Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

“Come here,” Dorrin says.

  Vaos stands up and walks toward Dorrin with tentative steps. Dorrin reaches out and touches the boy’s cheek. He can sense the throbbing pain, not only in the jaw, but across the youngster’s back. “Did you strike back?”

  “No, ser. But I ran.”

  Dorrin’s hand drops away, leaving a sense of order in the child, and a black smudge over the bruise. “He’s telling the truth. They beat him.”

  “Do you want a job, boy?” asks the smith. “Feed you, and you get a corner in the smithy, and a half-copper an eight-day.”

  Vaos swallows. Then he squares his shoulders. “I got a half-copper an eight-day at the stable, but I got a few coppers from the customers.”

  Dorrin tries not to grin at Vaos’s spunk. Yarrl purses his lips as well.

  “Say a half-copper an eight-day, but I’ll spring for new boots and britches, and, if you’re as good as you are spunky, an extra half-copper every other eight-day.”

  “Yes, ser. What do you want me to do first?”

  Dorrin grins at Reisa, who has eased out onto the porch to listen. Her breath smokes in the cooler air trapped under the porch roof. Reisa reaches down and ruffles Zilda’s head. Then she straightens and grins back at Dorrin, before opening the door and slipping into the kitchen.

  “You can pedal the grindstone for me.” Yarrl smiles faintly at Dorrin.

  LX

  THE BANNER SHAPED like a three-lobed leaf hangs limply in the still air outside the neat but small cottage. Dorrin ties Meriwhen to the fence, and the mare whickers softly, lifting her feet as if to protest the chill of the frozen snow underneath. He lifts the black staff from the holder.

  The herb garden that flanks both sides of the gravel walkway is organized enough. Under the thin blanket of early winter snow, he can sense the astra and the stunted brinn roots on the right, and sage and dill on the left. The faintest sense of order pervades the garden.

  Dorrin refrains from reaching out to the herbs. Now, that is not his business. Meriwhen remains tied to the fence, and the road back downhill toward Diev is as empty as when he rode up it. In the clear cold air, he can easily see the smoke of Yarrl’s forge.

  Downhill through the scattered trees to the left are an abandoned chimney and the stone-edged doorway to what may be an old root cellar. His eyes turn toward the river of ice that will be a stream in spring. The narrow wedge of ice winds through the tree-filled ravine to his right, spilling down to a level expanse of ice that covers a small pond. By midwinter the ice will be twice as wide, if it is even visible under the snow.

  The red-haired youth steps up to the doorway. Someone is inside, presumably Rylla, the older of the two local healers.

  Thrap… thrap…

  “Coming…”

  Dorrin shifts his weight from one foot to the other, still holding the black staff.

  “Yes?” The thin and gray-haired woman stands in the half-open doorway.

  “I understand that you might be open to a part-time apprentice…”

  The healer frowns. “An odd notion that would be, young fellow. How can one be something only part of the time?” Her eyes look up toward the horse tethered by the fence.

  “Might I come in and explain?”

  “Might as well. You mean no harm; that’s clear.” She opens the door wider. “Just come in quick now, and don’t let the chill in.”

  The front room of the three-room cottage contains a hearth, one large and two small tables, and three narrow cabinets against one wall. The plank floor is worn smooth, but swept clean. Over the low fire a kettle hangs on a hook whose design Dorrin recognizes from Yarrl’s work. Steam seeps from the spout.

  The woman gestures toward the wooden armchair. The other three chairs are all armless. Dorrin nods toward her, waiting for her to sit.

  A wry grin greets his gesture. “Well-mannered young fellow, too. What do you really want, you young scoundrel?” Rylla takes her chair.

  Dorrin flushes, then manages to return the grin. He loosens his jacket and sits in the armless chair across from her, laying the staff across his knees. “I’m working at the smithy for Yarrl, but I was trained at both healing and smith-work. I miss the plants…” He has to tell more of the truth. “And I need to earn more.”

  “Ha! You’ve seen my garden, and my wealth of patrons, boy.”

  “I might be able to help with the plants.”

  The gray eyes under the silver eyebrows study the redhead again. “That could be dangerous.”

  “Selling spices isn’t that dangerous, and healers are supposed to be able to grow things.”

  “And you’d do the growing and the selling?”

  “As I can.”

  “Is it a girl, young fellow?”

  “I suppose so… though more coins won’t help now.”

  “As old Rylla knows, healing’s not much for glamour, boy. And neither’s being a smith. They won’t get you the girl ”

  With a shrug, he looks at the floor. “Still…”

  “I’ve got a few Winterspice seeds. Never tried them. Think you could grow them?”

  Dorrin nods slowly. “If they’re still alive… I think so…”

  “You’re one of the outcasts, then.”

  His eyebrows lift.

  “I may be a weak healer, boy, but I can still think.”

  “Do you still want to take me on?”

  “Why not? I always wanted to see Winterspice grow. Even Elrik can’t do that.” Her eyes narrow on him. “Will your master let you spend time here?”

  “I’ve worked it out. I’ll spend the morning here.”

  “What else do you want from me?”

  “Land.”

  “You’re an honest scoundrel, boy. What do you have in mind?”

  “I’d like to use the land by the pond, build some things. I’d pay you rent for it.”

  “You’ve not even shown me you can heal. Or that you have the power.”

  Dorrin steps to her chair, where he lays the staff across her knees.

  Her fingers stroke the black wood for an instant. “Darkness, boy! You don’t need me. You the one who saved Honsard’s boy? Fixed Quiller’s foot?”

  He nods.

  “Being as I’m a foolish old lady, could ye tell me why you’re asking me for a favor? It doesn’t seem as you need me.” She strokes the staff a last time and lifts the heavy wood to him.

  “Outsiders have problems. People who live in a town don’t.”

  “Ha! You’re a sharp one, too. What’s your name, boy?”

  “Dorrin.”

  “You want to be the lumber miller’s apprentice nextwise, so as you can take over his place?”

  “No.” A quick flash of pain strikes through Dorrin’s skull. “I mean, all I really want to do is build some machines, but I need iron and wood. That means coins. And I’d like my own workroom and cottage.”

  “But you don’t want people a-thinking you’re a danger?”

  “No. I’m not.”

  Rylla laughs softly. “Boy, soft as you speak, and polite as you are, you be the most dangerous man I’ve seen in a long life.”

  Dorrin’s eyebrows lift, involuntarily.

  “But that’s no matter. I like you, and I’m an old fool.”

  LXI

  DORRIN CLOSES THE barn door, his eyes going to the smithy chimney where the hot air from the forge fades into the gray cold of early winter. He looks down at the faded green cover of the book in his hand-The Healer-with a wry expression on his lips. Somehow he had never expected Rylla to be literate, or to have such a volume. Every time he makes a critical judgment about someone, it seems, he is surprised.

  “Willow bark-you didn’t use willow bark on the boy? Waste of your energy, Dorrin. You won’t always have it, you know.” Dorrin represses a grin. Working with the old healer has had its benefits.

  Creaakkkkk… As the heavy forge wagon turns off the road, Dorrin hurries to his quarters, where he leaves his jacket, his book and staff, and stri
ps off the better shirt for his stained smithy shirt. The forge wagon has only eased into the yard, pulled by four horses each almost twice the size of Meriwhen, by the time Dorrin reaches the smithy door. On one wagon side panel is the legend Froos & Sons. The carter eases the wagon up to the side door of the smithy. By now, Dorrin and Yarrl stand by the door, Vaos next to them.

  “He delivers iron to the shipwrights in the harbor,” Vaos says quietly.

  “Long run up here.” Yarrl coughs as the wind shifts and whips the hazy and faintly acrid smoke from the forge chimney down into the yard.

  “The iron forge is only in upper Diev.” Vaos’s eyebrows lift.

  “Long run with fifty stone of iron bars. We’re about the last on the run.” Yarrl steps forward, a leather pouch in his hand.

  Dorrin’s eyes and senses pick up the animals’ fatigue.

  The carter slowly swings down from the wagon seat. Heavily muscled arms bulge under a stained brown shirt. He wears not a coat, but a sheepskin vest and heavy gloves. “The lot comes to a half gold, Yarrl.”

  “That’s up a silver.”

  “Froos can’t help it. The Council’s buying more iron, and he had to install some more pumps.”

  “You start unloading. I’ll be back with your cursed half-gold.” The smith tucks the pouch in his belt and heads toward the steps on the porch.

  “I’m not supposed to unload until I’ve got the coin.”

  Yarrl spits into the corner between the porch and the smithy. “I ever shorted you?”

  The carter grins. “Seeing as it’s you…”

  Dorrin looks to Vaos. “You take the small stock, at the end, there.”

  “I can take the bigger stock.”

  Dorrin and the carter exchange grins.

  “Fine, boy. Take this.” The carter hands a single flat bar, a span wide and three cubits long, to Vaos.

  The boy staggers under the three-stone load, going to his knees before Dorrin lifts it, saying mildly, “It’s heavy.”

  “Striker, you’re stronger than you look.”

  “He’s good with a staff, too,” Vaos interjects.

  “Oh… you’re the one.” The carter looks down at the hard-packed damp clay. “Makes sense you’d be with Yarrl.” Then he shakes his head. “A striker taking Niso down with a piece of wood.”

  Dorrin lugs the flat iron stock into the smithy, and Vaos follows with an armful of the smallest rod stock. Dorrin racks the iron. “The small rods go there.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I’m not the smith.”

  “You’re almost one.”

  By the time they return to the wagon, Yarrl has returned and is paying the carter. “Still highway robbery.”

  The carter lifts some midweight rods and follows Dorrin.

  “Set them there, if you would,” Dorrin requests politely.

  The carter eases them onto the empty edge of the workbench, then straightens. Vaos follows with the last of the small rod stock, which he racks. All three trudge back outside to repeat the process. After the last iron is off the wagon, the carter closes the tailgate and slides the locking bolts into place.

  Dorrin steps up beside the wagon seat. “How much would a plate of iron be, the same thickness as the thin stock, but- could you get one four cubits by four cubits?”

  “Hard to say, but the miners in By thy a get some that’s five by five, and it’s a silver a plate. Why do you want something that big? That’s heavy.”

  “I’d guess fifteen, twenty stone.”

  “Takes a six-horse team.” The carter shakes his head. “And three big men to lift those plates. Anyway, you’d have to talk to Froos.” He looks toward Yarrl. “See you next time, smith.”

  “Just don’t raise the prices again,” Yarrl grumbles.

  The carter shrugs. “Times are tough. They say the Whites are pushing the Analerians into south Spidlar. Dirty herders!” He spits toward the brown stalks of the frost-killed herb garden. “Damned wizards! Not much to choose between the two.” He flicks the reins, and the wagon creaks, though not so loudly as when it entered the yard.

  “Back to work.” The smith slides the door to the smithy back to a narrow opening. “Still have to finish Blygers’s chain clamps.” He turns to Dorrin. “You still thinking about building that engine?”

  “Yes. But I haven’t figured out the pistons yet.”

  Yarrl frowns as if the word is unfamiliar.

  “Probably be better to make two smaller ones, on each side of the shaft. If they’re exactly opposite, I won’t have the problem of synchronizing them.”

  “These pistons are round cylinders?” inquires the smith.

  “They could be any shape, but they’d be stronger as a cylinder.”

  “Like rockets and firearms?” asks Vaos.

  “Don’t the pump makers build iron cylinders?”

  “I wonder what one would cost.” Dorrin reflects.

  Yarrl lifts several iron rods, those left by the carter on the bench, into the rack. “Your friend Pergun’s sister is married to a striker for Cylder. He’s a pumpwright for Froos.” The heavy rods slide into the timber rack. “Let’s get the rest of these stored. Not only got to do Blygers’s job, but we need to get back to finish that stuff of Honsard’s,” He turns to Vaos. “We’ll need another barrow of charcoal.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Going to be a long winter…” Yarrl lifts the tongs and slides the partly forged clamp from the bricks into the fire, reaching for the midsized swage as he does so.

  Dorrin begins to pump the bellows’s lever until Vaos returns with the charcoal.

  “… long cold winter…”

  Vaos wheels the barrow next to the forge, and the smith begins to load the charcoal into the forge while Dorrin stores the last of the rod stock.

  LXII

  THE SMALL DINING table is set for two, and a bottle of wine rests in a basket on the side table. Jeslek glances around the room again when he sees the sheet of parchment on the white oak screening table. He picks up the sheet, glancing toward the bookcase, then back at the words and the numbers. The calculations show the need for another twenty wizards for the additional ten ships under construction in Sligo.

  “I know just which twenty.”

  Still holding the sheet with the numbers in his left hand, he frowns, thinking about the problems created by order, and by the stubbornness of the Spidlarians. Order and Spidlar-what is the connection? He looks at the mirror on the table, concentrating on the two.

  The mists part for an instant, and the image of a red-headed man with a hammer and tongs in his hands appears. Jeslek does not recognize him.

  L The sound of a gentle rap on the door reaches him. At the sound, he straightens, letting the image vanish. Then he slips the paper into the leather folder, which he slides into the corner of the bookcase. He is careful not to touch any of the volumes, since each usage of a book shortens its life.

  He opens the door, smiling at the scent of trilia that accompanies Anya. “Good evening, dear lady.”

  “Good evening, High Wizard.” Anya’s lips brush his cheek.

  He closes the door behind her, but does not lock it.

  “You didn’t lock it.” She smiles.

  “Why?” Jeslek smiles, turning away from the door and toward her. “Locks scarcely stop screening, or anyone powerful enough to enter. Unlike Sterol, I am a realist.” He laughs softly. “So are you. Or you would not be here.”

  “Oh?”

  He stands by the table and pours wine into one glass and then the other, before lifting the first and extending it to her. “You are more powerful than even Sterol. But you know it is unlikely the Council will ever select a woman as High Wizard.” He inclines his head.

  “Yet you obviously enjoy putting yourself in a compromising position.” Anya takes the glass, and her eyes flicker to the wide couch beyond the table. Then she smiles.

  “Dear Anya, no one can touch either of us… and not even you and Sterol are s
trong enough to take me on.” He lifts his glass. “To you, dear lady.”

  Anya lifts her glass. ‘ To the High Wizard.“

  They drink, each with eyes and senses on the other.

  LXIII

  A LOW WHINING moan shivers through the smithy building. Dorrin’s breath is white in the dim light.

  “Wonderful for practicing order control…” he mutters. While he is comfortable in the chill, even with the waist-high snow that clogs the smithy yard, even with the long icicles that hang like daggers from the eaves, he still wishes the winter in Diev were not quite so cold.

  He looks again at the numbers, his fingers going toward the quill. Instead, he sets the figures aside in the covered box and pulls out the other box, the one with his scribblings in it, the one with the semi-pretentious title on the front-Thoughts on the Basis of Order. He glances over the last page.

  … a staff, or any other object, may be infused with order. Concentrating such order, if the Balance is maintained, must result in a greater amount of chaos somewhere. Therefore, the greater the effort to concentrate order within material objects, the greater the amount of free chaos within the world.

  The logic is sound, but are his presumptions? He rubs his forehead. He has nothing really to add to his presumptuous commentary this night. He closes the second box.

  His hands turn down the wick of the lamp slightly, and he carries it to the bracket by his bed. As usual, things are working, but not exactly as he has planned. Assuming he can even build the steam-fired engine, and that remains a question, how can he even afford the material? Of the sixteen golds he has gathered from the reward from the Council and the sale of the two intricate models, he has a little over twelve left.

  Still… that does include the iron that he has bought and the lorkin left from the staff and the other wood that is his. But the iron and copper alone for his engine will run nearly twenty golds. The fittings and pumps-he shakes his head. And the first engine, if experience is any guide, will not work well, if at all.

  He needs more coin-more than he will receive from either Rylla or Yarrl. What can he do? Toys? He sits on the edge of the pallet bed and pulls off his boots. What kind of toys? Can he do something different from what Quiller has done? Will Willum buy somewhat less elaborate toys?