Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Using the cold water from the spring, he strips to his waist and washes up as well as he can, still avoiding the mosquitoes, and carries his shovel and work shirt as he trudges through the bushes and low growth back downhill.

  He wishes he could do more, but he needs to gather another assortment of spices and deliver them to Vyrnil, not to mention checking with Rylla to see if she needs him for any of those who may come for her services. Some of the early corn is already being harvested, and there are always harvest injuries. He glances back uphill at the spring. Will he ever be able to put all the pieces together? The house and workroom are framed and roofed and even glazed, and the plasterer has finished. But outside of the forge, a stove he has built himself, and a bed, a table, and two chairs, he has no furniture.

  He stops beside the stable; he has not fed Meriwhen. Setting the shovel back in the barn and draping his damp shirt over the stall wall, he fills her manger with hay. Then he levers the top off the grain barrel and uses the wooden scoop to fill the smaller section of the manger.

  Whufff…

  “I know. I was late this morning. Better late than never.” Dorrin looks at the water barrel, still a third full. He can refill that later.

  He still has to gather the spices, bundle and package them and write out the labels for the trader-and get to Rylla’s. He closes the stall, picks up his shirt, and heads toward the nearly empty house.

  After leaving his boots on the small covered porch, he steps into the kitchen, glancing at the papers by the box on the corner of the table. He picks up the letter, frowning again at the signs of tampering. Why are the Whites so interested in Liedral’s letters-and presumably his to her?

  His eyes skip down the page.

  … run to Sligo was profitable enough, but it was lonely. I did pick up some fine black wool, almost as good as what they grow in Recluce… These days I seem to miss you more, even when I am busy. Jellico is quieter than when you were here, and Freidr has been encouraging me to travel more… especially after the Sligo trip…

  … word is that things have settled on the borders between Gallos and Spidlar… but the word is that trade is still not safe… except by sea… and that gets expensive…

  … perhaps after harvest I can work out something .. love you and miss you…

  His own letter-carefully set in the top of the writing box- is not finished, not with the care he must take in writing something that is clearly being read.

  Why are the White Wizards so interested in a lady trader and a toymaker and smith? Even if he could make his machines, and his steam engine, he certainly cannot make very many. And even if he does, neither Fairhaven nor Recluce want them… so who would use them besides himself?

  He looks out the window toward the healer’s. Wool gathering will not get the herbs gathered and bundled, or the harvest injuries treated and healed. Or the iron work waiting at Yard’s done.

  LXXXIX

  THE WHITE MISTS swirl away and reveal the fall brown grasses of the upland meadows somewhere north of Fenard and south of Elparta. In the center of the mirror, a trader’s wagon plods southward. A red-haired woman drives the wagon, and a thin dark man rides beside.

  Over the top of the hill waits another group, wearing the dark green tunics of Certis. As the wagon nears the hill crest, the riders fan and charge toward the two traders.

  Just as quickly, the redhead halts the wagon, and two men with bows throw off brown cloths, aiming their arrows at the charging raiders. A pair of swords appears in the hands of the redhead, and from behind the raiders Spidlarian guards appear, led by a blond giant who strews bodies before him.

  Not a single Certan raider survives. As the shovels appear for gravedigging, Jeslek waves his hand, and the image vanishes from the mirror. “Bah… no magic at all. Just good tactics and cleverness. No one survives; no bodies are found, and the rumor spreads that the Spidlarians are using magic.”

  “It doesn’t exactly help to tell that to either the Viscount or the Prefect,” observes Anya from the chair by the window.

  “Or to admit it took more than a season and magic to figure it out,” adds Fydel. “That’s hard when they claim to have lost nearly a hundred men over the last two seasons.”

  “Do we know who is responsible?” asks the normally quiet Cerryl. “Beyond the obvious?” He gestures toward the blank mirror.

  “Our… sources in Spidlar would indicate that most of the damage has been caused by one squad formed for this purpose last spring. Supposedly, the squad leader and assistant are outcasts from Recluce.”

  “Supposedly? That’s rich! They exile two people, and those two people just happen to be in the right spot to block everything. Do you really believe that, Jeslek?” asks Fydel.

  Jeslek does not correct Fydel’s mathematics. “I said supposedly.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “Now… nothing.” He holds up a hand to forestall objections. “I’m not playing Jenred’s waiting game. But do any of you really want a winter war?”

  Headshakes cross the tower room.

  “Once the roads clear in spring, I will personally direct our forces in the invasion of Spidlar. Over the winter, we should step up efforts to close off as much trade as possible-and, as possible, minimize the impact of Recluce’s meddling.” He smiles at Fydel. “We need to make it a hard winter indeed in Spidlar.”

  “Spidlar isn’t the real enemy; Recluce is,” reminds Fydel.

  “You and I know who the real enemies are.” Jeslek smiles with his mouth. “And their time will come.”

  “So clever, and so cryptic,” murmurs Anya under her breath.

  Jeslek’s eyes fall on her, and her lips are silent. His eyes glitter, and she shivers. Fydel swallows, and Cerryl looks out the tower window.

  XC

  DORRIN TURNS ON the pallet. He should get up. The forge at his own smithy must be finished, and he needs to find someone else to buy his toys, and harvest is approaching, and Yarrl will need help…

  “Ooooo…” He is hot, so hot. But he cannot seem to move.

  “Easy, Dorrin. You need to rest.”

  Something cold presses his forehead, easing the fever, and he drops into darkness. When he wakes, his forehead is hot, but dry. Someone is talking.

  “He was up there in the hills, setting up that fancy water system, and the mosquitoes got him. There’d be too many even for our smith mage to ward off, I’d say. Oh… you’re waking, are ye?” Rylla leans over and sponges off his forehead. The coolness is welcome, more than welcome. “Drink this.” She thrusts a mug at his lips.

  “What… is…it?”

  “Cider with willow bark and astra. It tastes terrible, but you need it.”

  Dorrin drinks, very slowly, trying to ignore the bitterness. He finishes the concoction, and leans back, marveling at the effort merely to drink.

  He is not aware of exactly when he falls asleep or even when he wakes, except the sky outside is gray, and rain patters lightly on the roof.

  This time Vaos sits on the stool by the bed. “You awake?”

  “Sort of…”

  “I’ll be right back.” The boy scampers from the room, but returns after a time, slightly damp, with Rylla.

  The healer studies the smith, touches his forehead. “You’ll heal. Wasn’t totally sure about that before, but you’re built like your forge inside.” She turns to Vaos. “About half of them that get the hill fever die in the first couple of days. The rest live.”

  “Wonderful,” groans Dorrin.

  “Have some more of this,” orders Rylla.

  “Ugghhh…” But Dorrin drinks another mug of the bitter mixture.

  “Keep him drinking the clean water, boy,” she addresses Vaos. “And don’t let him do anything but rest. Reisa will get me home now. He’ll get well by himself. Just be quiet.” The healer nods to Dorrin and leaves.

  The smith rests, and sleeps, and wakes.

  Vaos is not there when Dorrin wakes, but a mug filled with cool w
ater is on the table beside the narrow bed. Dorrin’s hand shakes, but he manages to get the mug. He is sipping the water when Vaos peers into the room.

  The youngster slips onto the stool. “Vyrnil came by. I said you were away. He wants something new. He left a sketch of it-says it’s something he saw on a Hamorian ship.”

  “Why don’t you get the sketch?”

  “The old healer said you weren’t supposed to do anything.”

  “I can think,” Dorrin snorts, ignoring the blurriness the gesture creates. “Go on. I won’t move.” That is true enough. He is scarcely in any shape to move anywhere, thanks to whatever fever the mosquitoes carried.

  Before Dorrin has even thought much about moving, the strawberry-haired youngster has returned with the sketch.

  “This is it.”

  Dorrin squints. The drawing does not seem to make much sense at first. “Turn it the other way.”

  Vaos complies, but the lines still make little sense to Dorrin.

  “He said that it’s a better way to sight the sun. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Dorrin frowns, a glint of understanding trying to emerge from his still-fevered brain. “Perhaps I will.” He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, Vaos has set down the sketch.

  “Why can’t you heal yourself?” Vaos sits on the stool.

  “Can you lift yourself off that stool?” growls Dorrin.

  “Sure.” Vaos hops from the stool. (

  “No,” says Dorrin slowly. “Sit down.”

  Vaos’s eyebrows lift, but he sits.

  “Put your hands on your belt, and lift.”

  “Nothing happens.”

  “If I were well, could I lift you by your belt?”

  “Ah… yes.”

  “Healing’s the same way. You can only do it to others. Mostly,” Dorrin adds.

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know, and I’m too tired to think about it now.” Dorrin leans back on the pillows and closes his eyes.

  XCI

  DORRIN RUBS HIS forehead, trying to reduce the throbbing in his head. Why has it taken so long to heal from a fever? All he has been able to do is move his few things into the new house-not even much in the way of light smithing-and the moving .wouldn’t have been possible without Vaos. He wants to slam his fist into the wobbly wooden table.

  Instead, he sips the bitter mixture from the battered mug beside his writing box. He sets the mug down, picks up the sheet, and reads silently.

  Liedral-

  I am sorry it has taken a while to answer your latest letter, but I have been ill with a mosquito fever. I hope that, by the time you receive this, I will be fully back at work.

  The house is finished. It should not take too much more work to finish the forge itself. The anvil was the expensive part! Do you know how much eleven stone of solid iron weighs? I also need more tools. Some of the hammers, like the straight and cross peen ones, I have already made for myself, and I have three sets of tongs. I also have some hot sets and some forks and swages and fullers-but not nearly enough. Most of what I have made from the toys and other devices has been spent. Being sick has not helped at all.

  The house seems empty, even with Vaos living in the room off the smithy. I look forward to your coming when you can, and trust you will find the storage arrangements suitable for all that you might desire. Yarrl and Reisa have made a number of observations about the now-unused space, and Meriwhen is lonely. They often ask when you will be coming.

  I recall when you saw the bird, and I had to catch the cart on the road to Jellico. That bird is still out there, flying around, I am certain, but we are not together.

  Dorrin rubs his forehead again. What else can he say that will warn Liedral and not tell the readers of his letter that he knows it is being read? He takes another sip of the medicinal potion. He is stronger-that he can tell-but not strong enough to lift hammers for long. He dips the quill and resumes writing.

  Thrap…

  He looks up at the sound, glimpsing a figure through the small window that opens onto his too-small porch.

  “Coming.” He rises slowly, letting bare feet carry him to the door.

  “At least you’re up.” Kadara’s face is smudged, and her blue uniform is soiled. Beside her, Brede appears equally travel-stained.

  “Come on in.”

  “You look like something the light fried.” Kadara sits on one end of the crude bench on the other side of the table.

  Brede closes the door and takes the other end of the bench.

  “Thank you,” Dorrin says.

  “For what?”

  “You came right after you arrived, didn’t you? You both look like you’ve been riding for a long time.”

  “We have,” Brede admits.

  “Success is worse than failure.” Kadara’s voice is hard. “The better we get, the more they give us to do.”

  “I’ve got some cider.” Dorrin walks toward the cooling tank in the comer of the kitchen and pulls the jug from the icy water. “If scold.”

  “You put running water in here?”

  “Such as it is. That’s what got me sick. There were too many mosquitoes up in the hills when I put in the catch basin and piping.” Dorrin pours cider into two crude glass tumblers, handing one to Kadara and the other to Brede.

  “Why did you bother? Spidlar will be gone in a year, and we’ll be on the run.” Kadara pours down half a glass. “Darkness, that’s good.”

  “Hrnrnmm,” adds Brede.

  Dorrin waits and refills both glasses. Then he sits down, trying not to wipe his forehead. “The Council won’t give in to the Whites.”

  “They won’t have much choice. They’ve posted notice of spring levies in Certis, Kyphros, Montgren, and Gallos.”

  “Has the Council recalled Spidlarian mercenaries from other duchies?”

  Brede and Kadara exchange glances.

  “They have, but the Whites are making it hard for them to return?”

  Brede nods. “We’ll get some back, but some have no desire to get ground down under the levies in the spring.”

  “Levies aren’t as good as fully trained troops,” Dorrin points out.

  “No, but there are a lot more of the levies.”

  “And we can’t even get the darkness out of here,” snaps Kadara. The cider splashes onto the table when she sets down the tumbler. “There aren’t any ships to Recluce, and Suthya and Sarronnyn have refused to allow anyone from Recluce to land there.”

  “Why?” Dorrin raises his eyebrows.

  “Fairhaven is paying top golds for grain, but the ban is part of the agreement. We tried to book passage to Rulyarth.”

  “It’s going to be a long and cold winter,” Dorrin says.

  “And a bloody spring.”

  “Can you stop them?”

  Brede shrugs. “Do you have any machines that would help?”

  “No. Nothing I can make would help.”

  “What good-” Kadara breaks off as Brede’s eyes catch hers. “I’m sorry.”

  “Let me think about it.” He finishes his medicine and refills his mug with cider. “Darkness… I can’t even make a sword, you know?” Dorrin holds up his hands helplessly. “Maybe I can think of something else.”

  “Well…” Kadara says, “we heard you were sick.”

  Dorrin raises his eyebrows.

  Brede coughs. “It was… sort of a joke…”

  “I see. The wonderful healer can’t even heal himself?”

  Brede looks down.

  “That’s all right. My own helper asked me the same question. It sounds stupid, but that’s the way it works.”

  Brede stands up. “We really need to get back to the barracks. We’re only here to get back up to strength and to resupply.”

  “How long?”

  “An eight-day, if we’re lucky.” Brede steps toward the door.

  “Dreamer,” mumbles Kadara. “We’ll be out again in three days.” She drains the last of the cider.
“Damned good cider.” Then she too stands and heads for the door.

  “Take care,” Dorrin says. What else can he say? It is as though they are slipping away from him.

  “You, too, Dorrin.”

  He watches from the door as they ride through the cold misting rain. Mud streaks both their horses and their trousers and boots. His eyes flicker to the muddy streaks on the once-clean plank floor. After he rests, then he will mop it again. And after he finishes the letter to Liedral.

  A long cold winter, and a bloody spring-wonderful.

  XCII

  THE COLD RAIN that seems more like early winter than autumn continues to pour down. Except near the forge, the air in the smithy is damp. Vaos pushes the wheelbarrow inside, stops to close the door, and then wheels the load of charcoal up the forge. Rek pulls the bellows lever. Yarrl turns the iron on the anvil, and Dorrin strikes the cherry-red metal.

  Yarrl returns the iron to the forge. Dorrin sets down the sledge and wipes his forehead. Usually, the heat doesn’t get to him so much, but his weakness may be from his hill fever.

  “So when are you going to open your own smithy and take work from me? You got your house about done.” Yarrl’s attempt at humor does not hide, his concern. “Keep pumping, Rek.” The smith turns the iron in the tongs.

  Dorrin wipes his forehead again. “I’m wearing out poor Meriwhen riding back and forth.” He wants to add some humor, but his words sound flat.

  “It’s a nice house. You do good work. The lady trader will like it.”

  “I hope so, but I haven’t asked her.” Dorrin coughs. “But I won’t be taking work from you. Vymil is asking for more of my toys, more intricate ones, and Jasolt wants something different. He wants me to duplicate some navigation device used by the Hamorians. He sent me a picture, or something.” Dorrin pauses as the older smith takes the iron from the forge and lays it upon the bottom fuller. Then Dorrin lifts the light sledge.

  Clunnngggg… clunnggg…

  When Yarrl returns the iron to the coals, Dorrin continues. “I wouldn’t take work from you.”