Under the gray skies, light rain continues to fall.
Inside the smithy, the warmth of the forge is comforting, as is the sound of hammers. Yarrl has not only built the new condenser, but improved the design considerably, and his touch with the grindstone, with the physical efforts of Rek and Vaos, has resulted in a much truer finish on the clutch parts that are not black iron.
“I’ve been thinking, Dorrin…” Yarrl sets the hammer on the anvil.
The younger smith grins. “What else could I have done easier?”
“Not easier…and we can’t do it now, but if you build another ship, Froos showed me an idea for holding a shaft in place. You take two rings, one smaller than the other, and flange the edges, sort of, and put metal balls between the two, and lubricate the balls with grease. Now if you made it out of black iron, and collared the inner ring to the shaft…”
Dorrin nods. “How would we get the balls to be round? They’d have to be really round.”
“Make them big.”
Dorrin thinks. “Why use balls? How about something shaped like a barrel or a pail? We could make them out of rod stock, and fuller the ends smaller, and turn them like a grindstone or a lathe.”
“That might work better.” Yarrl wipes his forehead. “I roughed out those sections of the clutch the way you drew it with the charcoal, except I made the angle on the teeth different, because it seemed like they’d bind.” He steps toward the forge and gestures with the hammer.
Dorrin tries not to smile, or to kick himself. Had he enlisted Yarrl’s help earlier, he could have avoided darkness knows how many problems.
The clutch pieces gleam on the firebricks.
“You polished them?”
“A little.” Yarrl yawns, and Dorrin notes the circles under his eyes.
“You’re tired.”
“Time enough to rest later. The boys and I need to pack the tools and these parts into the wagon. Morning’s coming all too soon.”
Morning, and the Whites.
Dorrin reflects upon the pillar of black smoke, upon the question of fireballs. How is a fireball that different from fireworks? Could he build something that throws a firework of sorts in a thin black iron tube?
He picks up the hammer, and absently uses the smaller tongs to pull out a small irregular piece of plate. A tube with a handle, and a cylinder with a small open end. If he made the small end long and narrow, then expanded the front end? He shrugs.
“Look out, Vaos,” cautions Yarrl. “He’s got that look.”
Dorrin slips the iron into the forge. The night may be long, but he will have time to rest later, if there is a later.
CLIV
In the grayness before dawn, Dorrin turns in his saddle and looks at the cottage, and the barn, the barricade of brush—and at the charred timbers that remain of Rylla’s cottage. Even the herb garden is flat, with all the herbs cut, bagged, and stacked on Liedral’s cart. He studies the southeast, seeing the lines of smoke where the Whites camp at the edge of the valley.
Liedral’s cart leads the way, with Reisa and Dorrin riding before her. Vaos sits beside Liedral, his fingers on a blade that Dorrin hopes the youth will not have to use. Kadara is propped up in part of the cart, sharing it with the remainder of Dorrin’s and Liedral’s trading goods and herbs.
The wagon follows, with Petra holding the reins, and Merga beside her. They also wear blades. Yarrl and Pergun ride just behind the wagon, which, in addition to the last of the smithy tools, three small barrels, and a grinder, carries Rylla, Frisa, and Rek. The healer talks gently to the girl and Yarrl’s apprentice.
Dorrin’s fingers brush the staff, and perversely, the blackness drops across his eyes once more. He takes a deep breath, and sits straight in the saddle, letting his fingers caress the staff for a moment. Then he thinks about herbs, and the bitter strength of the brinn.
“Reisa,” Dorrin says quietly.
“Yes.”
“I’m having a little trouble seeing, right now.”
“Well, you don’t need to for a while, do you? The road’s clear ahead.”
Dorrin rides silently, letting Meriwhen keep pace with Reisa’s mount.
“Will anyone be out this early?” Vaos’s voice carries to Dorrin.
“We hope not,” answers Liedral, “but in these times, nothing is certain.”
“What will happen to Diev?”
“I don’t know. There’s not much left of Kleth. It was razed and burned. But the Council fled Spidlaria and left the city open, according to travelers. The Whites killed just the people who tried to fight or who were tied to the blue guards or to the traders. So far they’ve left most people there alone.”
“So why are so many people running away?” asks Vaos.
“It’s not certain what the Whites will do. They can do great cruelty, but they also can be merciful and sometimes even do good. They keep the peace in their cities, and there is little violence. They have already started rebuilding Elparta. They are terribly cruel to their enemies and those who oppose them.”
“That’s why we have to leave?”
“Yes. Dorrin and Kadara and Reisa and Yarrl and I have all opposed the Whites—Dorrin perhaps most of all.”
“They’d kill us because we worked for him?”
“Yes.”
Vaos tightens his fingers on the hilt of his blade.
Dorrin rides silently, trying to concentrate on the orderly things in his life—the herbs, the healing, the smithing, and Liedral. As they pass the turnoff to Honsard’s cartery, the blackness lifts. Dorrin breathes more easily. Petra glances toward the deserted buildings, and Dorrin follows her glance. So does Reisa.
“Sometimes the wicked prosper,” she says.
“Too often, it seems.” He adds, “It’s better this early.”
“So far.” Reisa’s words are measured. “You all right now?”
“For now.”
They ride up a gentle rise that is the last hill before the River Weyel and the bridge to Diev. Dorrin’s stomach tightens.
A small group of men, and several women, armed with cudgels and pitchforks has gathered by the bridge. In the field to the east of the road wait the children and several older women.
“Trouble,” observes Reisa unnecessarily.
“I’d rather not fight.” Dorrin rubs his forehead, then his shoulders.
The rudely armed men and women turn toward Dorrin and those who follow him. They lift cudgels and pitchforks.
“They got food! Horses!”
“Damned traders! Make ’em pay.”
“…too proud to accept the Whites…”
Reisa wraps the reins around her right forearm and puts her left hand on the hilt of her blade. “Do you have any ideas how to avoid a fight?”
“Let me try something.” Dorrin urges Meriwhen in front of Reisa and rides down the gentle slope toward the peasants.
“…get the bastard…”
“…uppity coin-counter…”
When he is perhaps two rods from the group, seeing no bows and hoping there are none, he reins up.
“We would appreciate passage.” Scarcely eloquent, Dorrin knows, but no words will suffice in any case.
“Oh…he would appreciate passage, would he?”
“Not without some hefty tariffs…and some trade from the ladies…”
Dorrin waits for a moment, then lifts the staff, letting its blackness spill forth. Then he wraps the light around himself and Meriwhen.
“…he’s gone…”
“…frigging wizard…”
Dorrin guides Meriwhen forward, focuses on the iron of a pitchfork, then thrusts with the staff.
“…ooofff…”
Leaning forward, he begins an effort to clear a path through the mob.
“…get him!”
“…how? Can’t…”
A thunder of hoofbeats follows him, and he can sense two others on horses sweeping toward him.
“…run!”
�
��Stand fast…”
“You stand fast!”
“…not worth it…”
Dorrin drops his shield as he reaches the bridge, reappearing in the sight of the others as Reisa and Yarrl join him. But the peasants have scattered. One man cradles an arm, eyes blazing. He spits toward the road. Several others glare as the cart and wagon cross into Diev, but none move back toward the road. Dorrin’s head throbs, but he can see, for the moment.
“For someone who’s not a wizard, you do a fair imitation,” states Reisa.
“I am a wizard of sorts,” admits Dorrin, “just a poor one, just like I’m a poor healer and a poor smith.”
“Not a poor smith, just a young one.” Yarrl edges his mount off the road. The smith is so at home in the saddle, and the blade seems so much a part of him, that Dorrin wonders how he failed to see how dangerous an adversary Yarrl could be.
As soon as the wagon crosses the bridge, Dorrin and Reisa follow, then ride on the shoulder of the pavement to return to the front of the entourage.
“Was the smith once a blade?” asks Vaos as Dorrin passes.
“He hasn’t said,” Dorrin responds. “I’d guess so, but that’s his business, not mine.”
The streets of Diev are empty, and the shutters are tightly fastened on all the structures. Even the Red Lion is locked and shuttered, and the Tankard’s front doors are boarded tight.
The wheels of the cart and the wagon echo through the scarcely post-dawn shadows of the streets of lower Diev as they make their way to and past the piers. A barricade of planks and barrels bars the way to Tyrel’s.
“Holloa!” calls Dorrin. “Tyrel?”
A shutter opens from the single window facing the street. “Oh…it’s past time—hoped you’d be here yesterday. Afraid you got into trouble with the mobs.” The shutter slams shut.
The tattered tents are gone from the hillside beyond the shipwright’s.
“Open that section. Make it quick. Bully-boys could be back any time. Move it, Styl!” Tyrel’s voice sounds hoarse, but a section of planks is lifted away. Liedral guides the cart through. Petra follows with the wagon.
The planks are dragged back into place after Pergun awkwardly rides through. The cart and wagon roll toward the pier, where the Black Diamond is once more tied.
“Master Dorrin.” Tyrel bows as Dorrin dismounts. “We got enough coal to fill those bins. Don’t ask me how.”
“I won’t. How long will it take to load up all of this and the rest of the gear in the shed?”
“Maybe till midafternoon.”
“We need to make those repairs on the engine.” Behind Tyrel, Dorrin sees Rylla leading her charges toward the ship. Dorrin represses a grin as he sees that she has also ensured that they carry their bags.
“I’d be doing it quick, were I you.”
“We’ll try.”
Dorrin finds Yarrl, who is tying his horse to a rail beside unused boat blocks inside the nearly empty structure. “Can you help me get those clutch pieces and the condenser on board and in place? We’re running out of time. The others can handle the loading, I think.”
“Good idea.”
Dorrin finds Tyrel again, and commandeers his apprentices. “We need all of these pieces from the wagon on the deck above the engine.”
“Sure as you’re not going to tear it apart?”
Dorrin sighs. “We’ll see about the condenser. But the bypass tubing and valve and the clutch replacements have to be done. We won’t clear the harbor otherwise.” He nods at Yarrl. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“I’ll take care of it,” the older smith says.
Dorrin studies the half-finished stalls amidships, then looks at Pergun, who is carrying a barrel of grain from the shed. “Can you get those finished by midafternoon? We don’t have much time?”
Pergun scratches his head. “I can get ’em usable—not finished good.”
“Do what you can, and load the horses. Probably blindfold them. Leave one stall for Meriwhen. The Whites are at the edge of the upper valley on the road from Kleth.” Dorrin rubs his forehead. “Tyrel’s people are going to load most everything except for a few smithing tools.”
“More of your wizardry?”
“I have a score or two to settle, and I think I know how.”
“I don’t like it when you look like that, master Dorrin.” Pergun shivers.
Dorrin frowns. How does he look when he thinks about applying his efforts to the White Wizard—is his name Jeslek?—who tortured Liedral.
He walks back across the plank and down to the shipwright’s shed, to the corner where the tub and the barrels are. There, he begins to measure. He would prefer to add water and make a cake he could grind, but he doubts that he has the time to dry the mixture. All he can do is ensure that the powders are well mixed before he pours them into his crude rocket shells and fuses them. He fills all three shells, ignoring the figure who stands in the shadows while he finishes.
“Going to be a hero, like Reisa?” asks Yarrl once Dorrin has finished.
“No. I am going out to do a job, hopefully as quietly and silently as possible.”
“That’s better. Not much, but better. Need help?”
“I need it, but I think it will work better if I do it alone. I couldn’t shield anyone else.” He slips the small rockets into one set of saddlebags and the compact launcher into the other. “How did you do on the clutch?”
“Think it’s right. Replacing the tubing and the condenser was easy.”
Dorrin shakes his head. Things would have been so much easier had he asked Yarrl for help.
“You’ll learn,” says Yarrl. “Take a look.”
Dorrin walks back across the shipwright’s yard and across the plank, skirting around Liedral and Petra, who are wrestling bags of herbs and other goods onto the ship. When he gets to the engine, he finds the work accomplished perhaps better than he could have.
“I should have let you do it from the beginning.” Dorrin’s tone is rueful.
“I wouldn’t have thought it up,” Yarrl admits. “Once you see it, it ought to work, but…” He shrugs.
Dorrin looks at the late midmorning sun. “Darkness! I need to be going.”
“Good luck.”
The smith and sometime engineer and infrequent healer waits until the plank is clear before walking back into the shed to find Meriwhen.
Is what he plans wise? Hardly. Does he have a chance of success? A slim one. Does he have any choice? Not after what Brede and Kadara and Liedral have given.
He walks Meriwhen outside, tying the mare to a thin pole by the bollard closest to the barricade. Then he waits until Liedral nears the wagon and steps forward.
Liedral’s eyes take in the saddled mare, the staff, and her shoulders slump. “What can you do now? Haven’t you given enough? Do you want to be blind the rest of your life, like Creslin?”
He puts his arms around her. “I won’t be blind if this works, not for long, anyway.”
“No, you’ll be dead.” Liedral steps back, not bothering to wipe the tears from her cheeks.
“I owe too many people.” He gestures toward the Black Diamond. “Too many lives paid for her.”
“Who else—?”
His fingers touch her lips. “Yarrl can duplicate what I’ve done, if need be. I have to pay my debts.”
“Men. You’ll pay your debts and leave me alone.”
Now Dorrin’s shoulders are the ones that slump. “I have to do this.”
“I know.” Her lips brush his cheek. “I don’t have to like it.”
They embrace again, but separate. Almost on cue, Tyrel and Yarrl appear.
“If I don’t make it back before the Whites do, I won’t. Take the ship to Recluce, and try to get them to accept it. If they won’t, I’d suggest Hamor.”
“That be a demonish long trip without you, ser,” observes Tyrel.
“I’ll try to make it.”
“Don’t try. Just take care of your job. We’ll
wait.” Yarrl’s voice is gruff.
The three swing back the planks as Dorrin rides southward through the echoing empty streets once more. He hears nothing in either upper or lower Diev, although lines of smoke have appeared from a few chimneys, signifying that at least some hardy souls have arisen and are cooking—or something.
When he nears the bridge, he again struggles with the bending of the light around both Meriwhen and himself, but the patterns weave together, and, in time, he rides invisible in the early summer air that wafts past him, bearing faint hints of burning from the south.
He cannot see, not in any conventional sense, but he can sense the world around him, from the muted blackness of the objects in his saddlebags to the solidity of his staff. Ahead he can sense the white fog that seeps over the hills to the southeast.
The peasants or displaced farmers or herders who disputed their passage have gone on from the bridge, and Dorrin rides across as quietly as possible, even though he knows Meriwhen’s hoofs click on the stones. No one appears, and he continues onward, up past Honsard’s, past his own dwelling, until he can sense the rolling mist of white. He pauses in a shallow depression between two hills.
Three men, one stumbling, with blood splashed across his face, the other two running downhill toward the hill Dorrin has just descended, pass him as he nears the unseen heat of fire and chaos. But nothing pursues them.
For the moment, as he hoped and sensed, the White horde has paused for a mid-day break. Not much more than a short and a long hill separate him from the soldiers and the white-bannered tent on the crest.
In the depression between hills before him, there are several buildings, crushed meadows, and no people. There he dismounts and ties Meriwhen to a shrub behind an empty shed on the deserted herder’s holding. The herders who lived in the hut have since left, for one reason or another, although the smell of sheep lingers.
Dorrin takes a deep breath, wondering again what he has to prove, why he could not simply board the Diamond and leave.
His mouth frames a smile that neither his eyes nor thoughts reflect as he recalls Kadara’s words. “You aren’t a coward, Dorrin. You just never found anything worth fighting for. Not me, not Liedral, not Recluce…”
The Magic Engineer Page 55