The Magic Engineer (30 page)

A thin line of smoke dribbles into the clear blue-green sky ahead of the column of riders. Brede hunches down in his jacket to keep his ears warmer against the wind, even as the squad plods east on the rolled and packed snow of the road to Fenard. Unlike the bare-headed Brede, Kadara wears a knit cap. Both wear heavy fleece-lined gloves.

“Damned wind…”

“You’re always damning something, Vorban.”

“Shut the frig up, Sestal.”

Brede and Kadara exchange glances and headshakes.

“Why should I? You complain too much. Least we’re getting paid. You want to be some peasant farmer? Sit buried under this snow waiting for the spring to turn it all to mud?”

“Paid for what—freezing our asses off chasing thieves that aren’t thieves? Pretty soon, we’ll be fighting Certan regulars. Then what?”

“All right,” snaps the squad leader.

Kadara’s eyes fix on the smoke. “Another trader, I’d bet.”

“On his way back,” Brede adds.

“How do you figure that?” asks Vorban, riding behind Brede.

Brede turns in the saddle. “That way, they get his goods and coin, and Spidlar gets nothing. It doesn’t hurt their traders, just ours.”

“All right,” repeats the squad leader.

“…all right…” mimics Vorban, in a voice low enough not to be heard beyond those around him.

The riders plod onward through the packed and crusted snow that has refrozen, melted and refrozen.

“Check your weapons.”

On the opposite hillside, a fire burns, and a handful of riders
trot uphill and eastward, leading three horses, and leaving behind two smoldering wagons. They wear the dull purple of Gallos.

“…shit…” mumbles Vorban.

Brede and Kadara look wordlessly at each other.

“…light and darkness…shit…” repeats Vorban.

The slender man in white looks again at the object on the table, then at the box from which it came. His hands draw away from the darkness that surrounds both. “Where did you get this, Fydel?”

“A trader named Willum. In Fenard,” replies the bearded man, also in white, although he does not wear either the gold and white starburst on his collar or an amulet around his neck.

“It feels like something from Recluce.”

“With the Blacks’ disdain of complex tools?” The stolid White Wizard snorts. “You aren’t saying that those iron-headed conservatives would ever allow this, are you, Jeslek?”

“Hardly. But the combination of natural wood, black iron, and order—who else could produce that? Did the trader say where he got it?”

“Not at first. I pressed him a little, and he sweated, but he didn’t say. Before he saw me, he was telling people that it was a miraculous toy brought from afar. Someone asked him if the Black devils made it. He just laughed and say it didn’t come from that far away. I got him later—solved several problems. Before he…ah…”

“You didn’t use chaos-fire, you idiot?”

“I’m not that dense. Plain torture works fine. Then we took him out onto the main road and made it look like another highway attack. The Gallosians all thought it was just that.”

“You’re awfully prolific with illusions. Is that wise?”

Fydel shrugs. “The burned wagons and loot were real.”

“What did you find out?”

“The crafter who made it lives in Diev. His name is Dorrin. No one has heard of him.”

“Where’s Diev? That’s somewhere near the Westhorns, isn’t it?”

“It’s a small seaport and mining town on the coast. It’s about a hundred kays west northwest of Spidlaria.”

“That could be even worse,” muses the taller wizard with the golden eyes.

“Oh?” The stolid wizard’s eyes dart to the toy on the white oak table.

“Well…you pick it up and hold it, then.”

“I’d rather not,” Fydel says apologetically.

“What if it were a full-sized windmill? Built like this?”

“They wouldn’t use that much black iron in proportion. Besides, why would they want to?”

“Fydel.” Jeslek’s voice is hard, and the other wizard steps back. “Say it were a ship or…whatever. What could you do to it?”

“I’d leave it alone—but they can’t built ships like that.”

Jeslek shakes his head. “Am I surrounded by idiots? They don’t—not now. This proves someone can. Do you want it to be Recluce?”

“But it’s not from Recluce.” Fydel nods at the toy he has brought in a box to avoid touching it more than necessary. “One craftsman isn’t a community.”

“Look at it,” snaps Jeslek. “That contains solid carving, or some sort of equivalent woodworking, worked black iron, and a small infusion of order. That means a smith, a woodcrafter or toymaker, and a healer—or someone who’s all three. If this Dorrin is…I’ve never seen anyone like that.”

“So…making toys…what danger is that?”

“None. Just so long as he keeps making toys. And so long as Recluce doesn’t get the same idea.” Jeslek studies the toy again, walking around the circular table.

The bearded wizard ducks backward, his tunic brushing the white stone wall behind him. “Maybe he was from Recluce. They probably exiled him for doing something like that.”

“They can’t stay that stupid forever,” returns Jeslek.

“They’re still reliving the legends of Creslin.”

“Let’s just hope that they continue to do so.” Jeslek turns to the other wizard. “Put out word to all the road guards and inspection points…and anyone else—you know what I mean. If
there’s anything about this Dorrin, I want to know about it. Do you understand?”

Fydel nods.

“I’ll keep this…darkness-damned thing…for now.” Jeslek looks toward the doorway, and the other wizard inclines his head.

“Good day, High Wizard.”

After Fydel leaves, Jeslek ponders the toy, thinking about the young smith who has forged it. Does he know what power he possesses? Clearly not. Like all the Blacks, he sees only a fraction of what is.

He smiles as a light tap strikes his door. “Come in, Anya.”

The red-headed wizard slips in, again sliding the bolt behind her.

“You don’t have to lock it. Who would intrude?”

“I do prefer privacy.” She smiles demurely.

Jeslek glances toward the window, and the darkness outside, lit faintly by the whiteness of Fairhaven itself.

“Your efforts against Spidlar are proving unexpectedly beneficial.”

“You mean, the business with the increased chaos energy? Of course.” Jeslek laughs, but his eyes do not echo the sound.

“It’s effective. Spidlar requires more order to survive, and you create more chaos in Gallos and Kyphros.”

“That may be.” He gestures to the toy on the table. “What do you think?”

Anya makes no move to touch it. “About what.”

“The toy there. Go ahead. Pick it up.”

“Is this a joke?” The red-headed wizard laughs, uncertainly, but she does not touch the toy.

“I see Fydel already told you about it.”

“What if he did?”

“Oh, Anya.” He shakes his head sadly. “We need to crush Spidlar before this toymaker makes bigger things. And you worry and plot about whom you would make my successor, and how you would use your body to control him.”

“You’re impossible.”

“No. Just realistic. And slow. But not totally stupid.”

“Not totally.” Anya settles into the chair next to the wine. “Would you mind if I poured the wine?”

“Please do.”

“You don’t seem terribly upset.”

“Why should I be? White is White. An adder is an adder. My views won’t change you, and you are lovely. So why shouldn’t I accept what you offer? You’re no real threat to me. To Sterol or Fydel, yes.”

“You seem rather sure of yourself.” She fills two goblets.

“I’m dense about these things, actually. You know that. But it doesn’t matter. You know that as well, although I’m sure you haven’t told Sterol that. So does he, although he hasn’t told you. You both are waiting for me to overreach myself. In times of troubles, every High Wizard does, you know. I’m hoping to be the first who doesn’t. You’re betting I’m like all the others.”

Anya takes a deep swallow. “This is…rather…amazing.”

“Not at all.” Jeslek steps up behind her and runs a hand under her collar and across the skin of her shoulder. “Not at all.”

Out of the black predawn sky, the rain falls like iron nails driven into the sodden snow—snow that an eight-day earlier had been waist deep in the fields and hard-packed more than knee deep in the smithy yard.

Dorrin hurries onto the porch, where he knocks slush and mud off his boots, then brushes them with the shoe broom. After that, he wipes them on the mat before stepping into the kitchen. Warmer than the cold damp outside, the kitchen is still cool and dim, lit by a single oil lamp set on the table.

Yarrl sits at the end of the table, two slices of bread, each with a wedge of cheese, before him. “Slop season.”

“It wasn’t like this last year, was it?”

“It was—just before you came. Only seen one spring that wasn’t slop. Don’t want to see another. Drought was so bad half the animals died.” The smith chews through cheese and bread, his left hand on the mug of cool cider.

Dorrin cuts himself bread and cheese and looks in the cupboard for some dried fruit. “Any fruit?”

“No fruit. Damned White Wizards.”

“If that’s a curse, you don’t need it. They were damned by better people a long time ago, and Creslin was the only one who made it stick.” Reisa, wearing a heavy sweater and bulky trousers, steps into the kitchen. “There is dried fruit. Liedral left us a small cask of it. Mixed pearapples and something else. I haven’t opened it.”

“Woman, you haven’t opened it, and it’s like there isn’t any.” Yarrl grumbles through a mouthful of bread and cheese.

“No, it’s not.” Reisa slips shavings into the cold stove, uses a striker to light a candle stub set in a holder, then uses the candle to light the shavings. She waits for the shavings to catch before adding a shovelful of stove coal. “I’ll make bread for dinner, and it’ll still be warm for supper.”

“Fat good that does me now.”

Dorrin pours cool cider into a mug.

“Can’t argue with women, Dorrin. They don’t answer what you ask, and answer what you never thought of asking.”

“You can’t argue with men, Dorrin,” Reisa says evenly. “They don’t listen to what you say, and they hear what they want to, not what you said.”

“I guess that means you can’t argue,” adds Petra from the doorway. She looks at the half loaf of bread remaining on the cutting board, then takes the knife and cuts two slices, offering the first to her mother.

“Thank you.” Reisa takes the bread with an eye still on the wide stove.

“Worse than White Wizards…have an answer for everything, and they’re sneakier.”

Dorrin sits at the corner of the table. “Brede and Kadara say the thieves are riding horses with Gallosian horseshoes—the kind with the funny angles on the sides of the cleats.”

“If the cleats are angled, they’re not properly cleats.”

“Father,” snaps Petra, “stop being so difficult.”

“That doesn’t sound good.” Reisa, measuring flour into a bowl, looks up. “Oh, Petra. I’ll need milk earlier today.”

“It’s raining an ocean out there.” Petra looks into the dim dawn and the curtain of water, then closes the door.

“I still need the milk.” Reisa coughs. “Before long, the Pre
fect will be claiming that the midlands above Elparta belong to Gallos.”

“They never have,” snorts Petra.

“We’re going to need nails, couple of small kegs of common flatheads—longs and shorts. Werthen always wants a keg right after the mud clears.” Yarrl grins. “Doesn’t like Antra’s or Henstaal’s.”

Dorrin groans. He hates making nails, even if the pattern is now easy.

“A true smith—groans at nails, but makes ’em good. Darkness, that’s why smiths got strikers—to make nails, draw scrap into rods and bars.” Yarrl stands and drains the last cider from his mug. “Let’s get moving. Where’s that worthless scamp?” He pretends not to notice as Vaos slips into the kitchen.

Petra slices a hunk of bread for Vaos and hands him a wedge of cheese. Then she pulls a tattered oiled waterproof off one of the pegs by the door.

“Where is that worthless scamp?” asks Yarrl, still ignoring Vaos.

“Playing with Zilda, probably,” Dorrin answers, winking at Vaos.

“Better not be playing with her. That’s a she-goat.”

“Father…”

Vaos gulps the cider that Reisa hands him. Reisa glances at Dorrin and shakes her head. They both know that for Yarrl work comes before politics, and discussing politics doesn’t make nails or bread—or milk the cow.

Dorrin swallows the last of his hasty breakfast and heads for the smithy.

A low fire burns in the long barracks room, and half a dozen troopers sit on stools around the coals. Others lie on pallets away from the walls through which drafts convey the chill of the cold rain on the melting snow outside.

Brede and Kadara sit midway between the fire and the small closed room where the section commander is meeting with the
squad leaders. Behind that battered red oak door, the conversation continues, a muted discussion loud enough for those outside to recognize that an argument takes place, but muffled enough so that they cannot decipher the substance.

“Someone’s unhappy.” Kadara leans against Brede’s shoulder.

“Very unhappy.” He touches her hand. “I’m glad we’re not out in this slop.”

“Me, too.” She squeezes his hand in return. “We will be before long.”

“Thank you for reminding me, dear one.”

The door opens.

“Brede?”

Brede stands. “Yes, ser?”

“The regional commander would like a word with you.”

Brede raises his eyebrows, shrugs, then steps toward the small room where the squad leaders meet. The other troopers look away as the tall blond man makes his way through the pallets. The oak door shuts with a heavy click.

“Trooper Brede, this is Commander Byskin.”

“Yes, ser.” Brede inclines his head in a gesture of respect, standing easily before the table, looking straight at the regional commander, a middle-aged soldier, still trim, if compact. The commander is half bald, and his remaining short-cut hair is half brown, half silver.

“Is it true that you come from Recluce?” asks Byskin.

“Yes, ser.”

“What would happen if the White Wizards caught you?”

“I doubt that would happen, ser. They’d probably not want anyone from Recluce as a prisoner.”

“Are you saying that they would execute you on the spot?”

“If they could, ser.”

“Would you be interested in becoming the squad leader of a new squad?”

“That sounds interesting, but, if you wouldn’t mind, ser, could you explain a bit more?”

“You’re cautious, aren’t you?” Byskin laughs.

“…and oh so polite…” The whisper seeps into the room.

Byskin looks in the direction of the three other squad leaders, and absolute silence fills the room. “As I was saying, I have
decided that we need to do something different to stop all the raids on our traders. After the last raid, where a rather prominent trader was killed, the Council has authorized a larger expenditure to recruit a few additional blades and form another squad. This squad would operate independently, almost, if you will, waiting near the points where attacks seem to occur…”

Brede nods.

“In view of your background…”

“You are asking if I would lead this squad?”

“Yes, Brede. That is exactly what I am asking. You would receive the same pay as other squad leaders, plus risk pay when in the field. Oh…and, if you are agreeable, your assistant would be Trooper Kadara.”

Brede smiles politely. “I see.”

Byskin frowns. “Do you want the job?”

“Who do I report to?”

Byskin smiles, coldly. “To me, Squad Leader Brede. You are accountable to me for all actions.”

“When do we start?”

“You’ll get your first recruits within the next few days. You’ll have two eight-days to get them in shape.”

Brede listens as Byskin continues to describe his new duties.

“…not necessary to take prisoners, except in unusual circumstances…three eight-days out, one back…primary emphasis on safety of Council traders…”

When Brede steps out of the room, he wears a gold collar insignia, and the barracks room is hushed. He sits beside Kadara on a stool.

Kadara shifts her weight on the pallet, without commenting, as Brede explains. Both ignore the wide space accorded them by the other troopers.

“…and it’s all a rather nasty job.”

“Why did you agree?”

“I thought the alternatives were worse. None of the squad leaders really likes having us in his squad. Also, I think we can make a difference. I’m getting tired of riding up to find dead bodies and looted wagons.”

“You haven’t mentioned something else.”

“I didn’t think I had to.” He shrugs. “Until this is resolved, we can’t find a ship home.”

“We could cross the Westhorns this summer.”

“I don’t like running away.”

“It’s sometimes safer.”

Brede shakes his head. “You just get an arrow or a sword in your back.”

“If you think it’s best…”

“It’s not ‘best.’ You know that. What else can we do?”

“I don’t know. I envy Dorrin. At least, he doesn’t have to go out and fight for his life all the time.”

“He will.” Brede’s voice is soft, almost sad. “He will.”