The Magic Engineer (45 page)

“You like working for Hemmil?” Dorrin rummages through the scrap bin for the red oak for his toys. More and more the wood is getting harder for him than the iron—or the iron work is getting easier, more likely.

“Hemmil’s fair enough,” answers the dark-haired journeyman with a shrug. “But the mill’s going to Volkir, and…well, Hemmil’s fair.”

“Couldn’t you start your own mill? Last week I heard Hemmil say that he couldn’t deliver some timbers for at least three eight-days.”

Pergun smiles tightly. “I could run a mill, Dorrin. Tell me
how I can afford to buy one.”

“What about building one?” Dorrin adds another short length of oak to the pile he has set aside.

“What about starving until it’s finished? How can I afford the steel for the saw blades or the stonework for a millrace or land with enough water?”

The simplest questions have complex answers. “I wonder…”

“Finish up. Hemmil’s looking this way.” Pergun pauses. “You wonder what?”

“Do you always want to be a mill worker?”

“What else do I know?” Pergun pauses. “Merga’s a nice girl.”

“She’s a woman with a daughter.” Dorrin laughs. “And you do visit a lot.”

“Do you mind?”

“Hardly. So long as you’re good to her.”

“Dare I be otherwise with you around?” Pergun looks toward the front of the building.

“Am I…?” Dorrin lifts the wood into the carrying straps. “This is all. How much, do you think?”

“I’d let you have it for a copper, but—”

“Hemmil would charge at least three,” finishes Dorrin with a laugh. “How about two coppers?”

“What are you going to do with this?”

“Same as before. Make some toys.” Dorrin offers two coins.

“Quiller doesn’t mind?” Pergun takes the coins.

“I’m very careful not to make anything like what he does.”

“Pergun! Finish up there. We need to change the blade.” The millmaster’s voice echoes between the rows of rough-sawn boards and timbers.

Dorrin’s brows remain knitted in thought as he carries the wood out into the yard where Meriwhen is tied. The mare’s breath is a cloud of steam in the fall drizzle. Meriwhen skitters as he loads the wood into the saddle baskets.

“Easy, lady. Easy.” He should have asked for Liedral’s cart, but he enjoys riding Meriwhen, and he never gets much wood for toys.

Wheeee…

He pats her neck and shoulder firmly. “Easy…” Then he
mounts and rides through the continuing light rain toward the road.

Rivulets of icy water leave the stone pavement more like a paved river than a road, and Meriwhen tries to edge toward the warmer mud and grass. Dorrin edges her toward the crown of the road.

Along the highway lie trees toppled by the storm of days earlier, and Dorrin has heard that a schooner lies beached off Cape Devalin. A schooner?

Whheeeee…

“Easy, lady. Easy…”

Whhheeeee…

“Enough!” Dorrin snaps, still thinking about the beached ship.

Guiding the mare onto the rutted road that leads to Rylla’s cottage, and to his own house and workshop, he wonders when if he and Liedral can ever regain what they once had—or how long it will take.

Ahead, he can see the smoke from the chimney. The house will be warm, against a chill that promises, once again, a long and cold winter, and a summer that will be filled with blood.

Sitting just shoreward of the center pier, the Port Council building is two stories high, and less than forty cubits broad. The unpainted plank siding has faded into gray, despite the years of oiling.

Dorrin wraps the heavy brown cloak about him, brushes the unseasonably early light snow out of his eyebrows, and opens the heavy oak door. After closing it, he knocks the sides of his boots with the black staff to remove the slush. The sole light comes from a dim single oil lamp in a tarnished brass bracket dangling from a support timber. The once-white plaster has dimmed to yellowed gray. Both doors on the lower floor are closed, the one on the left with the port master’s sign and the one on the right with the customs seal of the Spidlarian Council.

Dorrin climbs the worn and hollowed steps to the upper
floor, where he finds an open doorway.

A clerk on a stool looks up. “Might I help you, healer? The portmaster’s office is below.”

“Thank you, but I was looking for ser Gylert.”

“Might I tell him the matter at hand?”

“A matter of commerce. My name is Dorrin.”

The clerk slides off the stool and inclines his head. “My pardon, ser. I will tell him.” The man’s dark and greasy hair, bound at his neck with an ornate copper clasp, swirls as he slips inside the rear office that overlooks the piers.

The front office contains a small iron stove, two desks with stools for clerks, and two shoulder-high red oak chests with iron-bound doors and locks. The other desk is dusty.

The clerk returns with another bow. “Ser Gylert would be most pleased to see you, ser.”

“Thank you,” Dorrin responds gravely. He steps inside the second door, closing it behind him.

“Good day, master Dorrin.” Gylert, lean, balding, and muscular, stands behind a narrow writing desk in the corner of the room, angled to allow the shipper to view the piers through the three sliding windows. Two are shuttered against the wind and cold fall rains, and now snow, but the center window has no exterior shutters. A hanging dual-chimneyed lamp illuminates the office, also leaving the faint scent of soot and oil.

“Good day to you, ser Gylert.”

Gylert motions to the wooden armchair beside the writing desk.

“You told Kinsall you wished to discuss a matter of commerce?”

“I did. I understand that since the crew of the ship that grounded off the cape perished, the shipper’s council is acting as the salvage agent.”

“That is correct. Once the weather clears, we’ll be offloading what we can, and clearing the canvas and fixtures.”

“Honsard will provide the wagons?”

Gylert nodded. “You wish to bid on the goods?”

“No.” Dorrin smiles. “I was wondering about the masts and hull.”

“For iron scrap? There won’t be much of that.”

“For a number of purposes.”

“Hmmmm…”

“According to…a few…most don’t think the ship’s worth the effort to refloat. That means she’s scrap lumber.”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

“Do you have the right to convey title?”

Gylert frowns. “Are you thinking you would enter the shipping business?”

Dorrin holds up a hand. “Not to carry any cargoes that you would carry. That schooner’s too small for most bulk cargoes, and not all that speedy.”

“Spice runs?”

“That’s possible. I promised Liedral…”

“The young trader from Jellico?”

“I owe a debt.”

Gylert nods. “Some would say otherwise, but you have been honest and fair. Not that honesty’s any great virtue, and we all know that the
Harthagay
is not a long-legged vessel. Perhaps a hundred golds.”

Dorrin forces a smile. “It would take me more than that to refit her, assuming I could get her off that sand. Besides I’d be helping the port.”

“Are you certain you have no trading background?”

“Thirty golds,” counters Dorrin.

“You don’t want a ship. You want firewood at that price.”

Dorrin sighs, loudly. “Twenty for the rights to salvage her, and until next summer to get her off the sand.
If
I get her to port, another twenty when she arrives, and ten more before she leaves again.”

Gylert frowns, then glances out the window.

“Dessero says she can’t be broken clear of the strand,” Dorrin adds. “If that’s so, the council gets twenty golds and will regain salvage rights.”

“Unlike Dessero, I’m not convinced that you cannot work something out. Honsard swears you can do miracles. The man’s terrified of you, you know.”

“Me?” Dorrin doesn’t have to counterfeit surprise.

Gylert smiles. “Well…why not? We all gain if you can do it.”

“If you would have your clerk write up the papers…”

“You read Temple, don’t you?” Gylert asks with a wry smile.

“Yes,” Dorrin admits.

“I thought I’d ask, not that I doubted it. About the twenty…before we get to the agreement stage…”

Dorrin sets the purse on the desk, and counts out twenty golds.

“How many did you bring?”

“Twenty-five,” admits Dorrin involuntarily.

“There is this five-gold processing fee…”

Dorrin opens his mouth to protest before he catches the glint in Gylert’s eye. Instead he shakes his head.

Honsard bows to Dorrin. “Good day, healer.”

“Good day, ser.” Dorrin gestures toward the sea. “Could you tell me who might be in charge of the ship?”

“Varden is acting for the Traders’ Council. He’s a thin man, wearing a purple slash on his jacket. He has a black mustache. He was down on the wreck.” Honsard glances from Dorrin to Liedral, then back at the wagon. “Keep them bags on center, Noskos!”

Honsard turns to Dorrin, almost apologetically. “Got to get these back to the port ’fore it warms. Hard to carry heavy loads through the mud, and the flour and grain would spoil—what hasn’t already.”

“Good hauling,” Dorrin says.

Low bushes and stubby pines cover both the bluff and the sloping ground beyond, which drops off toward the Northern Ocean. The underbrush and trees block any view of the beach itself.

“He’s afraid of you,” Liedral says. “Why?”

“I healed his son.”

They walk down from the coast road, following the muddy track churned in the slope by the dozen or so men struggling up through the low brush and between the sea-swept low pines. The rest of the hillside retains a dusting of snow under the gray
sky. As the various barrels are carried past them, Liedral studies each. Dorrin studies Liedral.

“What do they tell you?”

“Your ship’s not all that watertight.”

“I can do something about that, given a little time.”

“I sometimes think you feel you can do something about everything.” She laughs, and one of the laborers grins—until he sees Dorrin’s face.

The
Harthagay
’s stem rests firmly on the sand, although the stern almost seems to float free in the low chop coming straight in. Even in the chill air, the odor of uprooted kelp and seaweed seeps across the beach, and gulls and other sea birds dive at the line of detritus that marks the high-water line of the storm that grounded the schooner.

Varden stands in the hard-packed sand by the planks that serve as a gangway, watching the barrels being rolled down the planks. “Easy…there!” He turns to the newcomers. “This is Council salvage.”

“I’m know. I’m Dorrin. I assume ser Gylert—”

“You’re the one. Well…be a day or so before we’ve got her offloaded. That’s if another storm doesn’t rise, and if Honsard’s wagons don’t get trapped in the road mud. Too bad the coast road up there’s not stone, like the main highway.”

“Do you mind if I look over the ship?”

“Darkness, no! Suppose you qualify as the owner, much as anyone does, leastwise.” Varden twists the black handlebar mustache. “Easy! Them barrels’ll break if they run together. One at a time!”

Dorrin waits until the barrels are coming down smoothly. “The agreement was that the front and back winches were to remain.”

“Aye, and they will.” Varden grins. “It be in my interest that they do. Gylert bet me ten you couldn’t get her off—at ten to one.” The Council man looks toward the gangway. “Light! Don’t be banging them together!”

Dorrin scrambles up the rope ladder that has clearly been added by the salvage crew. Liedral follows.

What canvas that remains is in tatters. A section of the port railing between the bowsprit and midships is missing, and the
lighter color of the decking indicates to Dorrin that the removal was recent.

They circle around the open hatch from which the salvage crew hoists barrels in a learner sling. The man controlling the rope and pulley arrangement nods curtly.

Dorrin steps onto the low poop deck and checks the wheel, which, surprisingly, rotates easily. Further examination reveals that cables to the rudder have snapped, either the result of the grounding…or its cause. Dorrin has no way of telling which, only that the problem must be remedied before the
Harthagay
is pulled off the strand.

“What do you think?” he asks Liedral.

“You have some work to do. Not to get her ready to float clear—she’s not that firm—but to turn her into something. She’s been neglected for a long time.”

Keee…aaa…keee…aaaa…

He looks to the gray of the sea and the circling gulls who take turns landing and pecking at the weeds and storm-tossed offal on the sand. “It will be a busy winter.”

“I do not look forward to spring.” Liedral takes his hand for a moment before releasing it.

“I don’t either, but spring will come, like it or not.”

Keee…aaaa…keee…aaaa…

The gulls circle as the barrels rumble across the deck and down the heavy planks onto the sand.

A single trooper, bearing two swords, rides into the yard, brushing snow from a winter cap. The rider heads for the lighted window behind the porch.

Liedral opens the door.

“Liedral?”

“Kadara! Are you all right? Where’s Brede?”

“He’s fine. No, he’s not. He’s tired. He’s not a marshal, but there’s no one else. He couldn’t come. So he sent me.” The redhead dismounts.

A dull clanging resounds from the smithy.

“He’s still at it? Does he always work this late?”

“I think everyone from Reluce must.” A touch of bitterness edges Liedral’s voice. “If it isn’t Council services, it’s goods to sell. If it isn’t goods to sell, it’s engine parts.” Liedral brushes snow from her uncovered hair. “I’m sorry. Let’s put your horse in the stable. I’ll get you hot cider…and whatever else we can offer.”

The two women walk toward the stable.

“Is he still working on that darkness-damned engine?”

“Yes. He’s even found a ship to put it on—if he can salvage it. He’s arranged for space in the shipwright’s yard, and he stays up all night calculating how to put his engine into that old hulk.”

“I don’t know.” Kadara’s voice is hoarse, and she coughs. “Maybe…well, come next spring or summer, owning a ship might be damned good.”

Liedral opens the barn door and gropes for the lantern and the attached striker. “It’s small, but at least it’s out of the weather.”

Kadara looks around the small barn. “Most places I’ve slept lately make this look like a palace. It’s even dry.”

“I know. It was good to come back to.”

“At first, I thought he had it easy. He never makes anything easy, does he?” Kadara ties the reins to an iron ring on the wall near Meriwhen’s stall. “Hello there, girl.” She coughs again. “It’s hard, being a trooper. Oh…I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m so damned tired.”

Liedral touches her shoulder. “You need something warm.”

“Brede needs more magic knives…something for the rivers…anything that Dorrin can think up…” Kadara slips as she steps out of the barn onto the packed wet snow that comes down almost as thick as rain. She puts a hand out to the barn wall.

Liedral blows out the lamp and rehangs it before closing the barn door. Meriwhen whinnies as the barn door comes shut with a dull thump.

“Have to go back to Kleth before too long.” Kadara straightens. “Darkness, I’m tired.”

“Is that where Brede is?”

“That’s where all the Guards are. That’s where the Whites
and their damned levies will be come summer.” Kadara’s feet are heavy on the porch steps, and her motions are slow as she stamps and brushes her boots.

“Now…you can’t get things too hot…” Merga explains as she peeks at the bread in the oven. “…shouldn’t be too long…”

Frisa sits on the stool watching her mother.

“Frisa…?” Liedral asks. “Would you tell Master Dorrin that his friend Kadara is here?”

“Go ahead, but mind your footing, and take my jacket off the peg there, child,” Merga cautions.

Kadara slumps into the chair.

“Won’t be a moment before the cider’s warm,” Merga explains as Liedral removes five mugs from the cupboard and sets them out on the table.

“I’ll get some cheese from the cellar.” Liedral slips out the door to wrestle with the root cellar door next to the porch.

“You just stay there,” suggests Merga.

Kadara looks blankly at the table, then slowly removes her leather cold-cap, revealing short and limp red hair.

Liedral returns shortly, carrying a square block of cheese wrapped in wax, which she sets on the serving table. She looks toward the cutlery box.

Merga follows her eyes. “I’ll take care of that, mistress.”

“I’m not the mistress…” Liedral shakes her head.

Kadara’s grin makes a caricature of her drawn face.

The door opens, and snow and a light wind follow Frisa into the kitchen.

“Wipe your feet, girl!” snaps Merga.

“They’ll be here soon as master Dorrin banks the fire and splashes the grime off his face and hands.” Frisa looks around the kitchen. “That’s what he said.”

“Your feet, girl.”

Frisa stamps back to the porch and wipes her feet before returning and closing the door. She stands on tiptoes to replace the jacket on the peg.

When the door opens again, Dorrin steps into the kitchen, followed by Vaos. The lamp in the wall bracket flickers with the gust of wind that flows around it, then steadies as Dorrin closes the door.

“Kadara!” He touches her shoulder lightly.

Merga is pouring warm cider into the mug at the redhead’s elbow, then goes on to fill all the mugs. “Bread’s almost ready. I’ll be a-cutting the cheese now.”

The smith seats himself at the end between Liedral and Kadara. Vaos slips into the place almost at the end of the table, nearest the corner where Frisa perches on her stool.

Merga sets the plate of cheese slices in the center of the wooden table. Vaos immediately reaches and takes two. Dorrin looks at the boy, and Vaos hands one slice to Frisa.

“You look tired,” Dorrin says into the silence.

“Darkness-tired, Dorrin. Been a light-fired long year.” Kadara coughs, covering her mouth. “Brede sent me. Couldn’t come himself. They made him marshal. Don’t call him that, but it amounts to that.”

“What does he need?”

“Anything…everything. More of those magic knives…something that will work on the rivers next spring…something you can’t see that kills people. Brede thought of mines—using gunpowder—but you can’t get close enough to the levies with those damned wizards to light the fuses. Same problem as guns—they see anything that looks like a gun, and, poof! There goes the powder and anyone who’s near.”

The smith touches his mug.

“Just don’t have enough arms and trained people.” She coughs again, then takes some cheese and slowly begins to eat.

Vaos reaches for the cheese again, and Dorrin glares at him.

“Just one,” the smith says. “You had a full supper.” He knows Vaos is well-fed, but Kadara is thin and drawn.

“But he’s hungry,” Frisa says.

“He’s always hungry.”

“When did you get back to Kleth?” asks Liedral.

Kadara swallows before answering. “Yesterday. We had to find space and arrange for reshoeing about half the mounts. I took a spare horse. Not mine. Used to be Josal’s, until they got him.” She absently takes another piece of cheese.

Dorrin waits until she finishes it. “What happened at Elparta? No one seemed to know how it all happened—just that it did.”

“They decided that Spidlar was too hard to conquer. Much
easier to destroy.” Kadara clears her throat.

Dorrin motions for Merga to sit down at the table. The dark-haired woman shakes her head and points toward the oven.

“They burned everyone who opposed them. Everyone who even looked like they supported order. They boiled the river and shook the earth until the walls fell. Then they killed every man and woman left in the city—except they used the women first. The damned fools—we told them to leave, and a lot did, but not enough.” Kadara’s voice is even, level, and colder than the snow that falls outside the kitchen. The steam from the hot cider in her mug drifts past her chin, past the worn braid on her officer’s jacket.

By the stove, Merga makes the sign of the one-god believers, then glances toward the corner where Frisa sits on the stool.

“Your magic knives and Brede’s tactics killed several hundred of them. Slowed down their advance. Also got them madder than light.” Kadara coughs, a racking cough.

“Let me get you something for that,” Dorrin says.

The redhead sips from the mug. “Hot cider helps. Almost forget things here.”

Dorrin enters the storeroom and finds the packet he wants, carrying it back to the kitchen, where he crushes some of the leaves, then eases them into another mug. He spoons out a dollop of rare honey—Frisa watches with open eyes—and pours hot cider into the mug, stirring the mixture. “Here.”

Kadara swigs down the mixture in one gulp. “Uggggh…”

The eyes of the little girl in the corner open even wider.

“Best get it over, girl,” Kadara says. “Don’t ever let the men see you weak.” She sets aside the medicinal cup and takes several more sips of the hot cider. “Brede made the wizards mad. Don’t like not getting their way. Come spring, they’ll burn their way north.”

Liedral glances toward Merga, who is lifting bread from the oven. The aroma wafts toward the table.

“Still hard to believe,” Kadara says. “Warm house, good food.”

Dorrin stands behind her, and touches her wrists, trying to let a little order flow into her tired frame.

“Feels better.” She shakes his hands off and lifts her cider.

Dorrin eases into his chair and waits. Behind him, Merga
slices a loaf of bread, muttering, “Really too hot…” She sets the three others on the cutting table to cool.

“I take it the cheese-cutting things didn’t work too well at the end.”

“No. They just walked villagers in front of them—slowly. Took their time. Ran horse troops alongside the roads with archers.”

Merga sets the sliced bread in front of Kadara. Vaos looks from the platter to Merga and then to Dorrin. Dorrin shakes his head.

“Let him have a piece,” Kadara says. “Life’s too short.” She leans forward and puts her head on the table, then slowly sits up.

Vaos puts down his hand.

“You’re staying tonight,” Liedral says firmly. “You need the rest and the food.” She stands up and steps behind Kadara’s chair. “She can sleep in the main room, on the cushions.”

“Sleep on the floor,” mumbles the trooper.

Liedral guides her toward the main room, which was designed to be a parlor someday but which contains little but cushions and two old chairs.

Vaos reaches for the bread once Liedral and Kadara leave the kitchen.

Dorrin carries his cider to the kitchen door, opening it and looking out. The heavy snow continues to fall, and there is already no trace of Kadara’s tracks to the house.

Only the faintest glimmer of light penetrates from Rylla’s house.

Dorrin closes the door and swallows the last of his cider. What can he possibly build for Brede? How will it make any difference? He carries his mug to the wash tub and sets it in the lukewarm water.

Outside, the snow keeps falling.