The Magic Engineer (15 page)

“What’s Spidlar like?” asks Dorrin.

“A bit like everywhere else in Candar,” Liedral muses. “Except their Council still hasn’t knuckled under to Fairhaven. They’re stiff-necked, even more so than Axalt. And they’re basically orderly. That might be because they’re all merchants and traders.”

“I wouldn’t think of merchants and traders as orderly,” Dorrin says, swatting at a mosquito that whines behind his neck.

“Did you put on that lotion?”

“I forgot.” Dorrin twists in the saddle in an effort to reach the right saddlebag. As he holds the front rim of the saddle with his left hand and unfastens the buckle with the right, the mosquito attacks, and Dorrin slaps it with his left, nearly falling off Meriwhen and onto the cart.

The trader’s hand covers a laugh.

“Are you clowning or trying to get yourself killed?”
Kadara’s voice is sardonic, but Dorrin senses her concern.

“Some of each, I guess.” Dorrin finally extracts the flask from the saddlebag, managing to keep Meriwhen on the narrow road. “You never answered my question about why traders are orderly.”

Liedral eases the cart to the right as the road narrows, the right wheel barely clearing the rocks. Dorrin drops back until they complete the turn.

“Honest and orderly traders make more money, especially away from Fairhaven. I couldn’t exactly tell you why. Probably because people trust them. Spidlarian traders have a good reputation—shrewd but honest. But they have trouble around here. The traders tied up with the White Wizards—they’re mostly Certan and Lydian—have too many advantages. They can use the great roads with lower tolls, and the port at Lydiar. Belonging to the Fairhaven guild means you don’t pay fees in each city; and you can sell in Fairhaven itself, and that’s a big advantage.”

“How come the Spidlarians don’t belong?”

“The Spidlarians are mostly seafarers and don’t need the great roads, and the White Wizards didn’t want trouble with Analeria, Kyphros, and Spidlar at the same time.”

“But Kyphros is part of Gallos,” interjects Brede from behind the cart.

“Tell that to the Kyphrans,” Liedral snorts.

“And Spidlar has managed to avoid knuckling under to Fairhaven.”

“For nearly two centuries…until the Whites finished their damned road through the Easthorns. Your founder Creslin slowed that down a bit, I understand. But, with this mountain-building business, the Spidlarians are worried—or they ought to be.”

“Why do they care? It sounds like all they do is buy and sell. Fairhaven would still let them do that.”

“They’d have to do it Fairhaven’s way, and the Spidlarians want to sell their way. They sell everything—even soldiers. Probably more Spidlarians work as mercenaries in other parts of Candar than serve in the Council’s army. Somehow, it’s almost a disgrace to be a professional soldier in Spidlar.”

“But it’s all right elsewhere?”

“I didn’t say it made sense.” Liedral lifts the reins, urging the cart horse onward. “Besides, they get paid more elsewhere.” She glances at the thicker clouds to the west. “I’d really like to be clear of the hills before that rain comes in.”

“Hmmmm…” Brede pulls at his chin. “That might mean the best blades are also elsewhere.”

“I don’t like this,” offers Kadara.

“You won’t like starving, either.”

“What about Dorrin?”

The healer shrugs. “Most places, they need healers. I’d rather work for a smith, though.”

All three look at the thin youth.

“I’m stronger than I look. Even your father said so.”

The trader’s eyebrows lift, even as Liedral’s eyes flicker again to the clouds.

“Hegl was a smith. He taught me a lot.”

“Did all three of you grow up together?”

“No,” Brede says. “I met them later.”

“Why are you worried about the clouds?” asks Dorrin, edging Meriwhen closer to the cart.

“There’s still a lot of snow and ice in the rock.” Liedral glances back toward the ice-tipped peaks of the Easthorns, back in the general direction of Axalt. “Warm rain—and that’s what’s coming—could melt it quick.” The low ice-edged stream runs less than three cubits below the road.

“How much farther?”

“Until midday. The clouds will be here by midmorning.”

“The rain won’t start melting things all at once.”

“Let’s hope not.” Liedral flicks the reins. “We need to get out of the canyon before it rains hard.”

Dorrin nudges Meriwhen.

They have covered another five kays before a fine mist begins to fall, so fine that the rock walls facing north begin to take on an icy sheen.

Liedral picks up the pace, pushing the cart horse on the straight stretches between curves. “Just a few more kays,” the trader mutters as the cart wheel scrapes the canyon rocks yet again.

“Until what?” asks Brede.

“Until we’re safe. From the flood, that is.”

A drop of warmer water splats on Dorrin’s nose. “It’s raining.”

“We’ve noticed.” Kadara shifts in her saddle and closes her jacket, dropping slightly farther behind the cart. Brede eases back with her, and the hum of low voices is lost in the growing hiss of the rain and in the rushing of the small river to the left of the road.

As they plod through the rain, the river cuts deeper into the stone so that, another three kays toward the hilly plains of Spidlar, the road runs nearly thirty cubits higher than the waters.

“We’re past the worst, praise darkness. And just in time.” Liedral points to her right.

From the road, Dorrin follows Liedral’s finger. Almost as he watches, the water begins to rise, climbing until the bottom of the canyon is filled with white froth. Occasionally, a blackened tree bounces across or emerges from the froth, only to be swirled under. The rain pelts down, seeping under his collar and oozing down his back. “How long will this go on?”

“Why don’t you tell us?” asks Kadara.

Dorrin’s flush is lost in the wind-swirled rain. He sends his perceptions into the storm, the way his father taught him, but can only sense the heaviness above and around them. “Too much water,” he gasps.

“So it will continue for a while?” Brede asks.

“Unless it blows over. There’s a lot of water in the clouds.”

“There always is,” Liedral points out. “Here, at least. We might as well go on. It’s coming from the west.”

Dorrin hunches into his jacket and follows Brede and the trader’s cart, occasionally blotting his forehead. The canyon walls have begun to widen, and their slope lessens with each rod that the four travel downward. At least the rain has also carried away the mosquitoes.

The three days of rain have subsided into an afternoon mist falling over Kleth, seeping down the stone walls framing the now-muddy waters of the River Gallos. An occasional chunk of
ice bobs past. Liedral finishes inspecting the ties on the cart and steps back to the dock, eyes traversing the three from Recluce, pausing slightly at Dorrin before glancing back at the riverman by the tiller. She hands two silvers each to Kadara and Brede. “I wish it could be more, but you will recall…”

“We enjoyed the company and the guidance,” Brede says.

“Be sure to tell Jarnish that I sent you. I’d come, but the rivermen wait for no one.”

Kadara’s eyes go to the wide river scow tied to the pier, rubbing up and down against the worn wooden guides with the swells of the rain-swollen river.

Dorrin wishes he were as glib as Brede. He will miss Liedral, especially after seeing beneath the trader’s careful maintained exterior, but he can say nothing as the trader places two silvers in his hands.

“I hope you can find a smithy in Diev. Let Jarnish know where you can be found. I do get to Diev every once in a great while.”

“Thank you, Liedral.”

The trader smiles. “It was nice not to travel alone. I’d forgotten how good it can be.” The tone hardens. “But it’s back to business.”

“Need to cast off, trader!” calls the bearded riverman.

Liedral steps back to the scow, even as one scruffy youngster loosens the forward line and the riverman at the tiller loosens the aft one. Dorrin watches as the scow eases toward midstream.

“Dorrin, we need to get moving. It’s near midday.”

Kadara is right. He doesn’t need to stare at a river scow drifting downstream toward Spidlaria, even though they don’t have that far to go. He climbs slowly into the saddle, then takes a deep breath before nudging his heels into Meriwhen’s flanks. The mare whinnies, more of a token protest, as she breaks into a trot. She slows without any urging from Dorrin when she nears the other two.

“That was more than I expected,” Brede is telling Kadara.

“Of course.” Kadara grins widely. “Thank Dorrin for that.”

“Thank you, Dorrin.” In turn, Brede grins.

Dorrin finds himself blushing. “Why?”

“You certainly captivated the trader.”

“Indeed he did,” Kadara adds gleefully.

“It’s too bad,” Brede guides the gelding off the river road.

The three turn onto the road toward the factor’s establishment. A gap in the clouds allows sunlight to warm them. Beyond the mud that borders the stone thoroughfare is trampled brown grass, still dotted infrequently with patches of snow. Behind the grass stand scattered small huts, some with goat pens, some few with a tethered cow, and all with ragged thatched roofing.

Kadara nods. “That brother of hers is worthless, and she does all the work. The Whites still fight the Legend.”

“Not all men are worthless,” protests Dorrin.

“That wasn’t the point of the Legend. The point of the Legend was what happened when men refused to listen to women, or to allow them equal say.”

“’Ware horses!” screams a woman from the front of a hut on the left side of the road.

Dorrin reins up Meriwhen to keep from riding down a youngster chasing a ball across the stone paving slabs. He waits for the youngster, barefoot despite the chill and the cold clay alongside the road, to reclaim the ball.

The woman shakes a broom at him, so hard that straws fly from it. “Watch your riding, stranger!”

Dorrin continues to wait. The shaggy-haired boy grabs the mud-spattered ball, and never looking up, saunters back across the road.

“Demon-damned travelers…”

Dorrin nudges Meriwhen, and the mare trots to catch up with Brede and Kadara, who have slowed to wait for him.

“Slow down!” screams the woman behind him. “You’re as like to kill someone!”

“Right, Dorrin. Slow down.” Kadara shakes her head before turning in the saddle.

“Since when didn’t women have equal say?” mutters Dorrin, his hand checking the staff to make sure it is firmly held in place.

Overhead, the clouds close, and the light dims. Behind them, the Gallos flows north to the cold sea, and a woman in graying rags shakes a straw broom.

Dorrin peers into the kitchen, looking for the factor.

“Jarnish left for Hitter’s. Be back in a bit. You want breakfast…give us a hand here.” The cook gestures toward the kitchen water tank.

“How can I help?”

“Fill the tank. Here’s a carry-bucket. Use the back well—the one down the outside steps here.”

Dorrin takes the carry-bucket and opens the rear door.

“And wipe your feet good, boy.”

He steps out into the dawn chill, wishing he had been able to sleep longer. But lying there on his bedroll on the hard attic floor, with Brede and Kadara asleep and entwined not three cubits away, had been too much.

The steps descend into a stone-walled enclosure perhaps fifty cubits square, half of which is comprised of raised garden beds that have been turned but not yet planted. White frost covers the dark garden soil, and his breath puffs away in a thin cloud as he steps up to the well.

He drops the well-bucket down the stone-sided well, holding to the rope, letting the heavy oak and iron splinter the surface ice. Then he lifts the bucket the ten or so cubits to the stone ledge where the water, like liquid ice, slops over his bare hands, as he pours the well bucket into the smaller carrying bucket. He walks toward the kitchen steps, his breath a white cloud. From the chimney above the kitchen a thin white plume drifts northward.

“Mind you now, wipe those feet.”

“Yes, cook.”

The flat-nosed woman continues to chop and dice an assortment of dubious vegetables. Dorrin finds himself staring at the flicking knife.

“Never seen a good stew being made, boy? Ha!”

Dorrin carries in three full buckets from the well, topping off the kitchen tank and replacing the cover.

“Took long enough,” snorts the old cook. “Breakfast’s on the table.”

“Thank you,” adds Lyssa, the wide-eyed maid.

“Don’t thank him, girl. He’s just another questor, and he’ll be gone tomorrow or next eight-day—if the White guards don’t run him in for something. Can’t understand Jarnish.”

Dorrin pulls out a stool and sits down. On the dented table are a loaf of black bread, a wedge of cheese, a plate of dried fruits, three battered clay mugs and a gray stoneware pitcher from which a wisp of vapor seeps.

“What about your friends?” grumbles the cook. “They intend to sleep all day?”

Dorrin looks out at the gray morning, barely beyond dawn. “I don’t think so, but it’s only a bit past dawn, isn’t it?”

“You want to succeed in life, boy, you don’t sleep past the cock’s second crow.”

Lyssa looks at Dorrin and grins before taking the tray and leaving.

“Tell the old Missus, if she wants more hot cider, to ring the bell twice.” The flashing knife halts, and the cook sweeps the vegetables into the dark liquid in the deep stewpot.

Dorrin pours hot cider into a mug, then hacks off a chunk of bread and a slice of cheese. The bread is warm and chewy, the cheese cold and sharp. “Very good bread.”

“Course it is. I don’t bake any other kind. You do something, boy, you best do it right. Otherwise you’re just taking up space.”

Dorrin takes another bite from the bread, followed by a sip from the cider. “Good cider.”

“Didn’t you hear me, boy? I’m a good cook. I don’t serve bad food. If I did, I couldn’t call myself a cook.” She brings the knife to bear on some undetermined haunch of dark meat.

Dorrin tries one of the dried pearapples. Not surprisingly, it is also good, dried or not.

“Is this the place?” Brede’s cheerful voice precedes him down the stairs from the attic.

“Place for what?” snorts the cook as Brede steps onto the wide plank floor. “You best get moving if you want to get where you’re going by sunset.”

“You’re right.” Brede pulls up a stool across from Dorrin
and pours two mugs of hot cider.

“Course I’m right, but I don’t need a soldier boy to tell me that.”

Kadara eases onto the stool next to Brede, her hands going to the earthenware mug, cradling it in both hands under her chin and letting the steam wreath her face. “Mmmmm…”

“You’re too pretty to be a lady blade.” The cook’s knife jabs toward Kadara. “Looks like yours’ll slay more men than that killer blade you carried yesterday.”

Dorrin almost chokes on a mouthful of cheese and bread.

Kadara swallows, following her small mouthful with the warm cider. “Don’t say a word,” she whispers to Brede. “Or you either,” she adds to Dorrin.

Dorrin grins at Brede.

“It’s not false pride to look good. But it’s inviting the demons into the parlor when you deny your looks. Many’s a poor wench found herself with child and worse because she said, ‘Who, me? I can’t be that pretty.’ Ha!” The knife flashes through the last of the haunch, and the bare bone drops into another kettle.

The kitchen door opens, and Jarnish steps through.

“Good day. Did you sleep well?” The factor takes a deep breath. “Be stew for dinner, I’d say. A lovely aroma already, Jaddy.” His heavy jacket comes off, and he sets it on one of the pegs on the cross-timber by the door.

“Never trust a man’s tongue—not when he talks about food or love.” Jaddy snorts.

“She’s always got a word for everyone.” Jarnish pulls a long-handled clay pipe from a brownish dish on the otherwise empty serving table and a pouch from his vest pocket. He tamps shreds of tobacco into the pipe, then lights it with his striker. Pulling the one armchair in the kitchen up to the end of the table, he sits, taking the pipe from his mouth. “You’ll be off shortly, then.”

“Yes, ser,” Brede says quietly. “Once we get to Diev, Kadara and I will try the road guards first.”

“They’ll take you. Darkness, they’ll be a-taking anyone who can swing a blade and stay mounted.”

“You don’t have the highest opinion of the Spidlarian road guards.”

“Not much good except to pick up those souls too poor to know how to be a highwayman and too desperate to be otherwise.” Jarnish takes another puff on the pipe and the acrid smoke drifts toward Dorrin.

“They’re good at picking up tavern wenches with their tales,” offers Jaddy.

“What about you, lad?”

“I’d like to apprentice to a smith, ser.”

Kadara looks at Brede with the slightest of frowns.

“A smith? Aren’t you a tad slender?”

“I’m stronger than I look.”

“Any experience?”

“Was an apprentice for a while.”

Jarnish takes the long-handled pipe from his mouth, blowing a cloud in Dorrin’s direction. Dorrin tries not to choke. No one on Recluce smokes, although he has read of the practice, especially in Hamor.

“What kind of smith, young fellow? Must be a dozen smiths in Diev, not that I know them all from here—smiths for the traders’ ships, smiths that make horseshoes and not much else, smiths that make who knows what.”

“The kind that makes tools and parts for wagons or sawmills—that sort of thing.”

Another cloud of smoke follows before the factor speaks again. “Just two smiths like that in Diev. There’s Henstaal, and he’s got a place out beyond the south wall, just off the turnpike. Good solid forge. Then there’s Yarrl, and he’s on the north side, off the guard road.”

Dorrin munches another piece of dried pearapple.

“Henstaal’s got three big sons, older ’n you. Yarrl’s only got a daughter. No apprentice, not the last time I heard. Rumor was he made his daughter help him.” Jarnish blows another cloud of smoke down the table.

“What’s the problem with Yarrl?”

“Not as there’s any problem…exactly…young fellow, but they say as his woman’s got the evil eye, and his daughter…well, her tongue…and they’re not from here, either. He set up shop there when I wasn’t much older ’n you, and never said where he was from. Never has, either. Good work, but…says
what’s on his mind. Can’t keep apprentices. Last one lasted three days.”

“All I can do is try.”

The factor stands. “Can’t mint coins if you don’t keep hammering, nor milk if you don’t water the cows.”

Dorrin takes the hint and rises. “We’ll be on our way as soon as we gather our packs together.”

“Don’t need to hurry that much. Let the lady blade finish her cider.”

Brede stands. “We thank you for your hospitality.”

“That’ll not be a problem. I owe young Liedral, and this’ll help with that debt.” The factor gestures with the pipe, then sets it back in the brown dish. “I’m off to the barge landing, Jaddy. Maybe they’ll have some winter trout at the market there.”

“Don’t take any unless they’re silver. The brown ones turn bitter.”

Jarnish shrugs as he pulls on his jacket.

Once the factor has stepped outside, Dorrin heads up the stairs to gather his jacket and pack, leaving Brede and Kadara to finish their breakfast. In the dusty attic, he rolls his bedding and cinches it tightly, and packs his gear into the saddlebags. He pulls on his jacket. With the bags over his right forearm, his staff in hand, and the bedroll in his left arm, he heads back down the stairs, nose wrinkling at the acrid odor of burned tobacco…and at the faint aroma of something else carried by Jarnish, except it is not a smell. It is almost as though a faint dusting of chaos flakes off the factor. Dorrin shrugs. Traders have to deal with all sorts.

Brede has finished the dark bread and has just set his empty mug on the table when Dorrin reenters the kitchen. Dorrin’s nose itches, and he snuffles to keep from sneezing.

“Are you all right?” asks Brede.

“Fine.” Dorrin eases around the table and toward the back door. Lyssa opens it for him. “Thank you.”

Lyssa smiles, and Jaddy shakes her head, not pausing in measuring out flour onto her work table.

The chill air relieves the itch in Dorrin’s nose. Meriwhen whuffles and tosses her head up from an empty manger as Dorrin opens the stall. “I know. You’re still hungry. You’re always hungry.” Dorrin rummages through the feed barrels and finds
the oats and a scoop. While he hasn’t discussed the feed with Jarnish, a scoop or two from the large barrel shouldn’t be too bad. His head throbs as he thinks the thought. Clearly, he will have to leave a coin or something for the extra feed. “You’re always causing problems,” he says as he empties the oats into the manger.

Meriwhen only chews the grain as Dorrin takes out the brush and begins to curry her. The headache continues after he replaces the brush in the saddle bags and starts back to the kitchen.

Brede and Kadara are leaving as he approaches.

“I forgot something,” Dorrin explains.

“What? You have that guilty look.” Kadara frowns.

“I need to pay for some extra oats.”

“Why bother? The factor could spare a handful.”

“I need to.” Dorrin steps around the redhead and up the stairs.

“Such a stickler…”

“I doubt he has much choice, Kadara,” answers Brede. “He is a healer.”

Dorrin steps inside.

“What do you need now, boy?” demands Jaddy, elbowdeep in flour.

“I just wanted to leave a copper or two for some extra feed.” Dorrin reaches for his purse.

“Jarnish won’t be minding that.”

“Probably not, but I will.”

“You’re order-bound, aren’t you, boy?”

Dorrin nods.

“Too bad there aren’t more like you. World be a better place.” She looks at the wooden bowl filled with dried pearapples and peaches. “Lyssa!”

The maid appears from the pantry.

“Wrap up a double handful of the fruits for them. Jarnish said to send ’em off proper.” She grins at Dorrin. “Just leave the copper on the table there. I’ll be a-telling Jarnish, don’t you worry.” She glances at the maid who has wrapped the fruit in a thin gray cloth. “Another handful or so. Jarnish wouldn’t have these folks starving on the road.”

“You didn’t have to—” protests Dorrin.

“Neither did you, boy. Now take the fruit and be on your way.”

“Thank you.”

“Nonsense! Just be on your way. Bring me a trinket from the forge, someday.”

“I will.”

Jaddy looks back to her baking, and Dorrin takes the cloth filled with dried fruit and walks down the steps and out to the stable.

“What’s that?”

“Dried fruits—pearapple and peaches.”

Kadara shakes her head while Dorrin packs the fruit into his left saddle bag. Then he struggles with the blanket and the saddle, with the saddlebags, and finally with the hackamore.

“Are you ready?” asks Brede, leading the gelding toward the stable door. “I shoveled out the worst of the stalls.”

“You two…” Kadara flicks the reins of the chestnut.

“You catch more redtails with honey than vinegar,” observes Brede calmly.

Dorrin clambers into his saddle and follows them out to the still-frozen and rutted road. The sun has finally cleared the trees to the south of the factor’s yard, and only a few thin and high white clouds break the green-blue of the sky.

“This heads toward the mountain road.” Brede points westward.

“I heard the factor.”

Dorrin just nods and follows, his gloved hand touching the dark wood of his staff. The three ride at an even pace westward, toward the first low rise in the road.

Uncounted hills later, Dorrin squirms uneasily in Meriwhen’s saddle. His legs and his buttocks are bruised—even after all the kays. Will he ever get used to riding? Ahead of him, Kadara sits easily in the saddle of the larger chestnut, absently running through a set of blade exercises, then sheathing the larger sword.

Dorrin glances at his staff, then takes a deep breath and extracts it from the lanceholder. Slowly he begins loosening up his shoulders.

“Dorrin…”

The redhead turns. Brede is flat against the gelding’s mane.

“…I don’t mind if you practice, but would you look before you start? That wood is hard.” Brede grins.

“Sorry. I thought you were behind me.”

“What did Lortren say about assuming things?”

Dorrin flushes.

“It’s not that bad, so long as you’re not intending to be a blade.”

“It’s not that good,” admits Dorrin. “It’s still hard to get a feel for the wood.” He looks across the hillside beside the road at the muddy trail that leads to a small stone house. A plume of white drifts from the chimney into the clear sky of late afternoon, rising above a small stone-walled barn and a wooden privy.