The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “You were up early, Liedral said.” Kadara looks toward the barn.

  “I’m working on something for the rivers. The Whites can’t walk people ahead of boats, but the wires have to be heavier, and so do the stocks. That will make them harder to carry.” Dorrin sighs. “Maybe that won’t matter. I’ll work on some way to use gunpowder, but that will take some doing.”

  “Brede has confidence in you. He says you have all winter.” Her laugh carries a bitter undertone. “And don’t abandon your ship…we may need it.”

  “I’ve begun to think about that.” His eyes turn across the slush-covered yard toward Liedral, who is leading Kadara’s mount from the barn. “Still, it’s only one, and, come spring, the Whites may have dozens offshore.”

  “Perhaps you’d better get it refitted earlier.” The redhead coughs and covers her mouth.

  “If I don’t figure out how to help Brede, we won’t have that long.”

  “How long before you have those river slicers?”

  “I can have a few within the eight-day. Why?”

  “It might be nice to have them in case the White Wizards don’t wait until spring.” She coughs again.

  “They’ll have to do something before there’s ice on the river.”

  Kadara takes the horse’s reins from Liedral.

  “You shouldn’t be riding.”

  “I’ve ridden with worse. So have most of my squad.”

  “He’s been fed and curried.” Liedral strokes the neck of the bay. “There are supplies in the saddlebags: dried apples and cheese, and some crushed astra for that cough. And a loaf of good bread. Give some to Brede.”

  “If there’s any left.” Kadara smiles.

  “Even you can’t eat all of what we packed,” responds Liedral.

  Kadara swings easily into the saddle.

  “I’ll bring what I have in an eight-day or so,” Dorrin says.

  “Send a messenger. It’s a long trip if we’re not there.”

  Dorrin looks at Kadara.

  “Sorry. There aren’t any spare horses, are there?”

  He shakes his head. “The Council left us alone, but they took one of Yarrl’s, and all but the plow horses from Jisle. If you’re not there, or Brede isn’t…then what would you suggest?”

  “Ask for Brede. If he’s not there, he’ll leave instructions. That’s probably the best we can do.”

  “Tell Brede we’re thinking about him,” Liedral offers.

  “I will.” Kadara touches the reins, and the bay eases across the yard, each step squashing through the slush and mud.

  Dorrin reaches out and takes Liedral’s hand as they watch Kadara ride down the ridge drive toward the main road. He squeezes her fingers lightly, and is rewarded with a tightening of her fingers around his. As he stands there, her lips brush his cheek, but only for an instant. He turns to her, catching the tears in her eyes.

  “It’s so hard, sometimes,” she says. “So unfair.”

  “Yes.” Dorrin has thought that, especially over the last year. Chaos seems to triumph over order, and those, like Liedral or Kadara or Brede, who try to hold back chaos seem to suffer more than those who accept it.

  “She looks so tired,” Liedral continues.

  “She is tired, and it will get worse.”

  “You look tired, too.”

  “That’s going to get worse also.” Dorrin forces a laugh.

  “But why? Why do bad things keep happening to good people?”

  “I don’t know. I only know that I have to do the best I can.” He takes a deep breath. “And it’s not half the price that Brede and Kadara are paying, and they don’t even want to stay here in Spidlar.”

  Liedral squeezes his fingers a last time before letting go. “I’m sorry. You need to be held. So do I.”

  “Shall we try?” Again, Dorrin tries to make his voice light.

  For a long moment, they embrace, standing in the slush and mud.

  CXXX

  “You’ve spent nearly a full year, Jeslek, dear,” says Anya coolly, “and you have exactly one small city. Not the most promising of campaigns.”

  Jeslek matches her smile, looking out the tower window. “It’s nice to be back in Fairhaven.”

  “So you can check up on everyone, I suppose.”

  “Do you really think I care about all the little plots? I’m more interested in you.” He glances toward the table set for two.

  “What about your renegade smith? Or your Recluce-trained warriors? Don’t you need to worry about them more than about the Council?”

  Jeslek gestures, and the mists of the screeing glass part to reveal the red-headed smith, working with a large wheel in his smithy, aided by a youth.

  “What’s he doing?” asks Anya.

  “Drawing wire, it looks like. Much good it will do him.”

  “Maybe he has some other use for it.”

  “Perhaps. But it doesn’t matter. We’ve still only lost a few hundred levies, and perhaps four or five score cavalry—and none of the White company. I’d rather take some time, and fewer casualties.”

  “You are so rational it makes me sick.”

  “Does it now?” He steps toward her, reaching for the clasps to her gown. “Does it now?”

  CXXXI

  After glancing at the clouds overhead, Dorrin rolls the last barrel down the path toward the Harthagay. The dull rumble of thunder echoes off the flat gray of the northern sea. A jagged flash illuminates whitecaps beyond Cape Devalin, barely visible in the moments after dawn. The fine cold mist of the winter sea rain bites at his face, mixing with the sweat from his forehead.

  He pauses at the edge of the narrow beach, looking down at the old schooner. His eyes flicker to the three hummocks beyond the sand where the Guild buried the bodies that had washed onto the sand—what little had been left by various scavengers.

  With a deep breath, he resumes easing the barrel down to the ship. Each movement is gentle, and his senses almost caress the barrel, looking for the signs of chaos that will send him scrambling for cover.

  The sands are hard and flat shoreward of the ship, but he eases the barrel halfway across the sands, then stops. Leaving the barrel upright, he walks to the ship.

  The Harthagay, according to Liedral, had scarcely been the most seaworthy of vessels even before her grounding, but most of her problems had rested with her captain, the young and presumably dead Jarlsin.

  Dorrin runs a hand along the clinker-planked side, letting his senses check the wood again. The hull remains sound, and even the mainmast is intact. The winds have left only shreds of the canvas, and Dorrin had been forced to cut away the pieces of the dangling lower crossbeam. The winter current has shifted the sand so that the Harthagay’s stern half floats in three cubits of water. The low waves lap two-thirds of the way to the stem, which remains hard on the dune that now lies less than ten cubits from the high water mark.

  More than an eight-day of work has cleared the beach and built what amounts to a channel behind the stern. Now he must loosen the stem—hoping his calculations are correct.

  Dorrin walks to the barrel and takes his pry-bar, levering off the top and extracting the first wax-dipped basket. He walks toward the low dune where the shovel waits.

  He digs two cubits into the sand before he places the basket and lights the fuse with the striker. Then he runs, throwing himself behind the hull.

  Crumpppp!! Sand flies with the noise.

  Dorrin returns and surveys the hole in the sand, deciding that he could have dug somewhat deeper. He checks the hull. Outside of a thin coating of sand driven into the varnish, no damage appears.

  He digs again until he is ready to go for another basket, which he places within the hole, and lights, repeating his dash around the stem.

  Another explosive charge, and the hole under the stem fills with water.

  Dorrin begins on the northern side. After the first charge, his too-shallow sand pit is filled with water, and he is forced to use the baskets
with the long wax-coated fuses.

  Four more explosions and the Harthagay settles onto an even keel, rocking in a long pool of cold water.

  Next comes more work—work and faith. He straps the bladder around his waist and steps into the boat that dips ominously under his weight, and the weight of the small toothed anchor. Slowly he rows seaward, watching the line uncoil, until there remain but a dozen cubits. After inching his way toward the stern, he levers the anchor overboard. The boat lifts in the water, rocking him backward and jamming a davit into his back.

  “Darkness…”

  He rows slowly back to the Harthagay. Even under his leather gloves he can feel blisters forming. Rowing is not the same as smithing, not exactly.

  After tying the boat to the ship, he walks to the stern and the waiting winch. Slowly he turns the handle. The schooner rocks, grinds on the sand, and edges seaward perhaps a cubit. Dorrin cranks again, but the ship remains motionless. Soon he is cranking easily, but only to retrieve the anchor and to start over.

  Before long, he is back in the boat rowing seaward again, to the north, where perhaps the bottom will offer more to hold the anchor.

  At least the sea is almost flat in the late morning as he rows back and climbs back aboard. He pauses and takes a deep drink from his water bottle, sitting on the poop deck, his feet on the ladder to the main deck.

  Once more, he takes the winch and turns—slowly. The cable tightens. He cranks again. The cable creaks. He edges another quarter turn, and the Harthagay shivers. Another turn, and another, and the schooner shivers backward toward the sea.

  When the stem is even with the former shoreline, Dorrin takes another quick sip from the water bottle before increasing his efforts.

  By midday, the schooner floats free, anchored, but with less than three cubits of water under her keel.

  Dorrin takes the first rocket and puts it in the circular trough, then clicks the striker.

  Quickly, but deliberately, he ducks behind the mast of the Harthagay.

  The green flare explodes—as designed—a good hundred cubits above the sea toward lower Diev.

  Dorrin waits, then takes another signal rocket, and repeats the process.

  He finishes the water bottle, and eats a wedge of cheese and a half a loaf of old bread.

  Three gulls wheel about the bare mainmast of the ship, then dive toward the chop of the sea. Dorrin scans the horizon for Liedral and the Mocked Hare, but no canvas appears from the south. He turns toward the north, finally, and there, bearing in on the Harthagay, is the Suthyan coaster, easily twice the size of the sloop.

  Dorrin waves the green flag and watches until the coaster dips her flag.

  Then he triggers the striker and touches the fuse. The rocket carries the line, but veers in front of the coaster, plowing into the water.

  The Mocked Hare trims into the wind, and a seaman with a hooked pole leans down, jabbing at the line in the water. After three attempts, the man snags the line.

  Gently, Dorrin pays out the heavier line, and then the cable.

  Once the cable is taut, he uses the axe and cuts the anchor line.

  The Harthagay swings about, and the cable squeaks as it takes the schooner’s full weight. Dorrin wonders if the cable will hold.

  The schooner rolls and turns slowly in an arc after the Mocked Hare. According to Kusman, skipper of the Hare, all he must do is keep the rudder straight until they near the breakwater for lower Diev. Dorrin hopes so.

  When the Mocked Hare sheds sail outside the breakwater, the captain dips his ensign again. Shortly, a boat and four sailors bounce across the chop, guided by the cable. The four tie the boat to the Harthagay, and climb aboard.

  “You’re a clever man, master Dorrin. Not a soul thought you’d bring her off.” Kusman checks the ropes from the wheel to the rudder, and motions another man to take the helm from Dorrin.

  Dorrin flushes. “I almost didn’t, and may not yet. She’s taking a little water.” He releases the wheel.

  “Light! If it’s only a little, you’re doing a demon-damned sight better than Jarlsin did. Say his crew pumped half the day.” Kusman studies the harbor. “Have to winch her in, but that’s no problem.” Then he grins. “That’s where your problems begin. Owning a ship is nothing but headaches.”

  CXXXII

  Meriwhen’s hoofs crunch through the ice-crusted snow that covers the stone pavement. Dorrin glances at the thin plume of smoke rising from the Red Lion. All the windows, save the one closest the front door, are shuttered. The Red Lion is open, unlike the Tankard, which once hosted the troopers, until the previous summer, when all squads were rushed southward to protect the river road against the Certan incursions.

  The cold damp wind from the Northern Ocean rattles the shuttered windows of the Red Lion, and Dorrin fumbles the top button of his jacket closed.

  Wheeennn…Even the heavy-coated mare protests.

  “Easy, girl.” Dorrin pats her neck as they turn down toward the shipwright’s. He touches the black staff he feels he must now carry everywhere, then looks down the near-deserted street.

  A man in a heavy herder’s jacket is pounding the knocker of a doorway, and two young men, their breath like steam, are wrestling a barrel out of the cooper’s shop. Nothing else moves except the overhead clouds. Like the previous winter, only a handful of chimneys show smoke against the gray sky.

  Dorrin looks north toward the ocean, where the clouds are lower and blowing southward, promising more snow, more cold. Meriwhen tosses her head.

  All the piers in the harbor are empty, the warehouses shuttered tight.

  At the shipwright’s, where the Harthagay rests on blocks beside the foot of the western breakwater, Dorrin ties Meriwhen inside the open shed. There a fishing boat or some craft under construction normally rests, but the blocks are empty. Then he takes the leather case and walks toward the building beside the schooner.

  The shipwright opens the door. “Only could be you in this weather.”

  Dorrin unfastens his jacket and spreads the drawings he takes from the leather case across the drafting table, weighting them on the corners with worn brick fragments.

  He points toward the top drawing, his eyes flicking to Tyrel. “I’d like a platform, braced like this, right here. Ladders…”

  The shipwright swings the lantern bracket over the drafting table, ignoring the faint black smoke and the acrid odor of the not-quite-pure lamp oil, and studies the drawings. “That platform’s heavy. You need something that strong?”

  “It might have to support a hundred stone of iron.”

  “You need something that strong, maybe even a cross-brace set here.” The shipwright looks up. “That’ll play demon-light with your aft cargo hold, and how will you get there?” Tyrel walks over to the fireplace and eases a small log onto the coals. “Another ass-freezing winter. Like the frigging wizards ordered it.”

  Dorrin looks at the drawing. “What do you suggest?”

  Tyrel recenters the log with a poker. He returns to the drawing, worrying his lower lip with a pair of buck teeth. “I can move this aft another couple of cubits…”

  Dorrin frowns. That will make the angle from the engine to the shaft even steeper, when he has been trying to minimize the angle, but he will save some weight by using a shorter shaft. “All right, but that means these braces for the shaft have to be changed.”

  “We can do that.” Tyrel gestures toward the door. “What else we going to do? Once you get her in the water again, you’ll need guards.”

  “I know.”

  “What about sealing this shaft of yours? It’s well under water…”

  Dorrin looks over the drawings again, while the lamp sputters for a moment and releases a thin line of black smoke before settling back into an even yellow light.

  Outside the long shedlike building, the wind whistles, and light snow drifts under the eaves and falls toward the timbered floor like white dust.

  CXXXIII

  After sprinkling
dried willow bark and astra into the mortar, Dorrin takes the pestle and begins to grind the mixture into a finer powder.

  Rylla, adding a touch of syrup to crushed brinn, clears her throat. “You really don’t have to be here, you know.”

  “I suppose not.” He looks to the small south window, one of the few unshuttered. Outside, granular snow skids across the crusty white surface. Even though the window is small, Dorrin squints against the glare.

  “Merga says you’re still trying to build an engine for your ship.”

  “The engine’s mostly built, but I need to finish the boiler and get the pieces down to the shipyard.” He continues to grind, although the best he will do with the willow bark is to create very small, striplike pieces.

  “Boilers, engines—they’re all magic.” Rylla spoons her mixture into a small cup, then adds steaming cider and stirs. “And your lady?”

  “Things are better…but…” He shrugs. “I wish there were a quicker way than just being loving and patient.”

  “Did you build that engine in a season, or learn how to?” Rylla’s voice is somewhere between sharp and amused.

  “Of course not. It doesn’t make things any easier.” He funnels the mixture into a bag, which he carefully ties and carries into the main room.

  A stocky woman bundled in faded woolens stands by the armless chair where a thin and pale youth slumps. Dorrin can feel the boy’s fever, and has already strengthened his system with some slight addition of order. He hands the bag to the mother. “Add two pinches of this to a cup of something hot at breakfast and supper. It will help keep the fever down.”

  “Thank you, healer. He’s better for a time when he sees you, but it doesn’t seem to last.”

  “I do what I can.”

  She presses a copper upon him. He does not refuse, for he will pass it to Rylla. Dorrin closes the door behind them and watches as Rylla brings the small cup to a white-haired woman.