The Magic Engineer (52 page)

The cart creaks. Meriwhen whickers. Kadara moans. Dorrin rubs his forehead, wondering in his darkness how much distance they have covered.

“Drink a little…please…” Liedral wets Kadara’s lips. “Dorrin, she’s hot, and she can’t drink.”

Dorrin guides Meriwhen next to the wagon, and dismounts slowly. “Could I have a sip?”

“Oh…here.”

After he drinks, Dorrin touches his staff, trying to hold on to the cool blackness, the cool sense of order. Then his fingertips brush Kadara’s forehead, and he tries to transfer some of that order to her.

“…ooo…aaaa…”

Despite the moans, Kadara does not rouse, nor can she drink.

“How far have we come?” Dorrin asks.

“Perhaps a quarter of the way—just beyond the turnoff for
the charcoal camp. We’ll have to stop before long. It’s getting dark, and I can’t see like you can at night.”

“Like I could,” he corrects.

Liedral rustles in the cart, and finally hands something to Dorrin. “Bread and cheese.”

He chews slowly, evenly, listening to the rustle of the leaves, the occasional
terhwhits
and chirps.

“Ready?” Liedral finally asks.

“Oh, yes.” Still almost in a daze, he climbs back on Meriwhen.

Again, the cart creaks. Meriwhen snuffles. Kadara moans. Dorrin rubs his forehead, wondering in his black prison how much more distance they have covered.

The feeling of darkness grows as they struggle along the packed and rutted road that is now empty, until Liedral finally reins up at a wider spot in the road, with a clearing and a gap in the tumbled stone wall wide enough for the cart.

“I can’t go any longer.”

“Fine,” Dorrin mumbles, half-asleep in the saddle.

“Neither can you.”

Mechanically, Dorrin follows Liedral’s directions.

“Tie up Meriwhen to the stake.”

Dorrin does, fumbling with the leathers.

“Can you unsaddle her?”

Dorrin fumbles the girths loose by feel and unsaddles the mare, patting her flanks as he does.

“Can you sense enough to help me move Kadara?”

He holds the surprisingly thin and fevered body of the redhead while Liedral arranges blankets.

“Set her down here.”

He does, wincing. “Oooo…”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Does your shoulder hurt?”

“Not too much.” Not so much as Kadara does, or even as his head, although there is no physical damage within his skull.

“You need to eat and drink this.”

He mechanically chews more stale and crusty bread and warm cheese, drinking water from the jug Liedral has filled from somewhere.

Before long, he lies down under the shelter of the uptilted cart, with Liedral on his left, Kadara on the other side of Lie
dral. He sleeps for a time, then wakes—although it is still dark, he senses.

Dorrin smiles at Liedral’s light snoring, barely audible above the sounds of the insects in the trees bordering this stretch of the road. Most of the trees, Dorrin recalls, date from the climate change brought about by the great Creslin, when the former upland farms and meadows did not get enough spring and summer rain.

The throbbing in his skull has subsided some, but he remains sightless.

“Oh…no…darkness, no! Brede…don’t leave me…” Kadara’s words are half whimpered, half murmured. “Don’t…oh…bastards…white bastards…”

Liedral wakes with a start, then turns and touches Kadara. “Easy, easy. You’re all right.”

“Where…who?”

“Liedral…Dorrin and I are here.”

“Brede…where is he?”

“He’s still in Kleth,” Liedral says quickly. She eases out from between the two injured forms. “Let me get you some water.”

“…never leave there…darkness…arm hurts…”

“It will take a while to heal,” Dorrin adds.

“…took four of the bastards…head hurts…Brede…miss you…”

“Drink this,” Liedral says.

Dorrin sits up. “Can you get my small pack? There’s some astra in it.”

“Why didn’t you think about that—Sorry.”

“It’s hard to think when white knives are slashing through your skull.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Dorrin takes the pack and fumbles for the packets, identifying them by shape, scent, and sense. “Put this one in place of the dressing on her arm. Can you?”

“I’ll need to light this candle.”

Dorrin waits until Liedral takes the first dressing, then searches for the crushed astra.

“Oh! Light!…hurts,” moans Kadara.

“Anything else?” asks Liedral. Her voice is curt.

“Is there any way to get this in her?”

“I’ll try.”

A clinking and other rustling sounds follow. Dorrin can sense that Liedral is working with some utensils.

“Open your mouth, please…Kadara.”

“…so bitter…like poison…You aren’t hurting me, are you?”

“I’m not hurting you. This will make you feel better.”

“…so bitter…what…?”

“It’s astra mixed with beragin,” Dorrin explains calmly.

Liedral continues to rattle things for a time, before returning and stretching out between Dorrin and Kadara again.

Dorrin reaches out and squeezes her hand. “Thank you.”

She squeezes his in return. “Go to sleep.”

In time, he does, not to wake until the chirpings of the dawn birds seep into his awareness. He still cannot see, but his headache has subsided into a duller ache. Liedral is already up, moving quietly, watering the horses.

Dorrin slips out from under the cart, careful not to touch it or the braces that hold it in position.

“There’s still some bread and cheese,” Liedral offers.

“Thank you.” Dorrin takes the chunk of bread and the slab of cheese that she has sliced, then sits on the stone wall by the road. “Still using the cheese slicer?”

“It’s a lot more comfortable. I still shiver when I look at a knife.” Liedral sits beside him. “It’s pretty this morning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Liedral’s fingers touch his cheek.

“I wish I could believe that. They went after you because you loved me.”

“I still love you, you impossible man.” She reaches out and squeezes his wrist. “I wish you could see the trees on the hill. They look like shining silver in the light, with the dew on the leaves.”

“So do I.”

They eat silently.

“Kadara’s still sleeping. Is that good?”

“If we can keep getting her to drink, and get more of the medicine in her. She needs liquids.”

“Do you want any more bread or cheese?”

“Is there enough?”

“Merga sent me off with as much as she could get together. We still have four loaves left—stale, but we won’t go too hungry before we get back.”

Dorrin eats another half loaf of bread and more cheese. While he is finishing, Liedral gets up, and his thoughts turn back to order again.

While some believe in order as a god, almost, order has to be more mechanical than that. Otherwise, how could good people be punished for the means they use? He sips from the jug. Or do the means compromise the ends? Always?

He thinks of Fairhaven. The city, despite the rule of those who espouse chaos, is orderly, and there is little crime. There seems to be less poverty than in Spidlar. But is that because Fairhaven has become wealthy from its conquests?

“Dorrin, if we want to get back to Diev without being…caught by…”

Dorrin understands. Who knows who will be on the road behind them before long? He slowly makes his way into the woods for certain necessities. By the time he returns, Liedral is kneeling, spooning more of the astra and beragin into Kadara’s mouth.

“…uuugggg…” Kadara swallows and coughs, but most of the mixture goes down, and Liedral eases water into her mouth.

While Liedral ministers to Kadara, Dorrin manages to saddle Meriwhen by himself, although he pinches one finger in the girth buckle in the process. He mutters grumpily under his breath at his clumsiness, but continues finishing saddling the mare.

For just an instant, when he touches the black wood of his staff, he can see—the grass is damp with dew, and the trees dark green in the early dawn light. Then the blackness drops across his eyes. He turns toward Meriwhen so Liedral will not see the tears of frustration that ooze from his eyes.

Order! Why is order so unfair? Pure order seems unable to stop chaos, and whenever he tries to focus order against chaos, he is punished, just as the Whites and the traders of Spidlar have together, in a way, punished Brede because of his talent and reliance on the tools of order.

He tries to reason as he places the staff in the lanceholder. Is
it because death is the ultimate form of chaos, the destruction of human order, so to speak? Certainly, despite the complaints by his family and Lortren, he has not suffered for his use of order to make his models or his machines. Nor has he been punished much for making his devices of destruction—only for using them.

“Can you help me get Kadara into the cart?”

Dorrin wipes his face with the back of his sleeve and turns toward the cart. His shoulder barely twinges as he lifts Kadara.

“…hurts…don’t leave me…”

“You’re with us,” Dorrin says softly, trying to keep his voice level, trying to keep the frustration and anger from showing. His senses tell him that she is slightly better, but she is still fevered and weak, and it will be a long time, if ever, before she regains full use of her right arm.

Terwhit…terwhit
. Despite the cheerful tone of the bird in the low oak trees, Dorrin is not encouraged.

The cart creaks as Liedral turns at the hillcrest overlooking the river valley. “Everything looks all right.”

“We still haven’t run into any other travelers.” Dorrin can extend his senses to some degree now, without headaches, but he still cannot see, except every once in a while when he touches his staff. Even that vision is neither predictable nor more than fleeting.

“You wouldn’t expect any. People were leaving Kleth when I came back with that troop of cavalry and the last levy.”

“I’m glad you had an escort.”

“So was I. There were some rough souls on the road.”

Dorrin touches the staff again, but he receives no glimpse of the sunlit expanse of the valley that lies between them and Diev. “How is Kadara?”

“Not much different. Sometimes, she seems awake, but mostly she sleeps.”

“For now, that’s probably better.” Dorrin eases Meriwhen up beside Liedral as the road widens.

“For now…” Liedral says quietly. She looks behind her and lowers her voice. “What do you think about Brede?”

Dorrin shakes his head, hoping Liedral is looking at him.

“That’s what I think, too.”

Neither wants to confirm in words what both know must be true. The Whites will not allow anyone to survive, particularly a man from Recluce who has cost them so many troops. They continue silently until they near the turnoff from the main road that leads to Dorrin’s cottage.

“…there yet…?” asks Kadara.

“We’re almost home.” Liedral turns slightly and bends toward the rear of the cart where the injured woman lies. “Oh…”

“What is it?” Dorrin asks.

“Darkness…” mutters Liedral.

“What did you see?” asks Dorrin.

“Rylla’s cottage—it’s burned down. But your barn and the cottage are all right. There’s a barricade of sorts around the yard…and some people. It looks like Pergun and another older man, and Reisa. She’s wearing a blade.” Liedral turns the cart off the main road and up the ridge drive.

Dorrin wishes he could see, but follows the cart until they are past the barricade and in the yard.

“It’s master Dorrin! And Liedral! They’re back!” Frisa’s voice echoes across the yard and past the barricade.

“Master Dorrin…” Pergun begins.

Dorrin turns in the direction of his voice. “Yes?”

“What’s wrong with you? You’re not exactly looking square at me.”

“He’s blind,” Liedral says quietly. “And Kadara’s in the wagon here. She’s badly wounded. We need to carry her inside.”

“Put her in the bed I was using,” Dorrin suggests.

“Blind? Blind…? Was it the Whites? The evil bastards!”

“No. I did it myself.” Dorrin dismounts and leads Meriwhen toward the barn, letting his senses guide him.

“Is he daft?” Pergun turns to Liedral.

“Can I help?” Reisa’s voice carries to Dorrin.

“He’s not daft.” Liedral descends from the cart. “He’s an order-smith who forced himself to create devices to kill more
than a thousand people.”

“A thousand?”

“More or less. It wasn’t enough. Between Brede and Dorrin, I suspect that the Whites lost more than half their army. That would have left more than five thousand under arms.”

Dorrin ignores the conversation as he opens the barn door. The scent of horses is strong, and Dorrin stops when he is just inside, trying to sense how many there are. Five, he thinks, two tied in the far corner in what seems to be makeshift stalls. He leads Meriwhen to her stall, slowly unsaddling her, racking the saddle, setting the staff aside, and beginning to curry the mare in slow and even strokes.

“You can’t stay here.” Reisa stands by the stall. “They’ll burn the whole countryside to get you.”

“Me? A humble smith?”

“You and Yarrl.” Reisa snorts. “Do you ever think you can escape what you are? What about your ship? It’s still floating. Yarrl saw it from the hill on the way here.”

“Yarrl’s here?”

“Of course. It made sense. Your place is easier to defend. We loaded most of his smithy into the big wagon, except the anvil. No one can get that quickly anyway. Pergun wanted to be here, because of Merga, and when the troopers took Liedral, we decided…”

“You didn’t have to…I’m grateful, and thankful…”

“Dorrin, there’s a lot you never had to do. You didn’t have to heal Honsard’s son. Shameful—that man. You didn’t have to take Merga in. Or heal all those people who couldn’t pay. Or refuse to take any of Yarrl’s customers. Or expand Rylla’s herb garden and share what you got with her.” Reisa coughs. “So…for once, let someone help you. Darkness knows, you need it right now, you stiff-necked and proud…”

Dorrin puts aside the brush and fumbles with the barrel to dig out some grain for Meriwhen. Reisa holds the top and hands him the iron scoop, one of the miscellaneous items he has forged along the way and almost forgotten. The iron is cool to his fingers, almost healing.

“You need to rest.”

After Dorrin dumps two scoops of grain into the manger box and closes the stall on Meriwhen, he slumps onto a bale of hay
and leans back against the stall wall. “Where are you all sleeping?”

“Pergun…”

“I can figure that out. I meant…”

“We took the liberty of using the front room. There’s space there, and we did bring mattresses.”

“That’s fine.” Dorrin takes a deep breath, realizing that he is more tired than he thought as his eyes close.