The Magic Engineer (38 page)

Vaos gestures as Dorrin finishes the hammer stroke on the cherry-red iron he is fullering into thinner strips for hinges. Somehow, between everything, people always need things like hinges and nails. He holds his stroke. “Yes?”

“The big guard, the blond one, him and the red-headed one…they’re here to see you.”

Dorrin lifts the iron and sets it on the bricks before placing his hammer in the rack. “Have Merga warm up some cider and see if there’s some bread. Then bring in some more charcoal, and sweep up the place.”

“But…ser…”

“Vaos.”

“Yes, ser.”

Dorrin still worries about Liedral, but his senses only tell him she is closer than before, closer and in pain. And now Brede and Kadara will bring more worries. He walks to the smithy door. Both an icy wind and the glitter of the frozen white snow strike the smith as he steps into the yard. The tracks of the two riders cross his own earlier prints out to the stable.

Brede and Kadara tie their mounts to the railing. Brede wears a ragged beard, a fresh scar across one cheek, and his eyes are set in dark holes. Kadara’s face is an angular caricature, with deep circles around her eyes.

Dorrin gestures toward the kitchen. “Can you have something to eat?”

Brede nods tiredly. Kadara says nothing as she tromps up the steps.

“You can stable them if you want.”

“Can’t stay all that long,” Brede grunts.

“This is a lot warmer than where we’ve been.”

Both troopers knock the snow off their boots before stepping into the kitchen and slumping into chairs. Merga looks up. “The cider’s not quite warm, ser. But I can set out some bread, and cheese, and there’s a little dried fruit.”

Dorrin takes off his leather apron and hangs it on a peg by the door.

“That sounds wonderful,” says Kadara.

Brede just unfastens his jacket.

Dorrin looks at Merga. “Why don’t you and Frisa go see how Rylla’s doing? I’ll take care of the cider.”

“Yes, ser. Might be as she could use some help with the heavy snow. Frisa’s in the room. I’ll be going.” Merga grabs for her herder’s jacket and scuttles out onto the porch.

“Building a domestic empire, Dorrin?” Kadara’s chuckle is hard, forced.

“No. I ended up with them…because I tried to keep her and her daughter from getting beaten. The man committed suicide, and…” He rises to get the pot in which Merga poured the cider and spices. Without spilling much on the table, he fills both mugs.

“Thank you.” Brede holds the cup to his face, inhaling the steam. “It’s been a long winter.”

Kadara sips silently.

“You need something,” Dorrin suggests into the silence.

“Yes, we do,” Brede answers. “The problem is that I don’t know what I need. Come spring—and winter cannot last forever—the Certan levies will pour down the roads toward Elparta. They could use the rivers.”

“I can’t make edged weapons. I could make some black iron shields.”

“They’re heavy,” Kadara says slowly.

“They’re what Recluce uses against the fireballs of the White Wizards. I could make them pretty thin.”

“That might help—if we had one or two for emergencies.” Brede nods. “That won’t be enough. We need something that will stop them on the roads. Do you have some magic knives that slice up troops from a distance?” Brede’s laugh is harsh and cynical.

“I never…besides…”

“I know. You get ill even thinking about edged weapons, let alone forging them.”

“I can’t do it.” Dorrin sits in the chair across from her.

“How convenient,” Kadara says.

Dorrin looks at her. “Every day I try to heal people who are dying because their bodies don’t have enough food to resist flux or consumption or fever. Half the people in Diev are slowly freezing because they can’t afford wood and don’t have the strength to get into the hills to cut it and bring it back. I feel guilty because we have food. Even being a trader has become a high-risk occupation—you know that. What do you want, Kadara?”

“I’m sorry, Dorrin. But I’m not. We’re getting old and tired, and you’re getting wealthy and successful. You have a house. You have a clean bed every night, and people look up to you. Everyone looks away when we ride by. Death sticks to us like a leech.”

Dorrin looks down at the table.

“This isn’t going to help,” Brede says tiredly.

“Let me think…I said that in the fall, didn’t I?” Dorrin looks at the table. Knives—what cuts like a knife that isn’t a knife or a sword? Can he do anything with the gunpowder? “Will they have White Wizards with them—the Certans, I mean?”

“Probably. Some detachments will.”

“How is your squad doing?”

“It’s Kadara’s now.”

Dorrin looks at the two, realizing they both wear braid.

“Brede’s a strike leader, with three squads under him.”

“Oh…” Dorrin tried to think. “Do they always use the roads?”

Brede snorts. “We all use the roads. How else can you move troops through the hills at any speed? Everything else turns to dust and mud.”

“Hmmmm…”

“If it will help, good coin-oriented smith, the Council has authorized me to buy up to two golds’ worth of weapons…” Brede’s tone is ironic.

“Use the coins for supplies,” snaps Dorrin.

This time Brede looks at the table. Kadara breaks off an end of the loaf and chews on it.

“I’ll develop something—darkness knows what—but something…and you’ll get a couple of shields.” Dorrin stands and walks back to the stove to refill their mugs. First, though, he pours himself a mug.

“You’ve worked hard,” Brede says slowly. “Maybe not as hard as a trooper, but your eyes are tired, and there are new lines on your face.”

“I’ve been trying,” Dorrin admits, “but everything takes more than I thought. If I want to build an engine, I need coin for metal and tools. To get that means working hard…” He steps back to the table and refills the mugs.

“Dorrin, just what are you going to do with such an engine? What will you use it for?” Kadara asks.

“I could use it to run a sawmill or a ship or a grain mill. The ship makes the most sense, because the ocean has more order within it.”

“You’d better build it quickly,” Brede says, “unless you can find a way to stop Fairhaven and its captive levies.”

“Have you seen your trader friend lately?” asks Kadara.

“No.” Dorrin sits. “She’s been hurt, somehow, but I can’t locate her.”

“And you’re just sitting here?” Kadara sets her mug back on the table.

“Where do you suggest I go?” Dorrin asks.

“Sometimes, it pays to wait,” Brede says. “And that is often the hardest thing to learn.” He breaks off a piece of bread and chews it.

“Stop being so old and wise and philosophical.” Kadara smiles faintly.

Dorrin lets his breath out slowly.

“Isn’t that better than being young and rash and stupid?” Brede laughs.

“Not a great deal. How about being young and happy once in a while?”

“That was in another country, wench. But I will try.”

Dorrin takes a bite of the dried pearapples, then sips his cider, thinking about shields and invisible knives and roads…and the nearing agony that is Liedral.

The rain slashes his face as Dorrin urges Meriwhen down from the ridge road and along the muddy flat and toward the trees south of Jarnish’s yard.

Liedral has to be at the factor’s, or somewhere near. He had left Diev once his senses indicated she was getting nearer. In Kleth, at least, he will be closer to anywhere else in Spidlar—between the roads and the river.

The wind moans in his ears as he sees Jarnish’s small warehouse. Meriwhen’s hoofs squish through the thin mud that overlies the stones of the road. Kleth is noticeably warmer than Diev, and the snow has begun to melt off, leaving the fields with a blotchy appearance.

As he guides Meriwhen into the factor’s yard, he recognizes the cart tilted upward by the stable. Both the burning in his guts and the fear in his heart are sharp—sharp enough to cut. And lying over the entire yard is a sense of diffuse whiteness, a vague fog of chaos.

Even before he dismounts, Jarnish is rushing from the kitchen.

“I was going to send a message…but no one was going to Diev…” The chaos Dorrin sensed clings to the factor.

Dorrin swings down, and immediately brings the black staff into his hand.

Jarnish is bowing, almost groveling in the mud. “I did what I could, master Dorrin…I got the trader here…I did.”

“Where is she?”

“She? Liedral…that’s the one I mean.”

Dorrin swallows. Jarnish does not know? “Where is Liedral?”

“Couldn’t put him in the house…” Jarnish’s eyes edge to the stable.

Dorrin, staff in hand, marches into the stable.

The agony welling from the beaten and whipped figure lying on the pallet in the corner of the stable grasps at him, and for a moment, he cannot see, so blinding is the pain in and behind his eyes.

“I owe the trader…but not enough for the Whites…See what they did…Brother they fired in his warehouse. Thought you could help.” Jarnish pulls at his beard. “Can you move…Don’t want…”

“I’ll take care of…the trader…but I can’t move…not now…” Dorrin’s forehead beads with sweat, despite the chill of the stall.

Liedral? Why? Just because she hasn’t paid road duties or joined the traders’ association? Or because she carried his toys? Or because the Whites are after him?

“You’ll move the trader as soon as you can?”

His eyes burn as he turns on Jarnish. “The Whites aren’t anywhere close, not the ones you fear. I’m the one you need to fear.” He lifts the staff. “You wouldn’t even put her in the house, you gutless bastard.”

Jarnish backs away.

“Get me some boiling water, clean cloths, and some blankets.”

Jarnish looks at the healer, blankly.

“You want us out of here? Then get me boiling water, clean cloths, and blankets.”

As Jarnish stumbles from the stable, Dorrin wipes his eyes. Then he takes a deep breath, and his hands touch the surprisingly small wrists.

Blood is everywhere, crusted across her back, down her legs, matted into her skull, yet none of the wounds is deep, as if they were designed for pain, and more pain. Even worse is the feel of chaos that coats her, although it mostly dusts her—unlike the factor, who seems infused with the whiteness.

His fingers brush her arms, sensing the infections beginning on her back and thighs. At least the pallet and sheet on which she lies are clean. Offering some directed order to Liedral before returning to Meriwhen, he leads the mare into the stable
and ties her in a corner, then unloads the saddlebags with the herbs he has brought.

Lyssa, the maid, struggles into the stable with a basket of rags, which she carefully lowers onto the straw next to the stall door. “Jaddy says it will be a bit for the boiling water.”

“Could you get me a bucket of clean well-water?”

Lyssa does not meet his eyes. “Yes, ser.”

“And, when you have a moment, a clean shift.”

“A shift?”

“The trader is a woman. She hid it to avoid something like this.” Dorrin’s words are calculated.

“They beat her…for being a woman?”

“The Whites don’t exactly favor the Legend,” Dorrin snaps. “Could I have some water?”

Putting Liedral in the stable, of all things. Clearly, Jarnish is under the Whites’ influence, and there is a terrible reason for the beating. The Whites seldom engage in unnecessary cruelty, and with that thought his fists clench momentarily. If only he had insisted she stay in Diev…but he had not, and he cannot change that.

Lyssa struggles back in with a bucket of icy water.

“Thank you.” Dorrin tries to soften his voice, but he reaches for a rag and wets it.

“I have an old shift. It’s soft, and it’s clean.”

“Thank you,” he repeats softly, using one hand to brush back the tears. He begins to clean away the dirt and the blood. How had Liedral made it this far? Or did the Whites ensure that she did? Why? He pushes away the questions as he works.

The dark pulse of order finally beats strongly in Liedral’s weakened frame. Darkness has closed over the stable when Dorrin curls up on the straw in one of the two blankets Jarnish has so reluctantly furnished. The dark staff rests beside his fingertips, and he hopes that it will alert him to any danger.

Outside, the darkness remains when he wakes, grasping for the staff.

“…no…not that…” Liedral mutters, and each mutter brings a turn on the pallet, and a fresh surge of agony.

Dorrin touches her forehead.

“…oh…”

“Just rest easy…”

“Dorrin…where…? So thirsty…Why did you hurt me? Why?”

Half of her words dwell on his hurting her—why? As he questions, he eases the slightest trace of water between her lips, and uses his senses to slide her back into a deeper and healing sleep.

Whether he will sleep after glimpsing the horror in her thoughts is another question. His fingers clench around the staff, and he wishes he were a blade like Kadara and Brede. But how can he forge destruction out of order? And if he can…should he?

But…Creslin did. The Founders did, and they survived.

What kind of machine? What kind of magic knives, as Brede has put it? He does not know, but he will heal Liedral, and he will repay the Whites. Somehow.

Liedral is probably not well enough to travel, but Dorrin will risk it, muddy roads and all, before staying longer so close to the chaos that has grown up around Jarnish.

He continues to pack the two sacks of assorted knickknacks that were in the cart bed into sacks he has retrieved from the corners of Jarnish’s stable. He places a layer of clean straw covered with some rags on the cart bed. The thin pallet will go over that.

Next comes saddling Meriwhen and harnessing the cart horse. He is thankful he has watched Liedral, although his smithing work has given him some greater idea of how harnesses work.

After readying the horses, he pauses, rubbing his stubbly face, realizing that worrying about shaving is stupid. Time enough to shave when he gets back to Diev. What else does he need? Food—of course, since the trip will take at least three days, and perhaps four. He should have thought of provisions earlier. He sighs, then glances at Liedral, whose eyes find his. He walks over to the pallet.

“Dorrin…terrible…you hurt me…”

She has used the same words over and over. He places his hand on her forehead, trying to reassure her. “I’m here; everything will be all right.”

“…thirsty…”

He eases more water into her parched throat, but some dribbles onto the pallet because she has trouble drinking. Yet she cannot lie on her back or sides, not with the terrible welts there.

In a few moments, she sleeps again, almost as if to escape thinking about the terrors she has endured. He loads the trade bags on Meriwhen, and, with a look at the sleeping Liedral, heads toward the factor’s kitchen.

After knocking the water and mud off his boots, he steps inside, carrying the empty saddlebags.

“How’s the young trader? Terrible thing, that,” says the cook. “And a fearsome bunch are those White Wizards.”

“The trader’s better. Could I buy a few provisions for the trip back?”

“Sure and you won’t travel the roads in this weather. The mud would stop anyone.”

“It’s a hard-packed road to Diev, and I made it here. Besides, we cannot stay.” Dorrin glances at the door to the rest of the house.

“Sad thing it is when you must drag a wounded soul across all Spidlar. And after such a long and frightful winter, too.”

“About the provisions?”

“We’ve some, but not as many as we’d like. Yet how could I not refuse a healer’s coin?” Jaddy begins to rummage through the small barrels. “Some dried apples and pearapples…and brick cheese. Here are some road biscuits, hard but still good…”

Dorrin smiles at the running commentary and at the small pile of food that appears on the cutting table.

“…and the poor trader will need something that can be softened. Just moisten the travel bread with water or cider. Moisten it; don’t soak it.” The cook looks at Dorrin. “You understand, young fellow, healer or not?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Pack it all up in your bags. Why else did I get it out?”

Dorrin can’t help grinning momentarily. As he begins to pack, he asks, “What might I—”

“We’re not so poor here that a little food can’t be spared, even if you are daft to take to the roads now.”

Dorrin is still shaking his head as he loads the food under the cart seat. The half-smile vanishes as Jarnish slides into the stable. Dorrin turns and meets him.

“Ye owe me—”

“I asked your cook…”

“No. Pox on the food. Ye owe me, healer, for taking in yer lady trader.” Jarnish’s voice is hard, but his eyes are fixed on the muddy clay of the yard. “It were a big risk for me.”

Dorrin’s hands reach to the staff he is about to place in the makeshift holder beside the cart seat, where he can easily reach it in this time of trouble. The fingers of his right hand tighten about the dark wood. “It was little risk.”

“Ye owe me,” Jarnish insists, his voice even harder, and Dorrin can sense the prodding of chaos behind the trader’s words.

“Then I will repay you in like coin.” Dorrin releases the staff.

Jarnish looks up, and Dorrin’s eyes catch the other man’s, and the smith’s hands, hard and unyielding like the iron he fashions, seize Jarnish’s hands by the wrists.

“I will repay you in order.” Dorrin laughs, a harsh almost crying sound, as he weaves order around the factor. “You will no longer be able to tolerate chaos in the slightest of matters, and your skin will itch, and crawl when it nears you.” His eyes flare, and darkness falls from them over Jarnish, who tries to break from the iron grasp.

The trader has shivered, whimpered once, and ceased his struggle long before Dorrin releases him.

“You’ve killed me,” the older man sobs. His hands rip at his clothes, then he turns and shambles from the stable scratching his neck, and pulling at his garments.

Dorrin does not watch, instead returning to the stall and lifting the pallet, Liedral and all, into the cart. Then he leads the cart horse and Meriwhen out of the stable.

Jarnish is standing in his underdrawers beside the well, pour
ing a bucket of cold water over himself. “Another one…another one.”

Jaddy scurries through the mud toward Dorrin.

He waits. At least he owes her that.

“A terrible curse you put upon him! No good will come from that, and I thought you were a nice young fellow.”

Dorrin smiles sadly. “I only blessed him with a desire for order.”

“Oh…that be an even more terrible curse! How could ye be so cruel?”

Dorrin looks pointedly toward the cart bed.

“You’ll be thinking he beat her…I know he didn’t.”

“Had he beaten her,” Dorrin says slowly, “he would not stand. Ever.”

“A just man you are, and that makes you all the more terrible.” Jaddy looks back toward Jarnish, who shivers under another rush of cold water. “No one could curse you more than you already are. For all those around you will suffer, and suffer.”

“They already are,” Dorrin admits. “They already are.” He climbs onto the cart seat and flicks the reins.

The cook watches as the cart lurches through the mud of the yard and out to the road.