The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “That’s up a silver.”

  “Froos can’t help it. The Council’s buying more iron, and he had to install some more pumps.”

  “You start unloading. I’ll be back with your cursed half-gold.” The smith tucks the pouch in his belt and heads toward the steps on the porch.

  “I’m not supposed to unload until I’ve got the coin.”

  Yarrl spits into the corner between the porch and the smithy. “I ever shorted you?”

  The carter grins. “Seeing as it’s you…”

  Dorrin looks to Vaos. “You take the small stock, at the end, there.”

  “I can take the bigger stock.”

  Dorrin and the carter exchange grins.

  “Fine, boy. Take this.” The carter hands a single flat bar, a span wide and three cubits long, to Vaos.

  The boy staggers under the three-stone load, going to his knees before Dorrin lifts it, saying mildly, “It’s heavy.”

  “Striker, you’re stronger than you look.”

  “He’s good with a staff, too,” Vaos interjects.

  “Oh…you’re the one.” The carter looks down at the hard-packed damp clay. “Makes sense you’d be with Yarrl.” Then he shakes his head. “A striker taking Niso down with a piece of wood.”

  Dorrin lugs the flat iron stock into the smithy, and Vaos follows with an armful of the smallest rod stock. Dorrin racks the iron. “The small rods go there.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I’m not the smith.”

  “You’re almost one.”

  By the time they return to the wagon, Yarrl has returned and is paying the carter. “Still highway robbery.”

  The carter lifts some midweight rods and follows Dorrin.

  “Set them there, if you would,” Dorrin requests politely.

  The carter eases them onto the empty edge of the workbench, then straightens. Vaos follows with the last of the small rod stock, which he racks. All three trudge back outside to repeat the process. After the last iron is off the wagon, the carter closes the tailgate and slides the locking bolts into place.

  Dorrin steps up beside the wagon seat. “How much would a plate of iron be, the same thickness as the thin stock, but—could you get one four cubits by four cubits?”

  “Hard to say, but the miners in Bythya get some that’s five by five, and it’s a silver a plate. Why do you want something that big? That’s heavy.”

  “I’d guess fifteen, twenty stone.”

  “Takes a six-horse team.” The carter shakes his head. “And three big men to lift those plates. Anyway, you’d have to talk to Froos.” He looks toward Yarrl. “See you next time, smith.”

  “Just don’t raise the prices again,” Yarrl grumbles.

  The carter shrugs. “Times are tough. They say the Whites are pushing the Analerians into south Spidlar. Dirty herders!” He spits toward the brown stalks of the frost-killed herb garden. “Damned wizards! Not much to choose between the two.” He flicks the reins, and the wagon creaks, though not so loudly as when it entered the yard.

  “Back to work.” The smith slides the door to the smithy back to a narrow opening. “Still have to finish Blygers’s chain clamps.” He turns to Dorrin. “You still thinking about building that engine?”

  “Yes. But I haven’t figured out the pistons yet.”

  Yarrl frowns as if the word is unfamiliar.

  “Probably be better to make two smaller ones, on each side of the shaft. If they’re exactly opposite, I won’t have the problem of synchronizing them.”

  “These pistons are round cylinders?” inquires the smith.

  “They could be any shape, but they’d be stronger as a cylinder.”

  “Like rockets and firearms?” asks Vaos.

  “Don’t the pump makers build iron cylinders?”

  “I wonder what one would cost.” Dorrin reflects.

  Yarrl lifts several iron rods, those left by the carter on the bench, into the rack. “Your friend Pergun’s sister is married to a striker for Cylder. He’s a pumpwright for Froos.” The heavy rods slide into the timber rack. “Let’s get the rest of these stored. Not only got to do Blygers’s job, but we need to get back to finish that stuff of Honsard’s.” He turns to Vaos. “We’ll need another barrow of charcoal.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Going to be a long winter…” Yarrl lifts the tongs and slides the partly forged clamp from the bricks into the fire, reaching for the midsized swage as he does so.

  Dorrin begins to pump the bellows’s lever until Vaos returns with the charcoal.

  “…long cold winter…”

  Vaos wheels the barrow next to the forge, and the smith begins to load the charcoal into the forge while Dorrin stores the last of the rod stock.

  LXII

  The small dining table is set for two, and a bottle of wine rests in a basket on the side table. Jeslek glances around the room again when he sees the sheet of parchment on the white oak screening table. He picks up the sheet, glancing toward the bookcase, then back at the words and the numbers. The calculations show the need for another twenty wizards for the additional ten ships under construction in Sligo.

  “I know just which twenty.”

  Still holding the sheet with the numbers in his left hand, he frowns, thinking about the problems created by order, and by the stubbornness of the Spidlarians. Order and Spidlar—what is the connection? He looks at the mirror on the table, concentrating on the two.

  The mists part for an instant, and the image of a red-headed man with a hammer and tongs in his hands appears. Jeslek does not recognize him.

  The sound of a gentle rap on the door reaches him. At the sound, he straightens, letting the image vanish. Then he slips the paper into the leather folder, which he slides into the corner of the bookcase. He is careful not to touch any of the volumes, since each usage of a book shortens its life.

  He opens the door, smiling at the scent of trilia that accompanies Anya. “Good evening, dear lady.”

  “Good evening, High Wizard.” Anya’s lips brush his cheek.

  He closes the door behind her, but does not lock it.

  “You didn’t lock it.” She smiles.

  “Why?” Jeslek smiles, turning away from the door and toward her. “Locks scarcely stop screening, or anyone powerful enough to enter. Unlike Sterol, I am a realist.” He laughs softly. “So are you. Or you would not be here.”

  “Oh?”

  He stands by the table and pours wine into one glass and then the other, before lifting the first and extending it to her. “You are more powerful than even Sterol. But you know it is unlikely the Council will ever select a woman as High Wizard.” He inclines his head.

  “Yet you obviously enjoy putting yourself in a compromising position.” Anya takes the glass, and her eyes flicker to the wide couch beyond the table. Then she smiles.

  “Dear Anya, no one can touch either of us…and not even you and Sterol are strong enough to take me on.” He lifts his glass. “To you, dear lady.”

  Anya lifts her glass. “To the High Wizard.”

  They drink, each with eyes and senses on the other.

  LXIII

  A low whining moan shivers through the smithy building. Dorrin’s breath is white in the dim light.

  “Wonderful for practicing order control…” he mutters. While he is comfortable in the chill, even with the waist-high snow that clogs the smithy yard, even with the long icicles that hang like daggers from the eaves, he still wishes the winter in Diev were not quite so cold.

  He looks again at the numbers, his fingers going toward the quill. Instead, he sets the figures aside in the covered box and pulls out the other box, the one with his scribblings in it, the one with the semi-pretentious title on the front—Thoughts on the Basis of Order. He glances over the last page.

  …a staff, or any other object, may be infused with order. Concentrating such order, if the Balance is maintained, must result in a greater amount of chaos somewhere. Therefore, the gr
eater the effort to concentrate order within material objects, the greater the amount of free chaos within the world.

  The logic is sound, but are his presumptions? He rubs his forehead. He has nothing really to add to his presumptuous commentary this night. He closes the second box.

  His hands turn down the wick of the lamp slightly, and he carries it to the bracket by his bed. As usual, things are working, but not exactly as he has planned. Assuming he can even build the steam-fired engine, and that remains a question, how can he even afford the material? Of the sixteen golds he has gathered from the reward from the Council and the sale of the two intricate models, he has a little over twelve left.

  Still…that does include the iron that he has bought and the lorkin left from the staff and the other wood that is his. But the iron and copper alone for his engine will run nearly twenty golds. The fittings and pumps—he shakes his head. And the first engine, if experience is any guide, will not work well, if at all.

  He needs more coin—more than he will receive from either Rylla or Yarrl. What can he do? Toys? He sits on the edge of the pallet bed and pulls off his boots. What kind of toys? Can he do something different from what Quiller has done? Will Willum buy somewhat less elaborate toys?

  He swings his feet onto the pallet and draws the quilt around him. Then he takes out the letter and begins to reread the words on the off-white page.

  Dorrin—

  I had thought to swing back through Rytel and down through the road we had taken to Axalt, but the White guards have blocked the way. They claim that Axalt owes Fairhaven trade duties. This letter, if it reaches you, will have come through friends in Fenard, since apparently only the main routes are safe for one reason or another, and I cannot afford the duties to trade on the wizards’ roads.

  Some goods are getting harder and harder to find at any price. Spices are in short supply, as are dried or preserved fruits. If I could obtain it, green brandy from Recluce would fetch two golds a bottle. And so would a cubitspan of wound black wool yarn.

  Freidr has urged me to stay close to Jellico, but how can a trader make coins if one doesn’t travel? When I do get to Diev, it will probably be by coaster to Spidlaria or Diev directly, and that means it cannot be until spring when the ice has cleared the Northern Ocean.

  Most kinds of cloth are now dearer, because of the need for canvas for the additional ships Fairhaven is building. Some of that is mere speculation, I would guess. That doesn’t make the cloth any cheaper.

  I would hope that you might consider making some more models for sale. I could have sold several at that price. I also have more questions for you when next we meet, whenever that may be. I wish you well and trust that you are accomplishing what you find necessary.

  Liedral

  After his eyes have digested the words yet another time, he folds the sheet and slips it into the back of The Healer. Then he blows out the lamp and draws the quilt around him more tightly.

  Outside the wind moans and throws the snow against the wall with such force that a dusting of flakes lies under the door sill and swirls gently across the plank floor.

  LXIV

  Anya opens the lower tower door without knocking, enters, and closes it silently. She slides the bolt. The room is lit by an oil wall lamp and one on the side table by the closed window. The winter wind rattles the casement.

  Sterol stands up from the screeing table, letting the white mists cloud the mirror. His eyes are dark. “How are you?”

  “It’s a strain, dealing with the great lover and chaos master.”

  “You don’t have to, you know.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You know what the history of the Whites is for women?”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Sterol. Every one of you is out to lay me, and to prove that, in wizardly matters, I’m no match for any man.”

  “You’re better than most.”

  “And who will admit it?” Anya slumps into the chair across from the former High Wizard. “Do you have any wine left?”

  “Certainly…certainly.”

  “Darkness! I told you to cut the patronizing act.”

  “My! Aren’t we testy tonight.”

  “If you want me to tell Jeslek you’re up to no good, you’re certainly headed in the right direction.”

  Sterol retrieves a glass goblet from the top of the bookcase, gently blows it clean of the fine white powder that none of the Whites’ buildings—even the newest—seems to be without, and pours the rest of the red into the goblet. “This is what’s left. You’re welcome to it.” He extends the goblet.

  “Thank you.” She sips the wine. “He’s not a very good lover.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed. All force and no technique—like his magic?” Sterol seats himself across the table from her, the mirror between them.

  “There is a similarity. His magic has more finesse.”

  Sterol swallows silently before speaking. “What does he plan next?”

  “He intends to subdue Spidlar, but as he has discussed, gradually. He hid something just before he answered the door, and the energy was still in his glass, and it had the faintest trace of Black to it.”

  “Jeslek? Calling on Black energies?”

  Anya frowns, then takes another sip of wine. “This is turning already.”

  “I apologize. It was only brought in tonight. What about the Black energies?”

  “It was more like he was studying something Black, but it wasn’t that ponderous feeling you get when you study Recluce.”

  “That’s an interesting way you have of describing it. You and Recluce?”

  “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I haven’t studied Recluce.”

  “So…he’s found something or someone else that’s focusing order. Hmmmm…I’d watch that closely.”

  “I intend to.” Anya drains the goblet. “Do you have another bottle?”

  “Actually…yes. I thought you might like some.”

  “You are thoughtful, Sterol.” The redhead smiles at the former High Wizard before he rises to get the second bottle from the ice bucket.

  LXV

  Dorrin pulls out the sheet Jarnish had delivered just before supper and slits the seal. Then he pauses. Had Jarnish come all the way to Diev just for this? Had the seal already been broken and resealed? He lets his perceptions study the hardened wax. Then he shrugs. After the vigor with which he has applied his knife to the seal, there is really no way to tell. Besides, what difference does it make whether some factor reads a letter?

  Dorrin smoothes out the sheet and begins to read, pausing as he realizes that Liedral had apparently not received his letter when she wrote.

  Dorrin—

  I was going to travel through Passera and down river to Elparta. That is no longer possible. The road guards now will protect only those traders licensed by Fairhaven. They say that there have been more and more highway attacks and robberies. Even the licensed traders are afraid to take the roads in and out of Spidlar, although some will.

  The worst of the famine in Kyphros and Gallos has abated, they say. That is because all those who were starving have died. Most of the herders are gone, and their flocks with them.

  The winter snows continue to melt off the new mountains—the Little Easthorns, some call them—that now separate Gallos and Kyphros. Another trader—Dosric—told me taking the wizards’ road is a frightening experience. Snow melts off the hot rocks. That makes a constant fog that you can hardly see through, and nothing grows there yet.

  Trade is slow here, and everywhere, but that is true enough in winter even in good years. I hope to see you, somehow, before too long.

  Liedral

  Dorrin rereads the letter before refolding it and slipping it into the box in which he has her other letter. Then he retrieves the sheet that has his toy plans on it, and stands up, pushing the chair back. His breath steams in the cold room, but the cold does not bother him much anymore, at least not w
hile he is awake. The quilt and blanket are enough for sleeping.

  He takes a deep breath. The day has been long already, but he is far from finished. He ducks into the light snow outside, closing the door behind him, and follows the packed path around the smithy alongside the chest-high snow piles beside the building.

  Once by the forge, Dorrin lights the single lamp with a pine splinter touched to the forge coals. After setting the charcoal he had brought in before supper around the coals, he pumps the bellows rod until the charcoal catches and the coals reach forging heat.

  Dorrin looks at the sheet he has brought, then sets it on the back of his workbench, reaching up and adjusting the lamp. He pumps the bellows rod once.

  “Dorrin? Need some help?” Vaos stands by the slack tank.

  “I’d appreciate it, but…this is my work, not for any paying customer. At least not yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s cold. Petra gave me another old blanket, but it’s still warmer when you have the forge going. I’m not tired.” Vaos yawns. “Not too tired, anyway.”

  “It’s been a cold winter.”

  “Coldest I can remember.” The youngster steps up the bellows lever. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to see if I can make some toys.”

  Vaos pauses. “I never had any toys.”

  “What kind would you have liked to have?”

  “I don’t know.” The blond boy shrugs, and the blanket slips away from his shoulders. He catches it and wraps it back in place. “I never saw any up close, just in Willum’s window. I tried to use a leather knife once to make a top, but it didn’t work real well. Forra beat me ’cause I dulled the knife.”

  “Oh…”

  “How hot do you want the charcoal, Dorrin?”

  Dorrin studies the glowing carbon, both with eyes and his senses that go beyond sight. “Slow down on the bellows—about half as fast.”

  “What are you going to make?”