The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “We’re going to need nails, couple of small kegs of common flatheads—longs and shorts. Werthen always wants a keg right after the mud clears.” Yarrl grins. “Doesn’t like Antra’s or Henstaal’s.”

  Dorrin groans. He hates making nails, even if the pattern is now easy.

  “A true smith—groans at nails, but makes ’em good. Darkness, that’s why smiths got strikers—to make nails, draw scrap into rods and bars.” Yarrl stands and drains the last cider from his mug. “Let’s get moving. Where’s that worthless scamp?” He pretends not to notice as Vaos slips into the kitchen.

  Petra slices a hunk of bread for Vaos and hands him a wedge of cheese. Then she pulls a tattered oiled waterproof off one of the pegs by the door.

  “Where is that worthless scamp?” asks Yarrl, still ignoring Vaos.

  “Playing with Zilda, probably,” Dorrin answers, winking at Vaos.

  “Better not be playing with her. That’s a she-goat.”

  “Father…”

  Vaos gulps the cider that Reisa hands him. Reisa glances at Dorrin and shakes her head. They both know that for Yarrl work comes before politics, and discussing politics doesn’t make nails or bread—or milk the cow.

  Dorrin swallows the last of his hasty breakfast and heads for the smithy.

  LXXVII

  A low fire burns in the long barracks room, and half a dozen troopers sit on stools around the coals. Others lie on pallets away from the walls through which drafts convey the chill of the cold rain on the melting snow outside.

  Brede and Kadara sit midway between the fire and the small closed room where the section commander is meeting with the squad leaders. Behind that battered red oak door, the conversation continues, a muted discussion loud enough for those outside to recognize that an argument takes place, but muffled enough so that they cannot decipher the substance.

  “Someone’s unhappy.” Kadara leans against Brede’s shoulder.

  “Very unhappy.” He touches her hand. “I’m glad we’re not out in this slop.”

  “Me, too.” She squeezes his hand in return. “We will be before long.”

  “Thank you for reminding me, dear one.”

  The door opens.

  “Brede?”

  Brede stands. “Yes, ser?”

  “The regional commander would like a word with you.”

  Brede raises his eyebrows, shrugs, then steps toward the small room where the squad leaders meet. The other troopers look away as the tall blond man makes his way through the pallets. The oak door shuts with a heavy click.

  “Trooper Brede, this is Commander Byskin.”

  “Yes, ser.” Brede inclines his head in a gesture of respect, standing easily before the table, looking straight at the regional commander, a middle-aged soldier, still trim, if compact. The commander is half bald, and his remaining short-cut hair is half brown, half silver.

  “Is it true that you come from Recluce?” asks Byskin.

  “Yes, ser.”

  “What would happen if the White Wizards caught you?”

  “I doubt that would happen, ser. They’d probably not want anyone from Recluce as a prisoner.”

  “Are you saying that they would execute you on the spot?”

  “If they could, ser.”

  “Would you be interested in becoming the squad leader of a new squad?”

  “That sounds interesting, but, if you wouldn’t mind, ser, could you explain a bit more?”

  “You’re cautious, aren’t you?” Byskin laughs.

  “…and oh so polite…” The whisper seeps into the room.

  Byskin looks in the direction of the three other squad leaders, and absolute silence fills the room. “As I was saying, I have decided that we need to do something different to stop all the raids on our traders. After the last raid, where a rather prominent trader was killed, the Council has authorized a larger expenditure to recruit a few additional blades and form another squad. This squad would operate independently, almost, if you will, waiting near the points where attacks seem to occur…”

  Brede nods.

  “In view of your background…”

  “You are asking if I would lead this squad?”

  “Yes, Brede. That is exactly what I am asking. You would receive the same pay as other squad leaders, plus risk pay when in the field. Oh…and, if you are agreeable, your assistant would be Trooper Kadara.”

  Brede smiles politely. “I see.”

  Byskin frowns. “Do you want the job?”

  “Who do I report to?”

  Byskin smiles, coldly. “To me, Squad Leader Brede. You are accountable to me for all actions.”

  “When do we start?”

  “You’ll get your first recruits within the next few days. You’ll have two eight-days to get them in shape.”

  Brede listens as Byskin continues to describe his new duties.

  “…not necessary to take prisoners, except in unusual circumstances…three eight-days out, one back…primary emphasis on safety of Council traders…”

  When Brede steps out of the room, he wears a gold collar insignia, and the barracks room is hushed. He sits beside Kadara on a stool.

  Kadara shifts her weight on the pallet, without commenting, as Brede explains. Both ignore the wide space accorded them by the other troopers.

  “…and it’s all a rather nasty job.”

  “Why did you agree?”

  “I thought the alternatives were worse. None of the squad leaders really likes having us in his squad. Also, I think we can make a difference. I’m getting tired of riding up to find dead bodies and looted wagons.”

  “You haven’t mentioned something else.”

  “I didn’t think I had to.” He shrugs. “Until this is resolved, we can’t find a ship home.”

  “We could cross the Westhorns this summer.”

  “I don’t like running away.”

  “It’s sometimes safer.”

  Brede shakes his head. “You just get an arrow or a sword in your back.”

  “If you think it’s best…”

  “It’s not ‘best.’ You know that. What else can we do?”

  “I don’t know. I envy Dorrin. At least, he doesn’t have to go out and fight for his life all the time.”

  “He will.” Brede’s voice is soft, almost sad. “He will.”

  LXXVIII

  “Where did you get this?”

  “From one of our traders in Spidlar,” answers the square-bearded Fydel.

  “This doesn’t look like—”

  “It’s not the original. I had it copied, and then had him send it on.”

  “That was a good idea.” Jeslek glances at the copy on the white parchment of Fairhaven.

  Liedral—

  Your letter did arrive, and without much delay, given its path. I must apologize for being so late in responding, but I am not a good writer.

  I was surprised to learn that my small models have any market at all, let alone more than a single buyer. Perhaps I should go into the toy-making business. It could not be much harder than smithing, and it might pay somewhat more. Upon reflection, it might not. The winter was cold here, and hard upon the less fortunate.

  I have been working as a healer also, and it is sometimes sad. The chill is hardest upon the children and the old. In the cold, when the flux struck, the old ones often died so quickly. I could sometimes save the young ones, but there were too many to save them all. Rylla, the healer who is teaching me, tells me that I cannot heal just the needy, for a healer without coin soon needs his own healer. The water is generally better in the winter, except in the towns, but people still think I am strange when I tell them to boil it in a kettle before drinking it. Most would rather drink beer or wine, but who among the poor can afford either?

  Kadara and Brede spend much time on the road now. Even in winter, it seemed like the banditry and raids continued. It does not seem natural, given the impassibility of all roads except the main ones that are packed and rolled
by the traders. Even dried fruit is hard to come by, and spice shipments are almost nonexistent. That may provide some more coins come late summer, assuming you can reach Spidlar by coaster.

  In some ways, it seems as though I have known you much longer than for two short times together, and I do hope that it will not be too long before your trading brings you back.

  Dorrin

  “I assume you are following this to track the recipient?”

  “We already know. It’s a trader named Liedral—”

  “That’s obvious.”

  “—who works out of Jellico. She generally passes for a man, but does not pay dues to Fairhaven. She uses the back roads. Because she is less successful, no one has paid much attention. That’s also because she comes from an old Jellico family. Her brother is active in local politics.”

  “How active?”

  “He’s on Sterol’s payroll, I think.”

  “Oh…so our good friend Sterol continues his spy network?”

  Fydel raises both eyebrows. “You would expect any less?”

  “Not really.” Jeslek grins.

  “Do you want some sort of accident to occur?”

  “Not yet. I need to think about this.” Jeslek looks at the glass on the table, then quickly out the window and into the rain.

  “Is that all?”

  Jeslek nods, but does not turn as Fydel leaves and closes the door behind him. Then he looks at the mirror and concentrates. The image of Dorrin appears in the mirror. This time the smith is working on something black and small. Abruptly, Dorrin looks up, and his eyes appear to meet Jeslek’s before the mists close over the image.

  “Hmmm…” The Black smith is getting stronger, much stronger. Still, he is young and attracted to the female trader. Jeslek paces from one side of the tower room to the other.

  Then, too, there is the problem with Fydel. Delaying giving the letter to him for nearly a season—that was a bit much, almost an insult. Jeslek laughs, thinking about the ships nearing completion.

  LXXIX

  Dorrin struggles with the wedge-shaped warren, slowly turning the clayey soil to extend Rylla’s garden for the winterspice and potatoes. Gardening is even harder than smith work, or so it seems, but that may be because of all the small insects that seek him out.

  He brushes away a horsefly, not wanting to spend time or energy on wards. He wipes his forehead, wrinkling his nose at the pile of manure he must yet turn into the soil. While there is certainly a growing market for spices, or will be, if he can raise more, he still forgets that even wonderful ideas take work.

  With a deep breath he starts on the second furrow. Halfway down the row, he wipes his forehead again, swatting at some other flying insect. He glances toward the knoll above the pond, mentally measuring. If…He shakes his head. Already he is aiming at another project. He has not even set the foundation stones for the cottage and smithy, and he is planning piping water.

  He takes up the warren again, thinking wistfully of the steaming smithy and hammers, and even of making nails. He laughs.

  By midmorning he has completed what he has set out to do. Tomorrow he will plant the seeds and cuttings. Rylla can do some of the watering.

  “That’s not a garden; it’s a field. I suppose you expect me to water and weed it?” Rylla’s voice is gruff, but there is a sparkle in her eyes.

  “Only some of the time. We’ll need it all.”

  “Have more spices than…” She coughs. “Can you sell them all?”

  “I hope not, but I bet we will. Even the potatoes on the end.”

  “This something you’ve learned from your blade friends?”

  “They made Brede a squad leader and added another squad.”

  “Ah…and the Council’s never been known to be generous with its coin, or favorable to someone tinted Black.”

  Dorrin thinks about the need for…something…to stop the Whites. “Do you have any saltpeter?”

  “Not if you’re a-fooling with black powder. ’Sides, a good White will just set it off from a distance.”

  “I had something else in mind.”

  “Don’t want my cottage in flames, Dorrin.”

  “I’ll use the old root cellar.”

  “I’ll get ye some redberry.” Rylla walks slowly back into the cottage.

  Dorrin hopes her comment is tacit assent. Is he trying too much? Probably, but time is growing short. Something is happening, something beyond the White Wizards’ trying to bankrupt the Spidlarian traders, or even take over Spidlar itself. The Whites are not all that good in battle, and yet they control almost all of eastern Candar. Have they accomplished it all through subversion? Greed? Bribery?

  He thinks of Fairhaven itself and laughs at the irony. They have held what they hold because they have provided a basically more orderly government than what preceded—and they really do not govern. They let the old Dukes, Counts, Viscounts and Prefects govern, just leaving a White Wizard at hand in each of the old domains. Shaking his head, he turns and follows Rylla.

  LXXX

  Dorrin guides Meriwhen along the rain-splashed paving stones, past the Red Lion and then past the Tankard. The beggar woman and her child sit on the weathered mounting block that once served a building that no longer exists.

  “A copper, master? Even a half-penny, for a widow and her child?”

  Dorrin knows he is not exactly charitable, but the woman’s whine gets on his nerves, and he has never seen her do anything but beg. He ignores her cries and rides toward the chandlery.

  Somehow the building looks different. His eyes study the crossed candles of the sign, and he realizes that there is no name above them. He enters the store, carrying both saddlebags and staff. The potbellied stove, unneeded now that the cold weather has passed, still stands in the middle of the floor, and the oak counter runs along the right side of the room. The hangings still block the way to the back room, and Roald still stands behind the counter.

  “Yes, ser?” asks Roald, eyeing the staff warily.

  “The changes…” Dorrin offers vaguely.

  “Not too many, ser. Ser Willum’s son and widow have retained me to continue the business and to train young Halvor.”

  “I had not heard the details.”

  “The highwaymen, ser. The guards found his body, but his goods and profits were gone.” Roald glances at the bags Dorrin carries. “You were the one with the elaborate toys?”

  Dorrin nods. “Ser Willum held them in some favor.”

  “Perhaps we might take one or two, ser Dor…”

  “Dorrin.”

  “Thank you, ser. We might take one or two, ser, but since we must rely on others for travel now…”

  “I understand.” Dorrin removes an assortment of the smaller toys. “I would presume that the smaller ones would be more appropriate.”

  “I would think so. Perhaps the boat, here, and the mill? For, say, a half-silver?”

  Dorrin smiles politely. “Even at his best, ser Willum paid almost four apiece.”

  “Ah…but we cannot trade that much now. The best, and I would not offend, ser Dorrin, would be a half silver and a penny.”

  Dorrin can sense Roald’s fear and concerns, and he nods to the man. “Times are difficult all over. Six it is.”

  Roald smiles, as much in relief as pleasure. “A moment, ser.”

  Dorrin packs away the others, leaving the boat and mill on the counter.

  “Here you be.”

  “Thank you.” Dorrin inclines his head. “Might there be other iron items that would be of use?”

  Roald pauses, then shakes his head. “None that I can think of.”

  “Thank you.”

  As he leaves, he thinks about Roald’s manners. The clerk had been too deferential to a mere toymaker or smith, not really as interested in haggling as in getting Dorrin out of the store. And Roald needs iron goods, but doesn’t want to get them from Dorrin. Is Roald worried about Dorrin, or something else? For whatever reason, it’s clear that
he will have to find other ways to sell his toys, or other items to sell, or others to sell to. What about Jasolt or Fyntal? Or should he talk to Hasten at the Guild?

  Dorrin puts the staff in the lanceholder and swings up into the saddle, turning Meriwhen toward the harbor and the small, shedlike building that holds the Guild. The rail outside the building is empty of other mounts, and the wind off the harbor carries an icy edge to it, as if winter lingers on the water a season behind the land.

  Carrying his staff, Dorrin steps through the open pine door, looking for Hasten in the comparative dimness of the long room.

  “Who ye be looking for?” Hasten looks up from some sort of ledger.

  “I’m Dorrin, Hasten, if you might recall…”

  “Oh…the artisan fellow.” The gray-haired man sits back in his chair. “Sit down. Don’t mind me, but the old bones haven’t recovered from winter.”

  Dorrin sits, wondering if Hasten is the same man who had been so skittish the last time he had come to join the Guild.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if you might have some ideas—”

  “Ideas? Of course, I have ideas, but the free ones are worthless, usually.” The older man chuckles.

  “—about who else besides Willum trades in novelties like my toys.”

  “Ah, yes, poor Willum. Fyntal told him it was a bad idea to go overland to Fenard, not that you can go any other way. Ha…ha…Traders in toys? Hmmmm? You make those fancy ones. I don’t know for sure, but that young fellow, Jasolt, ships high-end goods to Suthya. And Vyrnil—he’s over by the third pier—he has something going with the Hamorians. They’re big on novelties. Maybe that other old fellow…Risten…he’s got a small place by Jasolt’s.” Hasten shrugs. “Offhand, that’d be where I’d be starting.”

  “Where is Jasolt?”

  “Oh…he’s at sea now, I understand, but his store is on the short street—Pearapple Place, he calls it—behind Willum’s place. Is it true that his clerk Roald is running the chandlery?”

  “That’s what I understand.” Dorrin shifts in the hard chair.