The Magic Engineer (28 page)

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.

“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 hole. 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 shirt 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.”

Liedral grins, but the expression only emphasizes the blackness under her eyes and her reddened face. “It took some doing. There’s a coastal sled run between Quend and Spidlaria. They run the beaches. They say it’s safer than running the ice floes. I brought in dried pork and a few other things.”

“She brought supper—a good ham.” Reisa does not turn from the ceramic and iron stove. “They’re dear, now.”

“Be getting dearer.” Petra fastens her jacket before heading to the barn.

“Why…?” Dorrin stops. Of course, with the Northern Ocean frozen north and west of Diev, Spidlar is cut off from the western trading routes. Few traders will dare the icebergs that dot the ocean between Spidlar and Sligo. He shivers, considering the pinched faces he is already seeing. It will be another
season before even the early crops are ready or the coasters from Sarronnyn or Suthya will travel the Northern Ocean.

“Thought it might make more coins. You trade where people need it. Besides, I don’t like staying around Freidr for too long.” Liedral sips the hot spiced cider. “And even if I go back empty, I’ll still be ahead. Not much, but something’s better than nothing, especially in winter.”

“It seems a mite risky,” offers Reisa.

“All trading is risky these days, thanks to Fairhaven. You risk losing your coins or your life.” Liedral takes another swallow of the cider.

Petra sets a mug in front of Dorrin. “This time I got it for you. But just this time.”

“Thank you. Next time you can get the water.”

“He’s impossible,” Petra confides to Liedral.

“He’s a man,” answers the trader.

Vaos hammers his way through the door and into the kitchen.

“Don’t touch anything,” snaps Reisa, lifting the kettle with her single hand and pouring warm water into the empty washbasin. “You need to wash up before you eat.”

Petra adds some of the cold water from the bucket.

“But, Reisa, I’m starving.”

“Wash.”

Vaos looks at Dorrin, then steps up to the wash table.

“When’s dinner?” asks Yarrl, shutting the door hard, and bending to set his boots in the corner.

“As soon as you wash up,” Reisa repeats.

Vaos grins as he hurriedly wipes his hands and face on the gray towel.

“Sometimes…think you were a washerwoman by the river…” But the smith follows Reisa’s instructions. “Smells good.”

“The trader brought a ham.”

“A real ham out of Kleth, smoked the slow way,” adds Petra.

“Ought to taste real good.” Yarrl washes hurriedly and sits at the table. Reisa hands him a knife, and he begins to slice the meat.

Vaos licks his lips, and Dorrin and Liedral look from the boy to each other and smile.

Reisa sets two platters on the table, one with a steaming pile of vegetables, and one heaped with roasted yams. “Help yourself.”

Liedral spears two yams and takes a spoonful of beans. “Thank you.”

“What’s happening with the White Wizards?” asks the smith as he lays slab after slab of ham on the chipped platter.

“They’re trying to cut Spidlar off without saying that’s what they’re doing. They’re talking about building more ships.”

“Let’s enjoy the ham,” Reisa suggests.

Vaos’s eyes remain fixed on the platter as it goes to the trader, then to Dorrin, and Petra.

“Here you go!” Petra holds the platter in front of Vaos.

“Thank you, Miss Petra,” says the boy as he takes the two top slices, but his eyes linger on the platter.

“Take another, imp.”

Vaos does, and for a time, no one speaks.

“Good ham,” Vaos says.

“Very good,” Dorrin agrees.

“Personally,” Liedral says with a smile, “I liked the roasted yams, and the beans. You don’t get those traveling.”

When Dorrin finishes his plate, he swallows the last of his cider and turns to Liedral. “Do you want to talk? I need to finish up some things in the smithy.” Dorrin stands.

“With all that hammering?” asks Liedral.

“It’s just filing and polishing.”

“He never stops,” Reisa says dryly.

“No one’s ever seen him stop, anyway,” adds Petra.

“Not even me,” adds Vaos from the end of the table.

“Quiet, boy.” Dorrin’s voice is playful.

Yarrl chews the end of the loaf of bread, methodically, before speaking, his mouth full. “That’s what makes a good smith. Not yammering on and on.”

All three women look at the smith. Yarrl continues to chew.

Dorrin grins, standing by the door.

“Let me get on my jacket. I wasn’t raised on a mountaintop.”

Dorrin does not protest that Recluce is milder than even Jellico; he waits while Liedral pulls on her coat. They walk to the smithy, where he lights the lamp. Then he takes off his shirt and
puts it on a wall peg before returning to the workbench and lifting the box with the iron toy parts in it.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Not really.”

He sets the box on the clay, sits on the stool, and begins pushing the foot pedal, dipping the iron piece in the polishing paste before setting it against the grindstone.

“Oooooo…how can you stand that?”

“I suppose you get used to it.” He turns the miniature gear/power train and continues to grind and polish the dark metal.

Liedral watches as he works the metal.

When he is done, he replaces the metal parts in the box and wipes his hands on the tattered towel at one end of his bench.

“Do you have any toys that are done?” Liedral’s brown eyes meet Dorrin’s, then look over his shoulder at the forge as he pulls on his shirt.

“Not a simple as those. I have some like the first one. They’re in my room. Would you like one?” He snuffs the lamp and steps toward the yard, waiting for her to leave the smithy before he closes the door against the winter chill.

“I can’t afford one, not the way things are going, but once the ice breaks, I’m taking a wild run to Nietre, upland hills of Suthya. It’s far enough from Rulyarth that most traders don’t bother. Lousy roads, not wide enough even for the cart. That’s fine, because it’s cheaper just to take two horses on the coasters.”

“Things are really bad?” He stops by the well and draws some water, pouring it over his hands, ignoring the chill.

Liedral shivers. “Isn’t that cold?”

“Yes, even for me.” He walks toward his room, and Liedral follows. Once inside, he dries his cold hands on his working towel. Liedral sits on the bed and shivers. He lifts the quilt and wraps it around her.

“Your hands are warm already.”

“I’ve learned a few things already from being a healer.” He settles into the hard chair that has replaced the stool.

“Your room is cold.” Liedral wraps the faded quilt around her more tightly. “You must be related to mountain cats, or something else that prowls in the cold. And yes, things are bad. You don’t even write me back.”

“I’ve sent you a letter.”

“How?”

“Like you told me. Through Jarnish.”

“You really did?” Liedral squirms on the hard pallet.

“I did. I’ll admit I only sent it an eight-day ago, but I did get around to writing you. I didn’t expect to see you this soon.”

“You didn’t?”

“Not from your letters. You were talking spring.”

“I didn’t know about the beach runners.”

“Neither did I.” He shifts his weight, then gets up. “What about another model?”

“I can’t pay you…”

“We can do it the same way you did last time. This one’s different.”

“That’s probably better, if it’s as good.”

“You judge.” Dorrin returns with an object almost a cubit long.

“What is it?”

“A boat. You wind this, and these bands tighten.”

Liedral points at the stern. “What’s that?”

“Oh…that’s a screw. It’s like a fan, except it pushes water instead of air.”

“But what does it do?”

Dorrin grins. “When it pushes the water, it makes the boat go in this direction. I made it to see if the idea really worked. The bands here are a rubber and string mixture. They really don’t work that well. The rubber comes from Naclos. The druids don’t always trade, and that makes it hard to get.”

“I’ve heard. I never been that far south, though.”

“When I build a full-sized ship, it will have a real engine.”

“Engine?”

“A machine that will turn the screw like the bands do.”

Liedral takes the model. “The bands seem simpler.”

“They don’t work as well when you build them bigger.”

Liedral looks over the boat. “Why do you want to sell it?”

“I’ve done better ones.” He holds up his hands. “The second one has a spring, but it isn’t big enough.”

“You amaze me.”

Dorrin looks at the rough-planked floor.

“You work like a smith. You’re a healer, and you make wonderful toys—”

“Models.”

“Models…whatever…” She pauses. “Why did you write me?”

“Because…I think of you. It’s different.”

“Would you sit next to me? Please?”

Dorrin sits on the end of the pallet.

Liedral edges next to him. “I came to see you. Not to make coins. Not to make polite conversation.”

“I know. But I feel…so…young.”

Her arms are surprisingly strong as she pulls him to her, and her lips are warm on his.

After the kiss and embrace that seems timeless, he looks at her. “I missed you.”

“I missed you. And I’m not that much older than you, especially in love.”

“But…”

“Look at me, the way you do when you’re healing.”

Dorrin does, and sees the rightness, the essential order. “Oh…”

“Now, do you see?”

He nods. Knowing little of order, Liedral is still wise enough to know that she needs order in her lover. He tightens his arms around her, and her lips touch his again. Soon, not just lips touch, nor skin, nor souls.