The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  He takes the hay rake and smoothes the clay, then spreads straw over it. He unsaddles Meriwhen, racks the saddle, and quickly brushes the mare. Then he lifts the staff and saddlebags over his shoulder, and hoists his bedroll.

  Reisa leads him back toward the smithy, but to a door in the rear corner that opens onto a nearly bare room with a single shuttered window without glass. The rough floor planks are dusty, and the only pieces of furniture are a straw pallet on a wide shelf built out from the wall, a four-legged stool and a wobbly table, on which rests a battered copper oil lamp.

  “Not much, but it’s snug.”

  Dorrin sets the bedroll on the table and the bags on the stool. Before he lies on the pallet he wants to use his limited order senses to persuade various vermin to move elsewhere. “The goat?”

  Reisa turns, and Dorrin latches the door behind him. In a small pen by the barn is a wide-bellied goat.

  “Burlow’s damned ram got in here.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Some of him’s salted; the rest was dinner.”

  “Oh…” Dorrin steps through the gate. The nanny edges away, but wobbles. His hands touch her shoulder, then her flanks. “She’s carrying.”

  “I knew that.”

  “I’m no animal healer, but I’d say she’s carrying too many.”

  “How many?”

  “Three, I think.”

  “Can you do anything?”

  Dorrin shrugs. “Maybe.” He lets his senses go out to the goat, lending a sense of order to her, and to only one of the unborn kids. Perhaps that will work. Finally, he steps out of the pen, wiping his forehead, trying not to sneeze at the water-damped odor of straw.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know. It may take some time.”

  Reisa watches the goat. “She’s not as unsteady.”

  Dorrin leans against the fence and takes a deep breath.

  “Young fellow, you need to eat before you go into the smithy. Just sit on the porch and let me get you a bite. I forgot how healing’s such work.”

  “All right.”

  Dorrin sits on the edge of the porch, his booted feet on the second step, listening to the muted thumps of the smith’s hammer, letting the late winter sun bathe his face. Spring has not come to Diev.

  “Here.”

  “Thank you, madame Reisa.”

  She flushes. “I’m no lady, youngster. Just eat, please.”

  On the scarred wooden platter are two thick slices of oatmeal bread, slathered with butter and topped with a dark preserve. A thin wedge of cheese sits between the bread. Reisa hands him a stoneware mug filled with cold cider. Dorrin’s shakiness abates with the bread and cheese.

  “You’d best get into the smithy.”

  Dorrin stands. “Thank you.”

  Once inside the smithy, he peels off his jacket and shirt, leaving only the sleeveless undershirt, and hangs both on a corner peg.

  “There.” Yarrl nods toward a heavy leather apron set out on a side bench. “Work the bellows. It’s got a standard counterweight, and the overhead lever’s angled to make it easy. Want that to stay not quite white, like the corner there.”

  Dorrin slips on the leather apron, hoping he will not have too many blisters before his hands toughen again.

  XXXVI

  “Why do we even have to do anything about Recluce? All the Blacks do is sit on their island and cultivate order. Anyone who causes trouble gets thrown out—usually to our benefit.”

  “We’re not talking about a military action now,” Jeslek says mildly. “Aren’t you tired of our gold going to Recluce so that the Blacks can use it to buy Bristan and Hamorian goods?”

  “Their spices and wines are better and cheaper,” a heavy voice rumbles from the back row.

  “So is some of their cabinetry,” adds another voice.

  “And their wool—”

  “If you can wear it, Myral!”

  “So…what are you proposing, Jeslek?”

  “Nothing major. Just a thirty percent surtax on goods from Recluce.”

  “Thirty percent? I’d rather drink that red swill from Kyphros,” rumbles the bass voice.

  “Precisely my point.”

  “That will increase the number of smugglers.”

  “We’ll use some of the money to build up the fleet to stop that.”

  “And the rest? Does it go into your pocket, Jeslek?”

  “Hardly. That’s up to the Council, but I’d suggest that it be split between an increased stipend for Council members, rebuilding the square, and funding the road construction. Would anyone else like a word?”

  “Won’t that just funnel more golds into Spidlar?”

  “What about Sarronnyn…”

  “Southwind will love that…”

  After stepping from the chamber, Sterol looks at the red-headed Anya. “Very transparent. Transparent, but clever.”

  “They’ll approve it.”

  “Of course. And he’ll be popular, and the fleet will get larger.”

  “What will Recluce do?”

  “Nothing. They’ll trade more across the ocean and complain.” Sterol smiles, faintly. “What it will do is direct even more trade from Lydiar to Spidlaria. In a year or so, we’ll have to take over Spidlar if we don’t want to put our own merchants out of business.”

  “Do you think…?” The red-headed wizard lets her words trail off as the High Wizard continues. Her faint smile contains a hint of irritation.

  “By then, Jeslek will be High Wizard, and it will be necessary to ban all trade with Recluce. He won’t say it that way, of course. The surtax will be a hundred percent, and the Black Council will worry because all of their specie will have to go for grain and flour from Hydlen, and too much spoils when it’s shipped from Hamor. The Blacks will dither and moan and bitch, but their population’s too great for them to risk meddling with the weather, the way Creslin did, and, more important, they don’t have anyone who can.”

  Anya nods, her eyes flicking toward the chamber.

  “The discontent will stir up disorder, leading to chaos, which will result in more exiles from Recluce, and less action—for a time.”

  “You sound like you believe Jeslek’s plans will work.”

  “Being High Wizard in times of change presents certain…problems.” Sterol laughs, softly. “We need to go back in and preside over the vote, even if it is a formality.”

  “Will they work—his plans, I mean?”

  “They might—unless he’s too successful, which he will be.” Sterol nods toward the chamber. “Come along, Anya.”

  Anya frowns, but follows the High Wizard into the council chamber.

  XXXVII

  “That’s all.” Yarrl lowers the hammer.

  Dorrin lets the two-chambered great bellows expand, locks the overhead lever in place, and then dips the rag in leather oil and carefully dusts the outside of the bellows suspended at the east side of the square forge. Yarrl puts away the straight peen hammer and the anvil tongs.

  Dorrin racks his hammer and picks up the broom. Although sweeping the hard clay is not strictly necessary every night, Dorrin feels better when the smithy is as clean and neat as he can leave it. He has already replaced the less-used implements in their racks, the ones which had gathered some dust. Those Yarrl uses regularly he has left where the smith has placed them.

  After Yarrl leaves, Dorrin finishes sweeping the scraps, bits of ash, and droplets of metal too small to reclaim into the waste pit. Then he replaces the broom and scoop and closes the sliding door. He walks to the well, where he folds back the cover and draws a bucket of water, still cold despite the coming of spring and sunlight. He washes off the worst of the ash and grime, then waters the small flower garden under the porch with the last drops from the bucket.

  After replacing the well cover, he walks toward his room, glancing to the north, and the clouds building up over the northern ocean, and then to the west, where the sun almost touches the tips of the West
horns, the highest peaks still glittering with ice and snow.

  Lifting the latch, he steps inside. The green-dyed rush mat helps make his room seem warmer, as does the old but clean quilt Reisa has provided. Soon, he will finish the braces for the table, and then he will work on something in which to store his few clothes. With a sigh, he picks up the staff behind the door. After closing the door, he walks to the barn.

  “Nnnnaaa…” Mora pleads.

  Dorrin stops and scratches the nanny’s head, adding a trace of order to the goat. One offspring is strong enough to survive, but the black flame of order is too weak for mother and even one kid. He purses his lips, realizing how much he did not learn. He scratches Mora’s head again as she rubs against his hand. After a time, he steps back from the fence. “That’s all, girl.”

  Then he opens the barn door. Once inside, he leans the staff against the wall, and hangs up the rough straw figure he uses as a target. Even after a few eight-days, he can sense a growing sureness in his hands and his staff—not that exercises are any substitute for practice with a real person. But at least he can feel what he is doing with the staff.

  After the first set of exercises, he throws the rope over the beam and ties the small sandbag to it, then swings the bag out. Once he manages five successive strikes on the moving bag, each from a balanced position, but generally he has trouble with both balance and accuracy after two or three.

  He is sweating again when he stops, and his knees are rubbery. Just a short period of exercise with the staff following a long day is exhausting. After storing his targets, he sets the staff aside and finds the curry brush. Meriwhen whinnies.

  “Yes, I know. I should have curried you first. But I’ll ride you after supper.”

  The mare whinnies again.

  “After supper. I promise.” Dorrin sneezes once, then again, before he steps into the stall and begins to groom the black mare.

  XXXVIII

  Dorrin ties Meriwhen to the iron ring on the weathered timber post outside the mill building—a shed-roofed structure twenty cubits wide and fifty cubits deep with only a single sliding door. The door is ajar enough for him to enter without turning sideways. Once inside, a row of high small windows on the south side of the mill provide enough light to guide him to a single small cubicle in the southeast corner of the building, less than a dozen cubits from the idle saw blade.

  Dorrin’s nose itches from the sawdust raised by his steps, and he rubs it before stepping into the office where a young black-bearded man sits, slowly chewing on some cheese and bread.

  “I beg your pardon. Are you Hemmil?”

  “Me? Hemmil? How I wish, young fellow! I’m Pergun, just a journeyman mill hand.” Pergun’s eyes study Dorrin’s brown clothes. “Why does a healer need Hemmil? You are a healer, aren’t you, looking like that?”

  “I’m partly a healer, but I’m mostly an apprentice smith for Yarrl. I didn’t need Hemmil, exactly, but I was looking for some mill scraps…”

  “No doubt wonderful scraps two or three cubits long and finely cut?” Pergun speaks with his mouth full and bits of food fly with the words.

  “Darkness, no. I meant real scraps. I mean, if I found an end perhaps half a cubit or cubit…”

  “All right, young fellow.” Pergun laughs, then stands and walks to the doorway of the walled-off room, swallowing the last of his midday meal. “Hemmil’ll be back in a bit, and we’ll get back to work. Till then, you can scout up some scraps. There’s also the burn bin over there. Bring what you want back here, and we’ll dicker.” He turns, then looks back at Dorrin. “Why does a smith want scraps, anyway?”

  “Oh, Yarrl doesn’t. I need them for my work.” A faint headache reminds Dorrin he must provide further explanation. “I’m making some working models.”

  “Oh…I suppose that makes sense.” Pergun’s hand lifts, as if to scratch his head, then drops. “Well…bring the wood you want back here.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Young fellow—what’s your name?”

  “Oh, I’m Dorrin.”

  “How do you get on with Mistress Petra? Understand she’s got…I mean…maybe you’ve heard…well…”

  Dorrin grins. “She doesn’t have an evil eye, if that’s what you mean. Neither does Reisa. They’re good people, even if they stay to themselves.”

  “Wondered about that. Honsard says Yarrl does good work. Did some good stuff for Hemmil, too. The new saw blade was his. Keeps its teeth better than Henstaal’s, but we can’t say much.” The millworker jabs a thumb toward the sawdust and fragments beneath the still saw blade. “Better get moving, Dorrin.”

  Dorrin collects likely lengths of wood, his eyes wandering around the long mill shed as he does. The odor of cut wood is somehow soothing, even in the chill of the mill shed. He needs to hurry, for Yarrl has agreed only reluctantly to let him take a little time, and only because the mill is never open later than the smithy.

  When he has what he needs, Dorrin turns back toward the entry, cradling the short lengths of red oak and the armful of mill ends, setting them on the bench outside the office where the brown-haired man is talking to Pergun.

  “…have to charge him…every apprentice in Diev…be out here…”

  “Yes, ser. He only wants short pieces, though.”

  “…short pieces…we’ll see…”

  Both men turn as if they sense Dorrin. Hemmil nods at Pergun, and the younger man walks out to the bench. Hemmil steps past the two and heads toward the saw.

  “How much for these?” Dorrin asks.

  “I’d give them to you, but—” Pergun nods toward the mill owner.

  “I heard.” Dorrin looks down at the odd-sized pile. “Perhaps a copper?” He tried to keep his voice from sounding plaintive.

  “It’s not as though I see any large pieces.” Pergun grins, running a hand through his dark beard. “So a copper it is, but only because I’d not want ill will from any healer. Leastwise, that’s what I’ll tell Hemmil.”

  Dorrin scrabbles in his purse.

  “Like as it’s fine with me to give them to you, but Hemmil would fry me. It’s not been that long since I was an apprentice, and I know apprentices have little enough.” Pergun pauses. “You ever go to Kyril’s? Some of us gather there on the eight-day ends.”

  “I haven’t been. I don’t know Diev very well, and I’m pretty tired to go off doing much exploring.”

  “You’re too young not to explore.” Pergun shakes his head. “You’ll marry Mistress Petra and never go anywhere.”

  “Not Mistress Petra, nice as she is,” Dorrin protests.

  “Then come and see Diev.”

  “Maybe I will.” Dorrin produces the copper and hands it to Pergun.

  Pergun shakes his head. “Any end-day…and bring a few coppers. That’s all it takes.”

  Dorrin scoops up the wood. “Probably not this end-day, but soon.”

  XXXIX

  With a groan, Dorrin carries the staff into the open space in the middle of the barn, beginning the exercises Lortren taught him more than a year earlier—has it been so long already? Concentrating on the staff, he tries to blend the order within him, the staff, and his movements. After a time, he sets up the swinging target and launches it, then sets his stance, trying to strike from the totally balanced position.

  “Offf…” He has stepped too close to the second stall, and the staff ricochets off a wooden brace. Trying to regain his balance, Dorrin slips on the loose straw and staggers. Incidents such as these both keep him practicing and ensure that he practices out of sight.

  Finally, drenched with sweat, with odd pieces of straw and chaff clinging to his damp face and arms, he sets the staff down.

  “Your moves are pretty good, but you’re acting like it’s an exercise.” Reisa stands just inside the doorway.

  Dorrin lets the end of the staff drop to the packed clay of the barn floor.

  “You’re not really following through, and if you had to use that, a good
blade would only have to step back a bit.”

  “I know. Kadara kept telling me that.” Dorrin gestures toward the swinging target. “That’s why I set this target up.”

  “Just take another step forward when you make the follow-up thrust.” Reisa grins. “Actually, you’re pretty good. Especially for a smith who’s also a healer. What could you do with a blade?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That because you’re a healer?”

  Dorrin wipes his forehead with the back of his bare forearm, then nods.

  “Are your friends that good with their blades?”

  “Better. Much better.”

  A gust of wind blows through the open barn door, whipping Reisa’s trousers around her legs. “I wish…” The gray-haired and one-handed woman shakes her head.

  “You wish you’d been born in Recluce?” Standing by Meriwhen’s stall, Dorrin unties the rope for his swinging target. “Where were you trained?”

  “A long ways from here.” She looks over her shoulder. “Southwind.”

  “Do you wish you’d never left?”

  “Sometimes. But you don’t ever get what you wish for, only what you can make happen.” Reisa pauses. “You going to be here for supper?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m supposed to meet Brede and Kadara at the inn.”

  “They’re too good to be here.”

  Dorrin lowers the target, waiting for the smith’s wife to continue.

  “When you’re too good for what you’re doing,” she reflects, her eyes focused on the past, “chaos finds you. With you, it will take longer.”

  “Why?” Dorrin coils the rope attached to the target.

  “You haven’t learned all you need to know.” Reisa smiles faintly. “But don’t pay too much attention to an old woman’s ramblings. Have a good time with your friends.” She leaves the barn as quietly as she entered.

  After putting away his exercise gear, Dorrin takes out the curry brush and starts to work on Meriwhen. The mare shivers slightly and edges sideways in the stall. He pats her flank. “Lady, we need to keep you in shape.”