The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “Stop the sweet talk, striker. We’ve got some work to do for Froos.”

  “Those heavy wagon pins?” Vaos groans.

  “They pay the bills. Then we need to work on some of the scrap. I need to make more of those gadgets for Brede. And Jisle ordered some log peaveys.”

  “Jisle’s a farmer.”

  “They’re going to cut some timber from the woodlot for the Council. That’s their service call.” Dorrin pauses. “We have to do more nails—the square-ended spikes. Two kegs’ worth.”

  “It’s going to be late tonight, pretty girl,” Vaos tells the mare.

  Meriwhen whickers, and Dorrin nods.

  CXVIII

  “Have you discovered how this is happening?” Jeslek’s voice is calm.

  “Yes…ser…” stumbles the Certan officer. “We found a black oak post on each side of the road, wedged in place, and there were black wires.”

  “And, of course, they set up some decoy, and all of your troops ride after them full speed and run into the wires?” Acid drips from Anya’s words.

  The Certan officer looks down at the mud-smudged carpet. Then he looks up. “They weren’t obvious decoys. One time it was a small squad. Another time it was a pair of traders with fat packs. Another time—”

  “Spare us,” Jeslek says tiredly. “Do you have any evidence of this? Something that will help us track it down?”

  “Might I see it?” Anya asks.

  “Yes, ser.” The officer extends a small coil of wires wrapped around a small iron bar toward the red-headed wizard.

  Anya puts out a gloved hand. Even so, a faint acrid odor rises from the leather as the black wire touches it. “Order-based…” Her lips twist. “It smells like Recluce again.”

  “You may go,” Jeslek orders the officer.

  “Yes, ser.” The officer releases his breath slowly, stiffly turns, and leaves the tent.

  “And you still think that Recluce won’t help Spidlar?” asks the square-bearded Fydel. “Who made that…thing?”

  “You know as well as I do—that renegade smith. The one whose letters you so conveniently held for a season or so before letting me see them.”

  “Are you accusing—”

  White fire shrouds Fydel.

  “Don’t tempt me, Fydel. I’m tired of all of the second-guessing and scheming and plotting that you all think I’m too dense to see.”

  “You’re not exactly infallible, dear Jeslek.” Anya’s voice is honey-coated. “Clearly, your trap with the smith failed. Unless there is more than one Recluce-trained smith in Spidlar.”

  “I don’t see why this slows everything down so much,” says Fydel.

  “Because,” Jeslek responds with deliberate slowness, “it is hard to travel over meadows, woods, and hills. The levies prefer the metaled roads where wagons, food, and horses don’t get bogged down. There aren’t that many roads from Fenard into Spidlar, and they are narrow. The Spidlarians use that to pick off our troops unit by unit.” The thin wizard takes a deep breath. “If it’s not black iron wires, it’s water traps in stone-paved roads. Before long, as we near Elparta, they’ll probably destroy the bridges over the streams. That will slow our advance even more.”

  Anya and Fydel look at each other.

  “I know, I know.” Jeslek shakes his head. “You’re probably asking why we don’t use the river to send troops to Elparta, and then cut off their forces? Because,” he answers his own question, “Elparta is heavily fortified along the river, for just that reason. We can’t use the river until after we take Elparta. Unfortunately, we can’t take it until we can get there, and the streams are too small this far inland.”

  “The levies are getting unhappy. They’ve been fighting all summer, and we’re no more than a hundred kays into Spidlar. You took control here, great wizard. What are you going to do?” Fydel makes a deep ironic bow.

  “If that is what you want,” the High Wizard states, “then, whatever it takes, we’ll have Elparta before winter.”

  “You said we’d have all of Spidlar before winter, and that was last fall,” Anya notes coolly.

  “You must admit,” Fydel adds, “that it is difficult to explain how a great White Wizard can destroy a city like Axalt utterly, and yet not get his forces across a bunch of rolling plains.”

  “You both know the difference.”

  “I don’t think so, dear Jeslek,” Anya says.

  “Fine. We will have Elparta.” Jeslek gestures at the two. “Go off and plot somewhere else.”

  Both the redhead and the bearded wizard stand up.

  Anya smiles at Jeslek. “Remember, you did suggest it.”

  “I know,” Jeslek says calmly. “You are anyway, and it would be amusing if it weren’t so pathetic.” He watches for a moment as the two walk across the camp side by side. “Idiots…”

  He looks toward the fire of the setting sun, thinking of the fires he must summon. “Idiots!”

  CXIX

  To the south of the hill, pillars of black and gray smoke swirl into the gray sky, marking small farms and isolated cots that continue to burn.

  The Spidlarian group leader stands in his stirrups for a moment to survey the forces moving along the road. Before the green banners of Certis and the purple banners of Gallos walk two hundred men, women, and children, flanked by Gallosian lancers. As the Spidlarian officer watches, a man ducks and scrambles down a ditch beside the stone-paved road, squirming through the mud, out of sight of the Gallosian lancers flanking the plodding peasants.

  A White Wizard rides partway into the peasants and lifts a hand. White fire lances into the ditch. A scream fades, and an acrid odor rises on the wind carrying the smell of fear northward on the road from Fenard to Elparta.

  The White Wizard looks toward the hilltop where the blond man watches. A firebolt flies northward, but the cavalry officer has spurred his mount below the ridge line and toward the troopers who wait on the far side of the hill, on the road that the combined army marches across.

  “That bad?” asks Kadara as Brede reins in.

  “Worse. There are at least two thousand of them, and they’re using villagers as a shield, walking them in front of the troops.” He points toward the city that lies less than five kays up the road. “They’ve given up on taking it. Instead they’ll destroy it. Like Axalt.”

  “We could get some with archers,” offers another squad leader.

  Brede shakes his head. “If you get close enough to hit the levies, you’ll be close enough to get fried by the wizards. We’ve forty bodies left. They’ve got fifty times that, and there’s no cover once they reach the crest.”

  He gestures, and the three squads ride toward the gray walls of Elparta.

  Kadara rides beside Brede. “You thought they’d do something like this.”

  “Yes.” He coughs, clears his throat. “It had to happen. When they couldn’t take over Gallos with smaller units, they created mountains and fired the grasslands. They won’t raise more mountains, but the rest will come.”

  “They’ll take Elparta—and then?”

  “They’ll take the river towns and split the country, then follow each road. They’ll just burn anything that resists.”

  Kadara shudders.

  “It’s a wonderful choice. If Spidlar doesn’t resist, the wizards take over and burn those who resist. If Spidlar resists, they destroy everything.”

  “We could leave.”

  Brede snorts. “Where? People from Recluce haven’t been welcome in either Sarronnyn and Suthya for generations, and those are about the only places where the ships can go now—unless you want to spend a year at sea going around the continent and across the western ocean to Hamor.”

  “A year at sea—that doesn’t sound too bad.” She looks behind him at the pillars of smoke and fire.

  “Probably not. Do we have the golds to purchase passage?”

  Kadara takes a deep breath. “It’s never easy, is it?”

  CXX

  “Mast
er Dorrin?” Vaos’s voice penetrates the smithy.

  He turns the tongs to ensure an even heating of the metal. “Yes?”

  “Liedral’s back.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “I’ll tell her, ser.”

  “No, you won’t. You clean up the smithy.” Dorrin sets the tongs on the fire bricks, ignoring the clatter, runs to the front of the smithy, then walks into the fall coolness.

  “But…” Vaos’s protest is lost as Dorrin leaves.

  “You do look like a smith.” Liedral stands by the cart, grinning.

  He steps forward to take her hand, wishing he could hold her.

  She hugs him, but she steps back. “I’m better, and I’m learning.”

  They stand, looking at each other.

  “You have a few more muscles, I think,” she finally says.

  “Ser…” Vaos says, tentatively, “I could stable and curry the horses.”

  “Ah…yes. That would be…wouldn’t it?” He looks at Liedral.

  She nods solemnly.

  “She’s back! Liedral’s back!” Frisa’s squeal carries from the garden where she and Merga have been harvesting the long yellow gourds.

  Dorrin takes the cart reins from Liedral’s hand and gives them to Vaos, who has still followed him outside. Liedral turns and hands Dorrin a small chest from the closed compartment under the cart seat. They walk across the fall-dampened ground toward the porch steps, and Dorrin wipes his boots while untying his leather apron. He opens the door, waits for Liedral to step inside, and hands her the chest before hanging his apron on the peg.

  “We finally have some early cider.” Dorrin retrieves a jug from the icy water of the cold box and wipes the dampness away.

  Liedral sets the iron-bound wooden chest on the table, which shivers with the thunk that accompanies it. She sits on one bench. Deep circles ring her eyes, and her clothes are loose. “It was a long trip.”

  “Would you rather wash up?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “And of course you are,” snaps Merga from the doorway. “The smith, begging your pardon, master Dorrin, is thinking about drinks when you need solid food. We have some bread I baked this morning, and there’s some brick cheese, with some apples from Rylla’s trees.”

  Dorrin pours two mugs of cider and sets one before Liedral.

  “Did you go on the big ships all the way across the Northern Ocean?” demands Frisa as she leaves the kitchen door open.

  “Close the door, Frisa,” her mother orders.

  “Is the trader back?” asks yet another voice from the porch. Pergun peers through the half-open door.

  Liedral begins to laugh. Dorrin coughs, trying not to choke as he stifles laughter.

  “I don’t see what’s funny,” says Frisa solemnly.

  Merga cuts three thick slabs of bread and hurriedly puts the knife away before using one of Dorrin’s cheese cutters on the yellow brick. Then she sets the platter before Liedral.

  Frisa takes two apples and offers them to the trader. “These are the best ones.”

  “Thank you.” Liedral takes the one from Frisa’s left hand.

  “You take this one, master Dorrin,” the girl insists.

  “Now…Frisa, we need to finish with the squash,” Merga says firmly, but she smiles as she speaks.

  “But, mummy…I wanted to hear about her trip…”

  “Later,” Merga insists. “You, too, Pergun. You can help us.”

  Dorrin and Liedral smile as footsteps trail off the porch, and voices drift from the garden.

  “…never cared much for squash…”

  “…you never had squash the way I fix it, you picky mill hand…”

  “…this one’s really big, mummy…”

  Dorrin takes a long swallow of the cider. “How are you?”

  “I’m better. I told you. Tired…hungry. And I’m glad to be back. Even if things aren’t going well.”

  “I’ve had to make nails, brackets for wall barricades, even ship spikes.”

  “Ship spikes?”

  “That was so the harbor smiths could do things like caltrops and stimuli. Pretty soon, I’ll have to do caltrops, or get Yarrl to do them for me.”

  “Caltrops?”

  “Pointed iron stars to get in horses’ hoofs, sometimes enough to destroy the animal or the rider.”

  “Ugghhh…are we down to that?”

  “Yes. I think so,” Dorrin says tiredly.

  “The trade rumors are that the wizards and their levies have reached Elparta. Have you heard from Brede or Kadara?”

  “No.” Dorrin shakes his head. “They’ve been gone since early summer. He’s sent a messenger or two for some things I’ve forged for him.”

  “Your magic…cheese-cutters?”

  “You, too.” Dorrin finishes the mug. “You know, it’s really amazing.” He sets the mug on the table with a thump. “People seem to think it’s perfectly decent to forge a blade that’s light enough, sharp enough, and strong enough to cut through mail and turn a man or woman into dead meat. But you figure out how to do the same thing with wire and steel, and everyone shudders. Dead is dead.”

  Liedral frowns. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Sorry. I guess I felt that because Kadara and Brede felt that way. Even Vaos gets this sick look on his face.”

  “It was sort of my doing,” she says slowly.

  “Don’t feel guilty. The people who tortured you are the ones—”

  “No…they’re not. The wizards always escape. Some poor soldier gets killed. I’m not blaming you, but usually the dukes and viscounts and prefects all escape their wars. Everyone else has to pay.”

  Dorrin reflects—even in his own life, that has been true. His attempts to keep Frisa and Merga from being beaten resulted in Gerhalm’s suicide. The Whites’ attempts to manipulate him have resulted in pain for Liedral and Jarnish. Being involved with him has cost Kadara something, perhaps her life, for he has not heard from either Brede or Kadara in nearly a season, and not even a messenger for the past five eight-days. He swallows.

  “I didn’t mean you.”

  “I’m not so sure I’m not the same as they are.”

  “No…you’re not.” Liedral reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.

  The silence draws out, punctuated by chatter from the garden.

  “I did a little better than I thought,” Liedral says slowly. “In the trading, I mean.” She opens the chest, from which spill silvers and golds. “I did much better. You’re very well off, Dorrin.”

  “We’re well off. You took all the risks. At least half belongs to you.”

  “We’ll talk about that later.” Liedral tilts the chest and eases the coins inside. “Do you have a safe place?” She looks toward the storeroom.

  Dorrin stands, lifting the small and heavy chest. “Let me show you.”

  She follows him into the storeroom, where he shows her how the false rack works and sets her chest by his smaller and far lighter one. Then he replaces the rack and closes the storeroom door.

  Liedral reseats herself and continues through her second slice of bread and cheese before speaking again. “I was hungry.” She finishes her cider, and Dorrin refills the mug. “You were right about the brinn. The Councillor’s healer paid two golds for one of the bags. So did another of the healers. He wanted to know where I got it. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t, for sure, but it’s hard to grow, even for me, and I can grow most herbs. Brinn only grows east of Brista, unless you use order to help. So I thought it might bring a lot more than the more common ones, and it’s good against the flood flux.”

  “I must have gotten twenty golds for the herbs.” She takes another sip of cider. “Even the simple toys went for more, but that’s because a lot of your competition has been cut off.”

  “Things from Recluce?” Dorrin asks.

  “The only goods from Recluce are coming the long way—along the Great Canal of Hamor to the Great East Hig
hway through the Kryada Mountains and then down to the ports of Western Hamor. Fairhaven has changed all the trading patterns. They all flow from east to west.” Liedral coughs gently. “That raises the prices a lot for anything from Recluce…if it even gets to Sarronnyn or Suthya.”

  Dorrin finally straightens in his chair and looks directly at Liedral. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.” She lets out a long deep breath. “Things are better…not so many nightmares. But I think it will take a long time.” Liedral brushes at a lock of hair that is too short to stay in place. “It’s not fair to you.”

  Dorrin looks down at his own mug. “I’ll wait.”

  “That’s easy to say now. How will you feel in a year?”

  “We’ll see in a year.” He forces a grin. “And we’ll be busy…very busy.” He clears his throat. “I’ve gotten more done on the engine.”

  “Are you still going to use it on a ship?”

  “How would you like to have your own ship for trading?”

  “Ships come in two varieties—those that make you rich and those that are more trouble than they’re worth. Most are the second kind, I suspect.”

  “Then it will keep us busy.” He extends a hand halfway across the table.

  She takes his fingers, squeezes them, and holds them lightly.

  “…I’m hungry…” Frisa’s shrill complaint penetrates the kitchen.

  “…we’re almost finished…”

  “…but my tummy hurts now…”

  Liedral shakes her head. “I think it’s time to let Merga back into the kitchen. I’m going to take a real bath, and you probably need to work on your engine if you really intend to put it on a ship.” She stops. “Won’t you have to build a ship?”

  “Build it, or buy it,” Dorrin concedes.

  “There are a lot of golds in the chest…but I doubt there are enough to buy even a small ship.”

  “Then I’ll see what it will take to build one.”

  Liedral stands. “I meant it about the bath. You do still have that old metal tub, don’t you?”

  Dorrin nods. “But I rigged a shower off the smithy. I use that, mostly. It’s cold.”