The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “You’ve got so many demon-driven reasons why we can’t do anything…”

  “You were the one who opposed our building warships.”

  “And what would we fight with? We can’t use the winds—at least we haven’t had an air wizard who would dare in generations. We can’t use gunpowder or cammabark because the Whites would blow us apart with our own powder. We’ve been coasting on Creslin’s reputation, and they’ve called our bluff. They’ll burn any ships we have before we can get close enough to board. Sure, black iron shields work fine on the ground, but how do you get close enough at sea?”

  Oran shrugs. “We can work with some of the healers on switching the oldest Feyn Fields.”

  “What about timber? We’re still—”

  “I know…”

  “What will we do with the excess wool…?”

  “…and what about the chaos-tinged ones we send to Candar and Nordla or Hamor?” asks the white-haired blade.

  “We don’t have to reach solutions right now,” temporizes the air wizard.

  “No,” answers a quiet voice from the left corner. “But how will things be any better next year or the year after?”

  Oran wipes his forehead again.

  LV

  Dorrin chews through the last chunk of cheese he has cut and swallows it quickly, hungry as he is, for he has slept later than he should have. Healing Gerrol had been harder work than he thought it would be, far harder, and he had gone right back to the smithy. His shoulders still ache, and a dull throbbing ebbs and flows behind his eyes.

  “Don’t try to swallow it whole, Dorrin. Papa knows how tired you are.” Petra refills the mug with warm cider. “Gerrol was so much better last night.”

  “Hee-yaaaa…hee-yaaa…”

  All three look through the single kitchen window into the yard where a small wagon has drawn up, heavily laden enough that the tires leave narrow ruts in the yard clay.

  “That’s Honsard’s man Wenn. Why’s he here?”

  Dorrin swallows the cider and bolts for the porch. The scent of the forge, dried leaves, and moldering post-harvest fields swirl past him on the light breeze. Zilda butts his leg as he hurries past the half-grown goat. He reaches the carter before the man enters the smithy. “Ser…might I help you? I’m Yarrl’s striker.”

  “I got a pretty load of work for your boss, fellow. Honsard’s stuff.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  The man looks at the broken parts and sections heaped in the wagon box, then at Dorrin.

  “Just wait a moment, and I’ll help you unload.”

  The carter nods. “That’d be fine.”

  When Dorrin walks into the smithy, Yarrl jabs the hot set he holds toward Dorrin’s leather apron. “Need to get working, healing or no healing.”

  “Honsard’s man is outside. He has a pile of work for you, and he wants to talk to you.”

  “Honsard? Cheap bastard said I charged too much. Said it’d be a white day in heaven ’fore he’d come here. Course, he was tanked.” Yarrl lays the iron on the forge, shaking his head. “Let’s see.”

  Dorrin follows the smith to the yard.

  “This is what you and Honsard talked about last eight-day. He said he’d hold you to your price.” The carter looks down at the pile of dried leaves by the porch steps, scuffing a foot in the clay.

  Yarrl glances from the heaped wagon to the carter and then to Dorrin. A flutter of gray catches his eye, and he looks up on the porch, where Petra stands. She nods at her father and points to Dorrin.

  “Can’t do all this at once,” the smith says.

  “Honsard knows that. When you get some done, let him or me know. We’ll get it. He’ll pay as each bit’s done.”

  “I don’t say as I understand, but that’s what will be done.”

  “I’ll help unload,” Dorrin volunteers.

  “Demons,” mutters the smith. “Seeing as I won’t get back to work until it’s done, might as well have everyone unload. You, too, Petra.”

  The carter legs his breath out as Yarrl slides the big smithy door open more than the normal two cubits.

  The fall breeze flings leaves around the trousers of the four, but Zilda has only managed to clank her chain half a dozen times before the wagon is empty and the carter is on his way.

  “Honsard…be demon-damned.” The smith looks at Dorrin. “Your doing?”

  “Well…”

  “Dorrin?” Petra is smiling mischievously.

  Dorrin thinks about evading the question, but the pounding behind his eyes returns. “I suppose so. Honsard asked me how much I owed him. Nothing, I told him. But I felt a little nasty. So I added that he could send you some honest smith work.”

  Yarrl shakes his head. “Must have scared the darkness right out of him. He’s a hard man.”

  “Baaaa…” interjects Zilda.

  “Not as hard as Dorrin,” Petra adds.

  “I’m not hard at all,” protests Dorrin.

  Both Petra and her father raise their eyebrows.

  “Really.”

  The smith puts his shoulder to the door, returning it to the mostly closed position. “We got work to do, healing or no healing. Even more now, with all this stuff.” He gestures to the additional items stacked up in order. “You get business, and you have to deliver.”

  LVI

  Outside the Red Lion, a low wind whines, promising snow and chill. Inside, Dorrin sips from the battered mug, glancing toward the singer seated on the high stool beside the fire.

  I watched my love sail out to sea,

  His hand was deft; he waved to me.

  But then the waters foamed white and free

  Just as my love turned false to me.

  Oh, love is wild, and love is bold,

  The fairest flower when e’er it is new,

  But love grows old, and waxes cold

  And fades away like morning dew…

  “Sings well.” Pergun nods his head toward the thin woman in the faded blue blouse and skirt. “Wonder if she’s good in bed.”

  “Why?”

  “Most tavern singers do both. She doesn’t look the type.”

  Dorrin sips redberry from the mug. The singer’s long reddish hair slips forward over her left shoulder, and she has an open and slightly freckled face that is somehow pinched, even as her fingers glide across the strings of the guitar. “Are we all types? Pieces on the game board of chaos and order?”

  “Master Dorrin…begging your pardon…but what does have to do with whether she’d sleep with me?”

  “She won’t. Probably not with anyone. Not any more, at least.”

  “Oh. Was worth a thought.” Pergun lifts his mug, then sets it down. “How’d you know? More healer wizardry?”

  Dorrin nods, listening to the next song from the small woman, marveling at the depth of her voice and the honest silver of her notes.

  Cuera la dierre,

  Ne querra dune lamonte,

  Pressente da lierra

  Queira fasse la fronte…

  “What’s that?”

  “Bristan, I think. I’d recognize any of the Temple tongues.” Dorrin sips his redberry slowly. He has no desire to spend more coins, not when he has so many things he must purchase.

  “Sure she won’t sleep with me?” Pergun gulps the last of his dark beer and raises the mug.

  “You sure you want another one?” asks the serving girl.

  “Course I want another one.” Pergun lays two coppers on the wood.

  “It’s your head.”

  “Whose head would it be?” argues the mill hand, but the serving woman has left. “She talking to me?”

  “She likes you.”

  “Some liking. Won’t even take my coins!”

  “Pergun.” The one word silences the mill hand. “Listen to the singer.”

  …the soldiers, they searched for many a year.

  They ripped down the mountains and tore up the trees,

  But never they found what they ne
ver could hear,

  That dashing young man with the wind-bearing skis.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s about Creslin.”

  “Who’s he?”

  Clunk! Another mug hits the table, and foam spills onto the wood. Pergun rubs his finger in the liquid and licks it. “Mustn’t waste any.”

  “Your coins, fellow?”

  Pergun hands her the coppers. She looks at Dorrin, and Dorrin understands that this beer is Pergun’s last.

  “After this one, we need to be going.”

  “Going? What…I got to go for…nothing…cold pallet…cold-hearted women…”

  Dorrin sips the last of his redberry, then pulls his jacket off the back of the chair. “Let’s go.”

  “…haven’t finished…”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Aw…right…no fun…”

  Dorrin retrieves the black staff from the floor along the wall and stands. The serving girl looks at him, and the staff, and steps back. Pergun fumbles into the battered sheepskin jacket and pushes himself upright. Dorrin steadies the table with his free right hand, then guides Pergun to the door.

  “Wonderful…wonderful beer…” mumbles Pergun. He extends a hand to steady himself, but the hand fails to touch the edge of the door, and he staggers into Dorrin.

  “Come…on…” Dorrin roughly redirects Pergun. “Where’s your horse?”

  “Got no horse…me…horse…ha…shank’s mare…”

  One of the two torches outside Kyril’s has guttered out, and the winds and the snow whip down the street. Dorrin looks toward the dark stable, gripping the staff more tightly, then forcing his fingers to relax. His boots squish through the mixture of slush and mud that covers the paving stones.

  “…got no horse…got no mare…got no pearls…got no girls…” Pergun sings, so far off-key that the notes are leaden in the night.

  Dorrin supposes that Meriwhen can bear double for a short distance.

  “…got no mare…”

  As they near the stable, Dorrin can sense the man in the darkness, even before the blade appears, even before his eyes adjust to the darkness, and his hands automatically reposition the staff.

  Meriwhen whuffles, skittering back away from the armed man, who holds the reins in one hand and the sword in the other.

  “You just better be going on your way, fellows. Off to a nice bed or back to your master.”

  “…got no horse…got no mare…” Pergun half mumbles, half sings, putting out a hand to a timber. “…who are you …who…you…you…who…?” He laughs.

  Dorrin takes a step forward. His guts are cold, but he knows that he will not abandon Meriwhen to the stranger.

  The mare whinnies, and the highwayman wraps the reins around a peg on which a wooden bucket hangs by its ropes.

  “…got no horse…”

  “It’s a pity, young fellow…” The blade weaves toward Dorrin.

  Dorrin’s hands and arms react, flicking the heavy blade aside, then reversing the staff and thrusting straight up through the diaphragm.

  “Ughhhh…” The blade clunks against the bucket and drops into the straw. The highwayman takes a half step, then sags slowly onto the dirty straw, eyes going blank.

  Dorrin barely staggers to the stable door, his feet scrabbling through the pile of straw and manure to the left of the entry. White burning flares blaze through his skull.

  “…shit…no fun, Dorrin…” mumbles Pergun.

  Dorrin’s fingers claw against the wood, and he squints, trying to shut out the light and the pain. Finally, he straightens up, still fighting the headache that feels as though Yarrl were fullering his brain with long heavy strokes. After looking at the black staff, he walks slowly back to Kyril’s, leaving a second set of tracks in the light snow that falls like a curtain.

  He closes the inn door, and the half-empty room falls silent.

  “What’s the matter, healer?” asks the heavy-set proprietor, running a grayish rag across the counter.

  “One dead thief…in the stable.”

  Kyril grabs the single-bladed axe from beneath the counter. “Just one?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I hope so, but let’s see. Forra!”

  A younger man, nearly as heavy as Kyril, but with broader shoulders and less gut, sticks his head out from the back room.

  “Trouble in the stable.”

  Torch in one hand, and a cudgel in the other, Forra leads the way to the stable, where the three find two prone figures, one face up, the other face down.

  Pergun looks up sleepily. “What took so long…? Wanna go home…”

  Forra prods the bearded highwayman with his cudgel, then rolls the body over. The surprised expression remains frozen on the man’s face.

  “Light! His chest’s caved in.” Forra looks at Dorrin.

  “His blade’s there.” Dorrin gestures with the staff.

  In the light of the torch, Kyril studies the dead man’s face. “You do this, young fellow?”

  “I didn’t mean to, but he wanted to kill us and take Meriwhen…”

  “Meriwhen?”

  “My horse, there.”

  “You’re that young healer who’s also an apprentice to Yarrl?”

  Dorrin nods.

  “Where did you learn to do this?” Kyril gestures at the dead man.

  “When…I was in school…they taught me the staff…can’t use an edged weapon.” Dorrin’s legs are shaking, and he sags against a stall wall.

  “You got some coins coming, young fellow. This here’s Niso. Council has a reward. Not much—ten golds. He killed a trader on the piers last fall.” Kyril turns to Forra. “See why no one messes with a smith, even a skinny one? Flesh and bone won’t stand up to someone who beats iron.”

  Forra, for all his bulk, looks from the dead Niso to Dorrin and back, then wipes his forehead on his sleeve. “Lot more of this, these days.”

  Kyril shakes his head, sadly, once more. “Hard times…The White Wizards making it hard on everyone, and they’re all coming here, thinking they can steal from us.”

  Dorrin shivers as a gust of wind blows snow in his face.

  “Dorrin…promised…get me home…” complains Pergun. The mill worker has managed to prop himself into a sitting position against a barrel.

  Kyril shakes his head again. “You take your friend home. I’ll let the Council know.”

  “Dorrin gets a reward…Dorrin gets…a reward…” Pergun singsongs.

  “He’ll get a reward, my drunken mill man. Believe me, he will. You think anyone wants to cross him and Yarrl?”

  Dorrin represses a sigh and helps Pergun to his feet, and onto Meriwhen, where the dark-haired man sways. Dorrin puts the staff into the lanceholder.

  “…help…”

  “Just hang on.” Dorrin unties the mare and leads her into the snow squalls before swinging up behind Pergun. He can feel both Kyril’s and Forra’s eyes on his back as Meriwhen bears him out onto the snow-covered road that leads toward Hemmil’s mill.

  LVII

  Dorrin holds the sledge, waiting for Yarrl to bring the iron from the forge to the anvil. As the iron goes down on the fuller, Dorrin begins the routine—strike and recover while Yarrl slips the iron across the bottom fuller, strike and recover, strike and recover—until the bar stock cools and the smith reheats it. Then the fullering continues until the iron is rough-flattened to the thickness of the heavy barn hinge. Next comes the flatter, and the quick blows to smooth the fullered iron.

  Even though the smithy is warm, outside the snow continues to fall. With each stroke of the sledge, Dorrin puzzles over the highwayman as he automatically responds to the smith’s directions.

  Petra appears at the edge of the smithy. This time she does not wait for a break in the routine, but steps past the slack tank, ducking under the bellows cross-lever, until Yarrl sees her and sets the iron on the forge.

  “Better be important, girl.”

  “There are two
traders here. They say they’re members of the Council. They want to see you and Dorrin.”

  “Invite them in, Petra, unless they want to meet in the kitchen.”

  Petra hastens back toward the doorway to the rear yard.

  “What did you do, young fellow?”

  “I…killed a highwayman. Kyril said there was a reward, but…”

  “You thought it was more hot air?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Demon-damned traders. Not one thing, it’s another.” Yarrl eases the unfinished iron closer to the forge fire, sets down the tongs, and places the flatter on the bricks.

  Two men in heavy cloaks of dark blue step past the broken wagon parts awaiting repair and into the warm area near the forge. One is white-haired and heavy, but tall, over four cubits. The other is dark-haired, almost rail-thin, and short, shorter even than Dorrin.

  The heavier trader inclines his head to Yarrl. “Master Yarrl, I am Trader Fyntal and this is Trader Jasolt. We are here on behalf of the Council. Is this your striker?”

  “Dorrin? ’Course he’s my striker. Didn’t you just see him with the sledge?”

  “And his name is Dorrin?” pursues Fyntal.

  “So far as I know, he’s always been Dorrin.”

  The functionary turns to Dorrin. “You were at the Red Lion last evening?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “According to the innkeeper, you were attacked by a rogue highwayman, and dispatched him with a staff. Is this true?”

  “Pergun and I were leaving. He was stealing my mare. He threatened to kill us. I tried to stop him, but I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “You must be well regarded by the smith, to use a horse,” adds the younger trader, so smoothly that his words ooze oil.

  “He’s a good striker,” Yarrl asserts, preventing Dorrin from having to correct the misapprehension about Meriwhen’s ownership.

  “Well then…so long as that is clear. Your striker has…resolved…a matter of long-standing concern to the Council. The highwayman he…dispatched…was the notorious Niso. This Niso person was responsible for the death of Trader Sanduc, and the trader’s family offered through the Council a reward.” The trader lifts a leather pouch from his belt and bows, extending the pouch to Yarrl.