XV
“There’s the Ryessa,” announces Gelisel, her long legs slowing.
The harbor spreads out beneath them—the stone piers, the round-sided ship, and the dark green swells beyond the breakwater, swells that surge over the rough stones with alarming frequency. The ship seems toylike against the unending expanse of the ocean beyond the northern tip of Recluce.
While he has certainly been to Land’s End before, even eaten in the old tavern reputedly built by the Founders, he had not come before with the idea that he would be leaving Recluce. “It’s rather small.”
“Nonsense,” snaps the arms-master. “You should see the paintings of the old Montgren sloops the Founders used. Or what the Hydlen free-traders use.”
Brede pulls at his longish chin.
Kadara looks from her tall and muscular blond companion to the shorter and wiry redhead. “They do this all the time?”
“As regularly as a sand glass is changed. In the summer they trade the northern ports, and in the winter they alternate between Lydiar and Esalia.” Gelisel clears her throat. “Come on. They’re expecting you, but there’s no sense in lagging.”
“Will Edil and Jyll and the others take a ship like this?” asks Dorrin.
“The next group is bound for Brysta. No—they’ll probably be on a Nordlan brig. That’s a bigger ship, but then, they’ll have to cross the entire Eastern Ocean.” Gelisel strides down the last kays of the northern terminus of the High Road. The fitted stones of the road stretch nearly six hundred kays from Land’s End in the northeast to the black cliffs at the southwest tip of the island continent of Recluce.
Dorrin again thinks of the Founders’ insistence on the High Road, even when southern Recluce had been a worthless desert before the rains came. He is willing to think about anything except the trip ahead.
“Come on, Dorrin.” The red-headed girl’s right hand touches the hilt of her blade, but she does not look back. Brede’s steps are easy, not even hurried as he matches the long strides of the arms-master.
Dorrin, on the other hand, has been forcing his shorter legs the entire walk from the coach stop at Alaren. The next wagon to the harbor would not have been until noon, and Gelisel had insisted that the five-kay walk wasn’t that far, especially considering the traveling the three have before them.
On each side of the inclined road that angles toward the old keep rise two- and three-story black stone dwellings, mainly of merchants and traders serving the spice and wool trade. The dark slate roofs appear silver in the bright but cool midmorning spring sun.
“…nyah, nyah, nyahhhh…Ferly is a White…Ferly is a White…”
Dorrin winces at the children’s taunting that drifts over the courtyard walls they pass, wondering who Ferly is and what the poor child has done.
“…nyah, nyah…Ferly is a White…”
“…am not…AM NOT!”
Dorrin hurries to catch up again.
…clickedy…click…
He steps to the left for a Brotherhood courier on a black mare. The young woman flashes a smile at Dorrin as she continues uphill. Dorrin smiles in return, although the dark-haired rider is already ten cubits behind him on her way toward Extina or Reflin or any number of towns on the High Road.
The four reverse direction as the port road swings through a wide descending turn away from the old black keep on the hillside and back toward the main pier of the harbor. The old keep still flies a replica of the Founders’ original ensign—the crossed rose and blade—rather than the current banner—the starker black ryall on a white background.
Dorrin’s nose twitches at the scent of winterspice and brinn from the narrow stone warehouses. For generations, Land’s End has smelled of spices, for only the master healers of Recluce can use their talents to grow all the world’s spices in one country, spices both to preserve food and to preserve health and life itself.
The calls of a few children, the conversations between older residents on the small hillside square below the wide turn in the road, and the muffled sounds from within shops and warehouses are carried on the spring breeze.
“…won’t see a port this clean again…”
Dorrin misses some of Gelisel’s comments as his eyes take in the statue of the Founders in the square downhill from the road.
“Why?” asks Kadara.
“Only Fairhaven is this clean. Even Lydiar has garbage and slop in the back alleys.”
Brede shakes his uncovered head, his blond hair streaming in the breeze.
“This way…”
The road straightens and heads straight north, arrowing toward the main pier of the harbor. A hundred cubits or so later, they walk past an inn—The Founders’ Inn, according to the sign. Dorrin has eaten there once before, with his father and his brother Kyl.
“There’s the Founders’ Inn,” announces Gelisel. “The food’s not bad, but the prices are damned high.”
“Hmmm…” offers Brede.
Kadara keeps her eyes fixed on the harbor ahead.
Dorrin follows the other three over the time-polished stones toward the only ship on the pier. His eyes drop to the dark green water, then rise to the plank-gangway, where a single sailor, wearing a short blade, lounges in an imitation of guard duty. As the man sees Gelisel’s black tunic, he scrambles to attention, waiting as the four travelers approach.
“Magistra…you are expected.”
“Thank you.” Gelisel starts up the gangway.
Dorrin pauses, again studying the rounded sides of the coaster, his eyes catching the name plate under the bowsprit—Ryessa. The name is familiar, although he cannot say why it is.
“Come on. You need to meet the ship’s master.”
As Dorrin follows the other three up the wooden plank and onto the smooth planks of the deck, the ship seems to rise slightly with the swells that the breakwater cannot totally damp.
XVI
Brede is still snoring when Dorrin pries his eyes open. In the top bunk, Kadara’s breathing is far softer, unheard against the background of the ship’s noises.
The wiry redhead eases himself out of the bunk and into his heavy brown trousers and boots. The shirt follows. As quietly as possible, he leaves the closet-sized stateroom and clambers up the ladder and onto the rain-splashed deck. Although the rain no longer falls, the spring day is dismal under rolling gray clouds and a brisk wind. He shivers as he passes various members of the crew who are already working—adjusting various lines and cables, coiling a rope, and disassembling a winch.
With the hope that his stomach will remain settled, Dorrin ducks into the deck-level cabin that is the Ryessa’s mess and eases onto one of the oak benches at the empty table. One of the ship’s officers sits alone at the other table, a heavy brown mug in his hand.
Dorrin slides onto the bench at the empty table. On one platter before him are hard rolls and a wedge of cheese. On the other are dried fruits—apples, red currants, peaches. A pitcher sits inside the bracket fastened to the tabletop. Dorrin looks again, realizing that the platters are similarly constrained and that the heavy brown earthenware has raised edges, presumably to keep the food from sliding off. The two tables are attached to the floor, as are the backless benches.
The redhead takes a cup from the rack and pours the tea into it. Even with a healthy dollop of honey, he winces, both at the lukewarm temperature and the bitter taste. He dips a roll into the tea, hoping that it will at least soften the stale and hard crust.
He forces himself to eat slowly. The Ryessa’s mate never meets his eyes. Clearly, the crew has eaten earlier, much earlier. Just as Dorrin finishes his second biscuit and some dried peaches and is thinking about leaving, Kadara arrives, with Brede a step behind.
“You were up early,” she observes.
“I couldn’t sleep any longer.”
“Hmmphhh…” grumbles Brede.
Kadara sits heavily, but not quite so heavily as Brede, and then pours the dark tea into two brown earthenware mugs. “Ho
ney?” she asks.
Brede shakes his head. “No.”
Dorrin downs the last of his mug, looking around for a place to leave it.
“Don’t leave just yet, Dorrin.”
“It’s not as though I have anywhere to go.” Dorrin looks at the heavy planks of the deck. Finally, he sets his mug down and refills it, following the tea with an enormous dollop of honey from the server, an earth-brown squat pitcher that matches neither the mugs nor the teapot.
“You’re something,” begins Kadara, her voice rising. “You stay on deck until we’re asleep. Then you come in and wake us up, and then you get up with the sun and do the same thing.”
Brede sips his tea and looks blankly at the table before him.
Kadara takes a deep swallow of the tea and pulls a pile of mixed fruit off one platter—mostly dried apples. She replaces most of the apples and picks some peaches and pearapples. Next come some of the hard rolls that it would take the force of Hegl’s hammer to dent.
At the moment, Dorrin misses the smith more than he appreciates Hegl’s daughter across the table from him. Dorrin takes a sip of his tea, bitter even with the large glob of honey.
Brede crunches through a hard roll, oblivious to the sounds or the force he has exerted. He follows the destruction with a gulp of tea that drains the mug. A huge hand reaches for the pitcher and refills the mug.
Finally, as the silence drags out, Dorrin puts his half-empty cup in one of the slots in the center of the table and stands, glancing from Kadara to Brede and back. Kadara looks up. “We’ll join you on deck later.”
Brede just keeps eating, slowly and methodically, his eyes on the smooth brown wood of the table as he shovels in the heaping pile of fruit, cheese, and hard rolls.
Outside on the main deck, the wind has dropped into a gentle breeze, and patches of blue appear in the clouds to the west. Dorrin stands on the left side of the Ryessa, watching the wind carry spray from the crests of the dark green waves. The Ryessa does not exactly cut through the sea, her motion more closely approximating a lumber.
Dorrin wipes the spray off his forehead. How can he even decide what he wants to do? Lortren, Gelisel, and his father have all been telling him that everything is obvious, that machines are the tools of chaos. But are they? A still small voice within Dorrin protests that classification.
The Ryessa surges through another heavy swell, and the spray from the impact cascades over Dorrin.
“May I join you?”
Dorrin jumps.
Kadara stands almost beside him.
“Where’s Brede?” Dorrin asks.
“You’re as direct as ever,” she says. “He’s still eating, but I imagine he’ll be here shortly.”
“Wonderful.”
“Dorrin…” Kadara’s voice is soft, but carries an exasperated edge.
Dorrin holds a sigh. Does he really want to talk to her? “Sorry.”
“Brede can’t help it if he’s good with a blade.”
Or with you, Dorrin thinks. Instead, he answers, “I suppose not.”
“You know I owe this to you?” Kadara does not look at Dorrin as they stand by the railing.
“You’ve said so more than once.”
The stiff western breeze carries the tang of salt as it whips the short red hairs around Kadara’s face.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Dorrin looks over his shoulder and up at the tall blond figure with broad shoulders. “Feeling better, Brede?”
“I was hungry.” The blond man smiles, a warm and winning smile. He wears gray trousers and a bright blue, long-sleeved shirt. Without the long sword he usually wears across his back, he looks far more like the Feyn Valley farmer’s son he is than the well-practiced blade he has become in the two seasons the three have spent at the Academy under Lortren.
“How long before we get to Tyrhavven?” asks Kadara.
“Another day or so, at least,” answers Brede.
Dorrin shrugs, looking back at the bow of the Ryessa just in time to catch another faceful of stinging salt spray.
A gust of wind sprays fine blond hair around Brede’s face, and a hand twice the size of Dorrin’s absently brushes it back.
“That’s a long way from Land’s End,” muses Kadara.
Silence and the swishing of the sea are preferable to a dubious discussion. Instead, Dorrin watches the water. Brede frowns, then straightens and heads toward the stern. Another spray almost touches the edge of the deck.
“You don’t make conversation easy, you know.” Kadara’s voice is quiet.
Dorrin barely hears her above the waves, the whisper of the wind, and the creaking of the ship. “What is there to say?”
“That’s it. You never talk to me anymore. It’s as if we’re strangers, yet we grew up next door to each other.”
You have Brede, Dorrin wants to snap at her. Instead, he shrugs.
The Ryessa lurches, and a sheet of water sprays past Dorrin, leaving him with wet legs and a tighter grip on the railing.
When he looks up again, later, Kadara is gone.
XVII
Dorrin walks the deck, studying how the ship is constructed. He probes at the underlying patterns, the forces, the stresses—and especially he looks at the simple machines.
Flappppp…thwipp…
Aloft, some of the crew are resetting sails. Not all of them, but the mainsails. A line of dark gray and brown stretches southward off the port side. Dorrin looks up where a huge Suthyan flag flies atop the aft mast. The clouds that had splashed the ship with rain in the early morning have lifted, but the skies are still gray.
The Ryessa continues to make surprising speed into the wind, angling toward a break in the low dark hills. Behind the coastal hills is another set of low clouds. Dorrin looks again, this time with his senses, before realizing they are not clouds at all, but a second line of snow-covered hills. While spring may have come to Recluce and to Tyrhavven, it has not yet reached the higher hills that lie south of the Sligan port.
He heads back toward the cabin. There Kadara and Brede have finished replacing their gear in their packs—long enough ago so that the two step apart as Dorrin opens the door.
“We should be landing in a little while,” he notes curtly, ignoring the flushed looks. He grasps the pack he has prepared earlier from his bunk.
“We’ll be up in a little bit,” offers Kadara.
“It takes a while to tie up,” adds Brede.
Neither moves away from each other or toward their packed gear. Brede does not wear his shoulder harness or sword, nor does Kadara.
“Fine.” Pack in hand, the wiry young man grasps the staff and turns back toward the door. He does not shut the door as he leaves.
As the Ryessa eases shoreward, Dorrin studies the harbor town. His pack and quilted leather jacket and staff now rest by his feet. Tyrhavven is scarcely inspiring. Only two short piers, smaller than those of Land’s End, comprise the harbor facilities, and the stone breakwater is half the length of its counterpart on Recluce. The two piers are of heavy weathered and unpainted gray timbers, except where a brown line shows the replacement of an older plank by a newer one.
“I told you it would take some time.” Kadara, wearing dark gray, appears with her pack. At her belt are two blades, both gray-hilted; the one on the left is a Westwind shortsword.
Brede towers behind her, his single blade heavier than either of Kadara’s, strapped in place in his shoulder harness. His open gray jacket shows his heavy blue shirt.
The wind seems to pick up as the ship wallows toward the pier.
“…sails!” Commands issue from the bridge. “…hard port…”
With his broad shoulders and long-chinned but square face, Brede grins. “Ready for an adventure?”
Dorrin is neither ready for an adventure, nor enthusiastic about the relationship between Brede and Kadara. But what can he do?
“Neither am I,” admits Kadara.
“Well…like it or not, we’re g
oing to have one, and we stand a better chance together than separately.”
Brede makes sense, and Dorrin would be foolish indeed to spurn the assistance of the bigger and quicker man’s blade and disarmingly cheerful manner. Dorrin takes a deep and slow breath, nodding slowly.
“Why so reluctant, Dorrin?” Brede’s voice is warm and friendly.
“Dorrin would be happier if they had just let him play with his machines,” observes Kadara.
“They never will,” Dorrin adds. “So…I’m off on an adventure.”
In the short time the three have talked, the Ryessa has jockeyed up to the empty pier. Perhaps half a dozen figures stand waiting; two wearing white surcoats are armed.
“White guards…” Brede moves up to the railing.
Dorrin turns to see the captain motioning. “He wants us off the ship.”
“That’s not surprising,” Brede snorts. “Fairhaven hasn’t ever liked the coasters’ being involved with Recluce.” He swings his pack on his shoulder, readjusting the harness to ensure that he can still reach the blade quickly, and marches toward the gangway.
The gangplank is barely in place as the three line up.
“Thank you for a smooth trip, Captain.” Brede’s voice is deep and mellow.
“Yes.” Kadara offers a flash of the smile that Dorrin wishes were directed at him.
“My pleasure, lady,” answers the captain. “My pleasure.”
Dorrin nods politely to the ship’s master, but only mumbles a low “Thank you.”
The captain inclines his head in return.
A pair of seamen are still tying lines to the bollards on the pier as Dorrin steps onto the weathered planks.
A long-faced functionary with a white circular patch on the shoulder of his heavy quilted leather jacket waits just shoreward of the gangplank. He carries a thin leather folder. Behind him stand the two White guards, while off to one side loiter three travelers, all with grips or packs, presumably waiting to embark upon the coaster. Each guard wears a sword, but their hands are empty as they wait with bored looks upon their faces.
The Magic Engineer Page 6