The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Liedral shivers. “Not for me, thank you.” She walks to the door and waves to Merga.

  Dorrin goes to reclaim the tub from the corner of the smithy, even as Frisa skips toward the kitchen.

  CXXI

  Steam rises from the water, boiling as it rushes downstream toward and then past the walls of Elparta. Smoke thicker than winter fogs cloaks the hills, and tongues of flames dance across the now blackened grasslands to the south of the city.

  Under the green-edged white flag, the three messengers approach the southern gate. A man in a blue cloak waits for them, his short white beard hastily trimmed. A smudge of soot or dirt mars his left temple.

  “A request of the city…” begins the messenger in the middle, his sonorous voice almost droning.

  “Forget the fancy language,” replies the older man in blue. “What do the wizards want?”

  “…from the honorable Jeslek, and the commanders Grestalk and Xeinon,” continues the messenger, “beseeching that the citizens of Elparta, in the interests of justice and mercy, lay down their arms and pay homage to the greater hegemony of Candar…”

  The man in blue takes a deep breath and waits.

  “…that the river gates be destroyed and the water piers be open to all…that the battlements be cast down…that unmarried women be made available as consorts for…that all followers of the Black heresy, including the officers of the Spidlarian Guard who have committed atrocities and used evil magical tools against the hegemony, be turned over to the honorable Jeslek…that reparations from the granaries of the city be made to the forces of the hegemony…that all able horses are to be turned over to the representatives of the hegemony for proper redistribution…that all members of the so-called Council of Traders be returned to the Candarian Guild for proper disciplinary action…”

  The man in blue holds up his one good hand. The other rests in a sling. “If I understand the thought behind the fancy words, we must make the city totally defenseless. After that, our daughters get to be whores for your troops; all the good officers are to be executed, all the traders slaughtered, and all the horses and all food for winter taken.”

  “Not so…” protests the messenger. “These are honorable terms, especially given the depredations committed upon all Candar, the unfairness in trading, and the slaughter of defenseless traders.”

  “How long do we have to consider these terms?” asks the man in blue.

  “Until sunset.”

  The Elpartan emissary glances at the midafternoon sun. “Very generous.”

  “Oh, extremely generous is the honorable Jeslek.”

  “You will have an answer by sunset.” The man in blue limps back toward the walls.

  The emissaries in white turn and walk back toward the mass of soldiers and horses who wait on the plain overlooking the river and stretching toward the small city.

  CXXII

  Dorrin lifts the iron back into the forge, using his right hand on the bellows lever. In time he removes the piece and places it in the end curve in the swage block. Using the block is harder than using a hammer-driven swage, but is the only way he can shape the iron single-handedly. Whether the swaging is harder or the mental concentration to avoid suffusing the raw metal with order is more difficult, he is not sure, only that he is sweating from more than the heat of the smithy when he is through.

  With a sigh, he lays aside his work, a stubby length of metal hammered into an octagon at one end and welded to a blank circle of iron at the other. Then he sets down the hammer and walks out to the stone-walled water tap to wash off his face and get a drink of cool water.

  Outside, he lowers the bucket under the dripping tap and turns it, letting the bucket fill with icy water. He begins to rinse away the grime and other residues from the smithy. The shower would be quicker, but he does not feel up to total immersion in icy water.

  He wishes that his efforts to build the engine have not taken so long, but with each idea, each discovery, something else is required. The situation is getting more and more critical, but how can he and Liedral—or anyone—return to Recluce any time soon? Should he be thinking more about leaving Spidlar? But where would he go? As a Black healer and a man, he will not be terribly welcome beyond the Westhorns. Assuming that Recluce would have him back—which is rather unlikely, as he is still building an engine—to get there he would have to circle the world—and that is a disturbing thought.

  He looks up from the water tap to the house. Merga and Rylla have dried and stored everything from the gardens, and he has dried herbs, and even driven the wagon borrowed from Yarrl halfway to Kleth to bring back barrels of apples and pearapples for both families. He shakes his head at the thought of his household as a family.

  How long the Spidlarian Council will retain its tenuous rule in the face of the inexorable advance of the White Wizards is also a question. According to rumors, the Spidlarian Guard has already lost more than two of every three squads, and now must rely on levies. It is the first time levies have been required in Spidlar in centuries. The “requests” for smithing services are also growing with each eight-day.

  Even the seas are not free from the heavy hand of Fairhaven. From what Liedral has heard, the vessels of Fairhaven have still cut off most of the trading ships to and from Land’s End, and the price of spices has begun to rise even in the marketplace of Diev.

  Dorrin shakes his hands dry in the cool fall air, cooler already than would be the case on Recluce. He looks at the wheelbarrow. When Vaos returns from the market with Liedral, Dorrin will have him bring in more charcoal from the bin behind the small stable.

  Charcoal is getting dearer, perhaps because the Certans and Gallosians have pushed into the lower wooded hills west of Elparta where the charcoal burners have operated. Would coal be usable for the smithy? That, at least, can be gotten locally, and it would be ideal for fueling the steam engine he has envisioned. Still…where could he find hundreds of stones’ worth of coal? And how could he pay for it? Besides, he has no ship—not yet.

  “Master Dorrin…?”

  He looks at Merga. “Yes, Merga?”

  “Have you eaten since breakfast?”

  “No…”

  “A starving smith does not work well. You’re always forgetting to eat. I have set out some bread and preserves and some cheese.”

  Everyone is always trying to make sure he does what he is supposed to. He follows the small woman up the wide wooden steps. Once on the porch, he views the yard and the ridge leading toward Rylla’s. For now, there are few complaints of sickness, but the harvest has been good, although some of the ground vegetables are still in the fields, and not all the grains have fully headed because of the cold spring that made early planting impossible.

  He checks the road, but sees no sign of Liedral and her cart—or Vaos. He steps into the kitchen. Merga has already laid out a dinner for him, and Frisa has finished half of what is on her plate.

  “Master Dorrin…could you make me a toy?”

  “I gave you the windmill.” Dorrin slathers the preserves on the bread.

  “I meant…a special kind of toy?”

  “Frisa…” Merga says.

  Dorrin holds his hand up. He wants to hear what the girl has to say. “What kind of special toy? A doll or something?”

  “Dolls are stupid. I wanted something like an iron wagon, one like the kind that brings your iron.”

  “I can’t make a horse for it.”

  “That’s all right.” Frisa gulps the last of the cider from her mug.

  Dorrin grins at the patronizing tone, and chews through the half-warm bread. He is still eating the last morsels of his dinner when he hears Liedral’s cart and heads for the door. As he steps onto the porch, Merga calls after him, “I’ll set out some dinner for them.”

  Vaos is unhitching the horse, and Liedral is carrying a basket of potatoes to the porch.

  “How did it go?” Dorrin lugs another basket.

  “There’s plenty of root crops, bu
t not much flour yet, and it’s still dear. No fruit except for local things, and no spices.”

  “We don’t need spices.”

  “I know. It shows that there’s nothing coming in, though.”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking like that. You are the trader.”

  “Don’t forget it.” Liedral smiles.

  Dorrin sets down the potatoes and squeezes her shoulder. She brushes his cheek with her lips, then turns back to the wagon.

  “You got a lot of potatoes.”

  “Merga said to get a lot of them if they were cheap. They were the only thing cheap. I dropped some off for Reisa, and she sent a mutton leg. She also said that you could have three bales of hay, but you ought to pick them up today because it looks like rain before long.”

  “Can we have it tonight?” Vaos walks back from the barn to the house.

  “Tomorrow,” affirms Merga from the porch. “And for that, you can take these down to the root cellar.”

  “Oh…” Vaos looks at Dorrin. “Do I have to, master Dorrin?”

  “No,” Dorrin says. “Not until after your dinner.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Dorrin looks to the low clouds in the north. “I hope the rain holds off until more of the grains head.”

  “Vaos can help me with the hay, if you can do without him for a while.”

  “I’ll need him for a bit after he eats, probably until midafternoon.”

  “We can do it after that.”

  Dorrin touches her shoulder. “You need to eat, and, if you and Vaos are going to get the hay, I need to get back to the forge.”

  “All right.” Liedral touches his shoulder for an instant.

  Dorrin heads around the porch to the smithy, to rebuild the fire and to finish working on one of the engine gears.

  “What’s this?” Vaos walks in after his meal and points to the metal on the side of the hearth.

  “That will be a gear,” responds Dorrin absently.

  “Out of iron? How will you make the teeth regular?”

  “A lot of work with a template, sort of like a hot set. A cutter won’t work on black iron.”

  “That must be real special. Can I help?” Vaos bounces on the balls of his feet.

  Dorrin looks at his striker’s already splitting boots and shakes his head, then wipes the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. He will have to send Vaos to the bootmaker within the eight-day. If it is not expenditures for iron and copper, it is expenditures for food or clothes or something.

  “We’ve got to do another batch of spikes for the Council.”

  “Oh…” Vaos wilts. “Spikes? Will you use the rod stock?”

  “We’ll use the scrap. I know it’s more work, but they’re not paying for this. Get those rusted brackets at the end of the pile there.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Dorrin levers the bracket into the forge with the heavy tongs and waits until the metal heats enough to cut it. Then he brings it to the anvil and lifts the hammer, thankful at least that his muscles no longer ache all day, only in the late afternoon. With his slender frame, he will never have the massive biceps of a smith like Yarrl.

  …clung…

  Vaos says nothing as the hammer comes down on the iron, cutting the bracket into two workable sections.

  Dorrin nods at the piece on the floor. “Take the tongs there and set it aside for later.” As he talks he returns the half in the tongs to the fire.

  “A little more on the bellows. Then, while I work this into shape, you need to break up the charcoal and bring in a couple of barrows full. We’ve got a lot of spikes to do, and I want to work on the condenser case.”

  “Condenser case?”

  “Part of the steam engine.”

  Vaos puts the cut section of the bracket against the forge where Dorrin can reach it when the time comes, then racks the tongs. “I was going to help Liedral with the hay.”

  “You still like the horses?”

  Vaos looks at the hard-packed floor.

  “Never mind. After you bring in the charcoal, you can go with Liedral to get the hay. You did carry the potatoes down to the root cellar.”

  “Yes, ser. Merga made sure I put them in the right places.” Vaos pauses. “You’re buying a lot more food this year, master Dorrin.”

  “This winter may be even worse than last.”

  “Do you think the White Wizards will come here?”

  “Eventually…maybe sooner.” Dorrin pulls the iron from the forge. “Get the middle sledge. There…”

  Clung…

  The sounds of iron work preclude further conversation.

  CXXIII

  “Move, damn it!” screams Kadara at a gray-haired woman with twice her weight upon her shoulders, as she stumbles into two other women, equally laden. The woman looks up dumbly as the redhead reaches down from her saddle and yanks the woman upright. “Move, if you want to live!”

  On the other side of the gate, another guard in blue stretches from his saddle and slams a figure in the crowd with the flat of his sword. The thief drops the chest and runs, while a heavy, bald, and bearded old man staggers onward toward the open northern gate, and the downriver road to Kleth. The wiry trooper glances at the red-headed squad leader until he catches her eye. Then he gestures toward the road.

  Kadara studies the thinning crowd and the long line of figures trudging northward toward the clouds rolling up the river valley from the distant Northern Ocean. Then she yells, “Green squad! Green squad!”

  The six troopers ease their mounts through the jostling crowd.

  “Please…take me…” A pale and thin young woman reaches and grabs for Vorban’s saddle. “Don’t leave me here! Please! I’ll do anything.” The trooper reaches back and touches her shoulder, then reaches farther, but the girl does not protest, instead tries to swing up behind the trooper.

  “Vorban!” snaps Kadara. “Either carry her or leave her.”

  The trooper lifts the woman behind him.

  “…scheming bitch! Harlot…!” Mutters run through the crowd, even as the fleeing Elpartans spread on the far side of the causeway, some plodding through the mud and grass to avoid bumping into others.

  Most carry more than they will be able to manage on the long walk to Kleth, and some items—a stool here; a box there, ripped open by some later refugee—already line the stone-paved road. Those lucky enough to have had mounts or wagons are visible on the ridge line ahead.

  Kadara and her squad form a tight-knit wedge as they trot toward the first bridge below the city, where they will re-form with the other squads.

  “’Ware horses! ’Ware horses!”

  “Why couldn’t you save us?” screams a white-haired woman.

  “Greedy guards! Saving their own skins…”

  Kadara glances over at Vorban, and her blade flashes, then turns and smacks the shoulder of the fair-skinned woman. A knife drops to the stone below, but the clink is lost in the hubbub.

  Vorban looks up.

  “Take your purse back,” Kadara snaps.

  The young woman smiles, and says, “I’ll throw it.”

  “You do, and you’re dead!” snaps Kadara to the woman.

  The woman hands the purse to Vorban.

  “Get down!” commands Kadara.

  The woman sneers. Kadara’s blade flashes, turning and leaving a red welt across the thief’s temple—even as a dull clunk sounds and the young woman’s fingers loosen on Vorban’s jacket.

  “Dump her!”

  Vorban sets the dazed figure on the road. She staggers to the side and sits in the muddy grass. The trooper slips his purse into his tunic.

  Brede and the other two squads wait at the bridge. The blond officer turns toward the west, where the sun touches the rim of the low hills that lead up to the more distant Westhorns. “Let’s get across!”

  Three troopers swing out into the road, and halt the pedestrians.

  “Armed bastards…”

  “…own the roads…”r />
  The rest of the squads cross the swirling and steaming waters, trying not to breathe deeply of the odors of boiled fish and sewage.

  Brede calls a halt several hundred rods beyond the bridge, on a flat rise where the low walls of Elparta can barely be seen.

  “Why we stopping?”

  “Hold!” snaps Brede. “Watch Elparta. Just watch!”

  Even as he speaks, the ground shivers, then shudders. Firebolts play across the distant walls.

  Another shudder rolls across the plains, and a handful of horses whinny and whicker.

  Several older refugees stagger and sprawl on the road or the grass, then try to regain their footing before another quake shakes them back onto the ground.

  A trooper’s mount skitters, staggering as if one leg had given way.

  With yet another shudder, the ground heaves. To the south, the walls of Elparta shiver, and the stones begin to tumble. Fires play across the city, and the pall of smoke begins to increase.

  With each successive temblor, more stones fall from the walls, some into the river, others into the city. But in the end, the walls are rubble, and a column of greasy smoke pours into the sky.

  “Anything left?” rasps Vorban.

  “The center parts, away from the walls and the river, don’t look too bad,” hazards Kadara.

  “Just enough for their winter quarters,” Brede says dourly. He looks northward, toward Kleth. “Let’s go.”

  They ride past stumbling men and women, past crying children, past discarded packs of clothes, past old men and women panting in the muddy grass, past a troupe of brightly painted women who shriek obscenities, and past a dead, white-muzzled mule…

  None of the troopers speaks as they ride north, girding themselves against the occasional ground shock that persists.

  CXXIV

  Time—there is never enough. Dorrin rubs his shoulder, and sets down the mug on the kitchen wash table. The sky is gray, but no rain falls.

  He wishes Hasten had not come with the Guild demand for caltrops—not that it was at all unexpected. He still worries about Kadara and Brede, but with the chaos to the south no one has heard who survived the fall of Elparta.