The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  He turns, certain a figure stands by the small slack tank, but the smithy remains empty. He studies the valve on the kettle device, finally nodding as he considers changing the angle of the tubing.

  Outside he hears the sound of a wagon and a horse.

  “There! Easy, big fellow…”

  Dorrin grins at the sound of Vaos’s voice. The boy still loves the horses. With a last look at the kettle device, the smith turns and walks toward the yard and whoever has arrived.

  Vaos holds the harness while the gray-haired man in the heavy blue sweater and blue trousers climbs off the wagon. Merga and Liedral stand on the small porch outside the kitchen. Frisa hangs on the railing, looking at the horse. Then she stands and grasps her mother’s hand.

  “Master Dorrin?” The gray-haired man bows as the smith approaches.

  “Hasten, is it time for annual dues or something?”

  “Well…master Dorrin, it is about money, or services.” The gray-haired man bows again.

  “Come on inside.” He looks at Merga. “Do we have anything to drink?”

  “Not really, ser. Not except water.” Merga frowns. “It would take a while, but I could brew some herb tea.”

  “Water would be fine,” Hasten affirms, using a soiled square of off-white cloth to blot dust and sweat from his forehead. “Even though it’s been a late summer, it’s hot now.” He picks up a thick leather folder and heads toward the steps.

  Dorrin nods to Vaos to water the horse. Vaos smiles.

  “Can I help?” asks Frisa, as Vaos ties the horse to the stone post and lifts the bucket.

  Merga looks from the horse to Vaos, then says. “You be careful, girl.”

  “You, too, Vaos,” Dorrin adds.

  A smile flits across Liedral’s face, but vanishes as Dorrin turns toward her, and the two men climb the steps to the porch and the kitchen.

  Almost as soon as both men are seated, Merga serves two mugs of cold water. Dorrin motions to Liedral, who has remained in the doorway, wearing a loose brown tunic and trousers. Her hair has been cut short.

  “Hasten, this is trader Liedral. Liedral will be the one trading some of what I forge and grow.”

  Merga looks out toward the yard, then scuttles out.

  Hasten inclines his head to Liedral, ignoring Merga’s hasty departure, although the eyes question the slim figure. “Pleased to meet you, trader. Where might you be from?”

  “Liedral is originally from Jellico, but now has stored some goods here.”

  Hasten frowns.

  “I’m assuming that Liedral’s fees to the Guild, as a traveling trader, would be similar to mine,” Dorrin adds.

  “Ah…well…I do suppose you could act as the sponsor, although it is rare for an…artisan smith…to sponsor a trader.” Hasten coughs. “And that is partly why I am here.”

  “Coins?” prompts Dorrin.

  “You know, of course, that the Whites have persuaded Certis and Gallos to raise levies against us.” Hasten coughs again. “The Council is…frankly…hardpressed.”

  “How much?”

  Hasten swallows. “Ah…double…roughly. A silver for you, and it would be two for the trader.”

  Dorrin sighs. “I think we might be able to manage it—this year. Darkness knows if this continues…” Even the hint that he might not be able to manage the dues creates a dull throbbing in his skull. He shakes his head.

  “I know, master Dorrin. I know.” Hasten looks to Liedral. “But we don’t charge near what the Whites require.”

  Liedral smiles crookedly. “The Whites do extract a high price.”

  “…and our ships can no longer travel the Gulf or the Eastern Ocean. The White fleet…” The Guild functionary looks at the tabletop, then lifts the mug and takes a swallow of the cold water. “The Council may have to call levies and services, yet.”

  “Services?” Dorrin takes a sip of his water.

  “Military goods—supplies, that sort of thing. For you, some forging that the troops can use, harnesses or wagon brackets, perhaps caltrops.”

  “You either provide services or carry a pike?”

  Hasten nods. “It may not come to that.”

  “It will,” Dorrin says wearily. “It will.” He pauses. “Let me get the coins, and you write out whatever papers we get.”

  Hasten opens the folder and extracts several squares, a quill, and a small bottle, which he uncorks carefully, and into which he dips the quill.

  Dorrin walks back into the storeroom, closing the door. He lifts a rack containing a few toys to reveal the iron-bound strongbox, from which he takes the three silvers. He replaces the strongbox, the rack, and the toys.

  When he returns to the kitchen, Hasten is still scratching on the parchment squares. “A terrible time it is…terrible…” Hasten takes a sip of water, then wipes his forehead, and a drop of water or sweat splats on the table, narrowly missing the parchment and the wet ink upon it.

  When the receipts are finished, the functionary stands. “A pleasure doing business with you, master Dorrin, and you also…trader Liedral.”

  Liedral inclines her head.

  “A pleasure, Hasten,” Dorrin says, leading the way back to the yard.

  Merga is blotting Frisa with an old dry rag, trying to wipe mud off bare legs, and shaking her head. “I cannot leave you alone…not a moment, and you are in the mud.”

  Dorrin tries not to grin.

  “You did not give her too much, young ser?” Hasten asks Vaos.

  “No, ser. Just a little, a bit at a time, just as she wouldn’t take to colic. Then a bit more.”

  “Good fellow.”

  Vaos hands the reins to Hasten after the functionary climbs onto the wagon seat.

  Dorrin marvels at Hasten’s clothing. A woolen sweater in summer yet, and the perspiration scarcely fazes him. After the Guild man is safely on his road to further collections, Dorrin steps back into the kitchen for more water before returning to the smithy.

  Merga has commandeered a bucket of cold water and is liberally applying it to her daughter’s muddy feet and legs. “You will sit here on the porch until your legs are dry!”

  “Yes, mummy.”

  Liedral waits by the table. “Why did you pay the dues for me? I can’t pay you back. Darkness, I can’t even hold you!” Liedral’s voice cracks.

  “You still need to be a trader,” Dorrin says lightly, though it is an effort to keep his voice cheerful. He still wishes he could hold her. Instead, he stands up.

  “What would I trade?”

  Dorrin raises his eyebrows. “There’s plenty to trade.” He walks to the door to the storeroom, where he uses a striker to light the small lamp inside the room. “Come on.”

  “I didn’t have that much, even if you brought it all.” Liedral follows him to the storeroom.

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I thought you were selling it to local factors.”

  “I did sell some to Willum, but the White raiders killed him. And I do work for Jasolt, and some of the others, but they can’t sell much, especially now.” Dorrin gestures toward the racks. “Here are some of the small toys. These are decorative latches. When I made the latches for the doors I made a few extra. And…” He laughs. “Here are some more cheese-cutters.”

  Liedral looks in the racks, eyes widening. “You’re building up all this to trade. This is worth more than any three loads I’ve ever carried. Why?”

  “To get more coin. I need it to feed everyone. And,” he adds as the deception starts his head throbbing, “to be able to build my first engine.”

  “You must really want to build it.” Liedral’s eyes scan the bins and racks. “How did you afford all the iron?”

  “A lot of it came from scrap. I charge a little less for my repairs if people bring scrap. Most smiths will take it, but they just pile it up. We both work on it, but I’m having Vaos learn how to turn it into rough stock.”

  Liedral glances at the bins and racks again. “This is worth a
lot.”

  “I hope so. Can you sell it?”

  “If I can get it to Suthya.”

  Dorrin nods. Getting in and out of Spidlar may indeed be the hardest task. He inclines his head toward the door back into the kitchen. With a last look at the goods, Liedral heads back to the kitchen. Dorrin blows out the small lamp and racks it, then closes the door.

  “You did all that work just for more coin so that you can afford to build your engine. Why do you want to build the engine? What good will it do? How will it help anyone?” Liedral draws herself a mug of cool water and sits on the edge of a chair, wincing as she lowers herself.

  “Are you still sore?”

  “It’s not bad…About the ship engine?”

  Dorrin ponders. “I’m not sure I have a good answer. I’ve been thinking about using it to power a ship. It works on the models.”

  “What’s wrong with the ships now?”

  Dorrin looks from his chair to hers, then out and down at the pond, where dragonflies hover in the late afternoon, skimming across the water. “They can only go as fast as the wind, and where the wind lets them.”

  “That’s an excuse, not a reason.”

  “No. How many ships get stuck in contrary winds?”

  “Some…” the trader admits.

  Dorrin smiles, and she shakes her head.

  CXIV

  “What happened?”

  “The levies chased the Spidlarians…I don’t know—except that the first two riders were sliced almost in half, and no one was around. No one…”

  Jeslek’s hand slams into the field table. “No one? Or no one that they could see?”

  “Did you stop to see what happened?” Anya’s voice is calm.

  “Yes…ser…” stumbles the Certan officer. “Well…not exactly. The lead horses and riders were sliced apart with invisible swords. That got everyone clogged together on the road. Then archers popped up out of hidden pits. Before things got untangled…we lost almost three whole squads.”

  “Invisible swords?” asks Jeslek.

  “That’s what it looked like. Byler’s body was sliced into two pieces. Like a blood sausage.”

  Anya swallows and looks down at the small portable table before her.

  “Were there walls or anything tall beside the roads?”

  “No, ser. Not that I recall…Maybe one scrubby tree on one side, but this was in those rolling plains, not near Elparta or the woods.” The officer scuffs his boots on the dirt floor of the tent. “Begging your pardon, ser, but…I mean…it’s hard to fight magic.”

  “I understand,” Jeslek says slowly. “We’ll do something, but I’ll need to look at the situation.” His head inclines to the glass on the table, and he frowns. White mists swirl in the mirror.

  The officer’s eyes follow the wizard’s, widening as a scene of an empty road appears, then disappears into the mists.

  “You may go,” Jeslek suggests softly.

  “Thank you, ser.”

  Anya’s eyes take in the broad shoulders of the officer. She watches the back of the sweat-stained green tunic as he marches stiffly back downhill.

  “Another clever tactic,” Jeslek snorts. “I’m sure there’s no real magic to it.”

  “Does it really matter, dead High Wizard?” asks Anya lazily, a cold edge to her voice.

  “Of course not. But why…?” He looks back at the mirror.

  “Why what?”

  Jeslek clears his throat. “There are a number of ‘whys’…why women equate appearance with ability, why so many soldiers fail to think, why people who plot always think they won’t be discovered…” He laughs softly, and the mists swirl in the glass.

  CXV

  The cart horse snorts, and the pack horse echoes the sound as Liedral climbs into the heavily padded seat.

  Dorrin takes Liedral’s gloved hand and squeezes it. “Be careful.”

  “I will. There shouldn’t be a problem. The ship’s Suthyan, and so far the Whites have avoided taking on either Suthya or Sarronnyn. The longer I wait, the more dangerous it will be. Besides”—her voice almost cracks—“what am I supposed to do? Sit here and damn them for what they did to us?”

  “It’s better.”

  “A little, but I can’t just sit here. There’s no trading going on in Spidlar, and now’s the time to make coins.”

  “That’s not why you’re going.”

  “No. I’m going because I can’t sit here and look at you loving me. I need some time to think without worrying about you, and you need to get on with your engine and helping Brede and Kadara.”

  “When is she leaving?” Frisa’s high voice carries across the yard from the pen where Merga is feeding Gilda, Zilda’s first kid, which Reisa has insisted belongs to Dorrin.

  “See?” Liedral says lightly. “She knows I should be going.”

  “You’ll be back by fall?”

  “Before then, I hope. That depends on ships, weather, and how well a lot of this ironmongery sells.”

  “It isn’t—” He has to laugh as he sees the glint in her eye.

  “You still take things too seriously, love. At least you’ll get to sleep in a comfortable bed.” Liedral lifts the reins, and Dorrin squeezes her hand a last time.

  He watches until the cart disappears down the road to lower Diev and the three small piers where the Suthyan coaster is tied. Then he turns toward the herb garden, where Rylla is already selecting fresh astra and brinn. The healer waits for him as he walks past his stable and along the ridge line toward the herb garden that he has expanded each year.

  “I’d be thinking we need more this winter,” she says. “Even with the larger gardens. You won’t be able to feed all those who do not have enough.”

  “There will be enough food,” the smith says. “Everyone is planting. But we will need the healing herbs.”

  Rylla nods. “Some will not be a-coming home. Glad I am that Rolta is a seafarer.”

  “Everyone is talking about the need for levies, but…”

  “They cannot ask for them until after the planting is finished.” Rylla looks across the gardens. “Still, there is more here than an army would need, and you dried much of last year’s herbs.”

  “I sent some with Liedral.”

  A smile creases the older woman’s lips. “You’d be a fool if you had not. Let’s get on with it. Are you ready for warts and burns?”

  Dorrin sighs.

  CXVI

  “Dig, damn it!” snaps the squad leader.

  “We’re not frigging farm hands,” complains the trooper with the shovel.

  “No, you’ll be a dead trooper if you don’t keep digging.”

  “This isn’t fighting…” mumbles another trooper, but he keeps digging at the low point in the road.

  The squad leader looks to her right, her short red hair glistening in the sun that has barely cleared the plains to the east. Uphill, three others labor at another trench. Two others have concealed the heavy road stones that they have pried out of position under brush and turf.

  “Why are we doing this?”

  “To kill the damned Certans,” answers the squad leader. “They still like to use the roads, the idiots.”

  The two troopers with shovels look from the hard-eyed woman with the twin blades toward the rising sun. “…not sure which is worse…”

  She ignores the comment, watching and listening as the hole that will fill with water deepens. Watching and listening as the archers on the slope above dig in.

  CXVII

  Dorrin continues to watch the iron until it reaches the orange-red just beyond cherry red before lifting it onto the anvil. There he painstakingly fullers the metal into the octagonal end necessary to fit the gear. His face is sweat-streaked, his eyes burning from the sweat before he lays aside the hammer. The delicate work is harder, much harder, than hammering out braces or log peaveys. Especially when he must add order as he shapes. The engine work, as always, has taken longer than he would have wished.

/>   Then he reheats the two pieces, carefully scarfing them before welding them together with deft blows from the hammer, and setting them on the bricks next to the forge to anneal.

  After wiping his face with the back of his forearm, he steps out into the still afternoon, squinting against the sun, walking toward the kitchen for some cold water. Once he gets a drink, he needs to find his errant striker, although he suspects Vaos is in the barn, currying Meriwhen or the broken-down bay that Merga uses to go to market. Even after his limited healing efforts, Dorrin has doubts about how long the bay will last.

  Every time he turns, he must add more to his establishment. He waits a moment in the shade of the house, looking down across the grass toward the pond, and the narrow mud flats that show the lack of summer rainfall. Turning toward the west, he wonders how Liedral fares, but senses nothing amiss. At least, he feels no pains, nor the agonies of their last parting. Still, she has been gone more than half a season, and he has heard nothing, not that he would expect anything with the few ships that reach Diev or Spidlaria. The news of the fall of Axalt has not helped, either. He would not have believed that the White Wizards would so cavalierly turn a city into crushed rock, yet Brede and Kadara must fight that evil…all too often.

  He looks into the heat of the day for a time longer. Then, after wiping his sweating forehead, he walks around the porch and up into the kitchen, looking for his mug, but Merga has already filled it, and hands it to him.

  “We’ll be having a mutton soup, ser.”

  “That sounds fine…Mutton?”

  “Asavah liked the plowshare, and the extra nails you sent.”

  “I only had a handful…”

  “Might it be all right if your friend Pergun joined us?”

  Dorrin tries not to shake his head. “That would be fine.” He drains the cup. “But it will be a while.”

  “The soup will not be ready until later.” Merga smiles.

  Dorrin understands. Pergun will not finish at the mill for a time, either.

  Vaos is in the stable, currying Meriwhen and talking to the mare. “You’re such a pretty girl…”