Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “He never did.” Brede turns his mount back in the direction of Kleth. “We’ll try your gadgets again, as soon as possible. There’s a chance they won’t rerig the barges immediately.” He urges his horse toward the main body.

  “Is it always like this?” Dorrin asks Kadara, as she waits for the bodies to be tied to the dead troopers’ horses.

  “Hardly.” Kadara’s laugh is harsh. “This was a victory, if you can call it that. Sometimes we lose, especially if they have White Wizards with them. They don’t like the water much.”

  Dorrin ponders, still rubbing his forehead. He and Kadara have wiped out nearly four score of the enemy, with a handful of losses. “Why can’t we get those other levies?”

  “We would, if they were on this side of the river. We didn’t leave anyone on that side. Too much danger of getting trapped between the road and the river with all their levies.”

  Dorrin does not understand.

  “Look, Dorrin. To wipe out the three score levies left there would take every archer we’ve got on this side of the river, and Brede can’t afford to get them this far away from our main body. He’s been hoping to make it so costly that they’ll get tired.”

  “They won’t,” Dorrin says.

  “No. I know they won’t. So does Brede. But the more we can wound or kill without heavy losses on our part before we have to fight a real battle, the better our chances.”

  “We need to set the wires up and find the next place, but this time, let’s try it just before the narrow point.” Dorrin looks at the canvas-wrapped bundles behind him.

  “You think they’ll be expecting it the same way as before?”

  “I hope so.”

  “So do I.”

  As they ride downstream, Dorrin does not look toward the river and what may float in it, concentrating on what he must do to assemble and test his steam engine, and knowing he is a coward to think about a way of escape.

  CXXXIX

  DORRIN SADDLES MERIWHEN, reflecting on the previous day’s efforts on the river. The second time, the traps were not nearly so effective, and Kadara’s squad lost another five people, killing only a score of Certan levies. Even after an uneasy night’s sleep, he still carries a headache into the dawn. Even more unfortunately, the whole White force has used the river to move another five kays closer to Kleth.

  Liedral waits with her cart outside the stable when Dorrin leads Meriwhen into the spring drizzle. The quiver is propped beside her, and her bow is strung, but both are covered with oilcloth against the rain. He walks the mare up beside the wagon where Liedral stands and gives her a quick hug.

  “Brede wants you to stay?” Liedral slips out of his embrace.

  “Probably. But I can’t do any more for him here, and I’m trying to develop some gunpowder bombs that he can use.”

  “That’s dangerous. What happens if the Whites find out that you’re working on it?” Liedral shudders.

  “That depends. If they’re close enough to fire it, I’m dead. But from what I recall from the old books and what I’ve figured out, they have to be almost in sight of you. Theoretically, I suppose, if I could figure out something that didn’t explode until all the parts- Anyway, I can’t. But I’ve got another idea, and I’ll bring it back here for Brede.”

  He sniffs. Even in the predawn light, the faint smell of fire permeates Kleth, carried northward in advance of the Whites and their horde, although it may be two eight-days or more before they reach the second river city, since they are systematically destroying all holdings on each side of the river.

  Slowly, Dorrin swings into the saddle, wishing he could do more, and simultaneously wishing he didn’t have to worry about the conflict between Fairhaven and Spidlar. Liedral flicks the reins and leads the way past the armory and toward the street that will lead to the west road to Diev.

  “There he goes, the demon smith… swear it’s him, the one who turned the river into a slaughterhouse…” The words echo across the predawn light.

  “Wizards always hurry out…” Metal clinks dully against metal.

  “From what I heard, that one will probably come back with more troubles, just like a tin copper…”

  “Syriol says he’s killed a score of men with that staff…”

  “Who’s the other one?”

  “Some trader… Some say he saved him from the wizards… others say the trader fled Jellico…”

  “… think the wizard likes men…”

  “Let him like what he wants… just leave us alone…”

  Liedral’s countenance is impassive, and Dorrin lets the words drift by in the chill air. Before long they have passed onto the churned and packed mud of the road that will lead them home-if any place can be considered home in the face of the White assault.

  They see no one during the first twenty kays, just footprints, hoof prints, and an occasional wagon track, but the wagon tracks were laid down earlier and have been overlaid with later imprints.

  When they stop by a creek crossed by a narrow stone bridge, Dorrin leads Meriwhen down to the water, but is careful not to let her drink too heavily at first. He fills a bucket from the cart and brings it back to the road.

  “Thank you,” says Liedral. She holds the cart horse’s reins to ensure that the gelding does not try to drink all the cold water instantly. “Are we trying to ride straight through?”

  “Maybe not straight through, but only short breaks. This road is going to get more and more dangerous.”

  “And you plan to come back?”

  “Brede and Kadara need me.”

  “What about us? What about your engine?”

  Dorrin takes a deep breath. “I still don’t have the engine quite completed, and we need to get the parts to the ship.”

  “Are you going to rename it? Harthagay doesn’t seem exactly… I don’t know… it doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Probably. I don’t know what, yet. Until the engine’s in place, all we have is a hull.” He leads Meriwhen back down to the creek for more water.

  Liedral watches, checking the road ahead-still empty. She opens the pack and removes the cheese, and the cheese slicer. When Dorrin returns, she offers him several slices and a chunk of bread. They eat silently.

  Finally, Dorrin asks. “Are you ready?”

  She nods.

  Late afternoon comes before they find other travelers.

  Through the drizzle that is beginning to fall, a group of figures struggles through the mud that covers the road. A half-dozen adults and nearly as many children slog through the dark mud. The children slip often on the downhill slope. Liedral drives the cart as much on the shoulder as on the road as they near the group.

  As Dorrin watches, two of the men slip to the side of the road and let the others plod onward.

  “You see that?” Liedral asks.

  “Yes. Just keep driving. I’m going to try something.” Dorrin concentrates, slowly wraps the light around him, easing Meriwhen closer to the cart.

  The short and stocky man bears a curved blade that has no sheath, while the tall man brandishes a cudgel.

  As he lifts the cudgel, the tall man steps forward, within three paces of the slowly moving cart. “We’d have that cart. We need it far more than ye.”

  “That may be,” Liedral says coolly, “but it’s not yours.” She has the bow in her hands, and the arrow ready.

  “You use that bow, pretty boy, and the rest will pull you down,” blusters the tall man.

  “Now… be a good boy-”

  Dorrin eases Meriwhen closer, then drops his concealment and strikes.

  Crack… The cudgel drops into the mud from the force of the staff. The tall man holds a dangling wrist with his other hand. His eyes gape as he sees the dark figure on horseback. “Darkness…”

  “You could call it that,” Dorrin snaps, reeling in his saddle, eyes burning and head aching.

  The short man steps forward, and Dorrin forces back the burning in his eyes as he parries the awkwardly
swinging blade, then thrusts to disarm the second traveler.

  Neither Liedral nor Dorrin has to do more, as the entire group of refugees scrambles out of the road. Dorrin rubs his forehead, trying to massage away the results of his violence with the staff.

  “Where did you learn that trick?”

  “I’ve been practicing. It’s hard, though. I can’t see. So I sort of have to feel where I am, and I’m not all that good at it.” He continues to watch the refugees, but none of them even look at the cart and horseman. A woman in gray tatters tries to bind the broken wrist of the tall man.

  Dorrin’s head continues to pound-but what else could he have done? Force-always force. Is force the only thing anyone in Candar respects?

  Wheee… eeeee…

  Dorrin pats Meriwhen on the neck. “Easy, girl.”

  “How much longer?”

  Dorrin tries to calculate, despite the headache. “Too long.”

  “How long is too long?” Liedral asks dryly. “That doesn’t say much.”

  “You’ve traveled this road more than I have. How long do you think?”

  “With this mud… we’ll be lucky if we can make it in another day.”

  “That’s too long,” Dorrin says.

  “I think you’re right.”

  Neither looks back as they plod through the drizzle and the mud.

  CXL

  DORRIN STRUGGLES OUT to Yard’s wagon with another section of black iron, easing it onto the bed. The wagon creaks under the weight.

  Vaos stands in the mud by the wagon, wiping his forehead in the still air. “Need any more, master Dorrin?”

  “That’s all for this trip. Should only take one more.” Dorrin glances toward the north. So far the spring sky is clear. His eyes shift to the herb garden he has not touched. There is only so much he can do, and, if by some miracle Brede should halt the White hordes, they have more than enough herbs for the year. Besides, the perennials will continue without his help.

  Frisa stands on the porch, scratching between Gilda’s ears. The goat is chained to the corner post. “Can I ride with you, master Dorrin?”

  “Not this time, Frisa.” Dorrin closes the tailgate and climbs onto the wagon seat.

  “You come inside and get your jacket, you imp,” calls Merga from the kitchen.

  Dorrin grins and flicks the reins. Slowly, slowly, the wagon groans its way out of the yard and downhill toward the stone-paved road. As he turns onto the road, he must swing wide to avoid a group of men and women who trudge toward Diev. In the group are three children.

  None even look at the wagon as they put one foot in front of the other, one in front of the other. Their clothes, well-made, are still filthy from the mud of the road, and they all, even the children, bear good-sized packs.

  Dorrin looks back up the Kleth road, squinting, and sending his perceptions. There are others walking his way. He concentrates on the road, guiding the wagon down toward lower Diev, even as his thoughts center on the refugees. If Brede cannot hold Kleth, there will be more, many more.

  The wagon rumbles past the Red Lion, with its windows unshuttered and open, and past the Tankard, which is also open and serving.

  Dorrin smiles wryly. For now, the war is providing business for Kyril and also for the Tankard’s owner. For now.

  “A copper, good ser… a copper, for the sake of the good darkness…” Beyond the Tankard, a stopped woman with two children at her ankles cries for his coins. He carries few coins, and he cannot help all those who beg.

  Only a single small ship-a sloop with tall masts-is berthed at the piers. Fast and small, clearly a smuggler. A well-made wooden carriage sits at the foot of the pier. Dorrin turns the wagon toward Tyrel’s.

  On the hillside to the west of the shipwright’s are several ragged tents, and a thin and bearded man watches as the wagon rolls into the yard and up to the blocked Harthagay. Dorrin pulls on the reins, and the brake, and the wagon creaks to a halt.

  The ship’s name will have to change, but names are not his highest concern right now.

  Liedral waits, her hand on the blade she has begun to carry once more. Dorrin looks at the staff by his feet.

  “Any problems?” she asks.

  “No. But more refugees are beginning to walk the road from Kleth. Did you see the smuggler in the harbor?”

  “It’s Drein. He’ll go anywhere if the coins are high enough.”

  “Someone with a carriage was talking passage, I think.”

  “There will be more.” Liedral looks toward the yard where the Harthagay still rests on blocks out of the water. “Once she’s in the water, you’ll need guards.” She gestures toward the hillside. “People are going to be getting more and more desperate.”

  “The way things are going, if Brede can’t stop the Whites, we probably should think about moving everyone down here, and my smithy stuff. At least within the next eight-day. Do you want to talk to Tyrel about it while I get the last load? Or should I?”

  Liedral smiles. “I already have. He’d actually feel better if you did. He’s banking on you to get him out of here.”

  “I think everyone is.”

  “How many can you take?”

  “A score, maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t finished assembling the engine. I don’t know if it works. I still have to finish Brede’s damnable devices, and now I have to think about moving everything out of the house and smithy.” Dorrin climbs off the wagon and begins to lead the mismatched team through the gate and up alongside the ship.

  “You don’t like what you’ve done for Brede?”

  “Darkness, no. You know that. Forging things to kill people? Or to stop them from killing more people? What an awful ‘choice.” He ties the horses to the post!

  “That’s life.” Liedral smiles a tight smile. “I didn’t think you cared much for the Whites.”

  “I don’t. But so far, I don’t think anything I’ve forged has killed any Whites-just soldiers, just their tools.”

  “We all make a choice of what we serve.”

  “And I thought making caltrops was bad.” He shudders, then takes a deep breath and lets down the tailgate. “It doesn’t make sense. I still can’t really handle an edged weapon, but I can forge something that’s worse.”

  “Could you make another pair of those slicers?”

  Dorrin thinks, then shudders. “It would be hard. I don’t know.”

  “There’s your answer.”

  He looks puzzled for a minute. “You mean, in a way, I have to learn what’s destructive?”

  “You have to teach your feelings through experience. Isn’t that how we all learn?”

  Dorrin frowns as he eases the curved iron that will protect the condenser from the wagon.

  Tyrel and his apprentice step into the sunlight. “Don’t work so hard, master Dorrin. We’ll use the hoist and swing this stuff up.”

  Dorrin sets down the iron and waits.

  Liedral grins at him. After a moment, he grins back.

  CXLI

  WITH THE HEAVY tongs, Dorrin turns the plate and nods to Vaos. The striker brings down the hammer as they begin to fuller the iron into a sheet not much thicker than three or four sheets of parchment.

  After several reheatings in the forge, the plate reaches the right thickness. Then Dorrin takes the bench shears and trims it, uses the flatter to rough-smooth the edges before setting it on the bricks to anneal. They begin work on the next plate.

  “How many… of these?” pants Vaos.

  “Thirty-six,” Dorrin says.

  “What are they for?”

  “You don’t want to know.” The smith neither wants to explain, nor to dwell on the specifics of what they are forging. That he must forge something so destructive because he can find no other solutions is bad enough. Equally important, if Vaos does not know what they are forging, he cannot reveal it.

  Vaos rolls his eyes and lifts the hammer. Dorrin slips the hot iron onto the anvil and nods.

  By midday, both
are soaked with sweat, even though the late spring day is cool. As he sets aside the tongs, Dorrin looks at the stack of thin iron plates. Welding and forging them into black iron boxes will be neither quick nor easy. Should he just punch and rivet the sections together? Will it make that much difference? Rivets will do. He sets the tongs in the rack. “Time for something to eat… and drink.”

  Vaos slowly racks the sledge, then rubs one shoulder blade and then the other. “We doing more after dinner?”

  “It’s fine work, no more heavy fullering until tomorrow. We still haven’t finished all the plates.”

  The two walk out into the breeze, cool despite the bright and cloudless green-blue sky.

  “Don’t forget to wash up,” Dorrin says.

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Mistress Liedral rode over to see Reisa. That’s what she said,” announces Frisa as Dorrin passes the porch.

  “Did she say what she was doing?” asks the smith.

  “No.”

  “Did she take the cart?”

  “She rode like you do. She even had a sword.”

  Dorrin pauses. Liedral has always preferred the bow. Sword? Reisa? Is Reisa doing her best to train Liedral and perhaps Petra?

  He splashes cold water from the new tap across his face. Despite his precautions, the old tap had frozen and snapped, leaving a large pool of water in the middle of the yard once the ice thawed. The new tap is no better than the old, but he did not want to spend the time to design and forge something better- not while he is trying to split his time between the smithy, where he must spend some time on paying work, such as it is, and on Brede’s infernal devices, and trie shipyard, where he is trying to assemble his engine. He is already paying two men whom Pergun and Asavah recommended to help Tyrel guard the shipwright’s yard.

  “Oooffff…” Dorrin wobbles from his squatting position, almost sprawling onto the damp stones around the water tap. He turns and looks at the small white goat. The chain is just long enough to reach from the bottom post of the porch stairs to the water tap.