The Magic Engineer (29 page)

“You’re impossible…after last night…” Liedral’s lips touch Dorrin’s, and his fingers dig into her bare back.

“Last night…was just…the beginning.”

There is a rap on the door. Dorrin looks up. Another rap follows.

“Yes?” Dorrin says.

“It’s Reisa. If you two lovebirds aren’t too tied up, you might want to bundle up and come up to the hilltop. I forgot. Tonight’s Council Night.”

Dorrin sighs. “Council Night?”

“They’ll be starting the fireworks soon.”

The two look and each other, then burst into giggles.

“…fireworks, indeed,” Liedral mutters, pulling on her shirt.

“Couldn’t we have both kinds?” Dorrin pleads.

She throws one of her boots at him, but he ducks, and it crashes into the wall. “All right.”

Dorrin shrugs, then frowns.

She grins. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s go out into the cold and watch the fireworks.”

Dorrin groans, but yanks on his shirt and boots. After they don jackets, and Liedral pulls on a knit cap, Dorrin takes her face in both hands, then brushes her lips with his.

“Cold fireworks, first.”

“All right.”

Reisa and Petra stand on the hilltop, looking down on the frozen river and the harbor beyond.

“You did manage to venture out into the cold.”

“Ah…yes,” Dorrin stumbles.

The three women exchange knowing glances. Dorrin blushes and looks toward the harbor.

A skyrocket bursts, and pinwheels of light cartwheel from it, casting momentary shadows of the leafless trees against the hills to the west. The ice on the River Weyel shimmers.

“It is beautiful.” Liedral’s voice is barely audible as the sounds of the next skyrockets echo through the darkness. “What are they for?”

“Celebrate the founding of the Council.” Reisa snorts. “Not that the Council’ll last much longer unless they do something about the White Wizards.”

Dorrin thinks about the skyrockets, about what powers them, and whether the black powder would or could power a machine.

Another
crummp
echoes through the velvet night as the shower of red sparks it has delivered is already fading.

“The Wizards don’t move that fast,” Liedral says slowly. “They’re very careful, very thorough. When they do move, it’s usually too late to do much.”

“Wonderful.” Reisa coughs in the cold.

Another rocket stews golden sparks across the black and
white winter sky. Petra clears her throat.

Dorrin squeezes Liedral’s hand, and she returns the pressure.

Yet another explosion of light flares over the harbor.

Reisa coughs, once, twice, and again. “Going in. Cold’s too much.”

The three remain, near-silent, until the last rocket flares.

Petra stamps her feet in the snow, turning back toward the house. “Stupid time for fireworks. It’s winter, for darkness’s sake.”

Dorrin and Liedral grin at each other. Dorrin has to cover his mouth and swallow hard.

As they reach the yard, Liedral says softly. “Good night, Petra. Thank your mother for telling us about the fireworks.”

“Good night, lovebirds.” Petra’s voice is warm, even as she closes the kitchen door.

“She’s nice.” Liedral squeezes Dorrin’s hand again as the two cross the frozen yard to his room.

“She is. But you’re special.”

“Like fireworks?”

They grin again.

Once inside the room, Dorrin slides the bolt.

“I’m cold.” Liedral has the quilt wrapped around her.

“You need more fireworks?”

A boot flies in his direction, and he ducks, then catches her. Their lips meet again.

“Fireworks…”

Dorrin and Liedral stand outside the barn in the cold, but bright, morning light.

“Do you want to take Meriwhen?”

“Your precious mare?” She grins.

Instead of answering, he bends down and crushes together the icy snow, then straightens and throws it at her, spraying her with icy powder.

“You…” She edges closer to him, tilting her lips for a kiss.

He bends forward, closing his eyes—and finds himself fall
ing backward into the hard packed snow next to the barn. In spite of himself, he laughs, and she reaches down to help him up with gloved hands. Instead he pulls her down and into his lap. They kiss once…and again. In time, he struggles upright, lifting Liedral with him.

“You’re much stronger than you look.”

“All that smithing. Do you want Meriwhen?”

“No. I’ll take the nag I bought.”

“What are you doing today?”

“Being a trader. Trying to find what people will sell cheaply. I’ll know it when I see it. Part of it’s just feel.” She shrugs. “Just like part of being a smith is feel.”

He opens the barn door, and they step inside, hand in hand. Dorrin kisses her again, feeling the chill of her cheek and the warmth of her lips.

“Don’t you have to go to the healer’s this morning?” She breaks away.

“I should.” He sighs. “More hungry children, more broken bones.”

“Broken bones?”

“Always women,” he explains. “They say they have accidents. They’re lying, of course. When times are hard, the men beat them.”

“Can’t you do something?” Liedral looks for the battered saddle for the even more battered gray mare that shares the stall with Meriwhen.

“What?” Dorrin takes a deep breath. “They won’t leave the men. Where would they go, especially in winter? What could they do? Most of the men won’t change.” He pauses. “Look at you. You dress and act like a man. Why can’t you be a trader and a woman?”

“People still fear the Legend, I guess.”

Dorrin hands her the worn brown saddle blanket, waits until she puts it on the gray, and swings the saddle into place, deftly cinching the girths.

“You’ve gotten a lot better since we first met.” She grins. “At a lot of things.”

He finds himself blushing.

“But you still blush the same way.”

He slips the gray’s bridle in place.

“I can do that. I was doing it before you knew what a horse was.”

“I know you can, but I like doing things for you.” He hands her the reins and begins to saddle Meriwhen. “Darkness!”

“What?”

“I forgot my staff. Have to get it on the way out.” Meriwhen steps sideways as he slips the hackamore in place.

“That’s a giveaway, you know?”

“What?”

“The hackamore. None of the great ones used bitted bridles, not according to my father. He said even Creslin used a hackamore.”

“How did he know?”

“According to the family tales, Creslin once was a guard for a distant ancestor. That’s why Freidr is so assiduous in courting the Whites in Jellico.” She snorts. “Much good it does us.”

Dorrin looks toward the barn door. “I suppose we ought to get moving.”

She leans toward him for another kiss. He obliges.

“Later…” she finally says, breathless.

“That’s a promise.”

She smiles as he opens the door. He watches until she turns left on the main road toward Diev. Then he closes the door and leads Meriwhen across the yard, leaving her outside for the moment it takes him to reclaim his staff.

After returning and setting the staff in the holder, he mounts, and flicks the reins. “Let’s go. Rylla will be complaining that I wasn’t there at dawn.”

Dorrin glances around the barn, but Leidral’s gray is nowhere to be seen. Quickly, he unsaddles Meriwhen, brushes her, and then hurries to his room, where he deposits his staff and shirt. He looks at the stains that resulted from his efforts to mix honey and spices. The shirt needs washing, but washing is a chore in the winter. With a deep breath, he pulls on the ragged shirt he wears in the smithy. He still thinks about the fireworks.
Can he obtain some cammabark or black powder? Where would he store it? The old root cellar down the hill from Rylla’s cottage?

Vaos looks up from the grindstone. “Good day, master Dorrin.”

“Good day, Vaos.”

Yarrl sets the iron rod he is working back in the forge and wipes his forehead. “Good thing you’re here early.”

Dorrin sets the sledge on the clay by the anvil. “Why?”

“Trader named Willum stopped by. The fellow who’s a chandler.” Yarrl grips the tongs and nods toward the bellows. Vaos follows the implied directions and begins to pump the bellows lever.

“He was talking about one of those little toys you made for him,” grunts the smith, withdrawing the metal from the forge.

Dorrin shifts his grip on the sledge, following Yarrl’s gestures as the older smith moves the metal across the anvil’s horn.

“…darkness good…smith…for such a young fellow…”

The wiry young man has never mentioned his abilities to sense the level of heat within the firebrick, or the order within the iron, nor does he intend to, not after his brief visit in Fairhaven.

The smith thrusts the metal back into the inferno. “Anyway, he’s headed down to Fenard in the next day or so…wanted to know if you could make him a few more…said he’d pay half silver each…especially if you could do little boats of some sort. That mean anything to you?”

That Willum has stopped and asked for toys—and offered more coins—is interesting. Dorrin does not whistle, but his lips are pursed. Nearly automatically, he gestures to the bellows rod again, noting that the fire needs more air. Vaos sighs and resumes pumping.

“He likes my toys. I made a wagon, a windmill, and a sawmill. I could do a boat, but that would be harder, especially to make it float properly.”

“An iron boat? Even one that’s part iron?” Yarrl coughs, then swallows, wiping his forehead with the back of his bare forearm.

“An empty bucket floats, doesn’t it?—and it’s part iron.”

Yarrl brings the metal to the anvil, and Dorrin lifts the sledge.

A half silver for his toys? He brings the sledge down, then lifts it. Yarrl shifts the iron, and Dorrin strikes as they pick up an easy rhythm.

At least twice, Dorrin looks over his shoulder, certain that someone is there, but only the three of them are there.

“I don’t want to go.” Liedral’s arms are tight around Dorrin.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I’ve already stayed too long. You need more time…and so do I.”

Dorrin wonders where the time has gone. Her horses—she has another pack horse, bought cheaply because feed is scarce in Spidlar now—are packed and heavily laden, and she can pick up one of the few coasters in Spidlaria, but only if she leaves soon. Finally, he reaches out and touches her, not just with his fingers, but with a touch of darkness, blackness, that is soul. They stand, locked together, for yet one more time before she breaks away.

He watches the road long after the horses have vanished into the dawn light. Then he washes and shaves in ice-cold water, and, as an afterthought, washes the stained shirt he has promised himself he will wash for almost an eight-day. He hangs it in his room and dons the lighter one, and his jacket, then takes his staff and returns to the barn to saddle Meriwhen.

At least, he will be early at Rylla’s. He snorts as he closes the barn door and mounts. Meriwhen retorts with a whicker.

“I know it’s early. Traders get up even earlier than healers or smiths.” He whistles tunelessly as Meriwhen’s hoofs crunch through the road’s crusted surface. Although the nights are cold, the days are getting warm enough to melt the snow and ice. Spring will be welcome, but how much mud will arrive with it?

A feeling of melancholy brushes across him, and he straightens in the saddle, for the feeling is somehow distant, not exactly his. His eyes water. Is it from the wind? Liedral? How could he
have asked her to stay? Should he have gone with her? But what could he have done to make a living? Now, at least, he is earning coins, from the extra smith work and from his toys. When Willum had showed up the afternoon before, Dorrin wished he had completed more than the half-dozen small toys. There had only been one boat, and not his best work at that. But Willum had rubbed his hands and paid on the spot.

Meriwhen skitters slightly as a hoof slips on ice. Should he have reshod her with ice shoes? It’s too late in the winter for that, but something to think about next fall. There is always something else he should have done.

He turns Meriwhen off the main road into the deeper unpacked snow of the narrow way. The white smoke shows that Rylla, as usual, has a warm fire burning.

Dorrin ties Meriwhen at the post. The day will be warm—for winter. He loosens his jacket as he walks to the door and opens it. Five people are standing or huddling in the main room—three women, a boy, and Frisa, who is held in Merga’s arms, whimpering.

Dorrin takes off his jacket and hangs it on the peg behind the door.

“Least you’re here when you’re supposed to be.” The grumpiness does not hide the concern in Rylla’s voice. “Kysta’s got the flux; and Weldra’s covered with red blotches; and…maybe you’d better look at little Frisa. Merga says she took a bad fall.” Rylla’s eyes fix on Dorrin. “I still have some brinn that might help with the flux.”

“Do you have any astra?”

“It’s dried. Put ’em together, you think?”

“With a herb tea. Rebekah said that it sometimes works.”

“Darkness…why not?”

The thin and red-eyed young mother holds Frisa. “She can’t walk.”

“You carried her here? How far is that?”

“Down from Jisle’s farm. A long two kays, master Dorrin.”

Dorrin gestures toward the stool. “Can you sit by the fire, Frisa?”

A whimper answers his question.

“You remember my horse? If you’re good, I’ll give you a ride home.”

“That not be necessary, ser,” protests Merga.

“You can’t carry her back all that way.”

“I managed her here.”

Dorrin holds his sigh as Merga eases Frisa onto the stool. The child winces. The young healer runs his fingertips along her neck, letting his senses search out the injury. Pain and bruises cover her back and legs.

The powdered willow bark will remove some of the pain, and he can instill some order, but the child has little nourishment and less spirit.

He studies the mother. Darkness on one cheek indicates a scarcely healed bruise, and he can sense others, less well-healed. He stands abruptly, glaring at the fire, his guts churning in rage. Finally, he says softly, “I’ll need to get something for you, Frisa.”

After walking to the kitchen and the cabinet next to the old-fashioned hearth, which also burns, though little more than coals, he takes out the jar with the willow powder and measures some into a small cup. Then he pours a dash of herb tea into the cup and swirls the mixture. The taste, he knows, is awful, but the potion does reduce pain and helps joints and bruises heal. He stuffs a chunk of stale bread into his pocket when Rylla is not looking.

“…drink this,” orders Rylla to the older crone with the cane. “None of your nonsense, Kysta. Just drink it.” The healer glances at Dorrin and looks away.

Dorrin carries the cup back to Frisa. “You need to drink this. It doesn’t taste very good, but it will make you feel better.”

“Don’t want to.”

Dorrin looks at the battered child. “Please, child.” His fingers touch her wrist, and he tries to send a sense of reassurance.

“Don’t…”

He looks into her eyes. “Please.”

“If I can have a ride.”

He nods and holds the cup. She gulps.

“Awful…ugggg…”

“You were a good girl.” He squeezes her hand, then stands up, looking at the mother. “She can’t walk yet. I’ll give you both a ride.”

“But…Gerhalm…” Sheer terror fills Merga’s eyes.

“I intend to see Gerhalm.” Dorrin’s words are like ice, and, instantly, the entire cottage stills.

“…darkness…” whispers the old woman Kysta.

The room is quiet long after Dorrin carries Frisa out to Meriwhen. He boosts Merga up and then hands her daughter to her. He hands the stale bread to the little girl. Then he begins leading the mare westward up the hill.

Jisle’s farm is less than the two kays Merga promised, and Dorrin is barely puffing when he leads the two into Jisle’s barnyard. Three one-room huts squat between the barn and what looks to be a fowl coop.

“That be our cot.” Merga points to the one nearest the barn, her voice trembling.

Dorrin sets Frisa on the flaking brick stoop. The door is of warped and splitting pine with obvious gaps between the frame and the door itself.

“Who you be?” A squat man emerges from the barn and barrels toward the three. He carries an axe.

Dorrin lifts the staff from the holder, letting Merga dismount as she may. “I’m Dorrin. I’m the healer that’s trying to help your daughter.”

“Filling her head with ideas of horses. You’re the one.” Gerhalm holds the axe in both hands.

“Why do you beat them?” Dorrin tries to keep the anger from his voice.

“Don’t beat them. They just have…accidents.” Gerhalm’s voice turns oily.

The blackness within Dorrin surges forth, and he drops his staff and grabs the heavier man with both hands, letting the blackness flow through him into the farm worker.

Gerhalm tries to wrench free, but the smith’s arms are as hard as black iron. “…darkness…no…no…NOooo…”

When Dorrin releases the man, Gerhalm sinks onto the step, the axe dropping in the dirty snow by his feet.

“You will never lift a hand to either Merga or Frisa. Ever!”

Merga backs away from Dorrin and her man, eyes flickering from the blackness that seems to enshroud the healer.

Gerhalm drops to the snow, almost groveling. “Don’t…not that…”

“Get up,” Dorrin orders.

Gerhalm backs away from the healer. “Not again, master…not again.”

Frisa sits on the stoop, still chewing on the last crust of the bread. Dorrin turns to Merga, who has sunk onto her knees.

“I didn’t know,” she whispers. “I’d a not done it to Gerhalm…”

“I didn’t hurt him. He just won’t beat you again.”

“I didn’t know…” The young mother refuses to look at Dorrin as he remounts Meriwhen.

“’Bye, horsey,” calls Frisa.

All the ill have left Rylla’s cottage by the time he returns.

The old healer shakes her head. “Darkness…what you did! You put a curse on Gerhalm, too?”

“Hardly.” Dorrin’s laugh is forced. “I couldn’t curse a soul. I did put an order command on him. He can’t lay an angry hand on either.”

“For a man, these days, that be a terrible curse.” Rylla’s laugh is as harsh as his. “What will ye do when he leaves her?”

“You think he will?”

“Not in the next few eight-days, but by summer’s end.” She leans back in the chair, sipping her herb tea.

“I don’t know.” He takes a deep breath. “I’d better think about planting spices and building my own cottage. If that’s all right with you.”

“Be fine with me. No one’d touch an old healer with a Black master living near.”

“I’m not a Black master.”

“Maybe not yet. Nearest thing to one around, though.” She takes another sip from the chipped mug. “Might as well be getting you back to old Yarrl.”

“Might as well.”

“Your mind still on your lady trader?” Rylla smiles.

Dorrin shakes his head. That kind of understanding he will never have.

The ride back is quiet, except for the splashing of Meriwhen’s hoofs in the melting ice and snow. When he opens the barn door, he sees Reisa.

“You’re back early.” Reisa is breaking apart a bale of hay to feed the mule and the bay.

“I was helping a child who was beaten.” He removes his
staff from the holder and leans it in the corner.

“She’ll just be beaten again. That type never changes.”

“No.” Dorrin’s voice is flat. “He’ll never beat her again.”

“You didn’t…use your staff?”

“No. I was more cruel.” Dorrin is all too aware of the darkness in his eyes as Reisa steps back. “I bound him never to hit either the mother or the child.”

“Darkness…some ways you scare a body.”

“Sometimes I scare myself.” Dorrin finishes loosening the saddle girths and removes the saddle, racking it carefully. He folds the blanket, then removes the hackamore. Meriwhen is happier with it, and he needs no bitted bridle. He takes the brush and begins to groom the mare. Reisa stands and watches. Zilda clinks her chain from the far corner of the barn.

“Why did you let her go?” asks Reisa when he finishes. “The trader?”

“Because she needed to go. Because I won’t hold her when she needs space. Because I’m still confused.”

“You’re young.” She frowns. “The young always make their own mistakes. By the time you learn, you’re old, and the young won’t listen.”

Dorrin asks gently, “What are you trying to tell me?”

“Life is short, Dorrin. Too short.” She lifts her handless arm. “I thought I’d always be able to match a blade with anyone. Sometimes, it only seems like yesterday. Twenty years—gone in a flash. Most of them were good years, but the good ones went with the bad.”

Dorrin closes the stall door and puts the curry brush on the shelf. Meriwhen whickers softly.

“White Wizards are closing in. Hope you see her again. Next time, don’t let her go, no matter what she tells you.” Reisa coughs, wipes a damp eye, and then takes the curry brush. “Bay needs brushing.” She opens the second stall door. “Better get into the smithy ’fore Yarrl kills himself doing too much. That way, you two come from the same cloth.”

Dorrin walks slowly across the packed snow toward his room to change. Was he wrong to let Liedral go? But how could he demand she stay? He can barely support himself. His head aches as he thinks of the golds in his strongbox. No—that is not
true. He can only support himself if he wants to build his machines.

His eyes burn, even as his head throbs. Things had been simpler, much simpler, before Liedral came.