The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Yarrl takes the pouch without inclining his head, and passes the heavy leather to Dorrin. “Appreciate the honor of seeking out young Dorrin. He’s a good striker, and a fine fellow.”

  “We’re sure he is. Good day, smiths.” Fyntal nods, not quite wrinkling his nose at the smithy, and turns.

  Jasolt turns also, and the two walk heavily from the smithy. Jasolt has to swirl his cloak to free it from a bracket on the main slack tub. A gust of chill air blows past the smiths, then drops as the door is closed.

  Reisa and Petra appear. Petra is giggling. “They’re so stiff. The young one almost tripped over Zilda, his nose was so stuck up.”

  “Aye,” Yarrl says slowly. “Stuck up they are. But honest. More than you can say for most.”

  “You killed a highwayman?” asks Reisa.

  “He tried to take Meriwhen.”

  “With your staff?”

  “I got very sick,” Dorrin temporizes, looking sheepish.

  Yarrl laughs. “A good striker and deadly with a staff, but he gets sick after killing a killer.”

  Reisa nods. “But he’s a healer, Yarrl. Don’t forget that. He’s a healer.”

  Yarrl looks at the floor, then at the forge. “Out, women. We got work to do. Look at all that work there.”

  Dorrin grins as he reaches up and begins to pump the bellows. Yarrl retrieves his tongs and the iron for flattening.

  LVIII

  The troopers ride uphill. On each side of the road stretch meadows half-covered with an early snow. The right side of the road is bordered by a low stone wall. Vulcrows circle a point over the crest of the hill.

  “Shit,” mutters a wiry trooper in the van, wiping his forehead with a neckerchief of Spidlarian blue, despite the chill wind that blows off the ice-covered peaks to the west. “More trouble ahead.”

  On the right of the wiry man rides Brede. On his right rides Kadara, who is practicing with the Westwind shortsword.

  “…all she does is play with that damned sticker…”

  “…lucky doesn’t use it on you…”

  “…saved your neck more ’n once, Vorban…”

  When the Spidlarian squad reaches the crest of the hill, a handful of vulcrows explodes from the carcasses and corpses on the downslope. One wagon has been driven or rolled into a stone wall on the right side of the road.

  “…bastards…”

  “No one here, now,” announces the squad leader, as he reins up beside the wrecked wagon. “Been half a day, at least.”

  The body of a fat man, dressed in the dark blue of a Spidlarian trader, sprawls in the brown leaves between two patches of light snow. Dark stains have soaked through the heavy cloak, and his hands are extended, as though he had tried to pull himself toward the low dark stone wall.

  Kadara studies the crumpled wagon, noting a bolt of blue silk rough-slashed. She frowns, then looks over the rest of the wagon. Another bolt of cloth is wedged under the spring seat of the wagon.

  Brede follows her glance, then dismounts and hands her the reins to the gelding. He kneels at the side of the road.

  “What in darkness are you doing?” demands the squad leader.

  “Checking something.”

  “Frigging bandits…” mumbles Vorban.

  “So, Brede, just what brilliance do you have to show us today?”

  Brede looks up from the print in the clay next to the road. His face is impassive as he swings back into the saddle.

  “That bad, big fellow?” asks the wiry trooper.

  “Worse. That’s a standard road shoe.”

  “Huh?” The squad leader closes his mouth abruptly.

  “They weren’t bandits. Probably Certan troops.”

  The squad leader motions, and Brede rides up beside the man. “You want to explain?”

  “Kadara pointed out something. They didn’t take some of the cloth—there’s a bolt of silk still left in the wagon. You know how much that’s worth? Then the shoe prints. They’re all alike.”

  “Light and all the demons.” The squad leader swallows. “They just want it to look like bandits.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I think we’d better head back. Giselyn needs to know this.” He wheels the bay and gestures. “We’re headed back.” He pauses. “You can check out this mess and keep what you can find.”

  Only the squad leader and the two from Recluce remain mounted while the nine others paw through the three corpses and the two wagons.

  “…purses gone…”

  “…crappy cloth…”

  “…nice knife!”

  Finally, the leader calls. “Mount up!”

  “Thanks, big fellow.” The wiry trooper grins from his saddle, holding up a knife and sheath. “Hot food and a soft bed. That’s for me.”

  Brede shakes his head. “Enjoy it while you can.”

  “So it’s the Certans. They’re not worth a copper.”

  “I’m worried about who’s paying the coppers.”

  The wiry man pulls on his black neckerchief. “You always have a way of spoiling things.” He spurs his mount ahead and alongside Vorban.

  Kadara draws her mare up next to Brede. “I don’t like this.”

  “What can we do?”

  “We can’t get home. The Whites have closed off all ships to Recluce except smugglers. Right now I’m not desperate enough to take that kind of a chance.”

  “I’d rather not, either,” admits Brede.

  “These aren’t traces of chaos. It’s the beginning of a damned war.”

  “It does look that way,” Brede agrees.

  “Looks that way? Is that all you can say?”

  “What can I say?” He sighs. “I sort of wish I were a healer or a smith like Dorrin. I wonder how he’s doing.”

  “Probably healing and smithing and making people think he’s wonderful.”

  “Maybe.” Brede flicks the reins to urge the gelding to close the gap between them and the rest of the squad. “I imagine he has his problems, too. It’s been that kind of a year.”

  LIX

  Yarrl turns the metal on the anvil. Dorrin strikes, evenly, stroke after stroke as the smith moves the flatter across the iron. Dorrin sets the light sledge down as Yarrl returns the metal to the forge.

  Yarrl’s tongs bring the metal back to the anvil, where he sets the drift punch in place. Dorrin gives the drift a light tap, and Yarrl flips the metal over, positioning the bulge in the metal over the hardie hole. Dorrin strikes the drift; the metal plug drops. Another strike, and Yarrl nods, returning the metal to the forge. They repeat the process with the other end.

  Next comes the twisting on the spring fork, which Yarrl handles by himself. Dorrin takes the liberty of gently raking the damp charcoal at the edge of the forge toward the working coals.

  Reisa steps into the smithy and waits by the bellows and the slack tanks.

  The smith reheats the spring to cherry red before plunging it into the big slack tank. Once the iron is gray, he lifts it clear and returns it to the forge fire, checking as the tip of the heavy spring changes from straw to brown to light purple. Then he plunges the spring into the slack tank and swirls it through the liquid. Only when he has cooled the metal and lifted it from the tank does Reisa speak.

  “There’s a young fellow here for Dorrin. He says his name is Vaos.”

  “Know him?” Yarrl asks.

  “He’s the stable boy at Kyril’s. Good boy, I’d say.”

  “Wants a job, I’d bet,” grumbles Yarrl.

  Reisa nods to the two and steps past the line of broken wagon parts waiting for either Yarrl’s or Dorrin’s attention and back into the gray light of the cloudy winter day.

  “You could use him.”

  “Why? You planning on leaving?”

  Dorrin has not planned to bring up the subject quite so soon. “Ah…well…I had thought about doing some healing, too…”

  Yarrl spits into the corner. “Can’t say as I’m surprised. When you want to leave?”
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  “I don’t want to leave. I still want to work here. I want to spend some time working at healing, too.”

  “Man can’t serve two crafts, Dorrin.”

  “I think I can. Will you let me try?”

  Yarrl spits again. “Best striker I ever had. Do more in a half day than some do in an eight-day. Would you still work midday to nightfall?”

  “I’d thought that. I like working here.”

  The smith looks down and coughs. “Well…let’s see this boy. Going to need someone on the bellows and grindstone.”

  Vaos has strawberry blond hair, green eyes, and a dark bruise that covers most of his left cheek. He sits on the porch stairs, petting Zilda, who stands on the pile of frozen snow trying to nibble the ragged edges of his ripped leather boots. “Ser Dorrin…ser smith…”

  “Why are you here?” Dorrin asks softly.

  “The business with Niso…ser…Forra said it was my fault, that I fell asleep. I worked all day, even unloading the hay wagon and cleaning all the stalls. They took my coppers, said I’d work an extra four eight-days…”

  “Come here,” Dorrin says.

  Vaos stands up and walks toward Dorrin with tentative steps. Dorrin reaches out and touches the boy’s cheek. He can sense the throbbing pain, not only in the jaw, but across the youngster’s back. “Did you strike back?”

  “No, ser. But I ran.”

  Dorrin’s hand drops away, leaving a sense of order in the child, and a black smudge over the bruise. “He’s telling the truth. They beat him.”

  “Do you want a job, boy?” asks the smith. “Feed you, and you get a corner in the smithy, and a half-copper an eight-day.”

  Vaos swallows. Then he squares his shoulders. “I got a half-copper an eight-day at the stable, but I got a few coppers from the customers.”

  Dorrin tries not to grin at Vaos’s spunk. Yarrl purses his lips as well.

  “Say a half-copper an eight-day, but I’ll spring for new boots and britches, and, if you’re as good as you are spunky, an extra half-copper every other eight-day.”

  “Yes, ser. What do you want me to do first?”

  Dorrin grins at Reisa, who has eased out onto the porch to listen. Her breath smokes in the cooler air trapped under the porch roof. Reisa reaches down and ruffles Zilda’s head. Then she straightens and grins back at Dorrin, before opening the door and slipping into the kitchen.

  “You can pedal the grindstone for me.” Yarrl smiles faintly at Dorrin.

  LX

  The banner shaped like a three-lobed leaf hangs limply in the still air outside the neat but small cottage. Dorrin ties Meriwhen to the fence, and the mare whickers softly, lifting her feet as if to protest the chill of the frozen snow underneath. He lifts the black staff from the holder.

  The herb garden that flanks both sides of the gravel walkway is organized enough. Under the thin blanket of early winter snow, he can sense the astra and the stunted brinn roots on the right, and sage and dill on the left. The faintest sense of order pervades the garden.

  Dorrin refrains from reaching out to the herbs. Now, that is not his business. Meriwhen remains tied to the fence, and the road back downhill toward Diev is as empty as when he rode up it. In the clear cold air, he can easily see the smoke of Yarrl’s forge.

  Downhill through the scattered trees to the left are an abandoned chimney and the stone-edged doorway to what may be an old root cellar. His eyes turn toward the river of ice that will be a stream in spring. The narrow wedge of ice winds through the tree-filled ravine to his right, spilling down to a level expanse of ice that covers a small pond. By midwinter the ice will be twice as wide, if it is even visible under the snow.

  The red-haired youth steps up to the doorway. Someone is inside, presumably Rylla, the older of the two local healers.

  Thrap…thrap…

  “Coming…”

  Dorrin shifts his weight from one foot to the other, still holding the black staff.

  “Yes?” The thin and gray-haired woman stands in the half-open doorway.

  “I understand that you might be open to a part-time apprentice…”

  The healer frowns. “An odd notion that would be, young fellow. How can one be something only part of the time?” Her eyes look up toward the horse tethered by the fence.

  “Might I come in and explain?”

  “Might as well. You mean no harm; that’s clear.” She opens the door wider. “Just come in quick now, and don’t let the chill in.”

  The front room of the three-room cottage contains a hearth, one large and two small tables, and three narrow cabinets against one wall. The plank floor is worn smooth, but swept clean. Over the low fire a kettle hangs on a hook whose design Dorrin recognizes from Yarrl’s work. Steam seeps from the spout.

  The woman gestures toward the wooden armchair. The other three chairs are all armless. Dorrin nods toward her, waiting for her to sit.

  A wry grin greets his gesture. “Well-mannered young fellow, too. What do you really want, you young scoundrel?” Rylla takes her chair.

  Dorrin flushes, then manages to return the grin. He loosens his jacket and sits in the armless chair across from her, laying the staff across his knees. “I’m working at the smithy for Yarrl, but I was trained at both healing and smith-work. I miss the plants…” He has to tell more of the truth. “And I need to earn more.”

  “Ha! You’ve seen my garden, and my wealth of patrons, boy.”

  “I might be able to help with the plants.”

  The gray eyes under the silver eyebrows study the redhead again. “That could be dangerous.”

  “Selling spices isn’t that dangerous, and healers are supposed to be able to grow things.”

  “And you’d do the growing and the selling?”

  “As I can.”

  “Is it a girl, young fellow?”

  “I suppose so…though more coins won’t help now.”

  “As old Rylla knows, healing’s not much for glamour, boy. And neither’s being a smith. They won’t get you the girl.”

  With a shrug, he looks at the floor. “Still…”

  “I’ve got a few winterspice seeds. Never tried them. Think you could grow them?”

  Dorrin nods slowly. “If they’re still alive…I think so…”

  “You’re one of the outcasts, then.”

  His eyebrows lift.

  “I may be a weak healer, boy, but I can still think.”

  “Do you still want to take me on?”

  “Why not? I always wanted to see winterspice grow. Even Elrik can’t do that.” Her eyes narrow on him. “Will your master let you spend time here?”

  “I’ve worked it out. I’ll spend the morning here.”

  “What else do you want from me?”

  “Land.”

  “You’re an honest scoundrel, boy. What do you have in mind?”

  “I’d like to use the land by the pond, build some things. I’d pay you rent for it.”

  “You’ve not even shown me you can heal. Or that you have the power.”

  Dorrin steps to her chair, where he lays the staff across her knees.

  Her fingers stroke the black wood for an instant. “Darkness, boy! You don’t need me. You the one who saved Honsard’s boy? Fixed Quiller’s foot?”

  He nods.

  “Being as I’m a foolish old lady, could ye tell me why you’re asking me for a favor? It doesn’t seem as you need me.” She strokes the staff a last time and lifts the heavy wood to him.

  “Outsiders have problems. People who live in a town don’t.”

  “Ha! You’re a sharp one, too. What’s your name, boy?”

  “Dorrin.”

  “You want to be the lumber miller’s apprentice nextwise, so as you can take over his place?”

  “No.” A quick flash of pain strikes through Dorrin’s skull. “I mean, all I really want to do is build some machines, but I need iron and wood. That means coins. And I’d like my own workroom and cottage.”

  �
��But you don’t want people a-thinking you’re a danger?”

  “No. I’m not.”

  Rylla laughs softly. “Boy, soft as you speak, and polite as you are, you be the most dangerous man I’ve seen in a long life.”

  Dorrin’s eyebrows lift, involuntarily.

  “But that’s no matter. I like you, and I’m an old fool.”

  LXI

  Dorrin closes the barn door, his eyes going to the smithy chimney where the hot air from the forge fades into the gray cold of early winter. He looks down at the faded green cover of the book in his hand—The Healer—with a wry expression on his lips. Somehow he had never expected Rylla to be literate, or to have such a volume. Every time he makes a critical judgment about someone, it seems, he is surprised.

  “Willow bark—you didn’t use willow bark on the boy? Waste of your energy, Dorrin. You won’t always have it, you know.” Dorrin represses a grin. Working with the old healer has had its benefits.

  Creaakkkkk…As the heavy forge wagon turns off the road, Dorrin hurries to his quarters, where he leaves his jacket, his book and staff, and strips off the better shirt for his stained smithy shirt. The forge wagon has only eased into the yard, pulled by four horses each almost twice the size of Meriwhen, by the time Dorrin reaches the smithy door. On one wagon side panel is the legend Froos & Sons. The carter eases the wagon up to the side door of the smithy. By now, Dorrin and Yarrl stand by the door, Vaos next to them.

  “He delivers iron to the shipwrights in the harbor,” Vaos says quietly.

  “Long run up here.” Yarrl coughs as the wind shifts and whips the hazy and faintly acrid smoke from the forge chimney down into the yard.

  “The iron forge is only in upper Diev.” Vaos’s eyebrows lift.

  “Long run with fifty stone of iron bars. We’re about the last on the run.” Yarrl steps forward, a leather pouch in his hand.

  Dorrin’s eyes and senses pick up the animals’ fatigue.

  The carter slowly swings down from the wagon seat. Heavily muscled arms bulge under a stained brown shirt. He wears not a coat, but a sheepskin vest and heavy gloves. “The lot comes to a half gold, Yarrl.”