He sets aside the shovel and wipes his forehead, the silence from the smithy informing him that the smith has also stopped work-or moved to something quieter.
Dorrin blots his forehead once more with the back of his short-sleeved work shirt. Unlike the smith, he needs the tattered shirt, if only to keep the sweat under control.
The summer air is still, humid, so silent that he can hear the swish of the broom inside the smith’s house. Petra or Reisa? Probably Petra, since he doubts that the one-armed mother would use the broom-although he has no doubts that Reisa can handle almost anything, one-handed or not.
A fly buzzes toward him, and he waves at it. The insect veers away, but he knows it will return as soon as both hands are back on the adz. He blots his forehead yet again before returning to breaking up the larger chunks before him. The fly circles, waiting for him to resume work.
An almost shadowy projection of order keeps the vermin from his pallet. Can he do the same thing with the flying insects? He concentrates.
Hoofbeats drum through the damp and hard red clay of the yard, and two familiar horses enter the yard. Dorrin sighs and looks up. Both riders wear the dark blue of Spidlar.
Dorrin glances down. He still hasn’t shoveled enough charcoal. He sets aside the adz, leaning it against the wheelbarrow.
“Dorrin!” calls Brede.
The apprentice smith nods. Kadara returns the nod. The sound of the broom ceases.
Dorrin wipes his forehead again. “You’re off somewhere? Again? You just got back less than an eight-day ago.”
“How could you guess?” Kadara brushes a strand of the flame hair she has cut shorter and shorter off her forehead.
“The packs, the travel uniforms, and the fact that you came to see me.”
“I didn’t mean…” Kadara shakes her head.
Dorrin flushes. Once again, he has answered a rhetorical question. Will he ever learn? He brushes back the insistent fly.
“Anyway… we just wanted you to know.”
“Thank you.” Dorrin gestures toward the charcoal. “I do keep busy.”
“I still think you’d be better off as a healer.” Kadara eases her mount closer to the pile.
“Not if I want to build my machines.”
“Oh, Dorrin. Another year, and we can return to Recluce. If you’d ever give up such…”
Dorrin finds his chin stiffening.
“Kadara, could he ask you to be a hearth-holder?” Brede’s mellow voice is reasonable, even.
“We’re leaving in the morning,” Kadara states, as if she had never hinted at the stupidity of his desire to build machines.
“When will you be back?”
“They never tell us that.” Brede laughs. “I think it’s highwaymen downriver of Elparta. Who knows?”
Dorrin wipes his forehead.
“Anyway…” Brede says into the silence.
“All right. Good luck.”
“Thank you.” Kadara eases her mount back.
After the sound of hoofbeats fades, the sound of the broom resumes. Dorrin drives the adz into the largest chunk of charcoal, ignoring the light footsteps on the porch behind him. After two more swings with the adz, he sets it aside and lifts the shovel, scooping up perhaps a third of what he has broken and dropping the shovelful into the wheelbarrow.
“She’s not for you.” Dorrin jumps. Reisa stands almost at his shoulder.
“I know. She only sees Brede, that…” He shakes his head. Brede is intelligent, caring, and talented. What can Dorrin really say? “I suppose it’s natural. He’s quick, strong, and intelligent. I’m just a sometime apprentice, sometime healer.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re a damned fine healer. I should know. That wasn’t what I meant.”
Dorrin lowers the shovel.
“You told me you grew up with your red-haired friend. And she still doesn’t understand you. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“I suppose so.” Dorrin looks down the road, but Brede and Kadara are well out of sight.
Reisa snorts. “Men…”
Dorrin waits, but Reisa has turned and walks back toward the smithy. He takes a deep breath and lifts the adz. Another few swings and he will have enough to fill the wheelbarrow. Inside the house, the sweeping continues.
A flash of white appears on the porch. “Baaaa…” The small head cocks at Dorrin. He reaches over and scratches Zilda between the ears. The kid licks his hand. He strokes the soft curling hair once more before lifting the adz, then grins as he realizes his fingers have left a faint black shadow on the kid.
XLIII
DORRIN INCREASES THE tempo of the bellows, trying to contain and direct the heat as best he can while Yarrl wrestles with the heavy wagon spring.
The tongs move, and the hammer strikes. The smith returns the spring to the forge again, then, after watching metal glow cherry red, grunts as he swings it back to the anvil. Dorrin concentrates on striking the metal exactly where Yarrl indicates, following the smith’s signals.
“There!” Yarrl straightens. “Thought we’d have to do that again, but the heat held.” He eases the heavy piece to the annealing shelf of the forge and sets down the tongs to wipe his steaming forehead.
“You know…” Yarrl wipes his forehead again. “Been able to do things… since you came.” He looks at the coals, dying almost unnaturally, as if robbed of energy now that the bellows has ceased its heaving. “Not sure anyone else could do ‘em. All folks from the Black island like you?”
“No. I had to leave because I wanted to make things-machines like my models. They said it wasn’t order-based.”
The burly smith coughs and spits. “Demon-driven idiots. You put so much order in your metal that no damned White could touch it. Temmil says those shoes you did cured his old mare’s limp. Didn’t want to do shoes-hate it, but poor old bastard can’t afford Migra. Hope we got them right.”
Dorrin frowns. Could ordered iron help hold off chaos? It makes sense, even if he’s never thought about it.
The door rumbles as it eases open, and a gust of damp air follows Reisa into the smithy, bringing with it the scent of cut grass from the meadow uphill. Both men turn.
“There’s a trader fellow here. Claims to know young Dorrin.”
“Driving a cart?” Dorrin blushes. Every trader would drive a cart or a wagon. “Not too tall, broad-brimmed hat?”
“I guess you do know the fellow.”
“Liedral’s probably why I’m here. Told us about Jarnish.”
“Well… go see your friend… I can wind this up, and it’s not like you ever slack off.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, Dorrin. Sometimes…” The smith looks at Reisa.
“Just go see the trader.”
Dorrin still racks his gear before unstrapping his leather apron and hanging it up. He swallows, trying to get the odor of hot metal off his tongue and out of his throat, then walks toward the yard.
Liedral has tied the cart horse to the same iron ring Dorrin had used when he first came to Yarrl’s, and she stands by the cart, the broad-brimmed hat on the seat, the short and silky hair ruffled in the warm and humid breeze that promises an evening rain. “You look very smithlike.”
“I feel all too smithlike.” Dorrin pauses. “I didn’t think you ever came to Diev.”
“I don’t usually.” Liedral looks up, and Dorrin turns to see Reisa walking toward them.
“Liedral, I’d like you to meet Reisa.”
Reisa inclines her head with a smile. “Any friend of Dorrin’s is a friend of ours. If you don’t mind simple fare, you’re welcome for supper.”
“I couldn’t do that,” protests Liedral.
“Nonsense. You can trade for your dinner in tales and news, if that makes you feel better.”
“I’d like to do that,” the trader admits. “Inn fare or no fare gets tiring after a while.”
Reisa nods, almost militarily, as if acknowledging a subordinate
’s sound decision. “That’s settled.”
As Reisa steps onto the porch and into the kitchen, Liedral shakes her head.
“What’s the matter?” asks Dorrin.
“Nothing… do you always end up around military types or blades?”
“Reisa? She was a blade for Southwind, I think.” He walks toward the well and removes the cover. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to remove the smithlike appearance and odor.”
Liedral looks toward the barn.
“I don’t think they’d mind. You can put your horse in with Meriwhen.”
“I’ll take care of that while you wash up.”
As Dorrin lifts another bucket of water, Zilda bleats, and the thin chain that tethers her to the porch clinks. “All right, little one.” He sets aside the water and steps to the edge of the porch, ruffling the kid’s fur and scratching between her eyes.
“Is she your other lady?” Petra’s voice is even, standing in the doorway from the kitchen. With her gray trousers and shapeless shirt, without the frizzy hair, she would bear a general resemblance to Liedral.
“Zilda? I suppose. She thinks so.” He gives the kid a last scratch.
“I meant the trader. You don’t see many women traders.”
“She passes as a man most places, especially near Fair-haven.”
“She came to see you?”
“I don’t know exactly why. She didn’t say.”
“Dorrin, you men are impossible.” Petra sighs. “Do you like her?”
“Of course. She’s been good and fair and helpful.”
“Leave the poor man alone, Petra, and give me a hand.” Reisa’s voice is not quite stern as it carries into the dampness of the gray late afternoon.
“Just a moment, mother.” Petra pats Zilda, then smiles at Dorrin. “I think I’m going to like her, Dorrin.” She steps back into the kitchen.
Dorrin walks back to the well and begins to wash the worst of the grime from his arms and face. First Kadara and Brede, and now Reisa and Petra. Why had Liedral traveled five days out of her normal route? He draws another pail of water to carry to his room, looking at the barn where he can hear Liedral whistling as she curries the cart horse.
Once washed, shaved, and dried off, Dorrin pulls on his lighter-weight brown shirt and trousers, then his boots, and combs his hair. He looks around the room, which seems suddenly stark, almost empty, before opening the door and crossing the packed clay on the north side of the yard to the porch.
Liedral, Petra, and Reisa sit on stools under the overhanging eave that serves as a roof. Zilda begs from Reisa, butting at her leg, and clinking the thin chain that took Dorrin several evenings to fashion, mostly to learn the technique.
“… little one here always looks to him, like a father almost…”
“… too young for that.” Petra laughs.
“You look less smithlike,” Liedral says. She, too, has removed the dust and dirt of travel, as well as the dark jacket, and wears a dark green shirt buttoned up almost to her neck.
“I would hope so.”
“Now, he just looks like an innocent healer.”
“Innocent?” asks Petra.
Dorrin blushes.
“Innocent,” confirms Reisa, “but learnedlike innocence.”
Liedral smiles sympathetically.
“Aaaa… ummmm,” coughs Yarrl from the kitchen doorway.
Reisa rises from the stool and picks it up. “Time for supper.”
“Was time a while ago,” grouses Yarrl.
“Oh, papa. You weren’t washed up, and neither was Dorrin.”
“Washing up, washing down, wash, wash, wash… you’d think I was a stinky old goat or something.”
“Well… not old,” Petra affirms.
“Child.” Yarrl cannot quite hide the smile.
As the others sit down before the wide stew plates, Petra lifts a heavy crockery dish from the oven of the coal stove whose iron and ceramic expanse gives it the look of a small forge. She sets the dish on a clay tile in the middle of the oak table. Reisa sets a basket of bread at each end. A small plate of dried fruit rests beside the stewpot.
“Go ahead, trader.” Yarrl nods to Liedral.
“After you, ser,” Liedral responds.
“Only because you insist.” But Yarrl is pleased at the deference.
“What new is happening beyond Spidlar?” asks Reisa.
“One hardly knows where to start.” Liedral pauses, then continues. “The White Wizards continue to build the mountains across the high plains of Analeria, and they say the ground shakes all the time there. Fairhaven has imposed an additional thirty percent surtax on goods from Recluce.
“The Spidlarian Council must be pleased with that.” Reisa ladles a large helping of stew into Liedral’s dish, and then a smaller helping into her own.
Dorrin wrinkles his nose. Even with the pepper he has coaxed from Reisa’s stunted plants, the mutton odor of the stew is overpowering. Still, he is hungry.
“They ought to be worried, but they haven’t seen that far ahead. The improved trade will just make Spidlaria a more attractive target for Fairhaven once the wizards finish with Kyphros. Right now, they’re still pushing the Analerian nomads and their herds into the Westhorns.”
“Are there any left?” Reisa asks.
“Not many. There’s not much grass in the rocks, and they lose too many cattle to the cats and wolves.” Liedral takes a mouthful of stew and swallows. “They say there’s a new emperor in Hamor, and that the Nordlans and the Bristans are boarding each other’s ships. That’s why Fairhaven can tax Recluce goods. Not much is crossing the Eastern Ocean, except from Hamor, and that’s even more costly.”
“Hmmmm…” mumbles the smith. “Sarronnyn is rebuilding the old garrison at Westwind… the Duke of Hydolar died of the flux, and the regent is another White Wizard, a fellow named Gorsuch. The Duke’s son is only four, and that means there will be a long regency…”
“Like forever.”
“Fairhaven has doubled its orders of timber from Sligo, and most of it is to be delivered to the shipyards in Lydiar… and there’s a rumor that Recluce has stopped sending questors to Candar, at least eastern Candar…” Liedral looks at Dorrin, then away.
“How’d you get to be a questor, young fellow?” asks Yarrl. “When I finished the Academy-that’s the school for questors-they sent me here.” Dorrin’s head throbs at the incomplete answer.
“Didn’t your parents have anything to say about it?” Dorrin laughs. “It was my father’s idea. He was offended by my wanting to build machines.”
“Machines?”
“You’ve seen my models. I’d like to build bigger ones. Like the steam engine that I read about. There’s no reason why you couldn’t build one to drive a mill or a boat.”
“You read about an engine that runs on steam… What does this engine do and where did you read about it? Is it some sort of magic?” asks Petra.
“Hardly. Your kettle over there: when it boils, steam comes out of the spout. When it boils too hard, if you put a plug in the spout, what would happen?” Petra doesn’t answer.
“It would blow off the top or push out the plug,” answers Reisa.
“There’s power in the steam. It’s not magic. I want to make the steam work for me.”
“A steam engine,” muses Liedral. “But what fuels it?”
“Coal would be best, but you could use wood or charcoal.” The conversation lags as Petra spoons out seconds of stew. Dorrin takes a deep swallow of cold water.
“Why would your father send you away because you wanted to build this machine?” Reisa breaks a silence punctuated only by Yawl’s noisy chewing.
“Because he doesn’t understand it, I think. He’s afraid that it would create chaos.”
“Would it?”
“No. You can’t build one that’s not orderly-even a little one.”
“I don’t understand,” Petra says slowly.
“Seems simple enough.” Re
isa refills her mug. “People don’t like change. They don’t like changes or people who are different. Spidlar’s as open as anywhere in Candar. More than ten years since we came, and some people still won’t use your father’s iron work, for all that it’s twice as good as Henstaal’s.”
“Truth,” snaps the smith. “Take the crap they know over quality stuff they don’t. Isn’t that so, trader?”
“I’m afraid it is,” Liedral admits. “They don’t like women traders, and they always need reassurance that something is either from the same person or just like that person’s work.”
Another silence falls upon the table.
“What about your parents? Do they even know where you are?” Petra asks.
“Not exactly. There hasn’t been exactly any way to send them word.”
“You could, you know,” Liedral says after swallowing another mouthful of the mutton stew. “The going rate is around a half silver for an envelope. You give it to a Spidlarian shipmaster, and they’ll carry it to one of the factors in whatever country, who will send it to the town you want with the next shipment. Sometimes it takes a season, but they do get there.”
“Even to my parents on Recluce?”
“If you’re not in a great hurry, I can help take care of that.” Liedral sips the thin light beer from her mug.
“When you go to Tyrhavven? Or Spidlaria? How long will that be?”
“Spidlaria. I’m a bit late already. I really shouldn’t be here, but I wanted to see how you were coming. It’s two hard days from Kleth.”
“Oh…”
“This time it worked out all right. Jarnish’s nephew found some cammabark in the marshlands, and I’ll offer it to the Spidlarian Council.”
“Cammabark?”
“Fire powder-they use it in skyrockets and cannons. It’s best if it’s mixed with black powder. Touchy stuff-if it gets too dry, it explodes.”
Dorrin nods. “I expect it wouldn’t be much use against the White Wizards.”
“They use fire well enough,” Reisa adds coldly.
Yarrl coughs once, then again.
“My background is no secret to Dorrin. He’s rather observant.”
“At least about some things,” Petra adds.
Magic Engineer Page 19
