The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Dorrin sighs and refigures again, and again.

  While the metal anneals, he goes back to work on a handcranked, metal-bladed fan—a novelty item for Jasolt—wishing that he had an answer for Brede, besides the small shields for wizard fire.

  Hammering out the curved blades and setting them in the circular centerpiece that connects to the two gears takes most of the afternoon, but that is the hardest work left, since the gears are already forged and cut on his makeshift cutter.

  Vaos has to bring in charcoal—and sweep out the mud—twice more before Dorrin nods that he is done with what he will do on the fan.

  Then he picks up the chunk of black iron forged to plate thickness and lays it on the anvil. He takes the half-stone hammer and strikes. The shock nearly paralyzes his arm. There is the faintest of scuffs on the metal. No, black iron cannot be forged cold.

  Setting aside the plate-thickness chunk, he retrieves the piece fullered to the proposed thickness of his shield and sets it on the anvil’s cutting edge. Positioning the cold chisel, he lifts the hammer.

  The same shock runs through his arm, and the iron holds.

  At least, he can hot-forge the shields, since he doubts that any sword wielded by a trooper can bring any more force to bear than his chisel under the power of the heavy hammer. He lifts the roughly cubit-square sheet of plate into the forge and motions to Vaos.

  “The light sledge.”

  “You’re going to let me strike it?”

  “I don’t have a lot of choice if we’re going to get this done. Strike just one blow on each point where I show you, and make sure the face of the sledge is even.”

  “I know. I watched you and Yarrl.”

  As he watches the youth lift the sledge, Dorrin wonders how Hegl ever stood it with him. On the third blow, Vaos is off center, and Dorrin dances aside as the hot iron sails toward his legs.

  “Vaos!”

  “Sorry, ser.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just bring it down straight. We can make some extra time. We can’t make extra arms or legs.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  The hammer strikes are slower, but more careful from that point on.

  Finally, when the iron, still iron, is roughly the thickness Dorrin wants, he calls a halt. “That’s enough for tonight. I need to do the frame tomorrow, and then I’ll use the bench shears to cut it before turning the edges to accept the frame.”

  “But I was just getting the hang of it.”

  “You were also getting ready to hit my legs again with the plate. Now, get this place swept up again, while I bank the forge.”

  Vaos sets down the sledge. His arms shake. “Yes, ser. But I could have done more.”

  Dorrin grins. “You will. Don’t worry about that.” He turns to attend to the forge. When he is done and has racked his tools, he looks at Vaos, still sweeping the clay. “Don’t forget to rack your tools.” He takes off his leather apron and hangs it on the peg beside his tool rack.

  “Yes, ser.”

  After leaving his boots on the mat inside the door, Dorrin washes in the kitchen, trying to avoid Merga’s efforts with the mutton and potatoes, before heading to the bedroom to check on Liedral.

  “Will your lady—”

  “She’s not my lady, at least not yet.”

  “Will the lady be joining us for dinner, master Dorrin?”

  “I would doubt it, but let me talk to her and check.” He steps into the short hall and walks to the end, easing through the doorway.

  Liedral is lying on her stomach, looking at the healers’ book Dorrin has borrowed from Rylla.

  “This is interesting.”

  He touches her shoulder, and she winces. “Sorry.”

  “It’s not that…I don’t know. Something’s not quite right.”

  “You kept saying that I hurt you…but I didn’t. I couldn’t even find where you were. And I came as soon as I could.”

  “I know.” She eases into a sitting position on the bed. “This is a lovely bed, and you’ve been wonderful…and dear. Everyone has been. Reisa, she came today in this rain, and she was so nice.” Her face crumples, and a tear oozes from her right eye.

  Dorrin wants to touch her, to hold her, but senses that it would be wrong. He is frustrated, because he can sense no permanent injury, no lingering chaos, no compulsions laid upon her. Yet something is definitely wrong. How could a whipping change everything between them? Yet it has.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks softly.

  “Yes! I’m starving, and I’m tired of lying around. I can wear one of your shirts over this.”

  “Are you strong enough—”

  “Of course, I’m strong enough to eat with everyone in the kitchen. Just let me get something on besides this shift.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Dorrin.”

  He shrugs and grins.

  “Shoo. Let a woman have some privacy.” She gestures toward the door, and he closes it behind him.

  Dorrin looks into the small room next to the main bedroom, empty except for the table he uses as a writing desk, a stool, and the pallet he is using as a bed. He wishes that Liedral were better. It would also be nice to sleep in a more comfortable bed. Right now, even Vaos and Merga have more comfortable sleeping arrangements than he does.

  With another deep breath, he steps into the kitchen.

  “Master Dorrin,” asks Merga, “would you carve the mutton while I finish the biscuits?”

  Dorrin is reluctant to cut the mutton, but he is the head of the household, such as it is. He takes the knife and begins to carve, awkwardly, aware that Vaos sits at the table, leaning forward, staring intently at the slab of meat. “Stop drooling, Vaos. You won’t get fed any sooner.”

  “I’m hungry, and we don’t get slabs of meat that often.”

  “Thank Liedral for that. Reisa was so glad she came that she brought over the mutton leg for us.”

  “Thank me for what?” Liedral stands in the doorway.

  Dorrin, carving knife in hand, looks up and turns. “For the—”

  “NOOOOOOOoooooooooo…” Even as the blood flows from her whitened face, Liedral is crumpling to the floor.

  Dorrin drops the knife on the table and stumbles to Liedral, touching her wrists. Merga’s biscuits spew across the floor.

  Frisa, sitting on the stool next to Vaos, lets out a small shriek.

  Dorrin can feel the pounding of Liedral’s heart, but there is no resurgence of chaos, no renewed illness or infection.

  “What happened?” asks Merga, looking over the two of them.

  “I don’t know.”

  “She looked at us, and she screamed.”

  Vaos and Frisa stare from the table.

  “You can heal the nice woman,” Frisa insists.

  Dorrin gently lifts her limp form, trying to keep his hands off the welts and wounds on her back, and carries her back to bed. He lays her gently on her stomach on the double bed.

  “Don’t just leave her there like a sack of grain.” Merga fusses at the unconscious woman, gently turning her head, and making sure Dorrin’s shirt does not bind against her back.

  “Oh…the knife…” Liedral shudders. “Why did you hurt me?”

  Dorrin and Merga exchange glances.

  “Daft…out of her mind…You couldn’t hurt a soul, her especially.”

  “She thinks so,” Dorrin whispers. “I’m here. I didn’t hurt you, and I never will.”

  “But…it hurt…so much…so much…and you did so often.”

  The White Wizards—what did they do? How did they link the torture to him?

  “She’ll still need something to eat,” Dorrin whispers.

  “I’ll bring a plate.”

  “I’m here,” he says helplessly as he sits on the stool. “I’m here.”

  Liedral struggles up slowly, easing up until she sits on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling. “What happened?”

  Dorrin frowns. “I was carving the mutton. You came in and loo
ked at me. Then you screamed, and began muttering about how much I hurt you.”

  She blots her face with her sleeve. “It’s stupid! I know you won’t hurt me, but I’m so scared. I hate not being in control of myself. I hate it!”

  Merga steps back at the violence of Liedral’s words.

  “And I’m not going to eat in here. I’m not a baby.” Liedral pauses. “Have you finished carving the mutton?”

  “Merga can finish it.”

  “That I can. I’ll just put your plate on the table, lady.”

  “I’m Liedral.”

  But Merga has gone back to the kitchen.

  Dorrin extends a hand to Liedral. Shivering, she still takes it, but lets go once she is on her feet. They walk quietly to the kitchen.

  CVI

  “Why aren’t you working?” Liedral stands in the doorway to the kitchen.

  “I came in to see about you. I keep worrying.”

  She shakes her head. “What about your projects for Brede and Kadara, or your engine? You always used to talk about your engine.”

  “This business…between us…your fears that I’ll hurt you, that I have—makes it hard. I hate the damned White Wizards.”

  “So do I. But you tell me that you can’t do anything to heal me.”

  “I’ve tried everything.” Dorrin clenches his fists. “Rylla has no ideas, either. We know what they did. Somehow, they linked the torture to images of me. But I don’t know why.”

  “Darkness! Standing around won’t solve either our problems, or anyone else’s.” She walks to the table and looks at the wedge of cheese, then at the knife. Almost without thinking her hands reach for the hilt, and her fingers curl around it.

  Dorrin turns toward the table, frowning slightly. What can he do to remove the distance between them? He rubs his head and turns.

  Liedral’s eyes are blank as she shifts her grip on the knife and steps toward Dorrin. The knife rises, as if she does not really see the blade.

  Dorrin’s eyes widen, and he steps back.

  “Liedral.”

  She continues to lift the knife, then draws back her arm.

  “Liedral.”

  He backs up. She steps forward, both hands now going around the hilt, the tip pointed toward his heart. Dorrin eases backward, noting the blankness in her eyes, and gently, oh, so gently, tries to project some sense of order, reassurance toward Liedral.

  She steps forward.

  Dorrin concentrates, and steps backward, but Liedral, eyes white, lunges forward, the knife slamming like a firebolt toward his chest.

  He twists sideways, his hands grasping for her wrists, but she turns. Powered by muscles knotted like iron wire, her wrists wrench clear of his fingers, and the knife slashes toward him again.

  Dorrin stumbles as he backs away, and the edge of the table digs into his hip as he tries to twist clear of the knife. His hands clamp around Liedral’s wrists, but the knife continues to move toward him—Liedral’s arms are like iron bars pressing down on him.

  “Oh…” Merga stands in the doorway, eyes wide and mouth open.

  One of the benches crashes to the floor, and Dorrin staggers back, losing his grip on Liedral’s right wrist.

  The knife slashes. Dorrin twists frantically, and pulls Liedral toward him, instead of resisting.

  A line of fire rips across his chest and shoulder, but he manages to grab both her wrists and twist.

  The knife thuds dully on the floor.

  Dorrin gathers—too late—what little order-sense remains, and thrusts it upon Liedral, but she has collapsed like a sack of milled grain, and he staggers again, trying to hold her upright, even as the fire continues to burn across his right shoulder.

  “Master Dorrin…master Dorrin…what be—” Merga’s words stop by themselves.

  Dorrin shifts his grip, trying to hold on to Liedral. How deep is the slash across his shoulder? It does not feel deep, but how would he know? He has never been stabbed before.

  “Why…why did you hurt me?” Liedral’s eyes flutter, and her voice is almost childlike as she half rests, half lies in Dorrin’s arms. Blood oozes across the slashed edges of his shirt.

  “Hurt you?” Dorrin blurts. “You took a knife to me.” He tries not to wince as he sets Liedral in a chair and quickly kicks the knife across the floor toward Merga. “Take care of that, please.”

  “Yes, master Dorrin.”

  “But you hurt me…you whipped me. Didn’t you?” Liedral’s voice is less childlike. “You whipped me. It hurt.”

  “I never touched you. How could I?” Dorrin lets his senses examine the long, shallow wound—more than a scrape, but not deep enough to cut into the muscle. It already stings. He winces as he thinks of the crushed astra compress he needs.

  “Indeed…how could he?” repeats Merga as she scoops up the knife and wipes it clean, her eyes flicking from the bloody slash across Dorrin’s shirt to the woman at the table.

  Liedral’s eyes open wide, and she shudders. “I tried to kill you. I…tried…to kill…you…” Her hands touch the table, and she bends forward, her body convulsing in heavy, wracking sobs.

  Merga points silently to Dorrin’s shoulder, then steps toward the table. “We all do things we shouldn’t…”

  Dorrin opens the door to the storeroom, and to the herbs and dressings within. He hurries as he fumbles out what he needs, listening to Merga.

  “…that man of yours…he wouldn’t hurt anyone…”

  Dorrin’s jaw sets. There are some he will hurt.

  CVII

  Dorrin lights the lamp on the table in the predawn darkness of the kitchen. His hand strays to the dressing that covers the shallow gash across his right shoulder, then drops as he hears steps.

  Liedral stands by the doorway from the hall, a blanket wrapped around her shift.

  “Are you all right? I didn’t want to wake you.” He adjusts the wick and straightens up.

  “Yes…No…What am I supposed to say? Darkness! They wanted me to kill you…to kill you…” Liedral shivers, one hand on the wall.

  Dorrin extends a hand.

  “No…I’m sorry. I can’t help it.” She shivers again. “I love you, and I can’t touch you! Darkness! I hate them.”

  Dorrin pulls out the chair. “At least you can sit down.”

  Liedral leans forward with her arms on the table. “…hate them…”

  After a time, Liedral sits up. “What did you do to them? Why are they so afraid of you, or us?”

  The smith shrugs. “I don’t know. They’ve been reading your letters to me, and mine to you, I think.”

  “You didn’t tell me?”

  “How?” Dorrin asks dryly.

  Liedral laughs. The sound is harsh, bitter, short.

  “You need something to eat. You’re pale. I’ll get you some cheese to go with the bread.” Dorrin’s head turns toward the cutting table; he sees the knife that Merga has left and frowns.

  “I’m still hungry, if that’s what you mean.” She looks at the knife, so like the knife that she used on Dorrin, and shivers. “Where are the things that were in my cart?”

  “They’re in the racks in your storeroom. Why? What does that have to do with cheese?”

  “My storeroom?”

  “I built it for you.”

  Liedral sighs. “Why didn’t you ask me to stay last time?”

  “Because I was young and stupid.” Dorrin looks at the plank floor. “What do you want from the storeroom?”

  “I can get it. I’m not made of glass.”

  Dorrin grins and points to the solid door at the far end of the room. “I thought it should be easy to get to.” He picks a lamp from the sconce and uses his striker before heading to the door. “It has an outside door too.”

  “You need more lamps.”

  “I need more of a lot of things.” He opens the door. “All your goods are in those racks. Some of them…I don’t know what they are.”

  “That’s why I could still make coins
.” Liedral’s slippered feet whisper across the packed, cold clay floor.

  Dorrin follows her with the lamp as she rummages through the shelves.

  “Here we are. A cheese cutter.”

  Dorrin raises his eyebrows. “How does it cut cheese? There’s no blade.”

  “You’ll see. I thought it might be useful for people like you.” Liedral shuffles back to the door, then steps up into the warmth of the kitchen.

  “How about you?” Dorrin follows her back to the cutting table, snuffing the lamp and replacing it as he passes the sconce.

  “It might have been better if I had an aversion to knives.”

  “You didn’t want to use it.” Dorrin touches her shoulder ever so lightly.

  “No. But I did. It wasn’t like I did, but I still did it.” She looks to the window, and the drizzle outside. “Would you put the knife away?”

  Dorrin bends and takes the knife, putting it back into the cutlery box.

  Liedral adjusts the cutter and applies it to the cheese, ignoring what Dorrin is doing. “See…The wire cuts just like a blade, maybe neater.” Liedral slices off three thin wafers of cheese, one after the other, and drops them onto the battered plate.

  “Wire…You wouldn’t think…” Dorrin’s mouth drops open. “Wire…black iron wire, or black steel wire…Magic knives, and I’ll bet they couldn’t even see it. Need to build a drawing wheel, and special dies—but it should work.” He reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, and she shivers and backs away.

  “I’m sorry…I can’t help it.” Liedral eases away from the smith.

  Dorrin looks at her. “I’ll talk to you later.” He turns and walks out the kitchen door, heading through the drizzle to the smithy.

  “What are we working on this morning?” asks Vaos, pumping the bellows to bring up the fire.

  “Wire drawing.”

  “I haven’t done that.”

  “We’ll be doing a lot of it, I think.” While he still doesn’t know exactly how he will make his magic wire knives, Dorrin knows they will work—and the White Wizards deserve whatever havoc they cause.