The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Petra covers her mouth and looks at her mother, her eyes still crinkled in a smile. Reisa shakes her head.

  “Why are you shaking your head, woman?”

  “Just the rain, just the rain.”

  “Well, pass the meat.”

  Dorrin lifts the heavy bowl and sets it before the smith.

  “You going to work tonight, youngster?”

  “Not tonight, I think. I banked the coals and tightened the vents.” His stomach tightens at his evasion, but he sips the cool cider from his mug without revealing his discomfort. “Not at the forge,” he finally adds.

  “Good. Work too much…fry your brain. None of us smiths got much left.”

  “I doubt that.” Dorrin laughs. “Brugal certainly would. He claimed you were sharper than the Prefect of Gallos.”

  “Hmmmm…” Yarrl pushes himself away from the table. “Going to see Honsard. Wants to talk.”

  “He wants to get you tanked on that green wine and get a better price for wagon work.” Reisa’s voice is tart.

  “Don’t go and talk, and I get no work.” The smith stands and pulls a leather jacket from the peg on the wall.

  Dorrin carries his plate to the wash bucket.

  “I’ll do that,” Petra says. “You look to the spices, the sage especially.”

  “Sage…hmmphhh…” Yarrl opens the back door and steps onto the porch. “Clear night, leastways.”

  “Keep a clear head, too,” advises the gray-haired woman.

  Dorrin follows the smith off the covered porch and down the steps, stopping by the spice garden while the smith ambles toward the barn, and the bay he will ride to Honsard’s wagonry. After surveying the spice garden, Dorrin kneels and removes a few weed spouts, his hands brushing the pepper bushes and the sage, for the heavy rains and dampness are unsuited to either. He sees another set of weeds beyond the dill, and absently removes those, waddling around the garden, touching, sensing, and drinking in the scent and feel of the growing herbs.

  Standing, he brushes the dark dirt from his hands, noting again the difference between the carefully composted soil of the garden and the clay of the yard. Creating any garden from the red clay takes time and patience. Reisa has supplied those; he has only added a touch of order.

  He fingers the small carrot in his pocket as he walks toward the corner of the barn. He slips into the goat pen, and Mora butts him gently. “I know, I know, but I didn’t bring much.” He slips the nanny the wilted carrot, even as he touches her shoulder.

  She is close to term. That he can tell, but how close? With a shrug, he leaves, checking the gate, placing his feet to avoid the worst of the puddles.

  The sound of a bullfrog rumbles through the misty twilight as Dorrin walks back to his quarters. He lights the lamp. On the floor, he now has a woven grass mat, and a quilt covers his pallet bed. A crude planked wardrobe stands in one corner, and the writing table has been strengthened with iron braces. Two towels are hung on a rack he has built, and a chipped but serviceable washbowl rests on the shelf between the dowels that hold his rough cloth towels.

  As he sits on the stool, he takes a sheet of paper from the wooden box and dips the quill into the ink, beginning to sketch out in greater detail the idea that has been swirling inside his head. The better his design, the less work at the forge—and that is easier on his body and his limited funds for materials. He considers it work, but would rather not mention it to Yarrl. Besides, Dorrin has promised Pergun he will go to Kyril’s the following evening. He hasn’t gone recently, and he knows he needs to, if only to hear what is happening in and around Diev.

  In time, he stops the sketch and takes out another sheet of paper, this time slowly calculating as he places numbers at various points on the sketch. He wishes the numbers were better—or that he had paid more attention to the higher calculations at the Academy.

  Finally, he sighs and puts aside the quill, and places the papers in the other wooden box—the one under his pallet with his notes on his models. Then he strips off his trousers and shirt and climbs into his bed. Thoughts of black steel and carts that move without draft horses and boats that move without wind swirl through his thoughts until darkness claims him.

  “Dorrin!” His name is followed by a rapping on his door. “Dorrin!”

  “Yes?” He struggles out of his bedroll and off the pallet, yanking on his trousers. “What is it?”

  “It’s Mora. I need some help.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He pulls on his trousers, boots, and work shirt, and unlatches the door. Reisa is halfway to the barn. Dorrin follows.

  The nanny lies on a pile of straw under the slanting roof of the barn, shuddering periodically. Reisa is bent over the suffering animal, her good arm repositioning the goat’s hind legs.

  Dorrin squats down to help, to help with whatever Reisa will direct him to do, for he has no experience with any sort of birth.

  Mora moans, and Dorrin winces at the pain. Pain follows pain, with one interlude of joy, and, after what seems an endless night, Dorrin slumps against the fence. No order remains in the twisted body of the nanny goat. Nothing he can do will change that. A single kid whimpers from Reisa’s arms.

  “Sorry—I tried.”

  “I know. I watched you visit her almost every night.”

  “I tried.”

  “Youngster, some things will be. Not all the order in the world, nor all the chaos, can change fate.” She cradles the kid. “What about this one?”

  Dorrin studies the still-damp kid. “If you can get some kind of milk, broth, something, I can probably keep her alive until she can eat on her own.”

  “But you couldn’t save Mora.”

  “I’m not strong enough. This one’s small.”

  “I won’t call her ‘this one.’”

  “What will you name her?”

  “Zilda, I guess. It means ‘lost one’ in…where I came from.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “I don’t think you’re lost, young Dorrin. You’re solid. Where you are is where you are. Don’t lose that. Yarrl laughs at your toys, but he’d give an arm to be able to make them. I’d almost give my other one to grow herbs and heal like you.” Reisa pauses as a faint whimpering “baaaa…” escapes from her arms. “I’d think either cow’s or goat’s milk would do. I can trade some pepper with Werra or Ghunta. Some broth, tonight, I’d guess.”

  Dorrin touches Zilda again, trying to strengthen the blackness within the kid. Then he takes a deep breath and straightens. “Now what?”

  “Petra can take care of Mora.”

  Dorrin understands, although neither will speak of it. All that can be used will be, but Reisa will not ask that of herself, or Dorrin.

  Dorrin nods and turns back toward his quarters and his pallet.

  XLI

  Jeslek smiles as he looks westward at the needle peaks, still covered with the ice of the winter. Behind him, the red-headed woman, also in white, glances from the guards to the Westhorns and back to the guards. The three guards look down at the whitened granite of the road.

  The wizard’s senses begin to probe the chaos deep beneath the last stretch of the high grasslands of Analeria, loosening a bond here, leaving another untouched. The ground begins to tremble, and on a distant hillside, indistinct dots that are sheep collapse into the high grass as the shaking increases. Yet the road remains stable, with only the faintest hints of vibration underneath.

  A faint haze spreads across the sky, and smoke begins to rise from the grasslands on each side of the white road. Slowly, ever so slowly, the road appears to sink, as if dropping below the surrounding terrain.

  Anya smiles nervously, while the guards keep their eyes firmly on the granite underfoot.

  Jeslek’s eyes focus downward also, following his senses deep beneath the earth, opening channels of chaos, and letting the earth do its work, thrusting small mountains upward, no longer restrained by the bonds of order.

  “A great one, he is,” murmurs the
youngest guard. “They say he’s the one foretold in the Old Book.”

  The road shudders, strongly enough that Anya stumbles against the guard who has spoken. The guard steps back from her with a start, as though he had been burned.

  XLII

  Dorrin wipes his forehead, then lifts the adz, driving it down into the charcoal. He lifts the adz again, wondering why Tullar delivers charcoal in such large chunks, and why the smithy burns so much—but he knows the second reason. The sound of Yarrl’s hammer interweaves with the impact of the adz as Dorrin breaks the charcoal into smaller chunks. When he has a reasonable heap of broken charcoal, he sets aside the adz and shovels the charcoal into the wheelbarrow.

  He sets aside the shovel and wipes his forehead, the silence from the smithy informing him that the smith has also stopped work—or moved to something quieter.

  Dorrin blots his forehead once more with the back of his short-sleeved work shirt. Unlike the smith, he needs the tattered shirt, if only to keep the sweat under control.

  The summer air is still, humid, so silent that he can hear the swish of the broom inside the smith’s house. Petra or Reisa? Probably Petra, since he doubts that the one-armed mother would use the broom—although he has no doubts that Reisa can handle almost anything, one-handed or not.

  A fly buzzes toward him, and he waves at it. The insect veers away, but he knows it will return as soon as both hands are back on the adz. He blots his forehead yet again before returning to breaking up the larger chunks before him. The fly circles, waiting for him to resume work.

  An almost shadowy projection of order keeps the vermin from his pallet. Can he do the same thing with the flying insects? He concentrates.

  Hoofbeats drum through the damp and hard red clay of the yard, and two familiar horses enter the yard. Dorrin sighs and looks up. Both riders wear the dark blue of Spidlar.

  Dorrin glances down. He still hasn’t shoveled enough charcoal. He sets aside the adz, leaning it against the wheelbarrow.

  “Dorrin!” calls Brede.

  The apprentice smith nods. Kadara returns the nod. The sound of the broom ceases.

  Dorrin wipes his forehead again. “You’re off somewhere? Again? You just got back less than an eight-day ago.”

  “How could you guess?” Kadara brushes a strand of the flame hair she has cut shorter and shorter off her forehead.

  “The packs, the travel uniforms, and the fact that you came to see me.”

  “I didn’t mean…” Kadara shakes her head.

  Dorrin flushes. Once again, he has answered a rhetorical question. Will he ever learn? He brushes back the insistent fly.

  “Anyway…we just wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you.” Dorrin gestures toward the charcoal. “I do keep busy.”

  “I still think you’d be better off as a healer.” Kadara eases her mount closer to the pile.

  “Not if I want to build my machines.”

  “Oh, Dorrin. Another year, and we can return to Recluce. If you’d ever give up such…”

  Dorrin finds his chin stiffening.

  “Kadara, could he ask you to be a hearth-holder?” Brede’s mellow voice is reasonable, even.

  “We’re leaving in the morning,” Kadara states, as if she had never hinted at the stupidity of his desire to build machines.

  “When will you be back?”

  “They never tell us that.” Brede laughs. “I think it’s highwaymen downriver of Elparta. Who knows?”

  Dorrin wipes his forehead.

  “Anyway…” Brede says into the silence.

  “All right. Good luck.”

  “Thank you.” Kadara eases her mount back.

  After the sound of hoofbeats fades, the sound of the broom resumes. Dorrin drives the adz into the largest chunk of charcoal, ignoring the light footsteps on the porch behind him. After two more swings with the adz, he sets it aside and lifts the shovel, scooping up perhaps a third of what he has broken and dropping the shovelful into the wheelbarrow.

  “She’s not for you.”

  Dorrin jumps. Reisa stands almost at his shoulder.

  “I know. She only sees Brede, that…” He shakes his head. Brede is intelligent, caring, and talented. What can Dorrin really say? “I suppose it’s natural. He’s quick, strong, and intelligent. I’m just a sometime apprentice, sometime healer.”

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re a damned fine healer. I should know. That wasn’t what I meant.”

  Dorrin lowers the shovel.

  “You told me you grew up with your red-haired friend. And she still doesn’t understand you. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  “I suppose so.” Dorrin looks down the road, but Brede and Kadara are well out of sight.

  Reisa snorts. “Men…”

  Dorrin waits, but Reisa has turned and walks back toward the smithy. He takes a deep breath and lifts the adz. Another few swings and he will have enough to fill the wheelbarrow. Inside the house, the sweeping continues.

  A flash of white appears on the porch. “Baaaa…” The small head cocks at Dorrin. He reaches over and scratches Zilda between the ears. The kid licks his hand. He strokes the soft curling hair once more before lifting the adz, then grins as he realizes his fingers have left a faint black shadow on the kid.

  XLIII

  Dorrin increases the tempo of the bellows, trying to contain and direct the heat as best he can while Yarrl wrestles with the heavy wagon spring.

  The tongs move, and the hammer strikes. The smith returns the spring to the forge again, then, after watching metal glow cherry red, grunts as he swings it back to the anvil. Dorrin concentrates on striking the metal exactly where Yarrl indicates, following the smith’s signals.

  “There!” Yarrl straightens. “Thought we’d have to do that again, but the heat held.” He eases the heavy piece to the annealing shelf of the forge and sets down the tongs to wipe his steaming forehead.

  “You know…” Yarrl wipes his forehead again. “Been able to do things…since you came.” He looks at the coals, dying almost unnaturally, as if robbed of energy now that the bellows has ceased its heaving. “Not sure anyone else could do ’em. All folks from the Black island like you?”

  “No. I had to leave because I wanted to make things—machines like my models. They said it wasn’t order-based.”

  The burly smith coughs and spits. “Demon-driven idiots. You put so much order in your metal that no damned White could touch it. Temmil says those shoes you did cured his old mare’s limp. Didn’t want to do shoes—hate it, but poor old bastard can’t afford Migra. Hope we got them right.”

  Dorrin frowns. Could ordered iron help hold off chaos? It makes sense, even if he’s never thought about it.

  The door rumbles as it eases open, and a gust of damp air follows Reisa into the smithy, bringing with it the scent of cut grass from the meadow uphill. Both men turn.

  “There’s a trader fellow here. Claims to know young Dorrin.”

  “Driving a cart?” Dorrin blushes. Every trader would drive a cart or a wagon. “Not too tall, broad-brimmed hat?”

  “I guess you do know the fellow.”

  “Liedral’s probably why I’m here. Told us about Jarnish.”

  “Well…go see your friend…I can wind this up, and it’s not like you ever slack off.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, Dorrin. Sometimes…” The smith looks at Reisa.

  “Just go see the trader.”

  Dorrin still racks his gear before unstrapping his leather apron and hanging it up. He swallows, trying to get the odor of hot metal off his tongue and out of his throat, then walks toward the yard.

  Liedral has tied the cart horse to the same iron ring Dorrin had used when he first came to Yarrl’s, and she stands by the cart, the broad-brimmed hat on the seat, the short and silky hair ruffled in the warm and humid breeze that promises an evening rain. “You look very smithlike.”

  “I feel all too smithlike.” D
orrin pauses. “I didn’t think you ever came to Diev.”

  “I don’t usually.” Liedral looks up, and Dorrin turns to see Reisa walking toward them.

  “Liedral, I’d like you to meet Reisa.”

  Reisa inclines her head with a smile. “Any friend of Dorrin’s is a friend of ours. If you don’t mind simple fare, you’re welcome for supper.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” protests Liedral.

  “Nonsense. You can trade for your dinner in tales and news, if that makes you feel better.”

  “I’d like to do that,” the trader admits. “Inn fare or no fare gets tiring after a while.”

  Reisa nods, almost militarily, as if acknowledging a subordinate’s sound decision. “That’s settled.”

  As Reisa steps onto the porch and into the kitchen, Liedral shakes her head.

  “What’s the matter?” asks Dorrin.

  “Nothing…do you always end up around military types or blades?”

  “Reisa? She was a blade for Southwind, I think.” He walks toward the well and removes the cover. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to remove the smithlike appearance and odor.”

  Liedral looks toward the barn.

  “I don’t think they’d mind. You can put your horse in with Meriwhen.”

  “I’ll take care of that while you wash up.”

  As Dorrin lifts another bucket of water, Zilda bleats, and the thin chain that tethers her to the porch clinks. “All right, little one.” He sets aside the water and steps to the edge of the porch, ruffling the kid’s fur and scratching between her eyes.

  “Is she your other lady?” Petra’s voice is even, standing in the doorway from the kitchen. With her gray trousers and shapeless shirt, without the frizzy hair, she would bear a general resemblance to Liedral.

  “Zilda? I suppose. She thinks so.” He gives the kid a last scratch.

  “I meant the trader. You don’t see many women traders.”

  “She passes as a man most places, especially near Fairhaven.”