The Magic Engineer (37 page)

He stands over Leretia and continues to build his walls of order, using the pressure of order to constrain the chaos to a
tighter and tighter focus, driving it into a tighter and tighter line.

His eyes burn as the sweat drips into them, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Would a chair help?” asks Fyntal.

“Yes.” Dorrin does not look away from the patient, even as he sits beside her, even as he reaches for the top cloth and lays it gently on the bare skin.

“Oh…like a knife…darkness…hurts…”

Dorrin places one hand on her forehead, offering some sense of reassurance. “It will hurt for a little, but we’re all here.”

“Fyntal…”

The trader stands on the other side of the bed, and Dorrin senses the tears that flow down the craggy face. Fyntal says nothing, but holds Leretia’s hand as though it were the most precious of gems.

Dorrin continues to press the chaos back into the diseased organ, but the white fire begins to gnaw its way along the order tube toward her skin.

“Burns…oh…burns…”

Dorrin touches her forehead, willing her to sleep, wishing he had recalled that option earlier.

“What did you do?” asks Noriah.

“Let her sleep,” Dorrin answers, absently. “Should have thought of it earlier.”

How long it is before the corruption gnaws through the smooth skin of her belly Dorrin does not know. But he continues to sponge it away with the cloths, discarding them in turn, ignoring the greenish cast on the trader’s face or Noriah’s stumbled retreat from the room and her chastened return.

The lamps have been lit, and they cast shadows from the room when he cleans Leretia’s skin for a last time and sprinkles the wound, which looks more like a circular burn, with crushed astra.

“I…feel better…” murmurs the older woman.

“Don’t move,” Dorrin says. “Not much, anyway.”

“What did you do?” asks the trader from another chair in the corner. “It looks like you did surgery.”

Dorrin squints, then holds on to the chair. He cannot talk. Then he cannot see, either.

“Catch him…”

When Dorrin wakes, lying upon a strange bed, he finds the stable boy sitting on a stool. “Hello.”

“Hello, master.” The boy’s eyes avoid Dorrin’s. “Let me get the mistress.” He darts out the door.

Dorrin sits up. His head aches, and he rubs his neck. This kind of healing is worse than smithing. Since the lamps are not lit, it must be the next day. He hopes it has only been a day. He was supposed to help Yarrl with a cart crane. He finds his boots next to the bed and pulls them on.

“You’re awake.” The blonde, now wearing a soft green blouse and trousers, steps into the room.

“I take it your mother is better.”

“She’s better. But she’s still hot.”

“She probably will be for days.” Dorrin stands. “I need to see her.”

“I think you need to eat. You’re as white as the snow.”

Dorrin considers the wobbliness in his knees. He grins sheepishly. “You’re probably right.” He follows her down the back stairs to the kitchen, where dried fruit, cheese, and fresh-baked bread are laid out on the table.

After he has eaten, feeling somewhat refreshed, he climbs the front stairs to the main bedroom. Noriah follows. Fyntal, sitting by the bed, looks up. Leretia’s eyes follow the trader’s.

“Good morning,” Dorrin offers.

“Good morning, master healer,” Fyntal says dryly.

“Thank you,” whispers Leretia.

“I still need to look at that wound,” Dorrin says.

“Just a moment…”

The healer looks out the window, noting that the Northern Ocean is calmer, that only a few whitecaps dot the dark blue waters.

“Here…”

Dorrin lifts the dressing, as gently as he can.

“Ooooo…”

“I know.” He lets his senses check the wound. Small traces of chaos still flicker around the opening and within. He concentrates.

“Ohhhh…”

“Oh…I should have warned you.” He looks for the brandy and some more cloths. Noriah hands him the bottle and a cloth.
He continues to concentrate until a small amount of greenish pus oozes forth. Then he cleans Leretia’s skin again, and sprinkles the wound with the astringent astra, and replaces the dressing.

“This could ooze for a few days. Keep it clean with the brandy, and change the pad daily, or if it gets sticky. If you get very hot again, don’t wait. Send someone for me immediately.” Dorrin takes a deep breath.

“You don’t do this often, do you?” asks Fyntal.

“No. No healer can.”

“I can see why,” observes Noriah.

“Why did you do it for us?” whispers Leretia.

Dorrin tries not to blush. Then he swallows. “There were two reasons. First, I came because I needed the coin. Second, I stayed because everyone loves you.”

“Pretty speech,” says the trader dryly.

“I’m being honest.” Dorrin looks at the trader, who looks away.

“Honesty doesn’t always impress people.” Noriah’s voice is gentle.

“No.”

“Could anyone else you know have saved me?” asks Leretia, pulling the bedclothes back up to her chest.

Dorrin hesitates.

“Be honest.”

“No. I wasn’t sure I could.”

“You sound like there’s no doubt now.”

“If the wound doesn’t get infected, you should be fine within several eight-days, perhaps sooner.” Dorrin sits down on the single vacant chair. His knees are still somewhat rubbery.

“It’s clear your kind of healing is exhausting.” Noriah’s voice is almost impish. “Or you are not used to exercise.”

“I’m mostly a smith.” The words come out before Dorrin can consider the impact.

“And a healer?” asks Leretia.

“I said it had to be exhausting,” points out Noriah.

“Enough,” says Fyntal. “I expect my lady needs some rest, and master Dorrin has another life as well.”

“All right,” concedes Noriah, standing.

Dorrin rises slowly, nods to the woman in the bed.

“No. Thank you,” says Leretia.

Dorrin blushes, but recovers, before he turns and steps into the hallway.

“I will meet you in the foyer, master Dorrin,” Fyntal says firmly when he closes the bedroom door.

Dorrin nods and heads down the stairs. Noriah watches from the landing as Dorrin recovers his heavy jacket and his black staff.

Fyntal appears at the back of the foyer, apparently having taken the back stairs. He hands Dorrin a heavy leather pouch.

“But…”

“You said you needed the coin,” Fyntal states with a smile. “And I am more than willing to pay for a miracle. Unlike some, I appreciate second chances. I can’t say I have need of your smith work, but should I need an honest smith, I’ll find you.”

“Thank you.” Dorrin inclines his head to the young woman on the landing and to the trader. “Remember to watch her fever. I don’t think it should come back, but get me if it does.”

“I will—never fear.” A grin creases the craggy face.

Dorrin steps into the bright chill of winter, realizing that the warmth of the trader’s house had made him forget the season. He slips the heavy pouch inside his jacket, then one-handedly fastens the jacket as he steps toward the stable.

The same stable boy has Meriwhen saddled and waiting. Dorrin takes a moment to check the girths and hackamore, but both are firm. “Thank you,” he says, fumbling in his purse and offering a copper.

“I couldn’t, ser.”

“Yes, you can. You were good to Meriwhen.”

“I did feed her the grain mash, and she let me curry her.”

Dorrin grins. “Good.” He puts his staff in the holder.

“But you healed the lady, and everyone said she would die, and she’s too good to die.”

“Too many good people die,” Dorrin says slowly. “This time…I could help.” He has already wondered how many good people, like Erlanna, are poor and dying. He takes a deep breath and swings up into the saddle.

The boy waves as Dorrin rides into the yard. Fyntal still stands in the open doorway watching until the healer rides down the drive and out onto the road.

Dorrin does not need to open the pouch to know that it bears a dozen golds. A dozen golds. He is glad he could heal Leretia, and he needs the coin. But how many others will lose lovers and mothers for lack of such healing? And, even if they could find him, how could he heal all of them? His knees and legs are still weak.

He rides slowly past the empty piers, past the chimneys that do not waft smoke into the clear whiter sky, past the empty yards of the Tankard and the Red Lion, and over the bridge and up the packed snow of the road to his house.

Cracckkkk!
The White guard continues to lash the figure strapped facedown on the long table, and a line of red slashes across the legs.

The White Wizard’s hands move, fighting back the white mist that threatens to appear in the mirror on the table in the corner of the cell. Perspiration appears on his forehead as he maintains the image in the midst of the mists. A red-headed young man stands in the center of the white mists. At one edge of the scene stands a woman with short brown hair.

Crack!
The lash cuts across the bare shoulders.

“…hnnnn…” The prisoner whimpers.

The wizard frowns and the face of the man in the mirror distorts—showing pointed teeth, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth, and he lifts a jagged blade toward the woman. She backs away, and he lunges.

Crack!

The image vanishes into the white mists.

“Try it again,” suggests Anya.

“I’ve done it four times,” he snaps.

“You want the effect deep.”

Instead of responding, Jeslek takes a sip from the tumbler. Then he concentrates once more. This time the red-headed man is moving slowly toward the woman in the mirror. The woman has a knife in her hand. Jeslek nods to the guard, and the whip snaps across the woman’s bare back.

“Oooo…”

This time the image of the red-headed man lunges, growling, and the woman plunges the knife full into his chest. The man vanishes in a welter of black smoke.

“Again…” insists Anya.

Jeslek wipes his forehead, and nods to the guard.

Crack!

The images re-form in the glass, with the red-headed man attacking and being stabbed.

Anya smiles. “That should do it.”

“Ohhhhh…” The scream of the woman on the table dies away as she faints.

“Was that necessary?” asks Jeslek.

“As necessary as anything you do, dear High Wizard.”

Jeslek gestures to the other wizard. “You know what to do, Fydel. We might as well make a lesson in Jellico as well. Black sympathizers…bah…”

The guard unstraps the unconscious woman and lifts her over his shoulders like a sack. He follows Fydel from the lower Tower room.

As the door closes, Anya slides in front of Jeslek, moistening her lips, letting her hands reach up his back and drawing his body close to hers. “We have a little time…”

Her lips burn on his.

Outside, the snow continues to pour down, coating the packed yard with another soft white blanket. Dorrin worries about the ride home.

Rek brings in another barrow of charcoal and wheels it next to the forge. Then he wipes the water from his forehead.

Dorrin raises the hammer and strikes, his thoughts more on the carpentry that Pergun has done to turn another corner of the storage area into a room for Merga and Frisa than upon the heavy bar before him. Pergun can use the coppers, and, thanks to Fyntal, Dorrin has more coins than time. And Dorrin cannot complain that someone else is cooking—except that he has now
had to worry about buying food—when it is in short enough supply, and dear.

A soundless scream whimpers in the distance. Dorrin shudders, barely keeping the sledge on target. The impact on the flatter sounds dull, weak.

“Careful there,” admonishes Yarrl. “Got a problem?”

Dorrin sets the sledge on the hard clay. Another shudder takes him, with a wave of distant pain and whiteness. Slowly, he walks out of the smithy and into the storm.

“Dorrin. Darkness damned. Need to finish this strap.”

Yarrl’s words are lost as he looks into the heavy gray snow clouds over the Westhorns. Liedral? But what? Another wave of white horror and pain washes over him, and he puts a hand on the ice on the stones of the well ledge.

For a time, with the hazy winter light fighting through the clouds, he stands next to the well, enduring the waves of pain that are not his, until they subside. Then, mechanically, he opens the well cover and drops the bucket. Just as mechanically he hoists it back up. Was Reisa right? Should he have made Liedral stay? But what has happened?

“…just shuddered and dropped his sledge…like as he’s not here, daughter…Look at him.”

The cold water on his sweating face helps—the colder the better. Finally, he swallows some of the water. That helps also.

“Crazy…cold water on his face in midwinter…”

Something tugs at his leg. He looks down at Zilda, at the end of the chain held by Petra. The goat is yanking at his trousers.

“Sorry…” he says.

Reisa and Yarrl stand by the porch steps. Yarrl spits into the corner.

“What happened?” Reisa smiles sadly.

“Something with Liedral. It’s stopped…now, but she’s been hurt.”

“Do you know where she is?”

He shakes his head.

“Wizards’ business…no good to come of it,” mumbles Yarrl.

“Can you do anything?” Reisa pursues.

“Not yet…not yet.” He takes a deep breath. “Might as well finish the big straps—while I can.”

“You sure?” asks Yarrl.

“I’ll let you know when I’m not.” Dorrin wipes his face and walks back toward the smithy.

Behind him, Reisa and Yarrl look at each other. Finally, Yarrl follows the younger smith back to the forge.

Fat snowflakes flow past Dorrin’s face as he rides uphill from Yarrl’s in the darkness of early evening. What has happened to Liedral? Why did he feel the pain? Where is she?

Somehow, in some way, it is connected to the White Wizards. Still, none of it makes much sense. Dorrin has made little progress in building the machines he has designed, even the simple steam engine. He cannot make weapons, at least not the conventional ones, and he cannot return to Recluce. He is a good journeyman smith, and, in some ways, a good healer.

Liedral is a woman and a trader who can barely make ends meet.

Unless he can do something, or unless Brede and Kadara are far more successful than Dorrin, within a year or perhaps two, Spidlar will be under the heels of the White Wizards, and there is a good chance he will be in a work camp building roads, or dead. Yet the White Wizards are worried.

He nudges Meriwhen off the road and up the drive past Rylla’s cottage. The smoke from the kitchen chimney, the one serving the stove, shows that Merga has been busy with something. He hopes it is better than his own cooking. He dismounts outside the small stable. As he slides off Meriwhen, he hears footsteps.

“Can I feed the horsey?” asks Frisa, still struggling into the too-big herder’s jacket, snow coating her short black hair.

“Her name is Meriwhen,” Dorrin explains again, opening the stable door and leading Meriwhen inside.

“Can I feed Meriwhen?”

Dorrin hands the girl the bucket, and opens the barrel. “Put three big handfuls in the bucket and let me see it.”

While Frisa scrambles with the barrel and bucket in the dim
ness of the stable, Dorrin loosens Meriwhen’s saddle and racks it.

“It’s dark.”

“We won’t be here long.” Dorrin winces as the distant pain sears through him. Somehow that agony is closer. But why? Can he find Liedral? How?

“Is this enough?”

“What?”

Frisa thrusts the bucket at him.

“Three more handfuls,” Dorrin decides. Her hands are much smaller than his. He leads Meriwhen into her stall and takes out the brush. “This is going to be quick, old girl.”

“Horsey’s not old.”

“Meriwhen.”

“She’s not old.”

“You’re right.” Dorrin continues brushing.

“Is this enough?”

Dorrin turns and looks at the bucket that Frisa holds, moving the child back away from the mare’s legs—not that he believes Meriwhen would kick, but not all horses are Meriwhens. “That’s fine. We’ll put it here.” He lifts Frisa up to the level of the manger. “Pour it all out.”

“Good Meriwhen.”

Frisa stands outside the stall while Dorrin finishes grooming Meriwhen. He picks up his staff and steps into the snow, waiting for Frisa to follow before closing the stable door.

Frisa darts ahead and is stamping her small feet on the porch even before Dorrin’s boots touch the steps. He cleans his own boots as Frisa ducks into the house.

“Good evening, ser.” Merga inclines her head at Dorrin’s entrance. “Seeing it was wet and then snowing, and seeing as you’re growing young fellows”—she jabs a long wooden spoon at Vaos, who stands in the corner by the stove—“I made a stew.”

Dorrin sniffs the welcome scent of stew. Vaos grins at the smith.

The kitchen is dim with only the two oil lamps lit, but Dorrin only has the two lamps—yet another shortcoming in his household supplies. He also only has a single large jug of lamp oil. Building the house was only the beginning of his expenses.
Even the golds from Fyntal may not last long. Dorrin turns from absently studying the lamp in the wall sconce to Merga.

“Frisa and me, we set some snares near the pond, and we got two fine hares. You had plenty of potatoes in the cellar, even some roots.”

“You snared some rabbits?”

“Yes, ser. I had plenty of practice, and Jisle didn’t mind. He said that they only ate the crops.”

Dorrin tried not to smile as he sinks into the chair at the table.

“But ser, for a proper pantry, you be needing more staples. A barrel of flour, more potatoes, some yams…”

“Probably, Merga, I’ll need all that and more. But could I afford it?”

“Even these days, you could get a barrel of flour for a silver, and you’d get a couple of coppers back for the barrel when you emptied it. Potatoes are cheap, if you go to Asavah.”

Dorrin takes a deep breath. “We’ll talk about what we need in the morning. It’s been a long day, and I am hungry.”

“Frisa, you can take this.” Merga hands a worn basket to the child who carries it across the room and sets it before Dorrin. The aroma of fresh-baked bread fills his nostrils. “I got some yeast mix from Rylla. She says it will do until your lady brings her own.”

Dorrin coughs, then rises and heads for the cooling tank and the cider. He fills four mugs and sets them around the table.

Merga sets the heavy pot on the wooden trivet in the middle of the table. “If you’d serve, master Dorrin.”

The smith understands. Only the master or the mistress of a house should distribute the food. But he serves Frisa first, then Vaos and Merga. There is still plenty left.

He takes a spoonful, then breaks off an end of the bread and hands the basket to Vaos.

“Begging your pardon, master Dorrin,” Vaos says, “but this is better than bread and cheese and fruit.”

“So? I’m not a cook.”

“The master is a healer,” asserts Frisa.

“He’s a smith,” counters Vaos. “A good smith.”

“I do both. Now, eat!”

Vaos crunches through his large chunk of bread.

“Yes, master,” agrees Frisa. “Would Meriwhen like stew?”

“I don’t think so.” Instead of shaking his head, Dorrin bites into the bread, still warm and crusty. After several mouthfuls of stew and bread, he looks up to see the other three eating equally ravenously.

“Can you ride a horse, Merga? Or drive a wagon?” he asks later.

“Yes, ser. I used to drive the teams for Gerhalm, when he wasn’t a-feeling well. Jisle, he looked the other way.”

There is a knock, and Dorrin’s eyes flash to the door. He stands, bumping the table, and has to steady his mug before he answers the knock.

“Pergun? What are you doing here?”

“Well…ser…I was just a-thinking…it was looking like snow…and I wanted to make sure the work I did…” The mill hand looks up sheepishly.

“Come on in. Have you had supper?”

“I ate a little.”

“Do we have another bowl?” asks Dorrin.

“I’ve finished,” Merga says quickly. “I can wash mine out.” She stands and offers her place on the bench.

Not only does he need more crockery, but he needs more chairs and a longer table. Dorrin takes another mouthful of the stew, watching Merga smile at Pergun as she puts a bowl full of her stew in front of him. The mill hand looks back at her.

“Did you walk here?” Dorrin asks.

“It’s not that far,” Pergun mumbles through a mouthful of stew.

“Hmmmm…” Dorrin almost feels like smashing things with his biggest hammers. The more he does, the more out of control he feels. Everything seems to lead to something bigger, and each time he manages to accomplish something that he thinks will help him build his steam engine, his efforts result in more problems than solutions. He wanted space to work in; instead, he must support a growing household. He didn’t want to worry about a wife; now he worries about Liedral.

Abruptly, he stands up. Everyone in the small kitchen stops and looks at him. “I’m tired. You all enjoy yourselves. I need to lie down and think.”

He walks slowly to the back bedroom and closes the door. Not all the rooms have doors yet, but his does. Nor does he
bother with the lamp as he pulls off his boots and trousers.

Lying under the coverlet on the wide bed meant for two, Dorrin tries to cast his thoughts out—the same way he was taught so long ago by his father, the air wizard. This time he is not seeking natural storms, but chaos.

Sparkles of white fire flicker from the countryside, a sullen white different from the snow, but Dorrin is too tired to cast his thoughts even to Kleth. While Kleth is nearer than that distant agony of Liedral’s, he cannot yet tell in which direction she lies—assuming that the pain is hers. But to whom else could it belong?

So he tosses and turns in the night.