The Magic Engineer (35 page)

Dorrin turns on the pallet. He should get up. The forge at his own smithy must be finished, and he needs to find someone else to buy his toys, and harvest is approaching, and Yarrl will need help…

“Ooooo…” He is hot, so hot. But he cannot seem to move.

“Easy, Dorrin. You need to rest.”

Something cold presses his forehead, easing the fever, and he drops into darkness. When he wakes, his forehead is hot, but dry. Someone is talking.

“He was up there in the hills, setting up that fancy water system, and the mosquitoes got him. There’d be too many even for our smith mage to ward off, I’d say. Oh…you’re waking, are ye?” Rylla leans over and sponges off his forehead. The coolness is welcome, more than welcome. “Drink this.” She thrusts a mug at his lips.

“What…is…it?”

“Cider with willow bark and astra. It tastes terrible, but you need it.”

Dorrin drinks, very slowly, trying to ignore the bitterness. He finishes the concoction, and leans back, marveling at the effort merely to drink.

He is not aware of exactly when he falls asleep or even when he wakes, except the sky outside is gray, and rain patters lightly on the roof.

This time Vaos sits on the stool by the bed. “You awake?”

“Sort of…”

“I’ll be right back.” The boy scampers from the room, but returns after a time, slightly damp, with Rylla.

The healer studies the smith, touches his forehead. “You’ll heal. Wasn’t totally sure about that before, but you’re built like your forge inside.” She turns to Vaos. “About half of them that get the hill fever die in the first couple of days. The rest live.”

“Wonderful,” groans Dorrin.

“Have some more of this,” orders Rylla.

“Ugghhh…” But Dorrin drinks another mug of the bitter mixture.

“Keep him drinking the clean water, boy,” she addresses Vaos. “And don’t let him do anything but rest. Reisa will get me home now. He’ll get well by himself. Just be quiet.” The healer nods to Dorrin and leaves.

The smith rests, and sleeps, and wakes.

Vaos is not there when Dorrin wakes, but a mug filled with cool water is on the table beside the narrow bed. Dorrin’s hand shakes, but he manages to get the mug. He is sipping the water when Vaos peers into the room.

The youngster slips onto the stool. “Vyrnil came by. I said you were away. He wants something new. He left a sketch of it—says it’s something he saw on a Hamorian ship.”

“Why don’t you get the sketch?”

“The old healer said you weren’t supposed to do
anything
.”

“I can think,” Dorrin snorts, ignoring the blurriness the gesture creates. “Go on. I won’t move.” That is true enough. He is scarcely in any shape to move anywhere, thanks to whatever fever the mosquitoes carried.

Before Dorrin has even thought much about moving, the strawberry-haired youngster has returned with the sketch.

“This is it.”

Dorrin squints. The drawing does not seem to make much sense at first. “Turn it the other way.”

Vaos complies, but the lines still make little sense to Dorrin.

“He said that it’s a better way to sight the sun. Does that mean anything to you?”

Dorrin frowns, a glint of understanding trying to emerge from his still-fevered brain. “Perhaps I will.” He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, Vaos has set down the sketch.

“Why can’t you heal yourself?” Vaos sits on the stool.

“Can you lift yourself off that stool?” growls Dorrin.

“Sure.” Vaos hops from the stool.

“No,” says Dorrin slowly. “Sit down.”

Vaos’s eyebrows lift, but he sits.

“Put your hands on your belt, and lift.”

“Nothing happens.”

“If I were well, could I lift you by your belt?”

“Ah…yes.”

“Healing’s the same way. You can only do it to others. Mostly,” Dorrin adds.

“But why?”

“I don’t know, and I’m too tired to think about it now.” Dorrin leans back on the pillows and closes his eyes.

Dorrin rubs his forehead, trying to reduce the throbbing in his head. Why has it taken so long to heal from a fever? All he has been able to do is move his few things into the new house—not even much in the way of light smithing—and the moving wouldn’t have been possible without Vaos. He wants to slam his fist into the wobbly wooden table.

Instead, he sips the bitter mixture from the battered mug beside his writing box. He sets the mug down, picks up the sheet, and reads silently.

Dorrin rubs his forehead again. What else can he say that will warn Liedral and not tell the readers of his letter that he knows it is being read? He takes another sip of the medicinal potion. He is stronger—that he can tell—but not strong enough to lift hammers for long. He dips the quill and resumes writing.

Thrap…

He looks up at the sound, glimpsing a figure through the small window that opens onto his too-small porch.

“Coming.” He rises slowly, letting bare feet carry him to the door.

“At least you’re up.” Kadara’s face is smudged, and her blue uniform is soiled. Beside her, Brede appears equally travel-stained.

“Come on in.”

“You look like something the light fried.” Kadara sits on one end of the crude bench on the other side of the table.

Brede closes the door and takes the other end of the bench.

“Thank you,” Dorrin says.

“For what?”

“You came right after you arrived, didn’t you? You both look like you’ve been riding for a long time.”

“We have,” Brede admits.

“Success is worse than failure.” Kadara’s voice is hard. “The better we get, the more they give us to do.”

“I’ve got some cider.” Dorrin walks toward the cooling tank in the corner of the kitchen and pulls the jug from the icy water. “It’s cold.”

“You put running water in here?”

“Such as it is. That’s what got me sick. There were too many mosquitoes up in the hills when I put in the catch basin and piping.” Dorrin pours cider into two crude glass tumblers, handing one to Kadara and the other to Brede.

“Why did you bother? Spidlar will be gone in a year, and we’ll be on the run.” Kadara pours down half a glass. “Darkness, that’s good.”

“Hmmmm,” adds Brede.

Dorrin waits and refills both glasses. Then he sits down, trying not to wipe his forehead. “The Council won’t give in to the Whites.”

“They won’t have much choice. They’ve posted notice of
spring levies in Certis, Kyphros, Montgren, and Gallos.”

“Has the Council recalled Spidlarian mercenaries from other duchies?”

Brede and Kadara exchange glances.

“They have, but the Whites are making it hard for them to return?”

Brede nods. “We’ll get some back, but some have no desire to get ground down under the levies in the spring.”

“Levies aren’t as good as fully trained troops,” Dorrin points out.

“No, but there are a lot more of the levies.”

“And we can’t even get the darkness out of here,” snaps Kadara. The cider splashes onto the table when she sets down the tumbler. “There aren’t any ships to Recluce, and Suthya and Sarronnyn have refused to allow anyone from Recluce to land there.”

“Why?” Dorrin raises his eyebrows.

“Fairhaven is paying top golds for grain, but the ban is part of the agreement. We tried to book passage to Rulyarth.”

“It’s going to be a long and cold winter,” Dorrin says.

“And a bloody spring.”

“Can you stop them?”

Brede shrugs. “Do you have any machines that would help?”

“No. Nothing I can make would help.”

“What good—” Kadara breaks off as Brede’s eyes catch hers. “I’m sorry.”

“Let me think about it.” He finishes his medicine and refills his mug with cider. “Darkness…I can’t even make a sword, you know?” Dorrin holds up his hands helplessly. “Maybe I can think of something else.”

“Well…” Kadara says, “we heard you were sick.”

Dorrin raises his eyebrows.

Brede coughs. “It was…sort of a joke…”

“I see. The wonderful healer can’t even heal himself?”

Brede looks down.

“That’s all right. My own helper asked me the same question. It sounds stupid, but that’s the way it works.”

Brede stands up. “We really need to get back to the barracks. We’re only here to get back up to strength and to resupply.”

“How long?”

“An eight-day, if we’re lucky.” Brede steps toward the door.

“Dreamer,” mumbles Kadara. “We’ll be out again in three days.” She drains the last of the cider. “Damned good cider.” Then she too stands and heads for the door.

“Take care,” Dorrin says. What else can he say? It is as though they are slipping away from him.

“You, too, Dorrin.”

He watches from the door as they ride through the cold misting rain. Mud streaks both their horses and their trousers and boots. His eyes flicker to the muddy streaks on the once-clean plank floor. After he rests, then he will mop it again. And after he finishes the letter to Liedral.

A long cold winter, and a bloody spring—wonderful.

The cold rain that seems more like early winter than autumn continues to pour down. Except near the forge, the air in the smithy is damp. Vaos pushes the wheelbarrow inside, stops to close the door, and then wheels the load of charcoal up the forge. Rek pulls the bellows lever. Yarrl turns the iron on the anvil, and Dorrin strikes the cherry-red metal.

Yarrl returns the iron to the forge. Dorrin sets down the sledge and wipes his forehead. Usually, the heat doesn’t get to him so much, but his weakness may be from his hill fever.

“So when are you going to open your own smithy and take work from me? You got your house about done.” Yarrl’s attempt at humor does not hide his concern. “Keep pumping, Rek.” The smith turns the iron in the tongs.

Dorrin wipes his forehead again. “I’m wearing out poor Meriwhen riding back and forth.” He wants to add some humor, but his words sound flat.

“It’s a nice house. You do good work. The lady trader will like it.”

“I hope so, but I haven’t asked her.” Dorrin coughs. “But I won’t be taking work from you. Vyrnil is asking for more of my
toys, more intricate ones, and Jasolt wants something different. He wants me to duplicate some navigation device used by the Hamorians. He sent me a picture, or something.” Dorrin pauses as the older smith takes the iron from the forge and lays it upon the bottom fuller. Then Dorrin lifts the light sledge.

Clunnngggg…clunnggg…

When Yarrl returns the iron to the coals, Dorrin continues. “I wouldn’t take work from you.”

“Vaos will want to go with you.”

“He’s your helper.”

A smile creases the smith’s sweating face. “He followed you to begin with. Rek’s my helper. Rek’s a good boy. Likes the forge. Vaos likes you.” Yarrl shakes his head as he brings the iron back to the anvil.

Dorrin again lifts the sledge.

“When would be best for you?” Dorrin asks later, after the base of the cart crane goes into the long special slack tank that they have built for it.

“You have to do what you need to, young fellow.”

“I can still come here and help with the heavy work.”

“You would, I think.” Yarrl lifts the crane base, his shoulders straining, and sets it on the back of the forge. “If I need you, I’ll let you know. You take care of that little trader woman before she gets in trouble the way Reisa did.” Yarrl looks into the dimness behind his workbench.

Dorrin waits, rubbing his forehead. Somehow, he feels flushed. He wishes he that the aftereffects of the fever would pass more quickly. He is sleeping more, and working less, and getting impatient in the process.

“The world doesn’t like strong women, Dorrin. Especially the Whites—they don’t at all. I wanted to protect her, but she wouldn’t have me then. Then she said a one-armed woman was no good as a wife. Bunch of cowdung…take her armless…but don’t you tell her that.” Yarrl looks back at the bench. “Need to do that arm now. Check the fire, would you?”

Dorrin smiles. Yarrl has never asked him to check the fire, and the request is a tacit acknowledgment that he is a smith in his own right. Perhaps a lowly one, but Yarrl is a good smith, and Dorrin values the request, and the approval it conveys.

As he walks by the bookcase, the White Wizard tucks the folded parchment back into the folder that sits in the top shelf. He pauses by the window, enjoying the temporary warmth of a sunny day in early winter as it flows into the tower room.

“What was that?” Anya stretches in the white oak chair, somehow making the movement more than just a stretch.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“A letter.” Jeslek’s eyes straying to the mirror on the table.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting love letters?”

“I don’t appreciate the levity.” Fire appears on Jeslek’s fingertips. “It has to do with the trouble in Spidlar.”

“Trouble? The great Jeslek admits there is indeed trouble in Spidlar?”

Jeslek’s lips tighten. “Sometimes, Anya. Sometimes…”

“You are so serious, dear wizard. You really need to unbend.” She eases out of the chair in a sinuous movement and steps up behind him, close enough that she blows gently on his neck, then kisses it, slowly, warmly.

A faint smile plays across his mouth as Anya’s lips warm his neck, and as her hands reach for his white belt.