Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Whuuuffff… the mare responds.

  “She’s… pretty.” Frisa’s breath forms a cloud around her head.

  The morning .air is still now, and the snow sparkles in the light, so brightly that Dorrin must squint, a cruel brightness that reminds him, absently, of Fairhaven.

  Meriwhen suffers her forehead to be touched by Frisa’s unhurt arm. Frisa shivers, and Dorrin turns. “We need to go.”

  “‘Bye, horsey.”

  Inside, Dorrin closes the door and sets Frisa on the floor.

  “He has a horsey, a black horsey.”

  Merga bows to Dorrin. “Thank you, great one.” Tears streak from her eyes, as she takes her daughter’s hand. “We must go.”

  Dorrin glances at Rylla, but the healer’s wrinkled face is calm. He opens the door and watches as they walk across the packed snow and ice.

  “Close the door, Dorrin. No sense in wasting the fire.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her the truth. You’re a great healer. A young one, but a great one.”

  “Darkness, I’m barely a decent smith, and not even that as a healer.”

  “Look, boy. You got enough order in your bones to shiver a White Wizard all the way to the tips of the Northern Ocean. I saw what you did for that girl.”

  “She didn’t get caught in a stall door. Her father beat them both. I really want to-”

  “You can’t go settling people’s lives for them.”

  “I know. I did what I could. It won’t be enough.”

  “It will be for a little while. And in healing you do what you can. Just knowing order isn’t all there is to healing.” The clear blue eyes that seem oddly young in the wrinkled face survey Dorrin from head to foot. “Does just a strong arm make a good smith?”

  “No.”

  “Does growing herbs tell you how to use them? ‘Course not! You’re like all the other Blacks.” Rylla pauses and adds, “Maybe not as bad. Leastwise, you listen. Take a broken bone, like Frisa has. Bone’s stronger when it grows at its own pace, and the bones have to be put back where they fit together. How do you keep them together?”

  “You splint them, and add a touch of order.”

  “I can do the first, but only a Black healer can do the rest.”

  A knock on the door interrupts them.

  “Who be there?” rasps Rylla.

  “Werta… I still got this wart.”

  Rylla grins at Dorrin. “Come on in and close the door behind you.”

  Dorrin grins back. Warts, yet.

  LXVII

  THE STILLNESS HAS given way to a light wind, and the near-noon sun lights a bright blue-green sky. Dorrin unties Meriwhen from the elder bushes, swings into the saddle, checks his staff to ensure it is secure in the lanceholder, and urges Meriwhen toward Diev. In the left saddlebag are three sample toys-a small wagon, a windmill with a hand crank, and a miniature sawmill. There are two complete sets in the other bag.

  Meriwhen’s feet are sure upon the road now that the rollers have pressed it into a hard surface. They pass a freight sleigh stacked with barrels, whose driver cracks his whip as his two horses struggle in toward Diev.

  On the town side of the Weyel river bridge, the rolled and packed snow gives way to an uneven jumble of packed snow, ice, and partly uncovered paving stones. Dorrin lets Meriwhen set her own pace, and he loosens the top button of his jacket, conscious that he is making some progress in learning how to let his body deal with a cold that never reaches Recluce.

  All four chimneys at the Tankard are billowing white smoke, and a small stable boy is wrestling to unload a bale of hay from the farm sleigh. The beggar woman is nowhere in evidence.

  The space before the chandlery is empty, but smoke also rises from Willum’s chimney. Dorrin ties Meriwhen, pats her neck, and swings the saddlebags over his shoulder before taking his staff from the holder. Then he climbs the steps and opens the door to the chandler’s. The warmth billowing from the cast-iron stove in the center of the store is momentarily welcome, and he is careful to close the oak door behind him.

  The thin clerk behind the counter along the right wall looks through Dorrin. “Your business?”

  “I’m Dorrin.” He lifts the saddlebags. “I have some goods that ser Willum might be interested in.”

  “In late winter? Ha! Be on your way, fellow.” The clerk sets something on the shelf before him. “Selling to a chandler?”

  Dorrin turns to face the clerk head-on, and his eyes blaze. His voice is quiet, and his words seem to fill the store. “I am here to see Willum, and I do believe he will see me.”

  His face white, the clerk steps back. “I’ll see… ser.”

  Dorrin frowns as the other scuttles toward the back room. Why are people so difficult? And why does insisting on simple things make them so afraid? If Willum does not want to buy the toys, he certainly doesn’t have to.

  The blond chandler/trader steps out into the store from behind a dark green velvet curtain. The counter does not quite conceal the heavy club he holds, a stained oak length only slightly lighter than his brown trousers and dark leather vest. “You-” Then he sees the brown shirt under the jacket and the dark staff. “You’re the smith who’s the toymaker, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ser. I thought you might like to see some new ones.”

  “It’s all right, Roald.” Willum looks at the clerk emerging from the back room. “Sorry, fellow-is it Dortmund?”

  “Dorrin.”

  “Dorrin. We’ve had some smash and grabs lately. Times are hard.” He smiles politely. “Your curiosity was well received in Fenard. But”-he shrugs-“I doubt many have golds to spare now.”

  “So would I.” Dorrin sets the leather saddlebags on the counter and opens the left one. “These are a bit simpler.”

  Willum looks at the three toys, finally picking up the windmill and cranking it. “Well made. I have to say that. But times are hard.”

  “I understand. That also means you must have trouble finding unique items to trade.”

  Willum grins. “You should have been a trader, young Dorrin. You haggle with the best.”

  “You flatter me, master chandler.”

  “Hardly. You seem to have some idea of their value. And what are you asking-not that I can pay much, you understand?”

  “I thought you might get a half-silver, perhaps six pennies, for each of these.”

  “Six is stretching. I could offer a silver for all three.” Dorrin frowns. “A silver plus two, would be more like it.”

  “It’s not worth my time to take just three.”

  “If I made two more sets… then how about three and a half silvers?”

  “That would be fine, but”-Willum shrugs again-“could you have them by tomorrow? Otherwise, I could offer but a silver plus one.”

  Dorrin smiles, and the chandler shakes his head.

  “Don’t tell me you have them?”

  Dorrin offers a wry smile. “I had hoped…” He opens the other bag and produces the other six.

  Willum inspects all six, minutely. “You do good work, fellow.” He coughs. “Roald-three and a half, please.”

  “Yes, ser.” The clerk eases behind Willum’s bulk and into the back room, without so much as looking at Dorrin.

  The chandler purses his lips, then asks. “I might also be interested in another curiosity… say by early spring?”

  “That might be possible.” Dorrin’s thoughts burn, since he has two older models for which he has no use. “Very probable, in fact.” His headache subsides, but not completely. He needs someone else to do the haggling, or he will have headaches severe enough that he will not be able to think straight.

  Roald reappears with the coins, which he passes to Willum. In turn, the trader puts them upon the counter. He still holds the club in his right hand, although his grip is relaxed. “There are your silvers, Dorrin.”

  “I thank you, master chandler. Later, might you be interested in other such toys?”


  “I might, but I know where to find you, should I need them quickly. If not, see me in perhaps three or four eight-days.” The chandler/trader looks toward the door, where a tall thin man enters. “Good day, Nallar.”

  “Terrible day, Willum. Terrible day. Need to talk about lamps.”

  Dorrin scoops up the coins and slips them into his purse. Then he nods, “Good day, ser Willum.”

  Willum nods, but says nothing as he steps along the counter to meet Nallar. Roald looks away from Dorrin’s glance. Dorrin puts the empty saddlebags over his shoulder and steps around the heat of the stove, heading back out into the cold.

  Outside, he pauses. Now that he is truly selling toys, should he follow Quiller’s advice and join the Guild? With a sigh, he turns Meriwhen toward the harbor.

  The harbor has but three piers, and the Port Council building is at the foot of the center pier of the three, a gray wooden structure two stories high. Next to the Port Council building is the smaller, shedlike building that holds the Guild. After tying Meriwhen at the far end of the rail that also holds a larger bay, Dorrin edges through the slushy snow to the building. No matter how hard the snow is packed in upper Diev, near the shore it is slushier, even when the sea is choked with ice floes. Sometimes, a brave coaster will run the ice, but it is a run for only the most experienced.

  Dorrin opens the pine door, stamping his feet to remove the snow and slush, and looking around in the dim lamplight that contrasts with the cold brightness outside. Because he does not know what to expect, he carries his black staff.

  “Who ye be looking for, young fellow?” A gray-haired man stands up from shoveling coal into the stove.

  “I don’t know. Quiller told me I should come here.”

  “Quiller-the crazy toymaker? Why would he do that?” The gray-haired man closes the stove and walks toward Dorrin. He wears a heavy blue sweater that matches heavy blue trousers.

  “He said that if I made things, I should join the Guild.”

  “And who are you?”

  “My name is Dorrin; I’m a striker for Yarrl.”

  “Yarrl never joined the Guild. You need a sponsor.” The gray-haired man sighs. “Why do you think you need to join?”

  “Well… I’m making toys and selling them.”

  “To whom?” The man’s voice is sharper.

  “So far, just to Willum, the chandler.”

  “Oh… that’s all right. He belongs. Still…” The man frowns. “I suppose that could qualify as a form of sponsorship, and it’s clear you’re trying to do the right thing. Toys… probably an artisan, lower grade, I’d guess. That won’t break you, young fellow. It’s four coppers a year-until you sell more than ten golds. Then it’s a silver for the next year.”

  “Is there something on parchment I sign, ser?”

  “No sers, here. I’m Hasten. You can sign your name?”

  “Yes. I write a little also.”

  “Odd… never thought Yarrl was the type.”

  “Does it matter if I’m also an apprentice healer?”

  “Oh… dear… you’re that one. I should have guessed from the staff. No, it certainly doesn’t matter, ser. Not at all. Just a moment… if you do have the coppers?”

  Dorrin counts out four coppers and extends them.

  “Just a moment…” The older man fumbles across the desk with a quill and a square of parchment. “Free artisan… one Dorrin. Do you know how to spell that? Silly, of course you do, but would you spell it for me?”

  “D-O-R-R-I-N.” Dorrin tries not to frown as he still holds the coins, but the fear emanating from the trader is almost palpable.

  “Here you are.” Hasten hands Dorrin a parchment square. “That be your receipt of dues in good standing.”

  Dorrin hands him the four coppers. “Thank you, Hasten. I just wanted to do things right.”

  “I wish all… all folks would. You have a good day.”

  Dorrin realizes he has been dismissed. “You too.” He turns, opens the door, and shuts it behind him, trying not to shake his head. What has he done to make the older man so afraid? Could it have been the incident with Niso? Surely, people have killed thieves before?

  .Meriwhen whickers, and Dorrin shakes his head, almost to clear his thoughts. The mare does not like the chill breeze off the water. He resets the staff in the holder and remounts. Once back at Yard’s, he will have to brush Meriwhen and get the snow and ice out of her coat, especially along her legs. Then he will have to work late to catch up on the wagon work stacked along the smithy walls.

  Does he ever work less than late-one way or another?

  LXVIII

  A SMALL FIRE burns in the ancient and blackened hearth, warming slightly the half-circle of bedrolls in the way station. A guard sits upright by the half-shuttered single window, eyes flicking downhill and across the starlit snow and the dark line that is a stone wall beside the highway. A bow stands beside him, although it is not strung.

  “Crappy, frigging duty… hate that bastard Mortyl… out here trying to stop farm raids… chasing spirits… finding burned-out huts and barns… freezing our asses…” The words come from the bedroll nearest the fire.

  “Shut up, Vorban. You want to freeze your frigging tongue, you do it quiet.”

  “You couples got each other. You flaunt it, Sestal. All I got is this bitch winter, and she’s frigging cold.”

  “Shut up.” Sestal grins in the darkness at the lady blade he holds under their shared blankets.

  In the far corner Brede and Kadara lie side by side. Kadara’s lips are almost touching Brede’s left ear. “… will we ever get home? So tired of the ice and snow.”

  “… don’t like the cold much, either,” adds the sentry, “but why complain? Doesn’t help.”

  “I never saw so many starving people, or so many mean ones.” Kadara wriggles closer to him.

  “It has something to do with the White Wizards.”

  “Damn them. I want to go home. Lortren said a year.”

  “She said at least a year, but unless you want to cross the Westhorns in winter and walk to Sarronnyn or Suthya…”

  “We can’t take the wizards’ roads. I know, but it doesn’t make me any happier. I feel sometimes like I’ll die here. Yes, we can return after a year, if we could find a ship. Lortren and her lies!” Kadara’s voice hisses. “It’s fine for Dorrin and his damned machines. He has food and a warm bed.”

  “It looked pretty cold and empty to me. There’s not even a fireplace in his room. And he doesn’t have you.” Brede squeezes her shoulder.

  A loud cough fills the room.

  “Stop all the sweet talk. I want to sleep.”

  “You’re just jealous, Vorban,” Brede calls softly.

  “Demon-damned right. I’m frigging jealous, and even more frigging cold.”

  “Just go to sleep, Vorban. Or take my place, and let me go to sleep,” snaps the sentry.

  The way station settles back into low mumbles and an occasional snore.

  “Just hold me.” Kadara shakes as she whispers the words to Brede, and his arms go around her. “Just hold me.”

  Outside, the wind brushes feather-light snow across the road and walls, and the distant screech of a snow-hawk echoes under the distant unwinking stars. The sentry shifts his weight on the bench.

  LXIX

  “DORRIN?” REISA STANDS by the small slack tank, next to the smaller grindstone.

  Vaos continues pumping the bellows, and Dorrin holds the sledge, waiting as Yarrl turns the iron in the forge.

  “Your trader friend’s here to see you. It must be important.” Reisa grins briefly.

  Dorrin cannot keep the flush from running up his face. “It’ll have to wait until we finish these pieces.”

  “Demon-dark right,” grunts Yarrl.

  “She’ll be in the kitchen. It’s too cold to wait outside.”

  Yarrl watches the iron until it reaches cherry red, then deftly turns it onto the bottom swage set in the anvil’s hardie hol
e. He brings the top swage into place. Dorrin begins striking with the sledge. Despite the chill that lurks around the edge of the smithy, he is sweating heavily even before Yarrl returns the iron to the forge. When the iron is again ready, they resume.

  How much later it is when the wagon crane frame is finished, Dorrin does not know, only that his threadbare shirt is soaked, and Vaos has stopped pumping and scurried out for another basket of charcoal.

  “Light-Fired awkward thing.” Yarrl has set his tongs aside. The crane frame lies tempered and cooling on the forge bricks. “Makes cart loading easier, Honsard says.” He coughs. “Go talk to your friend. Only need Vaos for the bolts. You can grind the edges and file it later-or tomorrow.”

  “Appreciate it.” After wiping his face with the back of his forearm, Dorrin steps out into the cold, cloudy afternoon, his sweat almost freezing as he crosses the gap in the snow piles and takes the steps to the porch and kitchen. He cleans his boots before entering.

  The large room is warmer than the smithy, since it has no drafts and since Reisa has been baking.

  “Use the wash stand first,” Reisa orders dryly. “I won’t make you use the well.”

  “Thank you, mistress of the house.”

  “Don’t forget it.”

  Liedral grins as Dorrin steps into the corner where the wash stand sits in the winter months. After finishing, he looks at the dark water, shaking his head. Then he walks to the door and down to the well. After breaking the ice with the heavy iron chunk on the rope, he fills two buckets and sets them on the bottom step while he ducks into his room and changes from his ragged smithy shut into one more presentable. Then he carries the buckets up the steps into the kitchen with the empty basin.

  “I think you did that to get more water,” he says with a smile.

  Reisa gestures to the table. “Sit down and have a slice of fresh bread. I opened some preserves. Darkness knows whether what we have will last until the trees fruit. Sure won’t get much from the harbor markets.” Reisa pours one bucket full of icy water into the big water kettle on the stove.

  Dorrin sits across from Liedral. “How did you get here? I thought you said you’d have to come by sea.”