“She came to see you?”
“I don’t know exactly why. She didn’t say.”
“Dorrin, you men are impossible.” Petra sighs. “Do you like her?”
“Of course. She’s been good and fair and helpful.”
“Leave the poor man alone, Petra, and give me a hand.” Reisa’s voice is not quite stern as it carries into the dampness of the gray late afternoon.
“Just a moment, mother.” Petra pats Zilda, then smiles at Dorrin. “I think I’m going to like her, Dorrin.” She steps back into the kitchen.
Dorrin walks back to the well and begins to wash the worst of the grime from his arms and face. First Kadara and Brede, and now Reisa and Petra. Why had Liedral traveled five days out of her normal route? He draws another pail of water to carry to his room, looking at the barn where he can hear Liedral whistling as she curries the cart horse.
Once washed, shaved, and dried off, Dorrin pulls on his lighter-weight brown shirt and trousers, then his boots, and combs his hair. He looks around the room, which seems suddenly stark, almost empty, before opening the door and crossing the packed clay on the north side of the yard to the porch.
Liedral, Petra, and Reisa sit on stools under the overhanging eave that serves as a roof. Zilda begs from Reisa, butting at her leg, and clinking the thin chain that took Dorrin several evenings to fashion, mostly to learn the technique.
“…little one here always looks to him, like a father almost…”
“…too young for that.” Petra laughs.
“You look less smithlike,” Liedral says. She, too, has removed the dust and dirt of travel, as well as the dark jacket, and wears a dark green shirt buttoned up almost to her neck.
“I would hope so.”
“Now, he just looks like an innocent healer.”
“Innocent?” asks Petra.
Dorrin blushes.
“Innocent,” confirms Reisa, “but learnedlike innocence.”
Liedral smiles sympathetically.
“Aaaa…ummmm,” coughs Yarrl from the kitchen doorway.
Reisa rises from the stool and picks it up. “Time for supper.”
“Was time a while ago,” grouses Yarrl.
“Oh, papa. You weren’t washed up, and neither was Dorrin.”
“Washing up, washing down, wash, wash, wash…you’d think I was a stinky old goat or something.”
“Well…not old,” Petra affirms.
“Child.” Yarrl cannot quite hide the smile.
As the others sit down before the wide stew plates, Petra lifts a heavy crockery dish from the oven of the coal stove whose iron and ceramic expanse gives it the look of a small forge. She sets the dish on a clay tile in the middle of the oak table. Reisa sets a basket of bread at each end. A small plate of dried fruit rests beside the stewpot.
“Go ahead, trader.” Yarrl nods to Liedral.
“After you, ser,” Liedral responds.
“Only because you insist.” But Yarrl is pleased at the deference.
“What new is happening beyond Spidlar?” asks Reisa.
“One hardly knows where to start.” Liedral pauses, then continues. “The White Wizards continue to build the mountains across the high plains of Analeria, and they say the ground shakes all the time there. Fairhaven has imposed an additional thirty percent surtax on goods from Recluce.”
“The Spidlarian Council must be pleased with that.” Reisa ladles a large helping of stew into Liedral’s dish, and then a smaller helping into her own.
Dorrin wrinkles his nose. Even with the pepper he has coaxed from Reisa’s stunted plants, the mutton odor of the stew is overpowering. Still, he is hungry.
“They ought to be worried, but they haven’t seen that far ahead. The improved trade will just make Spidlaria a more attractive target for Fairhaven once the wizards finish with Kyphros. Right now, they’re still pushing the Analerian nomads and their herds into the Westhorns.”
“Are there any left?” Reisa asks.
“Not many. There’s not much grass in the rocks, and they lose too many cattle to the cats and wolves.” Liedral takes a mouthful of stew and swallows. “They say there’s a new emperor in Hamor, and that the Nordlans and the Bristans are boarding each other’s ships. That’s why Fairhaven can tax Recluce goods. Not much is crossing the Eastern Ocean, except from Hamor, and that’s even more costly.”
“Hmmmm…” mumbles the smith.
“Sarronnyn is rebuilding the old garrison at Westwind…the Duke of Hydolar died of the flux, and the regent is another White Wizard, a fellow named Gorsuch. The Duke’s son is only four, and that means there will be a long regency…”
“Like forever.”
“Fairhaven has doubled its orders of timber from Sligo, and most of it is to be delivered to the shipyards in Lydiar…and there’s a rumor that Recluce has stopped sending questors to Candar, at least eastern Candar…” Liedral looks at Dorrin, then away.
“How’d you get to be a questor, young fellow?” asks Yarrl.
“When I finished the Academy—that’s the school for questors—they sent me here.” Dorrin’s head throbs at the incomplete answer.
“Didn’t your parents have anything to say about it?”
Dorrin laughs. “It was my father’s idea. He was offended by my wanting to build machines.”
“Machines?”
“You’ve seen my models. I’d like to build bigger ones. Like the steam engine that I read about. There’s no reason why you couldn’t build one to drive a mill or a boat.”
“You read about an engine that runs on steam…What does this engine do and where did you read about it? Is it some sort of magic?” asks Petra.
“Hardly. Your kettle over there: when it boils, steam comes out of the spout. When it boils too hard, if you put a plug in the spout, what would happen?”
Petra doesn’t answer.
“It would blow off the top or push out the plug,” answers Reisa.
“There’s power in the steam. It’s not magic. I want to make the steam work for me.”
“A steam engine,” muses Liedral. “But what fuels it?”
“Coal would be best, but you could use wood or charcoal.”
The conversation lags as Petra spoons out seconds of stew. Dorrin takes a deep swallow of cold water.
“Why would your father send you away because you wanted to build this machine?” Reisa breaks a silence punctuated only by Yarrl’s noisy chewing.
“Because he doesn’t understand it, I think. He’s afraid that it would create chaos.”
“Would it?”
“No. You can’t build one that’s not orderly—even a little one.”
“I don’t understand,” Petra says slowly.
“Seems simple enough.” Reisa refills her mug. “People don’t like change. They don’t like changes or people who are different. Spidlar’s as open as anywhere in Candar. More than ten years since we came, and some people still won’t use your father’s iron work, for all that it’s twice as good as Henstaal’s.”
“Truth,” snaps the smith. “Take the crap they know over quality stuff they don’t. Isn’t that so, trader?”
“I’m afraid it is,” Liedral admits. “They don’t like women traders, and they always need reassurance that something is either from the same person or just like that person’s work.”
Another silence falls upon the table.
“What about your parents? Do they even know where you are?” Petra asks.
“Not exactly. There hasn’t been exactly any way to send them word.”
“You could, you know,” Liedral says after swallowing another mouthful of the mutton stew. “The going rate is around a half silver for an envelope. You give it to a Spidlarian shipmaster, and they’ll carry it to one of the factors in whatever country, who will send it to the town you want with the next shipment. Sometimes it takes a season, but they do get there.”
“Even to my parents on Recluce?”
“If you’re not in a great hurry
, I can help take care of that.” Liedral sips the thin light beer from her mug.
“When you go to Tyrhavven? Or Spidlaria? How long will that be?”
“Spidlaria. I’m a bit late already. I really shouldn’t be here, but I wanted to see how you were coming. It’s two hard days from Kleth.”
“Oh…”
“This time it worked out all right. Jarnish’s nephew found some cammabark in the marshlands, and I’ll offer it to the Spidlarian Council.”
“Cammabark?”
“Fire powder—they use it in skyrockets and cannons. It’s best if it’s mixed with black powder. Touchy stuff—if it gets too dry, it explodes.”
Dorrin nods. “I expect it wouldn’t be much use against the White Wizards.”
“They use fire well enough,” Reisa adds coldly.
Yarrl coughs once, then again.
“My background is no secret to Dorrin. He’s rather observant.”
“At least about some things,” Petra adds.
Liedral lifts her mug, coughs, and covers her face. Reisa shakes her head as she looks at Dorrin.
“Watch the women,” Yarrl mumbles through a mouthful of meat. “Watch the women. Least a few steps ahead all the time. Poor man’s got no chance.”
“Poor papa.” Petra grins.
Dorrin takes a sip of his redberry.
Yarrl takes a final swallow of the thin beer and stands up, abruptly. “Off to see Gylert.”
“He’s been promising you iron work for seasons.”
“He is the head of the local traders’ council.”
“Maybe he will provide work.” Reisa shrugs and looks at Liedral. “What do you think?”
“I’d try a smaller trader. Good work at a lower price is more important to the smaller ones.”
“Perhaps you could do both,” ventures Dorrin, slowly.
“How be that?” ponders the smith.
“Thank ser Gylert for seeing you, and ask him to suggest some smaller trader who might need unique or special work. That way, he doesn’t have to tell you ‘no,’ and he can’t complain that you have ignored or avoided him.”
Reisa swallows abruptly, and Liedral looks at Dorrin for a long moment.
“I’ll be thinking about that.” Yarrl’s eyes rest on Petra. “Did you groom the bay, daughter?”
“I did, papa.”
“Good.” Yarrl tramps through the door, across the porch, and down the stairs toward the barn.
Dorrin finishes another chunk of the crusty bread and swallows the last of the water in his mug.
“Would you like any more, trader?” asks Reisa.
“I’ve had more than enough. It’s far, far better than inn fare.” Liedral leans back slightly in the wooden chair.
A chain clinks, and Dorrin smiles. “Any scraps for Zilda?”
“That greedy kid? A few might be managed.” Reisa leaves the table and reclaims a battered dish from the porch, scraping the leavings from her dish into it.
Dorrin brings over his dish and Liedral’s. The table scraps barely cover the bottom of the chipped brown stew dish. Reisa shakes her head and adds a chunk of bread. Dorrin takes the dish out and sets it in the corner away from the door where the kid can eat without being disturbed. He ruffles her fur before heading back toward the kitchen. Liedral meets him at the door.
“Just talk to your friend, Dorrin,” Reisa calls.
“Can we sit here?” Liedral points to one of the stools.
He takes the other. Inside the dishes clank, as mother and daughter clean up. Outside, Dorrin studies the garden, the barn, and the low grass of the meadow beyond. Zilda’s chain clanks on the chipped crockery from which the kid eats.
“What happened to your friends?”
“Kadara and Brede? They joined the Spidlarian Guard here in Diev. They’re somewhere around Elparta now, searching for highwaymen.”
“Most likely inspired by Fairhaven.”
“Oh?”
“That happened in Kyphros, too. Thieves appeared where there hadn’t ever been any. Cattle disappeared. Fairhaven asked the Prefect to act, but the Prefect’s troops never could find them. Eventually, that was one reason that the wizards gave for taking over the plains.”
“You seem convinced that Fairhaven will conquer all of eastern Candar.”
“I suppose so.” Liedral gazes into the growing darkness. “I try not to dwell on it. There’s enough else to worry about, like being a trader.”
“You seem to manage.”
“You’ve seen how well I manage, scraping by on one cart and sometimes a pack horse, rattling around in a barn of a warehouse that once was always full, letting half of what I bring in go to Freidr, just so his political friends won’t look too closely.”
Dorrin looks at the barn. What can he say? He has always thought of Liedral as extraordinarily competent. The faint hum of a mosquito punctuates the evening, followed by the indistinct words of a conversation from the parlor between Reisa and Petra.
“That was a good suggestion you gave Yarrl,” Liedral finally says, shifting her weight on the hard oak stool. “How did you come up with that?”
“It made sense. Powerful people don’t like to be asked for money or for jobs. They do like to be asked for advice, and they don’t like being surprised.” Dorrin disengages Zilda from his trousers before she can worry a hole in them. He scratches the kid’s head. The white fur makes it easy in the dimness of early evening.
“She likes you.”
“I’m not sure why.” Dorrin runs a hand through his curly hair. It needs cutting, but it seems to him like it always needs cutting. The faint whine of a mosquito warns him, and he frowns, trying to recast the sort of ward that will work to discourage the flying insects. He wishes he had read those sections of his father’s library far more intently, but in concentrating on machines, he never considered the continual annoyance of hungry mosquitoes, which always seem to prefer redheads.
“I am.”
The kid’s chain clinks as Zilda attempts to chew on Liedral’s boots.
Dorrin wipes his forehead. Has he gotten the ward correct? The sound of the mosquito seems fainter, at least.
“You’re kind. Stubborn, though.” After a pause, she continues. “I meant that about the letter.”
“I do owe them something, I suppose.” He waits, and sits quietly as Zilda bounces into his lap and curls up. A faint breeze, smelling of distant rain out of the Westhorns and sheep, caresses his smooth-shaven face. “Why did you come here?”
“You know why.”
“I still have a lot to figure out,” Dorrin says after another long silence. “And I want to build my machines.”
“I know. But you’d better think about making golds, too.”
“Why?”
“How can you afford metals, or wood, or whatever you need for materials?”
Dorrin laughs. “I guess I had better think about it. What do you suggest?”
“Me? I’m just a poor trader.”
“But what kind of things sell?”
“Anything rare or well-made and functional or a necessity of some sort.”
“Just the sort of things Recluce has exported for the past centuries.”
“Why else would anyone buy things from the Black Wizards?”
“I’ll have to think about that. I could grow spices. I’m pretty good at that. Perhaps sell some of my models as toys. They are well-made.”
“You’d sell those?”
“I’m not a collector. Some of them served their purpose once I finished them. They didn’t work the way I expected.”
“Oh…”
“That’s the way it works. You design it, and then you try it out. It’s a lot easier to make models than to spend the effort on building something big. Of course, models still work better than the full-sized machines, but most times, if the model doesn’t work, the machine won’t either.”
“Dorrin, do you mind?”
“That you came? No. I’m glad, but I
couldn’t tell you why.” He grins in the darkness, knowing that she cannot see the expression. “You are a bit older, you know.”
“And wiser.”
“There is that.”
“I’ll leave it at that.” She stands. “You have a letter to write, and I’m leaving early in the morning.” She has entered the house even before Dorrin has managed to set Zilda on the porch. He shakes his head, then turns back toward his quarters, thankful that, with his growing sense of order, he needs no light, except for detail work like smithing or writing.
Once inside his room, he lights the lamp with a striker and takes out a sheet from the box of parchments he uses for designs. He finds a quill and the ink. Then, after turning up his lamp, Dorrin smoothes the parchment. What should he write? How should he address it? Carefully he dips the quill into the ink, then begins, leaving a space for the salutation. The dim light is more than adequate as he writes deliberate word after deliberate word.
I am well, working as an apprentice smith here in Diev. The smith is brusque, but not unkind, and I have learned much more than Hegl would have believed, and I no longer ruin good iron. I hope that Hegl is happy that his lessons have not gone to waste.
We passed through Vergren and saw the wonders of Fairhaven on the way. I found Fairhaven too rich for my blood and am much happier where I am. I now have a mare I call Meriwhen. You can tell Lortren that my riding skills have improved.
Kadara and Brede are with the Spidlarian Guard. For the past few eight-days, they’ve been patrolling the northwest roads.
The weather here is colder than in Extina, and even the spring ice took some getting used to, but working in a smithy is not chilly even when the snow gets knee-deep outside. It only has once, a late-spring snow that was unexpected, although the older folks talk about the times before the Black Wizards changed the world and the weather, when everything was better.
I have not found whatever it was that Lortren expected I would. If I have, I don’t know that I have. I hope Kyl has found what he must find, and that this letter finds you all healthy and happy.
Dorrin.
After he rereads it, he dips the quill yet another time and pens in the salutation, compromising with “My dear family.”
Then he lays it aside. He will fold and seal it in the morning for Liedral to take.
The Magic Engineer Page 20