Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Wonderful… wonderful beer…” mumbles Pergun. He extends a hand to steady himself, but the hand fails to touch the edge of the door, and he staggers into Dorrin.

  “Come… on…” Dorrin roughly redirects Pergun. “Where’s your horse?”

  “Got no horse… me… horse… ha… shank’s mare…”

  One of the two torches outside Kyril’s has guttered out, and the winds and the snow whip down the street. Dorrin looks toward the dark stable, gripping the staff more tightly, then forcing his fingers to relax. His boots squish through the mixture of slush and mud that covers the paving stones.

  “… got no horse… got no mare… got no pearls… got no girls…” Pergun sings, so far off-key that the notes are leaden in the night.

  Dorrin supposes that Meriwhen can bear double for a short distance.

  “… got no mare…”

  As they near the stable, Dorrin can sense the man in the darkness, even before the blade appears, even before his eyes adjust to the darkness, and his hands automatically reposition the staff. Meriwhen whuffles, skittering back away from the armed man, who holds the reins in one hand and the sword in the other.

  “You just better be going on your way, fellows. Off to a nice bed or back to your master.”

  “… got no horse… got no mare…” Pergun half mumbles, half sings, putting out a hand to a timber. “… who are you ;.. who… you… you… who… ?” He laughs.

  Dorrin takes a step forward. His guts are cold, but he knows that he will not abandon Meriwhen to the stranger.

  The mare whinnies, and the highwayman wraps the reins around a peg on which a wooden bucket hangs by its ropes.

  “… got no horse…”

  “It’s a pity, young fellow…” The blade weaves toward Dorrin.

  Dorrin’s hands and arms react, flicking the heavy blade aside, then reversing the staff and thrusting straight up through the diaphragm.

  “Ughhhh…” The blade clunks against the bucket and drops into the straw. The highwayman takes a half step, then sags slowly onto the dirty straw, eyes going blank.

  Dorrin barely staggers to the stable door, his feet scrabbling through the pile of straw and manure to the left of the entry. White burning flares blaze through his skull.

  “… shit… no fun, Dorrin…” mumbles Pergun.

  Dorrin’s fingers claw against the wood, and he squints, trying to shut out the light and the pain. Finally, he straightens up, still fighting the headache that feels as though Yarrl were fullering his brain with long heavy strokes. After looking at the black staff, he walks slowly back to Kyril’s, leaving a second set of tracks in the light snow that falls like a curtain.

  He closes the inn door, and the half-empty room falls silent.

  “What’s the matter, healer?” asks the heavy-set proprietor, running a grayish rag across the counter.

  “One dead thief… in the stable.”

  Kyril grabs the single-bladed axe from beneath the counter. “Just one?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I hope so, but let’s see. Forra!”

  A younger man, nearly as heavy as Kyril, but with broader shoulders and less gut, sticks his head out from the back room.

  “Trouble in the stable.”

  Torch in one hand, and a cudgel in the other, Forra leads the way to the stable, where the three find two prone figures, one face up, the other face down.

  Pergun looks up sleepily. “What took so long… ? Wanna go home…” Forra prods the bearded highwayman with his cudgel, then rolls the body over. The surprised expression remains frozen on the man’s face.

  “Light! His chest’s caved in.” Forra looks at Dorrin.

  “His blade’s there.” Dorrin gestures with the staff.

  In the light of the torch, Kyril studies the dead man’s face. “You do this, young fellow?”

  “I didn’t mean to, but he wanted to kill us and take Meriwhen…”

  “Meriwhen?”

  “My horse, there.”

  “You’re that young healer who’s also an apprentice to Yarrl?”

  Dorrin nods.

  “Where did you learn to do this?” Kyril gestures at the dead man.

  “When… I was in school… they taught me the staff… can’t use an edged weapon.” Dorrin’s legs are shaking, and he sags against a stall wall.

  “You got some coins coming, young fellow. This here’s Niso. Council has a reward. Not much-ten golds. He killed a trader on the piers last fall.” Kyril turns to Forra. “See why no one messes with a smith, even a skinny one? Flesh and bone won’t stand up to someone who beats iron.”

  Forra, for all his bulk, looks from the dead Niso to Dorrin and back, then wipes his forehead on his sleeve. “Lot more of this, these days.”

  Kyril shakes his head, sadly, once more. “Hard times… The White Wizards making it hard on everyone, and they’re all coming here, thinking they can steal from us.”

  Dorrin shivers as a gust of wind blows snow in his face.

  “Dorrin… promised… get me home…” complains Pergun. The mill worker has managed to prop himself into a sitting position against a barrel.

  Kyril shakes his head again. “You take your friend home. I’ll let the Council know.”

  “Dorrin gets a reward… Dorrin gets… a reward…” Pergun singsongs.

  “He’ll get a reward, my drunken mill man. Believe me, he will. You think anyone wants to cross him and Yarrl?” Dorrin represses a sigh and helps Pergun to his feet, and onto Meriwhen, where the dark-haired man sways. Dorrin puts the staff into the lanceholder.

  “… help…”

  “Just hang on.” Dorrin unties the mare and leads her into the snow squalls before swinging up behind Pergun. He can feel both Kyril’s and Forra’s eyes on his back as Meriwhen bears him out onto the snow-covered road that leads toward Hem-mil’s mill.

  LVII

  DORRIN HOLDS THE sledge, waiting for Yarrl to bring the iron from the forge to the anvil. As the iron goes down on the fuller, Dorrin begins the routine-strike and recover while Yarrl slips the iron across the bottom fuller, strike and recover, strike and recover-until the bar stock cools and the smith reheats it. Then the fullering continues until the iron is rough-flattened to the thickness of the heavy bam hinge. Next comes the flatter, and the quick blows to smooth the fullered iron.

  Even though the smithy is warm, outside the snow continues to fall. With each stroke of the sledge, Dorrin puzzles over the highwayman as he automatically responds to the smith’s directions.

  Petra appears at the edge of the smithy. This time she does not wait for a break in the routine, but steps past the slack tank, ducking under the bellows cross-lever, until Yarrl sees her and sets the iron on the forge.

  “Better be important, girl.”

  “There are two traders here. They say they’re members of the Council. They want to see you and Dorrin.”

  “Invite them in, Petra, unless they want to meet in the kitchen.”

  Petra hastens back toward the doorway to the rear yard.

  “What did you do, young fellow?”

  “I… killed a highwayman. Kyril said there was a reward, but…”

  “You thought it was more hot air?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Demon-damned traders. Not one thing, it’s another.” Yarrl eases the unfinished iron closer to the forge fire, sets down the tongs, and places the flatter on the bricks.

  Two men in heavy cloaks of dark blue step past the broken wagon parts awaiting repair and into the warm area near the forge. One is white-haired and heavy, but tall, over four cubits. The other is dark-haired, almost rail-thin, and short, shorter even than Dorrin.

  The heavier trader inclines his head to Yarrl. “Master Yarrl, I am Trader Fyntal and this is Trader Jasolt. We are here on behalf of the Council. Is this your striker?”

  “Dorrin? ‘Course he’s my striker. Didn’t you just see him with the sledge?”

  “And his name is D
orrin?” pursues Fyntal.

  “So far as I know, he’s always been Dorrin.”

  The functionary turns to Dorrin. “You were at the Red Lion last evening?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “According to the innkeeper, you were attacked by a rogue highwayman, and dispatched him with a staff. Is this true?”

  “Pergun and I were leaving. He was stealing my mare. He threatened to kill us. I tried to stop him, but I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “You must be well regarded by the smith, to use a horse,” adds the younger trader, so smoothly that his words ooze oil.

  “He’s a good striker,” Yarrl asserts, preventing Dorrin from having to correct the misapprehension about Meriwhen’s ownership.

  “Well then… so long as that is clear. Your striker has… resolved… a matter of long-standing concern to the Council. The highwayman he… dispatched… was the notorious Niso. This Niso person was responsible for the death of Trader San-due, and the trader’s family offered through the Council a reward.” The trader lifts a leather pouch from his belt and bows, extending the pouch to Yarrl.

  Yarrl takes the pouch without inclining his head, and passes the heavy leather to Dorrin. “Appreciate the honor of seeking out young Dorrin. He’s a good striker, and a fine fellow.”

  “We’re sure he is. Good day, smiths.” Fyntal nods, not quite wrinkling his nose at the smithy, and turns.

  Jasolt turns also, and the two walk heavily from the smithy. Jasolt has to swirl his cloak to free it from a bracket on the main slack tub:- A gust of chill air blows past the smiths, then drops as the door is closed.

  Reisa and Petra appear. Petra is giggling. “They’re so stiff. The young one almost tripped over Zilda, his nose was so stuck up.”

  “Aye,” Yarrl says slowly. “Stuck up they are. But honest. More than you can say for most.”

  “You killed a highwayman?” asks Reisa.

  “He tried to take Meriwhen.”

  “With your staff?”

  “I got very sick,” Dorrin temporizes, looking sheepish.

  Yarrl laughs. “A good striker and deadly with a staff, but he gets sick after killing a killer.”

  Reisa nods. “But he’s a healer, Yarrl. Don’t forget that. He’s a healer.” _.

  Yarrl looks at the floor, then at the forge. “Out, women. We got work to do. Look at all that work there.”

  Dorrin grins as he reaches up and begins to pump the bellows. Yarrl retrieves his tongs and the iron for flattening.

  LVIII

  THE TROOPERS RIDE uphill. On each side of the road stretch meadows half-covered with an early snow. The right side of the road is bordered by a low stone wall. Vulcrows circle a point over the crest of the hill.

  “Shit,” mutters a wiry trooper in the van, wiping his forehead with a neckerchief of Spidlarian blue, despite the chill wind that blows off the ice-covered peaks to the west. “More trouble ahead.”

  On the right of the wiry man rides Brede. On his right rides Kadara, who is practicing with the Westwind shortsword.

  “… all she does is play with that damned sticker…”

  “… lucky doesn’t use it on you…”

  “… saved your neck more ‘n once, Vorban…” When the Spidlarian squad reaches the crest of the hill, a handful of vulcrows explodes from the carcasses and corpses on the downslope. One wagon has been driven or rolled into a stone wall on the right side of the road.

  “… bastards…”

  “No one here, now,” announces the squad leader, as he reins up beside the wrecked wagon. “Been half a day, at least.”

  The body of a fat man, dressed in the dark blue of a Spidlarian trader, sprawls in the brown leaves between two patches of light snow. Dark stains have soaked through the heavy cloak, and his hands are extended, as though he had tried to pull himself toward the low dark stone wall.

  Kadara studies the crumpled wagon, noting a bolt of blue silk rough-slashed. She frowns, then looks over the rest of the wagon. Another bolt of cloth is wedged under the spring seat of the wagon.

  Brede follows her glance, then dismounts and hands her the reins to the gelding. He kneels at the side of the road.

  “What in darkness are you doing?” demands the squad leader.

  “Checking something.”

  “Frigging bandits…” mumbles Vorban.

  “So, Brede, just what brilliance do you have to show us today?”

  Brede looks up from the print in the clay next to the road. His face is impassive as he swings back into the saddle.

  “That bad, big fellow?” asks the wiry trooper.

  “Worse. That’s a standard road shoe.”

  “Huh?” The squad leader closes his mouth abruptly.

  “They weren’t bandits. Probably Certan troops.”

  The squad leader motions, and Brede rides up beside the man. “You want to explain?”

  “Kadara pointed out something. They didn’t take some of the cloth-there’s a bolt of silk still left in the wagon. You know how much that’s worth? Then the shoe prints. They’re all alike.”

  “Light and all the demons.” The squad leader swallows. “They just want it to look like bandits.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I think we’d better head back. Giselyn needs to know this.” He wheels the bay and gestures. “We’re headed back.” He pauses. “You can check out this mess and keep what you can find.”

  Only the squad leader and the two from Recluce remain mounted while the nine others paw through the three corpses and the two wagons.

  “… purses gone…”

  “… crappy cloth…”

  “… nice knife!”

  Finally, the leader calls. “Mount up!”

  “Thanks, big fellow.” The wiry trooper grins from his saddle, holding up a knife and sheath. “Hot food and a soft bed. That’s for me.”

  Brede shakes his head. “Enjoy it while you can.”

  “So it’s the Certans. They’re not worth a copper.”

  “I’m worried about who’s paying the coppers.”

  The wiry man pulls on his black neckerchief. “You always have a way of spoiling things.” He spurs his mount ahead and alongside Vorban.

  Kadara draws her mare up next to Brede. “I don’t like this.”

  “What can we do?”

  “We can’t get home. The Whites have closed off all ships to Recluce except smugglers. Right now I’m not desperate enough to take that kind of a chance.”

  “I’d rather not, either,” admits Brede.

  “These aren’t traces of chaos. It’s the beginning of a damned war.”

  “It does look that way,” Brede agrees.

  “Looks that way? Is that all you can say?”

  “What can I say?” He sighs. “I sort of wish I were a healer or a smith like Dorrin. I wonder how he’s doing.”

  “Probably healing and smithing and making people think he’s wonderful.”

  “Maybe.” Brede flicks the reins to urge the gelding to close the gap between them and the rest of the squad. “I imagine he has his problems, too. It’s been that kind of a year.”

  LIX

  YARRL TURNS THE metal on the anvil. Dorrin strikes, evenly, stroke after stroke as the smith moves the flatter across the iron. Dorrin sets the light sledge down as Yarrl returns the metal to the forge.

  Yarrl’s tongs bring the metal back to the anvil, where he sets the drift punch in place. Dorrin gives the drift a light tap, and Yarrl flips the metal over, positioning the bulge in the metal over the hardie hole. Dorrin strikes the drift; the metal plug drops. Another strike, and Yarrl nods, returning the metal to the forge. They repeat the process with the other end.

  Next comes the twisting on the spring fork, which Yarrl handles by himself. Dorrin takes the liberty of gently raking the damp charcoal at the edge of the forge toward the working coals. Reisa steps into the smithy and waits by the bellows and the slack tanks.

  The smith reheats the spring to c
herry red before plunging it into the big slack tank. Once the iron is gray, he lifts it clear and returns it to the forge fire, checking as the tip of the heavy spring changes from straw to brown to light purple. Then he plunges the spring into the slack tank and swirls it through the liquid. Only when he has cooled the metal and lifted it from the tank does Reisa speak.

  “There’s a young fellow here for Dorrin. He says his name is Vaos.”

  “Know him?” Yarrl asks.

  “He’s the stable boy at Kyril’s. Good boy, I’d say.”

  “Wants a job, I’d bet,” grumbles Yarrl.

  Reisa nods to the two and steps past the line of broken wagon parts waiting for either Yarrl’s or Dorrin’s attention and back into the gray light of the cloudy winter day.

  “You could use him.”

  “Why? You planning on leaving?”

  Dorrin has not planned to bring up the subject quite so soon. “Ah… well… I had thought about doing some healing, too…”

  Yarrl spits into the comer. “Can’t say as I’m surprised. When you want to leave?”

  “I don’t want to leave. I still want to work here. I want to spend some time working at healing, too.”

  “Man can’t serve two crafts, Dorrin.”

  “I think I can. Will you let me try?”

  Yarrl spits again. “Best striker I ever had. Do more in a half day than some do in an eight-day. Would you still work midday to nightfall?”

  “I’d thought that. I like working here.”

  The smith looks down and coughs. “Well… let’s see this boy. Going to need someone on the bellows and grindstone.”

  Vaos has strawberry blond hair, green eyes, and a dark bruise that covers most of his left cheek. He sits on the porch stairs, petting Zilda, who stands on the pile of frozen snow trying to nibble the ragged edges of his ripped leather boots. “Ser Dorrin… ser smith…”

  “Why are you here?” Dorrin asks softly.

  “The business with Niso… ser… Forra said it was my fault, that I fell asleep. I worked all day, even unloading the hay wagon and cleaning all the stalls. They took my coppers, said I’d work an extra four eight-days…”