Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Vaos will want to go with you.”

  “He’s your helper.”

  A smile creases the smith’s sweating face. “He followed you to begin with. Rek’s my helper. Rek’s a good boy. Likes the forge. Vaos likes you.” Yarrl shakes his head as he brings the iron back to the anvil.

  Dorrin again lifts the sledge.

  “When would be best for you?” Dorrin asks later, after the base of the cart crane goes into the long special slack tank that they have built for it.

  “You have to do what you need to, young fellow.”

  “I can still come here and help with the heavy work.”

  “You would, I think.” Yarrl lifts the crane base, his shoulders straining, and sets it on the back of the forge. “If I need you, I’ll let you know. You take care of that little trader woman before she gets in trouble the way Reisa did.” Yarrl looks into the dimness behind his workbench.

  Dorrin waits, rubbing his forehead. Somehow, he feels flushed. He wishes he that the aftereffects of the fever would pass more quickly. He is sleeping more, and working less, and getting impatient in the process.

  “The world doesn’t like strong women, Dorrin. Especially the Whites-they don’t at all. I wanted to protect her, but she wouldn’t have me then. Then she said a one-armed woman was no good as a wife. Bunch of cowdung… take her armless… but don’t you tell her that.” Yarrl looks back at the bench. “Need to do that arm now. Check the fire, would you?”

  Dorrin smiles. Yarrl has never asked him to check the fire, and the request is a tacit acknowledgment that he is a smith in his own right. Perhaps a lowly one, but Yarrl is a good smith, and Dorrin values the request, and the approval it conveys.

  XCIII

  As HE WALKS by the bookcase, the White Wizard tucks the folded parchment back into the folder that sits in the top shelf: He pauses by the window, enjoying the temporary warmth of a sunny day in early winter as it flows into the tower room.

  “What was that?” Anya stretches in the white oak chair, somehow making the movement more than just a stretch.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “A letter.” Jeslek’s eyes straying to the mirror on the table.

  “Don’t tell me you’re getting love letters?”

  “I don’t appreciate the levity.” Fire appears on Jeslek’s fingertips. “It has to do with the trouble in Spidlar.”

  “Trouble? The great Jeslek admits there is indeed trouble in Spidlar?”

  Jeslek’s lips tighten. “Sometimes, Anya. Sometimes…”

  “You are so serious, dear wizard. You really need to unbend.” She eases out of the chair in a sinuous movement and steps up behind him, close enough that she blows gently on his neck, then kisses it, slowly, warmly.

  A faint smile plays across his mouth as Anya’s lips warm his neck, and as her hands reach for his white belt.

  XCIV

  THE CREAK OF the wagon as it jolts over the frozen ruts in the yard rides over the even blows of Dorrin’s hammer, as he deftly maneuvers the hot set to cut the iron into the fish-shaped pieces necessary for the compasses for Jasolt. Cutting the iron is easy, and arranging it to be magnetic is no harder than forging black iron.

  He nods to Vaos, and the boy pumps the bellows lever.

  For Dorrin, the hard parts of the compass are ensuring the watertightness of the copper casing-although the seeking arrow floats in oil and not water-and not bending the copper rivets on which the needles turn.

  He brings the hammer down-on the fullered iron, and the hot set cuts through the iron that is almost parchment thin. While he could use shears, the cut is cleaner with the hammer, and his shears twist thin iron. He needs to remake them, but he has not yet had time.

  Another creak reminds him of the wagon outside. With a sigh, Dorrin sets the iron on the forge bricks. He walks to the smithy door, and Vaos follows.

  The cold air is refreshing, and Dorrin wonders if he did indeed make the smithy a shade too snug. Still, at least Vaos doesn’t freeze in the cooler weather.

  Petra and Reisa sit side by side on the wagon seat. Both are smiling, but wind carries the white steam of their breathing toward the stable.

  Vaos looks up at Dorrin. The smith steps toward the two women.

  “You’ll need this sooner than later, we figure,” Reisa announces, vaulting off the wagon one-handedly. Her boots thump as she lands on the clay that is nearly as hard-packed as that in Yard’s yard-but only because it is frozen.

  “Need what?” Dorrin walks forward to help Petra down, but she already has set the wagon brake and is walking briskly to the tailgate.

  “A decent bed, of course.” Reisa grins.

  Dorrin blushes.

  “This one Yarrl got years ago from Hesoll’s widow, and it’s been in a corner ever since. It might need some new fittings in a couple of places, but that’s something you can certainly handle.” Reisa uses her hand and other arm to open the tailgate.

  Petra lowers the gate to reveal the cargo. The high headboard is carved red oak, with matching scrolls on each side. A footboard mirrors the design on a smaller scale.

  “Wow…” murmurs Vaos. Then he looks at Dorrin. “Maybe I could have your old bed?” He grins.

  “Scamp!” Dorrin looks from Reisa to Petra. “All of you… but why?”

  Reisa shakes her head. “You know why. You still give a great deal, beyond the ironwork. We all felt that you-and your little trader lady-would need this.”

  “Liedral?”

  “She’ll be here sooner or later,” affirms Petra. “You don’t even look at your red-headed friend anymore.”

  “He writes the trader when no one is looking,” volunteers Vaos.

  Dorrin glares at the strawberry-haired imp.

  “It won’t be long,” Petra says. “Not if he’s writing love letters.”

  “Let’s get this bed inside,” suggests Reisa, “before we all freeze.”

  “Where do we put Dorrin’s bed?” asks Vaos. “Don’t we have to move it out first?”

  “All right, all right,” Dorrin concedes. “You can put it in your room.”

  The youth bounces onto the porch. “Does that make me a striker?”

  “Vaos! Don’t push it.”

  “Yes, ser. I’ll take care of the old bed.” The youngster scampers into the house.

  “You have your hands full with that one,” says Reisa dryly. “Somehow, I imagine you were like that.”

  “No…”

  “You would have been if you hadn’t been raised on Recluce.”

  As they speak, Vaos bears out the pallet section of Dorrin’s narrow bed. “This is great-a real bed.”

  Petra stamps a booted foot on the hard ground. “This ground is hard. We’d better not drop Dorrin’s bed.”

  “Yes, daughter.” Reisa grins.

  Dorrin turns toward the wagon and takes one side of the massive headboard.

  XCV

  THE RAIN, WHICH began as snow, has turned back into snow by the time Dorrin has finished his latest toy forgings and banked the forge. He pauses at the door to Vaos’s small room, but can hear only a faint snoring.

  Then he walks to the outside door, still ajar because the smithy stays too warm in the early winter. From there, he looks across the ridge toward Rylla’s cottage, but all the windows are dark. He closes the door and makes sure the latch catches. His steps drag as he walks through the snow to the porch and the kitchen door.

  Although he can see objects well enough in the dark-most born of Black families can-he has trouble with finer details, like writing. He lights the small oil lamp on the wall, opens the cover on the cooling tank, barely above freezing with the water from the high spring, and pulls out the jug of cider. So far his design of the tank as a continuous flowing system that carries the water to the pond below has kept the water from freezing and limited the well in the yard to quench water for his slack tanks.

  After pouring a tumbler of cider, he takes down the thicker box
filled with manuscript pages, followed by the quill and inkwell, and glances idly through his efforts at describing order, starting with the almost presumptuous title page-Thoughts on the Basis of Order.

  All physical items-unlike fire or pure chaos-must have some structure, or they would not exist…

  Because all wrought iron has a grain created from the forging of its crystals, the strength of the iron lies in the alignment and length of the grain. Using order to reinforce that grain is the basis for creating black iron… Its strength lies in the ordering of unbruised or unstrained grains along the length of the metal…

  He nods and begins to pen the words he considered earlier. Now, when he forges most items, he can also-sometimes- think of other things.

  If order or chaos be without limits, then common sense would indicate that each should have triumphed when the great ones of each discipline have arisen. Yet neither has so triumphed, despite men and women of power, intelligence, and ambition. Therefore, the scope of either order or chaos is in fact limited, and the belief in the balance of forces demonstrated…

  Dorrin pauses. Does the fact that no triumph has occurred show that-or merely that no one of great enough power to do so has yet arisen? He takes another sip of the cider. There is so much he does not know.

  XCVI

  “You NEVER COME here much, anymore,” Pergun looks into the half-full mug of dark beer.

  “I was sick for a while, you know.” Dorrin sips redberry from his mug.

  “That was eight-days ago. You still work too hard. What are you doing now that you have your own place? Just the toys?”

  “No. I still help Yarrl with heavy pieces, and he passes off some work when he gets too busy. I did a few copies of that Hamorian sextant for Jasolt.” Dorrin pauses. “Hardest things I ever did. Had to do even brackets for mirrors, and adjusting screws. And I had to do all of the pieces in polished black iron so it wouldn’t rust. It might have been easier to do in copper or bronze, but trying to learn another metal… The compass casings were a nightmare. Maybe I’ll learn copper some other time.”

  Pergun drains his mug and looks across the half-full room toward the serving girl. “I can’t believe that Kyril’s asking four coppers for a mug. Four coppers for dark beer.”

  “Everything’s gotten dear.”

  “Damned Wizards! Begging your pardon, master Dorrin.”

  “I’m as damned as the rest of them.”

  “Not you.” Pergun finally raises his hand toward the serving girl.

  “Can you pay for it, big fellow?” asks the woman.

  Pergun opens his hand, showing the four coppers.

  “How about you, master Dorrin?”

  “No, thank you.” Dorrin smiles at the woman, but she has already headed for the kitchen.

  “Master Dorrin?” The painfully thin and dark-haired Jasolt stands at the edge of the table.

  Dorrin rises. “I’m honored, trader.”

  Pergun looks to leave, but Jasolt raises a hand. “Please stay, and do sit down, Dorrin.” Jasolt pulls up a chair and perches on the edge. “The sextants work well, or so Rydlar tells me.”

  “Make sure he keeps them as dry as he can. They really should be made of brass or bronze.”

  “I told him, and he will.” Jasolt looks down at the table, finally turning his dark eyes on Dorrin. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “I overheard your friend here talking about the higher prices for beer. It’s like that everywhere, you know. I’m just glad you’re here… still.”

  Dorrin’s throat is dry. “I have as little choice as you, trader. Right now, at least,” he adds. “Is it that bad?”

  “You may have noticed there were no fireworks this winter to celebrate the founding of the Council.”

  “I must admit I didn’t.”

  “Also, Certis has posted notices for spring troop levies.”

  “The false highway thefts didn’t work,” Dorrin says flatly.

  “Was that Recluce’s doing?” Jasolt’s voice is even lower.

  “I doubt that it was by intention.”

  “You don’t think the great ones of Recluce care?”

  “No.” Dorrin does not want to elaborate.

  “What are you going to do?” Jasolt asks.

  “I built a new house, you know,” Dorrin says conversationally. “I’m hoping to live in it for a while.”

  “Can you forge something that will help the Council guards? Something… based on order?”

  Dorrin looks into his mug. Jasolt is asking the same questions that Brede and Kadara have kept raising-and people are looking to him for an answer. But what answer can he provide? He feels uncomfortable trying to forge such items as knives-let alone swords.

  “Here’s your beer, big fellow,” interrupts the serving girl, setting the mug before Pergun. “Where’s the coin?”

  Pergun extends the coppers. “Light of a price for a single beer.”

  “Everything’s dear, big fellow.” Pergun watches her sway toward the next table.

  “Anything…?” prompts Jasolt.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. There might be something. But being an ordered-smith poses a lot of restrictions.”

  Jasolt frowns.

  “It’s hard for me even to pick up an edged weapon, let alone forge one. That’s why I use a staff.”

  “The way you use it you scarcely need a blade.” Jasolt’s voice is wry.

  “I don’t know,” Dorrin repeats helplessly. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “That’s all we can ask.” Jasolt looks straight at Dorrin. “You might think about joining the Council.”

  “Me? I’m scarcely in that category.”

  “I doubt that it will be long. I did observe your new dwelling has ample… storage…”

  Dorrin does not want to mention that the space is for Liedral, not with the Whites already reading their letters. “It’s… easier to build it that way to begin with. I don’t have any plans to be a trader.” His last phrase is certainly true. He has no real desire to be a trader.

  “Whatever…” Jasolt smiles politely and stands. “We hope you can help. Cold winter… First time I’ve ever hoped it’s long, and spring comes late. Sad thing when a man has to hope for a long, cold winter. Good evening, ser Dorrin.” He inclines his head and turns.

  “Light…” murmurs Pergun, setting down his mug after a long pull. “That dandy treated you like you… like you were a fancier trader than he is. Just what are you, Dorrin?”

  “I’m me. Sometimes I’m a smith, sometimes a healer, and sometimes I’m not quite sure.”

  Pergun sips the beer. “Need to make this last.”

  Dorrin looks at the mug, and the few drops of juice in the bottom. He finishes his redberry with a last swig. “I need to go. Do you mind?”

  “I think I’ll stay,” Pergun says. “Got nothing to go back to. Hemmil keeps the place colder than lake ice.” He jerks his finger toward a ginger-bearded man dicing in the corner. “Gerba has a wagon. He’ll drop me off.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Asked him ”fore you got here.“

  “I’ll see you later.”

  Pergun nods and picks up his mug, heading toward the corner game.

  A boy Dorrin does not know is holding Meriwhen by the time Dorrin reaches the stable.

  “Your horse, ser Dorrin.”

  Dorrin parts with a copper. “Your name, boy?”

  “Alstar, ser.” The youth looks down.

  “Thank you for taking care of Meriwhen.”

  “A pleasure, ser.” The child still does not meet Dorrin’s eyes, and Dorrin leads the mare out into the night.

  Only a single lantern lights the front of the Red Lion. As Meriwhen plods through the slush toward the bridge, Dorrin surveys the houses they pass. Most are dark, and those few not dark show only faint glows that might come from single candles or lamps. Yet it is early. Despite the bitter air, few plumes of
smoke rise from the chimneys of Diev.

  The price of dark beer has doubled. It is cold, but few fires are lit, and few candles or lamps. Yet Jasolt prays for a long, long winter.

  He pats Meriwhen’s neck. “Easy, girl.”

  Once he has ridden across the bridge, Meriwhen’s hoofs drum against hard-packed snow and ice, and the snow heaped on each side of the road reaches nearly waist high. He turns in the saddle, but sees few lights or fires.

  He shivers as he faces the uphill ride to his empty house. A long, cold winter will kill all too many in Spidlar, and yet… so will an early spring.

  XCVII

  AFTER FEEDING MERIWHEN, Dorrin closes the stable door and walks along the path he has worn in the snow between his house and Rylla’s. The snows have reached knee-high, and the morning wind swirls the night’s dusting of powder across the packed surfaces. The gray clouds overhead are cold, but do not promise more snow-not immediately.

  A thin gray plume of smoke twists from Rylja’s chimney, carried by the wind toward the Northern Ocean. He looks back at the smithy, where Vaos is supposed to be building a tool rack. The faintest of white lines rises from the forge chimney, indicating the heat in the banked fire.

  Dorrin stamps his boots on the porch, knocking off the snow, and wipes them on the worn rush mat before opening the door and easing inside.

  A heavy older woman coughs… and coughs-deep wracking coughs. Her face is mottled, almost purple, and between coughs, she wheezes like an ill-constructed bellows. Rylla holds a cup, waiting for the coughing to subside.

  Hunched beside the hearth of the main room is a man, twisted, bent, who shivers, despite the heat from the low fire, and despite the layers of ragged blankets that cover him.

  Dorrin sees the thin woman and the child in the corner, even before Frisa asks, “Can I see your horsey?” She steps toward him, but her hand does not let go of her mother’s faded gray trousers. Merga-her thin face sad-has on a herder’s jacket, a larger and more tattered version of what Frisa wears.

  There are no obvious physical injuries to either mother or child. The farm woman looks at the plank floor, her eyes avoiding Dorrin’s. The heavy woman’s coughs ease, and she takes a wheezing breath.