

  “WHAT’S SPIDLAR LIKE?” asks Dorrin.

  “A bit like everywhere else in Candar,” Liedral muses. “Except their Council still hasn’t knuckled under to Fairhaven. They’re stiff-necked, even more so than Axalt. And they’re basically orderly. That might be because they’re all merchants and traders.”

  “I wouldn’t think of merchants and traders as orderly,” Dorrin says, swatting at a mosquito that whines behind his neck.

  “Did you put on that lotion?”

  “I forgot.” Dorrin twists in the saddle in an effort to reach the right saddlebag. As he holds the front rim of the saddle with his left hand and unfastens the buckle with the right, the mosquito attacks, and Dorrin slaps it with his left, nearly falling off Meriwhen and onto the cart.

  The trader’s hand covers a laugh.

  “Are you clowning or trying to get yourself killed?” Kadara’s voice is sardonic, but Dorrin senses her concern.

  “Some of each, I guess.” Dorrin finally extracts the flask from the saddlebag, managing to keep Meriwhen on the narrow road. “You never answered my question about why traders are orderly.”

  Liedral eases the cart to the right as the road narrows, the right wheel barely clearing the rocks. Dorrin drops back until they complete the turn,

  “Honest and orderly traders make more money, especially away from Fairhaven. I couldn’t exactly tell you why. Probably because people trust them. Spidlarian traders have a good reputation-shrewd but honest. But they have trouble around here. The traders tied up with the White Wizards-they’re mostly Certan and Lydian-have too many advantages. They can use the great roads with lower tolls, and the port at Lydiar. Belonging to the Fairhaven guild means you don’t pay fees in each city; and you can sell in Fairhaven itself, and that’s a big advantage.”

  “How come the Spidlarians don’t belong?”

  “The Spidlarians are mostly seafarers and don’t need the great roads, and the White Wizards didn’t want trouble with Analeria, Kyphros, and Spidlar at the same time.”

  “But Kyphros is part of Gallos,” interjects Brede from behind the cart.

  “Tell that to the Kyphrans,” Liedral snorts.

  “And Spidlar has managed to avoid knuckling under to Fair-haven.”

  “For nearly two centuries… until the Whites finished their damned road through the Easthorns. Your founder Creslin slowed that down a bit, I understand. But, with this mountain-building business, the Spidlarians are worried-or they ought to be.”

  “Why do they care? It sounds like all they do is buy and sell. Fairhaven would still let them do that.”

  “They’d have to do it Fairhaven’s way, and the Spidlarians want to sell their way. They sell everything-even soldiers. Probably more Spidlarians work as mercenaries in other parts of Candar than serve in the Council’s army. Somehow, it’s almost a disgrace to be a professional soldier in Spidlar.”

  “But it’s all right elsewhere?”

  “I didn’t say it made sense.” Liedral lifts the reins, urging the cart horse onward. “Besides, they get paid more elsewhere.” She glances at the thicker clouds to the west. “I’d really like to be clear of the hills before that rain comes in.”

  “Hmmmm…” Brede pulls at his chin. “That might mean the best blades are also elsewhere.”

  “I don’t like this,” offers Kadara.

  “You won’t like starving, either.”

  “What about Dorrin?”

  The healer shrugs. “Most places, they need healers. I’d rather work for a smith, though.”

  All three look at the thin youth.

  “I’m stronger than I look. Even your father said so.”

  The trader’s eyebrows lift, even as Liedral’s eyes flicker again to the clouds.

  “Hegl was a smith. He taught me a lot.”

  “Did all three of you grow up together?”

  “No,” Brede says. “I met them later.”

  “Why are you worried about the clouds?” asks Dorrin, edging Meriwhen closer to the cart.

  “There’s still a lot of snow and ice in the rock.” Liedral glances back toward the ice-tipped peaks of the Easthorns, back in the general direction of Axalt. “Warm rain-and that’s what’s coming-could melt it quick.” The low ice-edged stream runs less than three cubits below the road.

  “How much farther?”

  “Until midday. The clouds will be here by midmorning.”

  “The rain won’t start melting things all at once.”

  “Let’s hope not.” Liedral flicks the reins. “We need to get out of the canyon before it rains hard.”

  Dorrin nudges Meriwhen.

  They have covered another five kays before a fine mist begins to fall, so fine that the rock walls facing north begin to take on an icy sheen.

  Liedral picks up the pace, pushing the cart horse on the straight stretches between curves. “Just a few more kays,” the trader mutters as the cart wheel scrapes the canyon rocks yet again.

  “Until what?” asks Brede.

  “Until we’re safe. From the flood, that is.” A drop of warmer water splats on Dorrin’s nose. “It’s raining.”

  “We’ve noticed.” Kadara shifts in her saddle and closes her jacket, dropping slightly farther behind the cart. Brede eases back with her, and the hum of low voices is lost in the growing hiss of the rain and in the rushing of the small river to the left of the road.

  As they plod through the rain, the river cuts deeper into the stone so that, another th
ree kays toward the hilly plains of Spidlar, the road runs nearly thirty cubits higher than the waters.

  “We’re past the worst, praise darkness. And just in time.” Liedral points to her right.

  From the road, Dorrin follows Liedral’s finger. Almost as he watches, the water begins to rise, climbing until the bottom of the canyon is filled with white froth. Occasionally, a blackened tree bounces across or emerges from the froth, only to be swirled under. The rain pelts down, seeping under his collar and oozing down his back. “How long will this go on?”

  “Why don’t you tell us?” asks Kadara.

  Dorrin’s flush is lost in the wind-swirled rain. He sends his perceptions into the storm, the way his father taught him, but can only sense the heaviness above and around them. “Too much water,” he gasps.

  “So it will continue for a while?” Brede asks.

  “Unless it blows over. There’s a lot of water in the clouds.”

  “There always is,” Liedral points out. “Here, at least. We might as well go on. It’s coming from the west.”

  Dorrin hunches into his jacket and follows Brede and the trader’s cart, occasionally blotting his forehead. The canyon walls have begun to widen, and their slope lessens with each rod that the four travel downward. At least the rain has also carried away the mosquitoes.

  XXXII

  THE THREE DAYS of rain have subsided into an afternoon mist falling over Kleth, seeping down the stone walls framing the now-muddy waters of the River Gallos. An occasional chunk of ice bobs past. Liedral finishes inspecting the ties on the cart and steps back to the dock, eyes traversing the three from Recluce, pausing slightly at Dorrin before glancing back at the riverman by the tiller. She hands two silvers each to Kadara and Brede. “I wish it could be more, but you will recall…”

  “We enjoyed the company and the guidance,” Brede says.

  “Be sure to tell Jarnish that I sent you. I’d come, but the rivermen wait for no one.”

  Kadara’s eyes go to the wide river scow tied to the pier, rubbing up and down against the worn wooden guides with the swells of the rain-swollen river.