The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Following the grooming, he washes up at the well and towels fully dry in his quarters, putting on his clean traveling clothes—linen shirt and brown trousers. Then he slips on the thin leather jacket and heads to the barn.

  Dorrin saddles Meriwhen deliberately. Should he take his staff? He frowns but places it in the lance holder and leads the mare into the yard. Red dust puffs under his brown-booted feet.

  A spray of yellow straggles from the flower bed in front of the back porch, and the purple of the sage brightens the green of herb garden in the late afternoon sun. Taking a deep breath, he enjoys the scent of the flowers and the herbs, almost lost in the smell of the meadow behind the house.

  He swings into the saddle, far more easily than he ever would have believed possible when he first climbed upon Meriwhen so laboriously. Mora bleats from the pen beside the barn, and Dorrin waves—not that the nanny understands—before turning and riding out of the yard and onto the road into Diev.

  Scarcely has he turned onto the flattened clay beyond Yarrl’s than he overtakes an empty wagon bearing both Honsard’s emblem and the master hauler.

  Dorrin inclines his head. “Good-day, master Honsard.”

  “’Day,” grunts the hauler.

  Farther along the road, after the clay turns to the stones that lead into the city, but before the low gates that are never watched, the healer passes another wagon bearing stacked bales of hay toward Diev.

  White puffy clouds make a line across the western horizon, just below the afternoon sun, when Dorrin reins in Meriwhen opposite where the inn had stood. Faint smoke rises from the rubble.

  Coming from the west, a trooper in the blue of Spidlar reins up in front of the leaning half-wall and the charred sign, not twenty cubits from where Dorrin has halted Meriwhen. Part of the sign is legible—the bottom of a tankard. The top third of the sign has burned away. Behind the leaning and scorched bricks lies a man-high heap of still-smoldering debris, covered with broken tiles from the roof that has collapsed.

  “Demons!” mutters the trooper.

  A woman holding a child sits on a stone at the edge of the still-smoking rubble. Gray rags flutter around her grimy face in the warm breeze of early summer. “A copper, ser, for my daughter and me to eat? A copper to eat?” She extends a hand to the trooper. “A copper to eat?”

  The soldier pauses, then shrugs. “Would have drunk it anyway.” He tosses a coin toward the woman.

  The coin clinks on the pavement at her feet, and she leans forward, painfully extending one hand. Another ragged figure darts from the far side of the alley, the side not filled with rubble from the burned inn, and scoops the copper off the stone, running in the general direction of Dorrin.

  “Thief!” The beggar woman’s cry is half plaintive, half shriek.

  Without thinking, Dorrin finds the staff in his hands, extended, quickly enough to trip the urchin.

  “Bastard!” The youth, taller than Dorrin had realized, scrambles to his feet with a short blade glinting. His eyes flicker toward Meriwhen’s legs.

  Dorrin shifts the staff, lets it move, and the heavy wood slams the youngster’s wrists. The knife skitters onto the stones. “Toss the coin back to the woman!”

  The youth looks toward the knife, then up at Dorrin. He ducks forward, then turns, and dashes across the street and into the other alleyway.

  Dorrin’s staff misses this time. He should have practiced the mounted exercises as well, as if there were ever enough time.

  The Spidlarian trooper—watching from the saddle—guffaws as Dorrin dismounts and recovers the knife. “Never catch the little bastard, fellow.”

  Dorrin slips the urchin’s knife—the metal ugly white and bronze to his senses—into the small pouch at the front of his saddle, where the hilt protrudes slightly. He would prefer not to carry the chaos-tinted metal, fearing that the blade will slice the leather of the pouch.

  He also wonders where he should meet Brede or Kadara. They had said the Tankard, not Kyril’s Red Lion. The troopers frequent the Tankard, while the townspeople tend more toward Kyril’s, and call it Kyril’s not the Red Lion.

  “Guess the Lion’s all that’s left ’round here, fellow.” The trooper turns his dappled gray back up the street.

  Dorrin takes a last look at the burned-out inn and lifts the reins to follows the trooper.

  “My copper, ser? Would you forget me?” The woman waddles toward Dorrin. The sense of chaos—not evil, but disorder—wafts from her.

  Dorrin scrambles into his pouch and finds a copper, carefully tossing it to her. “Here.” Then he takes the urchin’s knife between two fingers, and tosses it after the coin. “Take that, too. Maybe you can sell it.”

  Meriwhen skitters sideways, as if the mare responds to Dorrin’s dislike of the chaos-tinged knife and the almost equally chaotic beggar, before turning up the narrow stone way, passing from the reddish light cast by the sun just above the horizon into the long shadows of the shuttered dry goods store. Dorrin blinks as the hot wind carries grit into his eyes. When he looks up, the beggar woman is gone from the street before the smoldering Tankard.

  The stable at the Red Lion is filled, mostly with troopers’ mounts. Dorrin dismounts and, holding the reins, peers toward the end of the narrow shed. He holds his staff in his left hand.

  “Healer?” The stringy-haired stableboy looks up from the bale of hay he is dragging toward the second stall.

  “Hello, Vaos. You’ve got quite a stableful tonight.”

  “Kyril’ll be happy, but the troopers are a pain in the butt.”

  “All of them?”

  “Demons, no. But you don’t know which are happy drunks and which are mean. And the mean ones are mean.”

  Dorrin nods.

  “Put your mare in the end stall with Kyril’s gray. He’ll be too busy to notice, and they’re both good horses.”

  “You sure?”

  “Trust me, healer.”

  Dorrin grins, and pats Vaos’s shoulder. “Thanks, friends.”

  Vaos smiles back, but looks at the heavy hay bale.

  Dorrin sets aside the staff, hands the boy the reins, and shoulders the bale. “Where do you want it?”

  “Dump it in the manger in the second stall. I’ll cut the cords and spread it from there.”

  In the second stall, a white stallion whinnies, baring his teeth as Dorrin steps up to the manger. The healer pauses, still balancing the bale on his right shoulder, and tries to send a sense of reassurance to the white. After a moment and another protest, the stallion whickers, and Dorrin eases the hay into the open manger. His fingertips brush the stallion’s forehead.

  “The white is hurt, somewhere.”

  “I didn’t see him come in.” Vaos leads Meriwhen toward the end stall.

  Dorrin walks to the stall door. Again, the stallion protests, but eventually Dorrin’s hands glide over his body, finding the whip marks. With another deep breath, he provides a small measure of healing and comfort, of healing and order—only a small measure, for the stallion is at least four cubits at the shoulder. Vaos looks at Dorrin when he leaves the stall.

  “Whipped too much.”

  “Damned troopers.” Vaos’s words are not an expletive, but a statement.

  Dorrin wonders if he has missed Brede’s or Kadara’s mounts. “Not all of them.”

  “I’ll get some grain for your mare.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Vaos grins. “You didn’t have to help the stallion.”

  Dorrin can’t help but grinning back. “I do what I can.” He reclaims his staff. Vaos is rummaging through a barrel with a battered tin cup as Dorrin steps into the twilight and walks toward the inn.

  “See! I told you he’d figure it out.” Kadara’s voice brings him up short. She and Brede are waiting outside the door.

  “What did you do with your horses?” Dorrin asks.

  “Had to put them at the livery stable. What about you?”

  “Oh…” Dorrin pauses. “
Well…Vaos found a place for Meriwhen.”

  “What did you do for him?” Kadara asks, almost condescendingly.

  “Nothing much. I just talk to him.”

  “You come here alone?”

  “No. I’ve been a couple of times with Pergun. He works at the mill.”

  Brede grins broadly. “See, Kadara. Your little friend is neither little nor helpless. He just does things his own quiet way.”

  “He’s always done things his own stubborn and quiet way.”

  Brede shrugs, as if to say, “I tried.”

  Dorrin shrugs back.

  Kadara looks from one to the other. “Men…”

  Brede claims a table vacated by two departing troopers, and Kadara commandeers an empty chair. Before the three are even seated, a heavy-armed serving woman stands there.

  “What’s to drink?”

  “The dark beer.”

  “Same.”

  “Redberry,” Dorrin adds.

  “Oh, it’s you, healer. What about food?”

  “What is there?”

  “The usual—stew, fowl pie. That’s for three coppers. For another you can have chops. Don’t bother. They’re not worth it.”

  “The stew,” Dorrin says.

  “Same here,” both Brede and Kadara say nearly simultaneously.

  “And here, I thought we were rescuing you from the continual drudgery of the smithy.” Kadara mock-accuses Dorrin.

  “You are. I do occasionally rescue myself, and Pergun does sometimes.”

  “You still like working for the smith?”

  “I’m still learning. Yarrl keeps telling me how much more I need to know. I think he’s as good as Hegl.”

  “Here you be!” Three mugs come down on the table in rapid succession. “That’s two for each.”

  Dorrin offers up his two coppers, but Kadara hands a half silver and a copper to the serving woman.

  “You didn’t—”

  “This time it’s our treat.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So…how is it really going?” Kadara asks again.

  “All right. Yarrl lets me use the forge at night, and I’ve put together a few things. It takes time.”

  “You may have more than you thought,” Kadara says in a low voice.

  “Why?”

  “Fairhaven’s put a surtax on goods from Recluce.”

  Dorrin sips the redberry. His stomach growls, and he blushes.

  “Don’t you understand?” Kadara asks.

  “I’m hungry. But doesn’t that mean—” His stomach growls again.

  “The man’s hungry.” Brede laughs. “What Kadara’s saying is that she’s worried. With the tax, fewer and fewer ships will travel between Candar and Recluce, and that when our time is done we won’t be able to get home.”

  “Aren’t you?” Kadara looks at her beer.

  “What good will it do? Lortren won’t have us back now, and in a year anything can happen.” Brede takes a deep swallow from the gray stoneware mug.

  “You two.” Kadara looks from Dorrin to Brede. “You’re too stubborn to give up your machines, and you’re convinced that everything will work out.”

  Dorrin hopes his stomach won’t rumble again, and looks toward the kitchen for the waitress and the stew and bread.

  “I didn’t say that,” Brede says. “I don’t see much point in worrying about what I can’t change. I can’t stop a war between Recluce and Fairhaven.”

  “Will it come to that?” Dorrin asks in spite of himself.

  Brede shakes his head. “I think so. For the first time since long before Creslin, the Whites have a truly great wizard.”

  “Does that mean a war?” Dorrin asks. “I mean, what would they get from it? If they destroy Recluce, they get fewer spices and wool, and they’d cost more, and they wouldn’t be able to sell as much grain. And if they don’t, lots of people get killed, and lots of gold is wasted.”

  Kadara laughs. “You’re too reasonable to fight anything, Dorrin. You’ll still be asking questions when the White legions march over the hills looking for you. People don’t have to be reasonable. You should know that.”

  The smith and healer smiles wryly. “I guess so. I know my machines are only based in order, and it’s logical, when you get right down to it. I mean, chaos gums up anything complex. So, for a machine to work, it has to be order-based. But no one is logical about it.”

  Kadara and Brede exchange glances.

  “Ah…” Kadara finally says, “I never thought about it that way.”

  “Neither did I,” Dorrin admits. His stomach growls.

  Brede laughs.

  “Here you go!” The serving woman drops three heavy bowls on the table, one right after the other, all steaming. “Where’s your coins?”

  Brede hands her a silver. “For all three.”

  She hands back a copper, and a platter with a single long loaf lands in the middle, still vibrating on the uneven and battered dark wood after the server has turned to the next table. “More of the same, gents?” she asks the pair of tradesmen.

  “Thank you,” Dorrin says politely to Brede, even as he wonders if people will always be looking out for him. His eyes burn from the smoke and the closeness of the air. Kadara smiles at Brede, softly enough that Dorrin wishes he were the recipient.

  “My pleasure, Dorrin.” Brede takes a deep pull from the mug and raises it until he catches the server’s eyes. She nods, and he lowers the mug.

  “How long are you going to stay here?” asks Brede.

  “In Diev?” Dorrin pauses for another sip of the redberry. “Until I discover who I am.”

  “Oh…Dorrin.” Kadara’s voice breaks, and she looks down at the table. “How cruel.”

  Brede’s eyebrows lift.

  “Lortren, she’s a bitch. She knows how honest Dorrin is.” Tears seep from the red-headed blade’s eyes before she wipes them. “It’ll be years…”

  “I’m sure that’s what she had in mind.” Dorrin’s voice is dry. He takes a spoonful of the heavily peppered stew, then breaks the end off the brown bread. “Let’s enjoy the food.”

  “Might as well.” Brede breaks off the other end and offers the platter to Kadara, who shakes her head, still wiping her eyes.

  “Here’s your refill, trooper!” The serving woman pours more beer into Brede’s mug, then looks at Kadara. The redhead shakes her head.

  Dorrin takes another spoonful of the stew, blinking. His eyes burn. From the smoke, he thinks, from the smoke. For a time, none of the three speak, and Dorrin finishes his stew not long after Brede. Kadara is still eating, taking small nibbles from the chunk of warm bread in her hand.

  Dorrin yawns. “Tired, I guess.”

  “Is smithing that hard?”

  “Well…I am doing a little healing, mostly animals, and I work on my designs sometimes at night.”

  “Designs?”

  “It helps to draw them out before I try to make anything. Sometimes, I carve it out in wood even. I’m working on gears.”

  “Gears?” This time Kadara is the questioner.

  “You can’t transfer power without gears. I read about them in the old books in my father’s library. And, I mean, the point of a machine is to do something, and that means transferring power from something, like a waterwheel or an engine.”

  “But we have waterwheels on Recluce.”

  “And there are gears, but I want to build a steam engine.”

  “Oh…Dorrin,” Kadara says once again, this time only shaking her head.

  Dorrin yawns again. “I need to go.” He stands up. “Thank you. I enjoyed it. Will you be around for a while, or are they sending you out?”

  “Not for a while,” Brede answers. “That could change tomorrow. If there are highwaymen below Kleth or Syda, our squad would be the next to go.”

  Dorrin pats Kadara’s arm. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Dorrin.”

  Dorrin picks up his staff from behind his chair along the b
ack wall and walks through the tables and past the soot-smoked lantern hanging outside the Red Lion. The wind chills his face. Overhead, the stars glitter coldly as he walks into the stable where Vaos snores lightly on two bales of hay pushed together.

  XL

  “Pass the squash,” grumbles Yarrl.

  Petra sets the bowl before him. “It’s good, especially with the pepper.”

  “Pepper? Can’t afford spices, can we, Reisa?”

  “It came from the garden. It’s early and green, but it helps.”

  “Oh…that your doing, young fellow?”

  “I helped a little,” Dorrin admits.

  Yarrl shovels a pile of the mashed yellow squash onto the brown plate, then uses his tin spoon to take a mouthful. He chews and swallows. “Pepper helps.” He takes another mouthful.

  Dorrin takes an early summer peach and slices it into quarters, letting the quarters fall onto his plate beside the curried lamb. Then he alternates mouthfuls of the hot lamb and barley with slices of peach.

  “You’re a good healer,” Petra says slowly. “That business with the piglets—we would have lost all but one. And Mora…”

  Dorrin frowns. “I still worry about Mora—”

  “Not bad for a young fellow at the forge,” mumbles Yarrl. “Except he spends too much time with his toys.”

  “They’re cute,” Petra protests. “They do things.”

  “Still toys.”

  Dorrin swallows another slice of peach—a trace green, but the tart moisture cools his mouth from the heat of the spiced lamb. “They’re models, really. Someday, I hope to build bigger ones.”

  “Need a light-blessed pile of iron,” Yarrl declares. “And what would you use them for?”

  “Whatever…” Dorrin demurs.

  “I still wonder why you’d be a smith, rather than a healer,” Reisa says as she ladles an additional scoop of lamb and barley onto her plate.

  “I’d like to be both,” admits Dorrin, “but I have to learn to be a good smith first.” The drumming of the rain on the roof begins to subside as Dorrin finishes the last slice of his peach. “Looks like it might clear up.”

  “We needed the rain.”

  “Turns the roads into mud, and Bartov is supposed to deliver some ingots and coal tomorrow.”