The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “How long has she been ill?”

  “More than an eight-day. She just lies there.” Fyntal’s voice quavers almost imperceptibly, and he coughs softly and starts up the stairs.

  Dorrin picks up the herb bag and climbs after Fyntal, whose booted feet barely whisper on the carpeted steps, so lightly does the heavy man move.

  Dorrin feels like his feet shake the stairs.

  Leretia lies on a wide bed, pale, thin-faced, and radiating heat. The coverlet, rimmed in Suthyan lace, has been thrown back to her waist, exposing a cotton nightgown also trimmed in lace. On a stool in the corner sits a blond younger woman, eyes dark-rimmed and red, wearing a soft blue blouse and matching trousers.

  “So…hot…” murmurs the woman on the bed, but her eyes do not seem to take in either Dorrin or Fyntal, or the younger woman.

  “Our daughter, Noriah,” explains Fyntal in a whisper.

  Dorrin nods briefly to the younger woman, sets down the bag, and steps to the bed, letting his fingers brush, first her wrist, and then her forehead. He tries not to frown at the knot of white chaos centered below her stomach, nor at the lines of sullen white fire that entwine her.

  If he could but cut out that small diseased organ…He wants to laugh. Even if he knew how, he has neither tools nor the skill to cut so deeply. What else can he do? He steps back.

  “So sick…am I going to die?”

  Dorrin forces a smile. “Not if I can help it, lady.”

  “No ‘lady’…just Lera…so hot…” Her eyes glaze as she looks nowhere, and her chest heaves.

  Noriah sits up straight in the chair.

  “Will you not do something?” pleads Fyntal.

  “I could do much, but I would prefer doing the right thing.” Dorrin looks at the older man, who steps back. Noriah opens her mouth, but closes it without saying a word.

  The chaos-pulsed section of Leretia’s abdomen is clearly the problem. Dorrin takes a deep breath and begins to weave a shield of order around the small organ—but the chaos/infection fights back. He wipes his forehead, then lets his perceptions examine her body again. There may be a way.

  He turns to Fyntal. “I will need some additional materials. We can discuss them.” He walks into the hallway and waits for the trader.

  Fyntal closes the door.

  “You did not summon me first, did you?”

  “No. Sustro…he said she would die. He said I should seek miracles. I thought of…you.”

  “She may still die. I am going to try something.”

  “You aren’t going to cut her open?” Fyntal’s voice rises from a whisper to a hoarse rasp. “That would kill her.”

  “My skills do not lie in those areas. I will need a large basket of clean soft cloths. I will also need a bottle of something like clear brandy.”

  “That sounds like a surgeon’s stuff,” protests Fyntal.

  “I will not touch her with an edged item,” snaps Dorrin. “I cannot. Do you want me to try for your miracle, or…?”

  “I will get the cloths.” Fyntal sighs.

  Dorrin opens the door and steps back into the bedroom where Leretia moans. Her eyes open momentarily, then close.

  “Easy…” he says, his fingers touching her wrists, as he begins building his walls of order, including the curved tube that runs from the heart of chaos to the surface of her skin. He pauses and turns to the younger woman, Leretia’s daughter. “Would you help me?”

  She steps to the bed. “What do you want?”

  Dorrin sketches out a square area above the mother’s stomach. “We need her gown away from that area, so that it is clear to the air.”

  Noriah frowns. “You aren’t going to…”

  “No cutting. I can’t. But there is an infection beneath that, if I am successful, will burst forth here. I can contain it, but it will be much easier if the…corrupt material does not become fouled in the gown.”

  “I’ll take care of mother. Would you…”

  Dorrin turns and glances toward the window, through which he can see the white-tipped waves of the Northern Ocean. His eyes touch on the matched oil lamps, evenly set on each side of the window, and the polished glass mantles.

  “Ooooo…hurts…so hot…”

  “Easy, mother…you’ll be better soon.”

  The door opens. Fyntal brings in a basket of soft, folded cloths. A short man behind him carries a corked bottle. Dorrin takes the bottle and extracts the cork, then lifts one of the cloths from the basket Fyntal has set beside the bed.

  “Will this do?” asks the blonde.

  Dorrin turns. “Yes.” He pours some of the brandy onto the cloth and gently wipes the bare skin. Then he wipes his own fingers. The liquor leaves them sticky, but he wipes off the stickiness with a dry part of the cloth.

  He stands over Leretia and continues to build his walls of order, using the pressure of order to constrain the chaos to a tighter and tighter focus, driving it into a tighter and tighter line.

  His eyes burn as the sweat drips into them, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Would a chair help?” asks Fyntal.

  “Yes.” Dorrin does not look away from the patient, even as he sits beside her, even as he reaches for the top cloth and lays it gently on the bare skin.

  “Oh…like a knife…darkness…hurts…”

  Dorrin places one hand on her forehead, offering some sense of reassurance. “It will hurt for a little, but we’re all here.”

  “Fyntal…”

  The trader stands on the other side of the bed, and Dorrin senses the tears that flow down the craggy face. Fyntal says nothing, but holds Leretia’s hand as though it were the most precious of gems.

  Dorrin continues to press the chaos back into the diseased organ, but the white fire begins to gnaw its way along the order tube toward her skin.

  “Burns…oh…burns…”

  Dorrin touches her forehead, willing her to sleep, wishing he had recalled that option earlier.

  “What did you do?” asks Noriah.

  “Let her sleep,” Dorrin answers, absently. “Should have thought of it earlier.”

  How long it is before the corruption gnaws through the smooth skin of her belly Dorrin does not know. But he continues to sponge it away with the cloths, discarding them in turn, ignoring the greenish cast on the trader’s face or Noriah’s stumbled retreat from the room and her chastened return.

  The lamps have been lit, and they cast shadows from the room when he cleans Leretia’s skin for a last time and sprinkles the wound, which looks more like a circular burn, with crushed astra.

  “I…feel better…” murmurs the older woman.

  “Don’t move,” Dorrin says. “Not much, anyway.”

  “What did you do?” asks the trader from another chair in the corner. “It looks like you did surgery.”

  Dorrin squints, then holds on to the chair. He cannot talk. Then he cannot see, either.

  “Catch him…”

  When Dorrin wakes, lying upon a strange bed, he finds the stable boy sitting on a stool. “Hello.”

  “Hello, master.” The boy’s eyes avoid Dorrin’s. “Let me get the mistress.” He darts out the door.

  Dorrin sits up. His head aches, and he rubs his neck. This kind of healing is worse than smithing. Since the lamps are not lit, it must be the next day. He hopes it has only been a day. He was supposed to help Yarrl with a cart crane. He finds his boots next to the bed and pulls them on.

  “You’re awake.” The blonde, now wearing a soft green blouse and trousers, steps into the room.

  “I take it your mother is better.”

  “She’s better. But she’s still hot.”

  “She probably will be for days.” Dorrin stands. “I need to see her.”

  “I think you need to eat. You’re as white as the snow.”

  Dorrin considers the wobbliness in his knees. He grins sheepishly. “You’re probably right.” He follows her down the back stairs to the kitchen, where dr
ied fruit, cheese, and fresh-baked bread are laid out on the table.

  After he has eaten, feeling somewhat refreshed, he climbs the front stairs to the main bedroom. Noriah follows. Fyntal, sitting by the bed, looks up. Leretia’s eyes follow the trader’s.

  “Good morning,” Dorrin offers.

  “Good morning, master healer,” Fyntal says dryly.

  “Thank you,” whispers Leretia.

  “I still need to look at that wound,” Dorrin says.

  “Just a moment…”

  The healer looks out the window, noting that the Northern Ocean is calmer, that only a few whitecaps dot the dark blue waters.

  “Here…”

  Dorrin lifts the dressing, as gently as he can.

  “Ooooo…”

  “I know.” He lets his senses check the wound. Small traces of chaos still flicker around the opening and within. He concentrates.

  “Ohhhh…”

  “Oh…I should have warned you.” He looks for the brandy and some more cloths. Noriah hands him the bottle and a cloth. He continues to concentrate until a small amount of greenish pus oozes forth. Then he cleans Leretia’s skin again, and sprinkles the wound with the astringent astra, and replaces the dressing.

  “This could ooze for a few days. Keep it clean with the brandy, and change the pad daily, or if it gets sticky. If you get very hot again, don’t wait. Send someone for me immediately.” Dorrin takes a deep breath.

  “You don’t do this often, do you?” asks Fyntal.

  “No. No healer can.”

  “I can see why,” observes Noriah.

  “Why did you do it for us?” whispers Leretia.

  Dorrin tries not to blush. Then he swallows. “There were two reasons. First, I came because I needed the coin. Second, I stayed because everyone loves you.”

  “Pretty speech,” says the trader dryly.

  “I’m being honest.” Dorrin looks at the trader, who looks away.

  “Honesty doesn’t always impress people.” Noriah’s voice is gentle.

  “No.”

  “Could anyone else you know have saved me?” asks Leretia, pulling the bedclothes back up to her chest.

  Dorrin hesitates.

  “Be honest.”

  “No. I wasn’t sure I could.”

  “You sound like there’s no doubt now.”

  “If the wound doesn’t get infected, you should be fine within several eight-days, perhaps sooner.” Dorrin sits down on the single vacant chair. His knees are still somewhat rubbery.

  “It’s clear your kind of healing is exhausting.” Noriah’s voice is almost impish. “Or you are not used to exercise.”

  “I’m mostly a smith.” The words come out before Dorrin can consider the impact.

  “And a healer?” asks Leretia.

  “I said it had to be exhausting,” points out Noriah.

  “Enough,” says Fyntal. “I expect my lady needs some rest, and master Dorrin has another life as well.”

  “All right,” concedes Noriah, standing.

  Dorrin rises slowly, nods to the woman in the bed.

  “No. Thank you,” says Leretia.

  Dorrin blushes, but recovers, before he turns and steps into the hallway.

  “I will meet you in the foyer, master Dorrin,” Fyntal says firmly when he closes the bedroom door.

  Dorrin nods and heads down the stairs. Noriah watches from the landing as Dorrin recovers his heavy jacket and his black staff.

  Fyntal appears at the back of the foyer, apparently having taken the back stairs. He hands Dorrin a heavy leather pouch.

  “But…”

  “You said you needed the coin,” Fyntal states with a smile. “And I am more than willing to pay for a miracle. Unlike some, I appreciate second chances. I can’t say I have need of your smith work, but should I need an honest smith, I’ll find you.”

  “Thank you.” Dorrin inclines his head to the young woman on the landing and to the trader. “Remember to watch her fever. I don’t think it should come back, but get me if it does.”

  “I will—never fear.” A grin creases the craggy face.

  Dorrin steps into the bright chill of winter, realizing that the warmth of the trader’s house had made him forget the season. He slips the heavy pouch inside his jacket, then one-handedly fastens the jacket as he steps toward the stable.

  The same stable boy has Meriwhen saddled and waiting. Dorrin takes a moment to check the girths and hackamore, but both are firm. “Thank you,” he says, fumbling in his purse and offering a copper.

  “I couldn’t, ser.”

  “Yes, you can. You were good to Meriwhen.”

  “I did feed her the grain mash, and she let me curry her.”

  Dorrin grins. “Good.” He puts his staff in the holder.

  “But you healed the lady, and everyone said she would die, and she’s too good to die.”

  “Too many good people die,” Dorrin says slowly. “This time…I could help.” He has already wondered how many good people, like Erlanna, are poor and dying. He takes a deep breath and swings up into the saddle.

  The boy waves as Dorrin rides into the yard. Fyntal still stands in the open doorway watching until the healer rides down the drive and out onto the road.

  Dorrin does not need to open the pouch to know that it bears a dozen golds. A dozen golds. He is glad he could heal Leretia, and he needs the coin. But how many others will lose lovers and mothers for lack of such healing? And, even if they could find him, how could he heal all of them? His knees and legs are still weak.

  He rides slowly past the empty piers, past the chimneys that do not waft smoke into the clear whiter sky, past the empty yards of the Tankard and the Red Lion, and over the bridge and up the packed snow of the road to his house.

  XCVIII

  Cracckkkk! The White guard continues to lash the figure strapped facedown on the long table, and a line of red slashes across the legs.

  The White Wizard’s hands move, fighting back the white mist that threatens to appear in the mirror on the table in the corner of the cell. Perspiration appears on his forehead as he maintains the image in the midst of the mists. A red-headed young man stands in the center of the white mists. At one edge of the scene stands a woman with short brown hair.

  Crack! The lash cuts across the bare shoulders.

  “…hnnnn…” The prisoner whimpers.

  The wizard frowns and the face of the man in the mirror distorts—showing pointed teeth, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth, and he lifts a jagged blade toward the woman. She backs away, and he lunges.

  Crack!

  The image vanishes into the white mists.

  “Try it again,” suggests Anya.

  “I’ve done it four times,” he snaps.

  “You want the effect deep.”

  Instead of responding, Jeslek takes a sip from the tumbler. Then he concentrates once more. This time the red-headed man is moving slowly toward the woman in the mirror. The woman has a knife in her hand. Jeslek nods to the guard, and the whip snaps across the woman’s bare back.

  “Oooo…”

  This time the image of the red-headed man lunges, growling, and the woman plunges the knife full into his chest. The man vanishes in a welter of black smoke.

  “Again…” insists Anya.

  Jeslek wipes his forehead, and nods to the guard.

  Crack!

  The images re-form in the glass, with the red-headed man attacking and being stabbed.

  Anya smiles. “That should do it.”

  “Ohhhhh…” The scream of the woman on the table dies away as she faints.

  “Was that necessary?” asks Jeslek.

  “As necessary as anything you do, dear High Wizard.”

  Jeslek gestures to the other wizard. “You know what to do, Fydel. We might as well make a lesson in Jellico as well. Black sympathizers…bah…”

  The guard unstraps the unconscious woman and lifts her over his shoulders like a sack. He follow
s Fydel from the lower Tower room.

  As the door closes, Anya slides in front of Jeslek, moistening her lips, letting her hands reach up his back and drawing his body close to hers. “We have a little time…”

  Her lips burn on his.

  XCIX

  Outside, the snow continues to pour down, coating the packed yard with another soft white blanket. Dorrin worries about the ride home.

  Rek brings in another barrow of charcoal and wheels it next to the forge. Then he wipes the water from his forehead.

  Dorrin raises the hammer and strikes, his thoughts more on the carpentry that Pergun has done to turn another corner of the storage area into a room for Merga and Frisa than upon the heavy bar before him. Pergun can use the coppers, and, thanks to Fyntal, Dorrin has more coins than time. And Dorrin cannot complain that someone else is cooking—except that he has now had to worry about buying food—when it is in short enough supply, and dear.

  A soundless scream whimpers in the distance. Dorrin shudders, barely keeping the sledge on target. The impact on the flatter sounds dull, weak.

  “Careful there,” admonishes Yarrl. “Got a problem?”

  Dorrin sets the sledge on the hard clay. Another shudder takes him, with a wave of distant pain and whiteness. Slowly, he walks out of the smithy and into the storm.

  “Dorrin. Darkness damned. Need to finish this strap.”

  Yarrl’s words are lost as he looks into the heavy gray snow clouds over the Westhorns. Liedral? But what? Another wave of white horror and pain washes over him, and he puts a hand on the ice on the stones of the well ledge.

  For a time, with the hazy winter light fighting through the clouds, he stands next to the well, enduring the waves of pain that are not his, until they subside. Then, mechanically, he opens the well cover and drops the bucket. Just as mechanically he hoists it back up. Was Reisa right? Should he have made Liedral stay? But what has happened?

  “…just shuddered and dropped his sledge…like as he’s not here, daughter…Look at him.”

  The cold water on his sweating face helps—the colder the better. Finally, he swallows some of the water. That helps also.