The Magic Engineer (43 page)

“Master Dorrin?” Vaos’s voice penetrates the smithy.

He turns the tongs to ensure an even heating of the metal. “Yes?”

“Liedral’s back.”

“I’m coming.”

“I’ll tell her, ser.”

“No, you won’t. You clean up the smithy.” Dorrin sets the tongs on the fire bricks, ignoring the clatter, runs to the front of
the smithy, then walks into the fall coolness.

“But…” Vaos’s protest is lost as Dorrin leaves.

“You do look like a smith.” Liedral stands by the cart, grinning.

He steps forward to take her hand, wishing he could hold her.

She hugs him, but she steps back. “I’m better, and I’m learning.”

They stand, looking at each other.

“You have a few more muscles, I think,” she finally says.

“Ser…” Vaos says, tentatively, “I could stable and curry the horses.”

“Ah…yes. That would be…wouldn’t it?” He looks at Liedral.

She nods solemnly.

“She’s back! Liedral’s back!” Frisa’s squeal carries from the garden where she and Merga have been harvesting the long yellow gourds.

Dorrin takes the cart reins from Liedral’s hand and gives them to Vaos, who has still followed him outside. Liedral turns and hands Dorrin a small chest from the closed compartment under the cart seat. They walk across the fall-dampened ground toward the porch steps, and Dorrin wipes his boots while untying his leather apron. He opens the door, waits for Liedral to step inside, and hands her the chest before hanging his apron on the peg.

“We finally have some early cider.” Dorrin retrieves a jug from the icy water of the cold box and wipes the dampness away.

Liedral sets the iron-bound wooden chest on the table, which shivers with the
thunk
that accompanies it. She sits on one bench. Deep circles ring her eyes, and her clothes are loose. “It was a long trip.”

“Would you rather wash up?”

“I’m hungry.”

“And of course you are,” snaps Merga from the doorway. “The smith, begging your pardon, master Dorrin, is thinking about drinks when you need solid food. We have some bread I baked this morning, and there’s some brick cheese, with some apples from Rylla’s trees.”

Dorrin pours two mugs of cider and sets one before Liedral.

“Did you go on the big ships all the way across the Northern Ocean?” demands Frisa as she leaves the kitchen door open.

“Close the door, Frisa,” her mother orders.

“Is the trader back?” asks yet another voice from the porch. Pergun peers through the half-open door.

Liedral begins to laugh. Dorrin coughs, trying not to choke as he stifles laughter.

“I don’t see what’s funny,” says Frisa solemnly.

Merga cuts three thick slabs of bread and hurriedly puts the knife away before using one of Dorrin’s cheese cutters on the yellow brick. Then she sets the platter before Liedral.

Frisa takes two apples and offers them to the trader. “These are the best ones.”

“Thank you.” Liedral takes the one from Frisa’s left hand.

“You take this one, master Dorrin,” the girl insists.

“Now…Frisa, we need to finish with the squash,” Merga says firmly, but she smiles as she speaks.

“But, mummy…I wanted to hear about her trip…”

“Later,” Merga insists. “You, too, Pergun. You can help us.”

Dorrin and Liedral smile as footsteps trail off the porch, and voices drift from the garden.

“…never cared much for squash…”

“…you never had squash the way I fix it, you picky mill hand…”

“…this one’s really big, mummy…”

Dorrin takes a long swallow of the cider. “How are you?”

“I’m better. I told you. Tired…hungry. And I’m glad to be back. Even if things aren’t going well.”

“I’ve had to make nails, brackets for wall barricades, even ship spikes.”

“Ship spikes?”

“That was so the harbor smiths could do things like caltrops and stimuli. Pretty soon, I’ll have to do caltrops, or get Yarrl to do them for me.”

“Caltrops?”

“Pointed iron stars to get in horses’ hoofs, sometimes enough to destroy the animal or the rider.”

“Ugghhh…are we down to that?”

“Yes. I think so,” Dorrin says tiredly.

“The trade rumors are that the wizards and their levies have reached Elparta. Have you heard from Brede or Kadara?”

“No.” Dorrin shakes his head. “They’ve been gone since early summer. He’s sent a messenger or two for some things I’ve forged for him.”

“Your magic…cheese-cutters?”

“You, too.” Dorrin finishes the mug. “You know, it’s really amazing.” He sets the mug on the table with a thump. “People seem to think it’s perfectly decent to forge a blade that’s light enough, sharp enough, and strong enough to cut through mail and turn a man or woman into dead meat. But you figure out how to do the same thing with wire and steel, and everyone shudders. Dead is dead.”

Liedral frowns. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Sorry. I guess I felt that because Kadara and Brede felt that way. Even Vaos gets this sick look on his face.”

“It was sort of my doing,” she says slowly.

“Don’t feel guilty. The people who tortured you are the ones—”

“No…they’re not. The wizards always escape. Some poor soldier gets killed. I’m not blaming you, but usually the dukes and viscounts and prefects all escape their wars. Everyone else has to pay.”

Dorrin reflects—even in his own life, that has been true. His attempts to keep Frisa and Merga from being beaten resulted in Gerhalm’s suicide. The Whites’ attempts to manipulate him have resulted in pain for Liedral and Jarnish. Being involved with him has cost Kadara something, perhaps her life, for he has not heard from either Brede or Kadara in nearly a season, and not even a messenger for the past five eight-days. He swallows.

“I didn’t mean you.”

“I’m not so sure I’m not the same as they are.”

“No…you’re not.” Liedral reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.

The silence draws out, punctuated by chatter from the garden.

“I did a little better than I thought,” Liedral says slowly. “In the trading, I mean.” She opens the chest, from which spill silvers and golds. “I did much better. You’re very well off, Dorrin.”

“We’re well off. You took all the risks. At least half belongs to you.”

“We’ll talk about that later.” Liedral tilts the chest and eases the coins inside. “Do you have a safe place?” She looks toward the storeroom.

Dorrin stands, lifting the small and heavy chest. “Let me show you.”

She follows him into the storeroom, where he shows her how the false rack works and sets her chest by his smaller and far lighter one. Then he replaces the rack and closes the storeroom door.

Liedral reseats herself and continues through her second slice of bread and cheese before speaking again. “I was hungry.” She finishes her cider, and Dorrin refills the mug. “You were right about the brinn. The Councillor’s healer paid two golds for one of the bags. So did another of the healers. He wanted to know where I got it. How did you know?”

“I didn’t, for sure, but it’s hard to grow, even for me, and I can grow most herbs. Brinn only grows east of Brista, unless you use order to help. So I thought it might bring a lot more than the more common ones, and it’s good against the flood flux.”

“I must have gotten twenty golds for the herbs.” She takes another sip of cider. “Even the simple toys went for more, but that’s because a lot of your competition has been cut off.”

“Things from Recluce?” Dorrin asks.

“The only goods from Recluce are coming the long way—along the Great Canal of Hamor to the Great East Highway through the Kryada Mountains and then down to the ports of Western Hamor. Fairhaven has changed all the trading patterns. They all flow from east to west.” Liedral coughs gently. “That raises the prices a lot for anything from Recluce…if it even gets to Sarronnyn or Suthya.”

Dorrin finally straightens in his chair and looks directly at Liedral. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” She lets out a long deep breath. “Things are better…not so many nightmares. But I think it will take a long time.” Liedral brushes at a lock of hair that is too short to stay in place. “It’s not fair to you.”

Dorrin looks down at his own mug. “I’ll wait.”

“That’s easy to say now. How will you feel in a year?”

“We’ll see in a year.” He forces a grin. “And we’ll be busy…very busy.” He clears his throat. “I’ve gotten more done on the engine.”

“Are you still going to use it on a ship?”

“How would you like to have your own ship for trading?”

“Ships come in two varieties—those that make you rich and those that are more trouble than they’re worth. Most are the second kind, I suspect.”

“Then it will keep us busy.” He extends a hand halfway across the table.

She takes his fingers, squeezes them, and holds them lightly.

“…I’m hungry…” Frisa’s shrill complaint penetrates the kitchen.

“…we’re almost finished…”

“…but my tummy hurts now…”

Liedral shakes her head. “I think it’s time to let Merga back into the kitchen. I’m going to take a real bath, and you probably need to work on your engine if you really intend to put it on a ship.” She stops. “Won’t you have to build a ship?”

“Build it, or buy it,” Dorrin concedes.

“There are a lot of golds in the chest…but I doubt there are enough to buy even a small ship.”

“Then I’ll see what it will take to build one.”

Liedral stands. “I meant it about the bath. You do still have that old metal tub, don’t you?”

Dorrin nods. “But I rigged a shower off the smithy. I use that, mostly. It’s cold.”

Liedral shivers. “Not for me, thank you.” She walks to the door and waves to Merga.

Dorrin goes to reclaim the tub from the corner of the smithy, even as Frisa skips toward the kitchen.

Steam rises from the water, boiling as it rushes downstream toward and then past the walls of Elparta. Smoke thicker than winter fogs cloaks the hills, and tongues of flames dance across
the now blackened grasslands to the south of the city.

Under the green-edged white flag, the three messengers approach the southern gate. A man in a blue cloak waits for them, his short white beard hastily trimmed. A smudge of soot or dirt mars his left temple.

“A request of the city…” begins the messenger in the middle, his sonorous voice almost droning.

“Forget the fancy language,” replies the older man in blue. “What do the wizards want?”

“…from the honorable Jeslek, and the commanders Grestalk and Xeinon,” continues the messenger, “beseeching that the citizens of Elparta, in the interests of justice and mercy, lay down their arms and pay homage to the greater hegemony of Candar…”

The man in blue takes a deep breath and waits.

“…that the river gates be destroyed and the water piers be open to all…that the battlements be cast down…that unmarried women be made available as consorts for…that all followers of the Black heresy, including the officers of the Spidlarian Guard who have committed atrocities and used evil magical tools against the hegemony, be turned over to the honorable Jeslek…that reparations from the granaries of the city be made to the forces of the hegemony…that all able horses are to be turned over to the representatives of the hegemony for proper redistribution…that all members of the so-called Council of Traders be returned to the Candarian Guild for proper disciplinary action…”

The man in blue holds up his one good hand. The other rests in a sling. “If I understand the thought behind the fancy words, we must make the city totally defenseless. After that, our daughters get to be whores for your troops; all the good officers are to be executed, all the traders slaughtered, and all the horses and all food for winter taken.”

“Not so…” protests the messenger. “These are honorable terms, especially given the depredations committed upon all Candar, the unfairness in trading, and the slaughter of defenseless traders.”

“How long do we have to consider these terms?” asks the man in blue.

“Until sunset.”

The Elpartan emissary glances at the midafternoon sun. “Very generous.”

“Oh, extremely generous is the honorable Jeslek.”

“You will have an answer by sunset.” The man in blue limps back toward the walls.

The emissaries in white turn and walk back toward the mass of soldiers and horses who wait on the plain overlooking the river and stretching toward the small city.

Dorrin lifts the iron back into the forge, using his right hand on the bellows lever. In time he removes the piece and places it in the end curve in the swage block. Using the block is harder than using a hammer-driven swage, but is the only way he can shape the iron single-handedly. Whether the swaging is harder or the mental concentration to avoid suffusing the raw metal with order is more difficult, he is not sure, only that he is sweating from more than the heat of the smithy when he is through.

With a sigh, he lays aside his work, a stubby length of metal hammered into an octagon at one end and welded to a blank circle of iron at the other. Then he sets down the hammer and walks out to the stone-walled water tap to wash off his face and get a drink of cool water.

Outside, he lowers the bucket under the dripping tap and turns it, letting the bucket fill with icy water. He begins to rinse away the grime and other residues from the smithy. The shower would be quicker, but he does not feel up to total immersion in icy water.

He wishes that his efforts to build the engine have not taken so long, but with each idea, each discovery, something else is required. The situation is getting more and more critical, but how can he and Liedral—or anyone—return to Recluce any time soon? Should he be thinking more about leaving Spidlar? But where would he go? As a Black healer and a man, he will not be terribly welcome beyond the Westhorns. Assuming that Recluce would have him back—which is rather unlikely, as he is still building an engine—to get there he would have to circle
the world—and that is a disturbing thought.

He looks up from the water tap to the house. Merga and Rylla have dried and stored everything from the gardens, and he has dried herbs, and even driven the wagon borrowed from Yarrl halfway to Kleth to bring back barrels of apples and pearapples for both families. He shakes his head at the thought of his household as a family.

How long the Spidlarian Council will retain its tenuous rule in the face of the inexorable advance of the White Wizards is also a question. According to rumors, the Spidlarian Guard has already lost more than two of every three squads, and now must rely on levies. It is the first time levies have been required in Spidlar in centuries. The “requests” for smithing services are also growing with each eight-day.

Even the seas are not free from the heavy hand of Fairhaven. From what Liedral has heard, the vessels of Fairhaven have still cut off most of the trading ships to and from Land’s End, and the price of spices has begun to rise even in the marketplace of Diev.

Dorrin shakes his hands dry in the cool fall air, cooler already than would be the case on Recluce. He looks at the wheelbarrow. When Vaos returns from the market with Liedral, Dorrin will have him bring in more charcoal from the bin behind the small stable.

Charcoal is getting dearer, perhaps because the Certans and Gallosians have pushed into the lower wooded hills west of Elparta where the charcoal burners have operated. Would coal be usable for the smithy? That, at least, can be gotten locally, and it would be ideal for fueling the steam engine he has envisioned. Still…where could he find hundreds of stones’ worth of coal? And how could he pay for it? Besides, he has no ship—not yet.

“Master Dorrin…?”

He looks at Merga. “Yes, Merga?”

“Have you eaten since breakfast?”

“No…”

“A starving smith does not work well. You’re always forgetting to eat. I have set out some bread and preserves and some cheese.”

Everyone is always trying to make sure he does what he is
supposed to. He follows the small woman up the wide wooden steps. Once on the porch, he views the yard and the ridge leading toward Rylla’s. For now, there are few complaints of sickness, but the harvest has been good, although some of the ground vegetables are still in the fields, and not all the grains have fully headed because of the cold spring that made early planting impossible.

He checks the road, but sees no sign of Liedral and her cart—or Vaos. He steps into the kitchen. Merga has already laid out a dinner for him, and Frisa has finished half of what is on her plate.

“Master Dorrin…could you make me a toy?”

“I gave you the windmill.” Dorrin slathers the preserves on the bread.

“I meant…a special kind of toy?”

“Frisa…” Merga says.

Dorrin holds his hand up. He wants to hear what the girl has to say. “What kind of special toy? A doll or something?”

“Dolls are stupid. I wanted something like an iron wagon, one like the kind that brings your iron.”

“I can’t make a horse for it.”

“That’s all right.” Frisa gulps the last of the cider from her mug.

Dorrin grins at the patronizing tone, and chews through the half-warm bread. He is still eating the last morsels of his dinner when he hears Liedral’s cart and heads for the door. As he steps onto the porch, Merga calls after him, “I’ll set out some dinner for them.”

Vaos is unhitching the horse, and Liedral is carrying a basket of potatoes to the porch.

“How did it go?” Dorrin lugs another basket.

“There’s plenty of root crops, but not much flour yet, and it’s still dear. No fruit except for local things, and no spices.”

“We don’t need spices.”

“I know. It shows that there’s nothing coming in, though.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking like that. You are the trader.”

“Don’t forget it.” Liedral smiles.

Dorrin sets down the potatoes and squeezes her shoulder. She brushes his cheek with her lips, then turns back to the wagon.

“You got a lot of potatoes.”

“Merga said to get a lot of them if they were cheap. They were the only thing cheap. I dropped some off for Reisa, and she sent a mutton leg. She also said that you could have three bales of hay, but you ought to pick them up today because it looks like rain before long.”

“Can we have it tonight?” Vaos walks back from the barn to the house.

“Tomorrow,” affirms Merga from the porch. “And for that, you can take these down to the root cellar.”

“Oh…” Vaos looks at Dorrin. “Do I have to, master Dorrin?”

“No,” Dorrin says. “Not until after your dinner.”

“Yes, ser.”

Dorrin looks to the low clouds in the north. “I hope the rain holds off until more of the grains head.”

“Vaos can help me with the hay, if you can do without him for a while.”

“I’ll need him for a bit after he eats, probably until midafternoon.”

“We can do it after that.”

Dorrin touches her shoulder. “You need to eat, and, if you and Vaos are going to get the hay, I need to get back to the forge.”

“All right.” Liedral touches his shoulder for an instant.

Dorrin heads around the porch to the smithy, to rebuild the fire and to finish working on one of the engine gears.

“What’s this?” Vaos walks in after his meal and points to the metal on the side of the hearth.

“That will be a gear,” responds Dorrin absently.

“Out of iron? How will you make the teeth regular?”

“A lot of work with a template, sort of like a hot set. A cutter won’t work on black iron.”

“That must be real special. Can I help?” Vaos bounces on the balls of his feet.

Dorrin looks at his striker’s already splitting boots and shakes his head, then wipes the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. He will have to send Vaos to the bootmaker within the eight-day. If it is not expenditures for iron and copper, it is ex
penditures for food or clothes or something.

“We’ve got to do another batch of spikes for the Council.”

“Oh…” Vaos wilts. “Spikes? Will you use the rod stock?”

“We’ll use the scrap. I know it’s more work, but they’re not paying for this. Get those rusted brackets at the end of the pile there.”

“Yes, ser.”

Dorrin levers the bracket into the forge with the heavy tongs and waits until the metal heats enough to cut it. Then he brings it to the anvil and lifts the hammer, thankful at least that his muscles no longer ache all day, only in the late afternoon. With his slender frame, he will never have the massive biceps of a smith like Yarrl.

…clung…

Vaos says nothing as the hammer comes down on the iron, cutting the bracket into two workable sections.

Dorrin nods at the piece on the floor. “Take the tongs there and set it aside for later.” As he talks he returns the half in the tongs to the fire.

“A little more on the bellows. Then, while I work this into shape, you need to break up the charcoal and bring in a couple of barrows full. We’ve got a lot of spikes to do, and I want to work on the condenser case.”

“Condenser case?”

“Part of the steam engine.”

Vaos puts the cut section of the bracket against the forge where Dorrin can reach it when the time comes, then racks the tongs. “I was going to help Liedral with the hay.”

“You still like the horses?”

Vaos looks at the hard-packed floor.

“Never mind. After you bring in the charcoal, you can go with Liedral to get the hay. You did carry the potatoes down to the root cellar.”

“Yes, ser. Merga made sure I put them in the right places.” Vaos pauses. “You’re buying a lot more food this year, master Dorrin.”

“This winter may be even worse than last.”

“Do you think the White Wizards will come here?”

“Eventually…maybe sooner.” Dorrin pulls the iron from the forge. “Get the middle sledge. There…”

Clung…

The sounds of iron work preclude further conversation.