The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Instinctively, he would know if Kadara had fallen…but where are they?

  He thinks again about forging caltrops and shakes his head. All he can do is ask Yarrl for a trade…or pay the older smith. He crosses the kitchen and slumps into the chair at the end of the table, knowing that he should either return to the smithy or ride over to see Yarrl about the caltrops. Instead, he tries to massage his shoulder with his left hand.

  “Are you stiff?” asks Liedral, lifting her eyes from the ledgers spread across the other end of the kitchen table.

  He shakes his head. “Not really.”

  “That means you are.” She rises from her chair and edges behind him with the faintest of limps. Her fingers knead into his shoulders.

  “Ah…”

  “Not stiff? Really?”

  “You lift hammers all the time, and sometimes you’ll get stiff.”

  “You’re upset about the Guild order?”

  “Of course. Caltrops are edged weapons, even if they’re designed to be used against horses. They want three score within a couple of eight-days. I really should go to see Yarrl…see if I can trade with him, or pay him.”

  “You could afford to pay him. You’re on your way to being a wealthy man.” Liedral continues to work out the knots in his shoulders.

  “You’re the one who’s making it possible.” He tries to relax under her fingers, enjoying the quiet before Merga and Frisa return.

  “How about us?”

  “All right. I’ll take that. I just wish…” He wishes that he could hold her for more than a few instants fully clothed—but even that is an improvement.

  “So do I, but talking to Rylla helps.”

  Dorrin should spend more time with the older woman, or in the smithy.

  “You need to go.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’ve got that expression. You need to get back to work.” As Liedral shakes her head, the dark hair fluffs away from her face for a moment. “And you still worry about your friends.”

  “What can I do? I’m not a soldier. Darkness, I feel like I can’t even get everything done around here.”

  “If it helps…I did arrange for regular shipments of the brinn to Suthya. Old Ruziosi likes the idea, and he hates the Bristans. That’s worth twenty golds a consignment. Will that help?”

  “All I have to do is grow it.”

  “You have three years’ worth in the cellars. Your first consignment is due at Vyrnil’s—he’s their agent here—in two eight-days.” Liedral sits back in front of the ledgers.

  “You do work wonders.”

  “Too bad we have to rely on their ships.”

  “I’m working on that,” Dorrin says. “It’s all because of something you said.” Dorrin takes a last bite of the bread, crusty and not all that fresh.

  Liedral holds the heavy mug as though it were a crystal goblet, then sets it upon the wooden table. Dorrin admires the grace of the gesture.

  “Something I said?”

  “We’ve talked about this before. About the importance of speed in trading, and going where and when other people couldn’t. And I wondered about ships. They have to go where the wind goes. Well, fans make the air move, and I asked why they couldn’t make the water move.”

  Liedral’s heavy eyebrows knit, but she does not speak.

  “Well…if you paddle a boat, you sort of move the water, and that moves the boat. It’s really not that simple, but it works. So I thought about a machine that would move paddles, but that seemed really too complicated, and you’d have to build a huge wheel to hold all those paddles.” Dorrin grins. “Anyway, that’s why I was building the toy boats.”

  “You’ve been working on those, according to Reisa, since the day you arrived in Diev—or almost.”

  “It takes time. The engine is mostly built.”

  “I still can’t see why it would be better than a well-built sloop or brig.”

  “Trust me…even if I can’t explain exactly why.” Dorrin stands. “I guess I will go talk to Yarrl.”

  Liedral smiles. “Don’t take too long. It looks like rain.”

  “I don’t mind a little rain.”

  As he saddles Meriwhen, he can sense the wind rising, but Yarrl’s is only a short ride, and Meriwhen needs the exercise.

  Vaos waves from the herb garden, where he is helping Merga and Rylla cut the last herbs for drying. Dorrin waves back, then turns the mare downhill.

  The light rain gusts around the smith, but, by the time Dorrin reins up in Yarrl’s yard, the falling water slices in almost like knives.

  Reisa steps onto the porch. “Put her in the barn.” Her voice barely carries above the howling of the wind and the splatting of the cold rain.

  Dorrin rides over to the barn, dismounts, and leads Meriwhen inside. The third stall is still vacant, and he ties the mare there. As he steps away from the stall, a white form butts him in the leg. He stops to scratch the nanny between the ears. “How are you, girl?”

  Zilda looks up almost placidly, then tries to nibble on his trousers. Dorrin shakes free, and the goat attempts to follow, until the chain brings her up short.

  “Still at it…” He closes the barn door and hurries through the rain and across the muddy yard to the smithy. He should have paid more attention to the weather, but the Council summons delivered by Hasten has bothered him.

  Reisa stands inside the smithy. “This came up so sudden. Wizards’ doing, you think?”

  “No. Just a nasty storm. It feels normal, anyway.” He casts a feeler at the low clouds, but the storm winds are clean and cold.

  “How’s Liedral?”

  “Fine. She was more tired than she realized, but she’s resting up.”

  “Yarrl’s working on his services. The Council extended it beyond Guild members.” As Reisa gestures toward the glow of the smithy, Dorrin looks at her left arm, and the bruises. He lifts his hand, as if to touch her arm, but she starts to back away, then laughs, harshly. “You are a healer.” She lets him touch the bruises, and infuse some order, although they are nothing more than bruises.

  “Left-handed?” he asks. “You and Petra?”

  “What else can we do? You heard about Elparta?”

  Dorrin nods. “But they’ll winter there.”

  “And come next spring?” Reisa asks.

  “They’ll use the river to take Kleth and Spidlaria.”

  The wind shakes the smithy roof.

  “You’re here to see Yarrl?”

  “Yes. I wanted to ask if I could trade some services.”

  “You don’t do blades or sharp things, do you?”

  Dorrin looks at the damp clay underfoot. “How did you know?”

  Reisa chuckles. “You’re a healer, and you use a staff. Go talk to Yarrl. I’ve got some bread in the oven.”

  Dorrin steps into the circle of light cast by the forge, watching. Rek controls the bellows lever as Yarrl works a length of iron perhaps a span long and half as thick. With even strokes, Yarrl points each end, then reheats the iron in the forge. Deftly, he retrieves the piece and splits each end on the hardie. After another return to the forge, each split end is bent at forty-five degrees. The result looks like a four-pointed iron star.

  After he sets the star on the forge bricks, alongside at least half a dozen others, Yarrl lowers the tongs and hammers, and nods to the youngster on the bellows rod. “That’s enough, Rek. Go get yourself a drink of water.”

  “Yes, ser.” Glancing from Dorrin to Yarrl, Rek heads for the open door.

  “He’s a good boy, Dorrin.”

  “I’m glad.” Dorrin nods toward the metal stars. “Those your services?”

  “Caltrops. For cavalry. Scatter them on a road, especially one that’s got a muddy surface, and you chew up a lot of horses’ hoofs.”

  “Cruel weapon,” Dorrin says. No matter how the caltrop is thrown, one pointed end will always face up, ready to impale anything that steps or falls upon it. “Do you think the Whites will
attack this winter?”

  “No one’s saying. Does your red-headed friend know?”

  “Kadara? I haven’t seen them. I hope they survived the fall of Elparta. We all knew this was coming a long time ago.”

  “After the Whites brought the mountains down on Axalt…”

  Dorrin recalls the guard captain friend of Liedral’s, so certain that Spidlar would fall first. “A Council request?” He points to the caltrops.

  “More like a Council order. All the smiths have to provide five score every two eight-days for the next season.”

  “I know,” Dorrin says dryly. “I have a small problem. I can’t make them.”

  “Course you can. Easier even than butt hinges…”

  “I’m a healer, remember?”

  “Oh…darkness…”

  “Exactly. I wanted to know if I could trade some other services for my quota or pay you. Vaos isn’t far enough along to do them quickly.”

  “He still likes the horses?”

  Dorrin grins.

  “Told you so. Rek likes the metal, bad leg or no. Well…” muses Yarrl. “I promised Fentor an iron moldboard plowshare. Scratch job—you supply the iron and do it, and I’ll do—how many are you supposed to do?”

  “I’m considered an artisan, because of the toys—so my share is three score over the next two eight-days.”

  “Do you have plate for the share?” asks the older smith.

  “Yes. I’ve some left from another job.”

  “All right. I’ll give you some rod stock. You have the plow done in ten days, and I’ll have the caltrops and the stock for you.”

  “I can use Liedral’s cart to bring it down.” Dorrin inclines his head. “Thank you.”

  “It’s not a problem, young fellow.” Yarrl looks toward the door. “Rek! Let’s be at it.”

  “Yes, ser.” The boy limps up to the bellows lever. “Good day, master Dorrin.”

  “Good day, Rek.”

  Yarrl swings the stock into the forge for another caltrop.

  Dorrin nods to the smith again, and steps from the smithy into the gusting wind and icy rain.

  “Dorrin!” Petra gestures for him to come into the kitchen.

  After knocking the mud from his boots and wiping them as dry as he can on the tattered mat, he steps into the warmth of the kitchen.

  “You need to take this,” Reisa explains as Petra hands him a battered basket covered with a waxed canvas. “There are a few things that your trader lady should enjoy.”

  “But…” Dorrin protests.

  “Just do it.”

  All stop talking as a gust shakes the house, and a long cracking sound rips through the moaning of the wind. The house shakes again with a dull thud. Dorrin rushes to the door to see that the center tree of the three that border the field has snapped halfway up and fallen into the field.

  Reisa looks through the rain-whipped afternoon at the jagged stump. “This is one of the worst I’ve seen. I hope no one was caught offshore in it.”

  “I’m glad I wasn’t,” Dorrin affirms, as he takes hold of the basket.

  “You aren’t going?” asks Petra.

  “I’ll be all right.” He touches her arm and then dashes for the barn. The ride back will be wet, but he does not want to leave Liedral and the others alone in such a storm—not that he can probably make any real difference, but that is the way he feels.

  CXXV

  “You like working for Hemmil?” Dorrin rummages through the scrap bin for the red oak for his toys. More and more the wood is getting harder for him than the iron—or the iron work is getting easier, more likely.

  “Hemmil’s fair enough,” answers the dark-haired journeyman with a shrug. “But the mill’s going to Volkir, and…well, Hemmil’s fair.”

  “Couldn’t you start your own mill? Last week I heard Hemmil say that he couldn’t deliver some timbers for at least three eight-days.”

  Pergun smiles tightly. “I could run a mill, Dorrin. Tell me how I can afford to buy one.”

  “What about building one?” Dorrin adds another short length of oak to the pile he has set aside.

  “What about starving until it’s finished? How can I afford the steel for the saw blades or the stonework for a millrace or land with enough water?”

  The simplest questions have complex answers. “I wonder…”

  “Finish up. Hemmil’s looking this way.” Pergun pauses. “You wonder what?”

  “Do you always want to be a mill worker?”

  “What else do I know?” Pergun pauses. “Merga’s a nice girl.”

  “She’s a woman with a daughter.” Dorrin laughs. “And you do visit a lot.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Hardly. So long as you’re good to her.”

  “Dare I be otherwise with you around?” Pergun looks toward the front of the building.

  “Am I…?” Dorrin lifts the wood into the carrying straps. “This is all. How much, do you think?”

  “I’d let you have it for a copper, but—”

  “Hemmil would charge at least three,” finishes Dorrin with a laugh. “How about two coppers?”

  “What are you going to do with this?”

  “Same as before. Make some toys.” Dorrin offers two coins.

  “Quiller doesn’t mind?” Pergun takes the coins.

  “I’m very careful not to make anything like what he does.”

  “Pergun! Finish up there. We need to change the blade.” The millmaster’s voice echoes between the rows of rough-sawn boards and timbers.

  Dorrin’s brows remain knitted in thought as he carries the wood out into the yard where Meriwhen is tied. The mare’s breath is a cloud of steam in the fall drizzle. Meriwhen skitters as he loads the wood into the saddle baskets.

  “Easy, lady. Easy.” He should have asked for Liedral’s cart, but he enjoys riding Meriwhen, and he never gets much wood for toys.

  Wheeee…

  He pats her neck and shoulder firmly. “Easy…” Then he mounts and rides through the continuing light rain toward the road.

  Rivulets of icy water leave the stone pavement more like a paved river than a road, and Meriwhen tries to edge toward the warmer mud and grass. Dorrin edges her toward the crown of the road.

  Along the highway lie trees toppled by the storm of days earlier, and Dorrin has heard that a schooner lies beached off Cape Devalin. A schooner?

  Whheeeee…

  “Easy, lady. Easy…”

  Whhheeeee…

  “Enough!” Dorrin snaps, still thinking about the beached ship.

  Guiding the mare onto the rutted road that leads to Rylla’s cottage, and to his own house and workshop, he wonders when if he and Liedral can ever regain what they once had—or how long it will take.

  Ahead, he can see the smoke from the chimney. The house will be warm, against a chill that promises, once again, a long and cold winter, and a summer that will be filled with blood.

  CXXVI

  Sitting just shoreward of the center pier, the Port Council building is two stories high, and less than forty cubits broad. The unpainted plank siding has faded into gray, despite the years of oiling.

  Dorrin wraps the heavy brown cloak about him, brushes the unseasonably early light snow out of his eyebrows, and opens the heavy oak door. After closing it, he knocks the sides of his boots with the black staff to remove the slush. The sole light comes from a dim single oil lamp in a tarnished brass bracket dangling from a support timber. The once-white plaster has dimmed to yellowed gray. Both doors on the lower floor are closed, the one on the left with the port master’s sign and the one on the right with the customs seal of the Spidlarian Council.

  Dorrin climbs the worn and hollowed steps to the upper floor, where he finds an open doorway.

  A clerk on a stool looks up. “Might I help you, healer? The portmaster’s office is below.”

  “Thank you, but I was looking for ser Gylert.”

  “Might I tell him the matter at hand?�
�

  “A matter of commerce. My name is Dorrin.”

  The clerk slides off the stool and inclines his head. “My pardon, ser. I will tell him.” The man’s dark and greasy hair, bound at his neck with an ornate copper clasp, swirls as he slips inside the rear office that overlooks the piers.

  The front office contains a small iron stove, two desks with stools for clerks, and two shoulder-high red oak chests with iron-bound doors and locks. The other desk is dusty.

  The clerk returns with another bow. “Ser Gylert would be most pleased to see you, ser.”

  “Thank you,” Dorrin responds gravely. He steps inside the second door, closing it behind him.

  “Good day, master Dorrin.” Gylert, lean, balding, and muscular, stands behind a narrow writing desk in the corner of the room, angled to allow the shipper to view the piers through the three sliding windows. Two are shuttered against the wind and cold fall rains, and now snow, but the center window has no exterior shutters. A hanging dual-chimneyed lamp illuminates the office, also leaving the faint scent of soot and oil.

  “Good day to you, ser Gylert.”

  Gylert motions to the wooden armchair beside the writing desk.

  “You told Kinsall you wished to discuss a matter of commerce?”

  “I did. I understand that since the crew of the ship that grounded off the cape perished, the shipper’s council is acting as the salvage agent.”

  “That is correct. Once the weather clears, we’ll be offloading what we can, and clearing the canvas and fixtures.”

  “Honsard will provide the wagons?”

  Gylert nodded. “You wish to bid on the goods?”

  “No.” Dorrin smiles. “I was wondering about the masts and hull.”

  “For iron scrap? There won’t be much of that.”

  “For a number of purposes.”

  “Hmmmm…”

  “According to…a few…most don’t think the ship’s worth the effort to refloat. That means she’s scrap lumber.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

  “Do you have the right to convey title?”