The Magic Engineer (16 page)

“Why?”

“I suppose because it’s a weapon, when you get right down to it, and weapons are for destruction, and that’s chaos.”

Brede nods. “I’m glad I’m not that order-linked.”

“So am I,” adds Kadara.

“How much farther?”

Brede sighs. “That means another day after today, maybe a day and a half to Diev, if your friend the trader’s directions were accurate.”

“Liedral’s been right so far,” Dorrin says.

Kadara doesn’t turn, but Dorrin can feel that she is grinning.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what? I didn’t say a word.” Kadara takes out the shortsword for at least the third time since morning and begins to twirl it.

Dorrin looks at his staff, then slowly resumes the exercise. He shifts in the saddle again as Meriwhen reaches the top of yet another low rise in the chain of seemingly endless rolling hills. The stone walls separating the flattened and brown meadows from the road look little different from those outside Kleth.

“There should be a way station before too long,” Brede announces cheerfully. “We can take a break.”

“You aren’t planning on riding all night?” Dorrin asks.

Neither blade answers him, but Brede eases his gelding past Meriwhen and up beside the chestnut. A clump of mud flies past Dorrin’s leg.

The next rolling hill brings no sign of the promised way station, and, with a deep breath, Dorrin shifts his weight in the saddle once again.

Brede and Kadara wait on the crest of the hill. Dorrin reins up beside them and looks over the shallow valley that separates them from their destination.

On the flat cliffs above the low waterfall begins Diev, divided by the River Weyel, not sprawling like the herder towns of Weevett, nor huddling within a proud wall like Jellico, nor slowly dying like Vergren under the white lash of Fairhaven. The lower section of Diev squats in the delta, a fourth-rate port behind Spidlaria and even Sligo’s Tyrhavven, a port so poor that not even the near-desperate Liedral visits it often.

Diev is merely a town to serve the northwest sheep farms and the scattered mountain holdings, a town without pretensions, a town on the single road that leads from Kleth to the inhospitable north coast of Candar. That poor road peters out into a trail that eventually dead-ends a few kays beyond Diev, the town where the Westhorns meet the Northern Ocean. Beyond the buildings and the rising plumes of smoke that twist over the low plateau, the Westhorns loom, still a mass of white snow, heavy rock, and glittering ice that dwarfs the small efforts of the men squatting below the mountains.

“Not terribly promising,” offers Brede.

“It meets the criteria, at least,” Kadara says. “We’ve traveled through Fairhaven and the Easthorns, and we will serve—somehow—at the foot of the Westhorns…for longer than a year.”

“The longer-than-a-year phrasing still bothers me,” Brede says slowly.

Dorrin frowns. Lortren never set forth any such rules for him. She only told him he must find himself.

“Well…sitting here in the wind won’t get us to Diev.” Kadara flicks the chestnut’s reins.

Brede follows Kadara down the road toward Diev. Dorrin watches for a moment, seeing how easily each sits in the saddle. Then he lifts Meriwhen’s reins and pats her neck. “Let’s go, lady. Wherever we’re headed.”

Dorrin pats Meriwhen on the neck, surveying the smithy—the covered walkway that connects the square-chimneyed forge building to the narrow house, built of smoothed and dressed planks; the small barn; the corral with the pair of horses and the pig pen. Beyond the barn are three solid oaks, still without leaves, growing almost in a perfect triangle.

Should he have come alone? When all is said, he is alone. Brede and Kadara must fight their own battles in finding employment as blades.

“Hallo!” He reins up before the forge building. There is no answer. After tying Meriwhen to an iron ring on a square post, he steps into the faintly eye-burning mist and hot metallic smell of the smithy. Dorrin edges past the broken implements and unidentified metal parts that line one wall. Compared to Hegl’s smithy, Yarrl’s is a confused mess, and even the tool rack is filled with an bewildering array of hammers, tongs, and other tools. Some he recognizes, like the standard hammers, swages, fullers, and punches laid out on the hearth edge in easy reach. But he sees tongs shaped almost like serpents, and there are two large cone mandrels on huge weighted bases. Of the two slack tanks, one is divided into two parts.

Muscles on the smith’s back ripple as the hammer rises and falls, as the tongs reposition the hot iron. Then the iron cools and is thrust back into the forge. The smith watches the metal heat and returns it to the anvil.

At length, the piece—a complicated and twisted brace of some sort—is set on the edge of the forge to anneal. Then the hammer is set aside, and the smith turns. “Who are you, youngster?”

“My name is Dorrin. I’d like to be your apprentice. Jarnish said you might need one.”

“Jarnish? What’s a factor know about a smithy?”

Dorrin smiles politely.

“Scrawny fellow. You eat like a hog. All young fellows do.” The heavy-chested man circles around Dorrin. “What makes you think you’re a smith?”

“I’ve been an apprentice.”

“So why aren’t you still there?”

“I’m from Recluce.”

“Oh, one of them? So why’d they throw you out?”

“I wanted to make toys, little machines. They don’t have much use for them.”

“I can’t say as I do, either.”

“I can do the work.”

“You expect to take over the place in a year or two, boy?”

“No, ser. I don’t ever expect to take it over.”

“Not good enough for you?”

Dorrin bites his tongue. “If I become a good smith, then I’ll have to leave before you’re ready to give up. If I don’t, you’ll find someone else.”

“Ha! Sharp in thinking, leastwise. What do you know about smithing?”

“A little…but not enough.”

“You willing to handle the great bellows there? Can you make nails? A good apprentice could turn out hundreds in a morning. How good’s your scarfing? Good enough to make a solid weld? Can you fuller a bar even enough so it doesn’t split?”

“Usually.” Dorrin can sense someone else approaching, but does not turn to see who the newcomer might be.

“Hard work. You listen. Do what I say. No lip.”

“Can I ask questions?”

The smith frowns.

“You let this one go, Yarrl, and you be a damned White fool.” A firm voice intrudes.

The smith looks up at the angular woman. “Smith business, Reisa.”

Dorrin follows the smith’s glance, forces his eyes to study Reisa casually, even as he notes that the gray-haired and broad-shouldered woman’s right arm ends just below the elbow. The smith finally looks back to him.

Yarrl shrugs. “Don’t pay much. Food, a bed in the smithy corner room, and a copper an eight-day until you’re good enough to work your own metal. If you can’t learn my needs for a striker and make good nails within an eight-day, you’re no good to me.”

“Fair enough. Is there a spare stall in the stable I can use—in return for cleaning it?”

Yarrl opens his mouth, closes it, and finally speaks. “You want a stall? To sleep in?”

“I have a horse, ser.”

“How will you feed it? Don’t expect me to pay you and feed your animal.”

“No. If I’m good, I’ll make enough to feed her. If I’m not, you won’t keep me. I have a few coins, enough for a while.”

“I don’t know…”

“Yarrl…” Again, the low voice cuts off the smith.

“All right…you clean the stable on your time, not mine. Now, get the animal put away and get back here. Might as well see right off if you can earn your keep.”

“Yes, ser.”

“…least he’s polite…” The smith turns and lifts the hammer.

Reisa smiles at Dorrin, with the slightest of head shakes, then adds, “I’ll show him the stable.”

Dorrin follows the one-armed woman to the barn, and the three stalls. A mule stares at Dorrin from the first. The second is empty, as is the third.

“Petra has the bay and the wagon at market.”

“Is Petra your daughter?”

“That she is, and a good one.” Reisa’s voice bears an edge.

“Then you’re lucky.” Dorrin smiles.

“Are you really a smith apprentice?”

“I’ve been one. Also been a healer.”

“And you want to be a smith? The work never ends, not even for Yarrl.”

“Somehow…I need to work the metal…”

“I thought so…but you’re still a healer, one of the Black ones?”

“Yes.” Dorrin looks at her right arm.

“No. I know no one can do that. You do animals?”

“If it’s not too bad.”

“Goats?”

“I’ve never done one, but I could try.”

“Get your horse settled and your things in your cubby. It’s not much. Better than the barn, though, and, you work out, Yarrl will let you fix it up better. Then you look at my goat.”

He takes the hay rake and smoothes the clay, then spreads straw over it. He unsaddles Meriwhen, racks the saddle, and quickly brushes the mare. Then he lifts the staff and saddlebags over his shoulder, and hoists his bedroll.

Reisa leads him back toward the smithy, but to a door in the rear corner that opens onto a nearly bare room with a single shuttered window without glass. The rough floor planks are dusty, and the only pieces of furniture are a straw pallet on a wide shelf built out from the wall, a four-legged stool and a wobbly table, on which rests a battered copper oil lamp.

“Not much, but it’s snug.”

Dorrin sets the bedroll on the table and the bags on the stool. Before he lies on the pallet he wants to use his limited order senses to persuade various vermin to move elsewhere. “The goat?”

Reisa turns, and Dorrin latches the door behind him. In a small pen by the barn is a wide-bellied goat.

“Burlow’s damned ram got in here.”

“Where is he now?”

“Some of him’s salted; the rest was dinner.”

“Oh…” Dorrin steps through the gate. The nanny edges away, but wobbles. His hands touch her shoulder, then her flanks. “She’s carrying.”

“I knew that.”

“I’m no animal healer, but I’d say she’s carrying too many.”

“How many?”

“Three, I think.”

“Can you do anything?”

Dorrin shrugs. “Maybe.” He lets his senses go out to the goat, lending a sense of order to her, and to only one of the unborn kids. Perhaps that will work. Finally, he steps out of the pen, wiping his forehead, trying not to sneeze at the water-damped odor of straw.

“Well?”

“I don’t know. It may take some time.”

Reisa watches the goat. “She’s not as unsteady.”

Dorrin leans against the fence and takes a deep breath.

“Young fellow, you need to eat before you go into the smithy. Just sit on the porch and let me get you a bite. I forgot how healing’s such work.”

“All right.”

Dorrin sits on the edge of the porch, his booted feet on the second step, listening to the muted thumps of the smith’s hammer, letting the late winter sun bathe his face. Spring has not come to Diev.

“Here.”

“Thank you, madame Reisa.”

She flushes. “I’m no lady, youngster. Just eat, please.”

On the scarred wooden platter are two thick slices of oatmeal bread, slathered with butter and topped with a dark preserve. A thin wedge of cheese sits between the bread. Reisa hands him a stoneware mug filled with cold cider. Dorrin’s shakiness abates with the bread and cheese.

“You’d best get into the smithy.”

Dorrin stands. “Thank you.”

Once inside the smithy, he peels off his jacket and shirt, leaving only the sleeveless undershirt, and hangs both on a corner peg.

“There.” Yarrl nods toward a heavy leather apron set out on a side bench. “Work the bellows. It’s got a standard counterweight, and the overhead lever’s angled to make it easy. Want that to stay not quite white, like the corner there.”

Dorrin slips on the leather apron, hoping he will not have too many blisters before his hands toughen again.

“Why do we even have to do anything about Recluce? All the Blacks do is sit on their island and cultivate order. Anyone who causes trouble gets thrown out—usually to our benefit.”

“We’re not talking about a military action now,” Jeslek says mildly. “Aren’t you tired of our gold going to Recluce so that
the Blacks can use it to buy Bristan and Hamorian goods?”

“Their spices and wines are better and cheaper,” a heavy voice rumbles from the back row.

“So is some of their cabinetry,” adds another voice.

“And their wool—”

“If you can wear it, Myral!”

“So…what are you proposing, Jeslek?”

“Nothing major. Just a thirty percent surtax on goods from Recluce.”

“Thirty percent? I’d rather drink that red swill from Kyphros,” rumbles the bass voice.

“Precisely my point.”

“That will increase the number of smugglers.”

“We’ll use some of the money to build up the fleet to stop that.”

“And the rest? Does it go into your pocket, Jeslek?”

“Hardly. That’s up to the Council, but I’d suggest that it be split between an increased stipend for Council members, rebuilding the square, and funding the road construction. Would anyone else like a word?”

“Won’t that just funnel more golds into Spidlar?”

“What about Sarronnyn…”

“Southwind will love that…”

After stepping from the chamber, Sterol looks at the red-headed Anya. “Very transparent. Transparent, but clever.”

“They’ll approve it.”

“Of course. And he’ll be popular, and the fleet will get larger.”

“What will Recluce do?”

“Nothing. They’ll trade more across the ocean and complain.” Sterol smiles, faintly. “What it will do is direct even more trade from Lydiar to Spidlaria. In a year or so, we’ll have to take over Spidlar if we don’t want to put our own merchants out of business.”

“Do you think…?” The red-headed wizard lets her words trail off as the High Wizard continues. Her faint smile contains a hint of irritation.

“By then, Jeslek will be High Wizard, and it will be necessary to ban all trade with Recluce. He won’t say it that way, of course. The surtax will be a hundred percent, and the Black
Council will worry because all of their specie will have to go for grain and flour from Hydlen, and too much spoils when it’s shipped from Hamor. The Blacks will dither and moan and bitch, but their population’s too great for them to risk meddling with the weather, the way Creslin did, and, more important, they don’t have anyone who can.”

Anya nods, her eyes flicking toward the chamber.

“The discontent will stir up disorder, leading to chaos, which will result in more exiles from Recluce, and less action—for a time.”

“You sound like you believe Jeslek’s plans will work.”

“Being High Wizard in times of change presents certain…problems.” Sterol laughs, softly. “We need to go back in and preside over the vote, even if it is a formality.”

“Will they work—his plans, I mean?”

“They might—unless he’s too successful, which he will be.” Sterol nods toward the chamber. “Come along, Anya.”

Anya frowns, but follows the High Wizard into the council chamber.