The Magic Engineer (8 page)

Dorrin tries to match the map in his head, with its neat drawings, to the weathered, almost abandoned-looking buildings, the muddy street, and the ragged and disreputable figures lounging by the end of the pier. Tyrhavven is all too real, especially as the harbor town smells of salt and rotten fish and seaweed, overlaid with wood smoke. Finally, Dorrin looks southward up the gentle slope of a half-cobbled street that seems to lead toward a row of two-storied buildings. From the chimney of one building rises a thin gray plume.

“Come on.” Kadara’s voice is gently insistent. “The chandlery has to be this way.”

“But chandleries are for ships,” protests Dorrin.

“Here they sell everything,” adds Brede, over his shoulder.

“But shouldn’t we get horses first?”

“The chandlery is next to the stable.”

“How do you know?”

Dorrin adjusts his pack and scrambles to follow the two taller exiles as they stride away up the uneven pavement.

“…haa…haaa…”

The redhead with the wiry hair ignores the cackling laugh of the old man sitting against the seawall, but he moves even faster to catch up.

“…haaa…haa…”

The three turn left at the first cross street. While the brown cobblestones are worn and often cracked, the street does contain virtually all its paving stones. Only a few small puddles offer a reminder of the morning rain, although the clouds remain dark and threatening. A single horse, swaybacked, is tethered before the store Brede points out as a chandlery. The sign that swings from the protruding crossbeam has no name, just a
crude black outline of two crossed candles on a white background. Much of the white has flaked away, showing weathered gray wood beneath.

Brede’s feet, half again as big as Dorrin’s, whisper on the wide plank steps, as do Kadara’s. Dorrin’s boots thump as though he were the heaviest.

The interior of the store smells faintly of oil, varnish, rope, and candles. Those are the scents which Dorrin can distinguish. A dozen steps inside the doorway stands a squat iron stove, radiating a gentle heat. On the right hand wall is a row of barrels. Each barrel is topped with a circular wooden cover. Across from the barrels is a counter running the remaining depth of the store. Another counter runs across the back of the store.

Beside the stove lies a thin dog on a tattered blanket folded into a rough bed. One eye opens as Dorrin closes the door with a
thunkkkk…

“Is there anything special you need?” The flat voice comes from a man with thinning sandy and silver hair and a drooping handlebar mustache. His leather jacket bears a range of leather patches that do not match the original, and he sits on a stool behind the counter almost opposite the stove.

“We’re looking for some travel goods,” explains Kadara politely.

“Suit yourself.”

Brede studies the counter, while Kadara starts with the barrels.

…hhhnnnnn…

Dorrin looks at the dog again and swallows, sensing the animal’s pain. Then he looks at Brede and Kadara, efficiently determining their needs. He steps toward the counter.

…hhhnnnn…

With a sigh, he edges toward the stove and squats next to the hot iron and the dog. “You hurt, lady?” His voice is low.

“She’s just old.” The storekeeper’s voice remains flat.

“All right if I pet her?”

“Suit yourself. She’s a touch cranky.”

Dorrin extends his senses toward the dog, feeling the infection and the age within the body.

…hhhhnnnn…thump…
The dog’s tail flicks against the plank floor.

His hands, as gently as he knows how, scratch the shaggy brown coat between her ears, even as he tries to help the ailing animal. Certainly, a little order cannot hurt.

…slurrppp…
A damp tongue runs across his wrist.

“Easy, lady, easy…”

…thump…thump…

Dorrin scratches the dog’s head again before standing up. “You’ll feel better in a while, lady,” he says quietly, bending and patting her head.

Both eyes are open, watching as the wiry redhead walks to the counter.

“Like dogs, boy?”

Dorrin looks toward the flat-voiced shopkeeper. “I never had one,” he admits, “but I do like them. She seems nice.”

“Best bird-dog I ever had. Just got too old.” The man shifts on his stool, but does not rise.

There is another silence while Dorrin studies the small rectangles of dried travel food wrapped in paper and dipped in some sort of wax.

“The trail cheeses are in the cooler at the end.”

Behind him, Dorrin can hear Brede and Kadara quietly talking about cooking sets. “What about horses, ser? Is the stable across the way…”

“Hope so.” A snort follows. “My sister’s man runs the place for Rystel.”

Dorrin smiles faintly. “Do you have any saddlebags? Perhaps an older set?”

“Halfway down the counter. Some sets there, a few others on the bottom.”

Dorrin follows the instructions. One set is practically new, huge, and made of heavy stiff leather. He sets the bags aside, and picks up the second set, setting it down quickly as he feels the whitish red that signifies chaos. Although he has only felt chaos as a part of healing, there is no doubt that the bags have been associated with chaos. The third set is serviceable.

Finally, he drags out a dusty pair from underneath the counter. Although the leather is stained, and the bronze fittings are pitted in places, Dorrin nods, more to himself than anything.

“Good eye there. Cheap, too. A silver for you.”

“How much are the heavy ones?” Dorrin asks idly.

“Those? You’d need a draft horse to carry them. Half a gold.”

Dorrin purses his lips. While he has enough coins for the cheaper saddlebags, he does not know about the trail food, and he really needs a waterproof of some sort. He also does not like purchasing goods before he even has a mount to carry them. Unlike Brede, he worries about such details. “I need some sort of waterproof.”

“Hmmmm…”

A moment later a square of dark fabric appears on the battered wood of the counter top. “Nothing fancy. Just a good cloth dipped in the waterproof stuff. Probably a little small for the likes of your friend there.” The shopkeeper drops a shoulder toward Brede, who stands before a barrel from which he is extracting small pouches of something. “So I couldn’t ask that much for it. Say…half a silver.”

Dorrin nods. From what he has seen of Candar, he will need it.

“Shopkeeper?” asks Brede in his deep and polite voice.

“I’ll put these over here,” suggests the man to Dorrin. “Yes, young ser?” His voice flattens again as he addresses the tall blond man.

Dorrin drifts over to Kadara. “How are we doing trail food?”

“I thought we’d split the cost for meals. Anything extra you buy yourself. I told Brede that, too.” She smiles. “He did agree.”

“I don’t have that much,” Dorrin says.

“With your father, I can believe it.” Kadara looks back at the barrel.

Shrugging, Dorrin goes back to the other counter, avoiding Brede and the shopkeeper.

…hhhhnnnnn…

With a grin, he walks back over and pets the dog, adding another touch of order and reassurance.

…thump…thump…

Perhaps it is his imagination, but her eyes look brighter. “Good girl,” he adds, before returning to pick out two oblong packages from the cooler, with the words
yellow cheese
scratched into amber wax.

What else does he need? He has his heavy jacket, a bedroll, gloves, extra boots, what clothes he dares carry, a small pouch of healing goods, and now he has a waterproof and saddlebags. His only weapon is the staff. While he has a belt knife and the carving knife, of course, they are tools, not weapons. He could not carry a sword in any case, not with the conflict an edged weapon creates.

More compressed food, perhaps, he decides, in case he is separated from the others. He adds several blocks from the counter to the cheeses and places them beside the waterproof and saddlebags.

Brede examines the large bags Dorrin has rejected, and the shopkeeper slips along the counter back to Dorrin.

“All together, that’s two silvers and two.”

Dorrin fumbles in his wallet, still not used to the hardened leather outer case, and comes up with two silvers and a half. He hands the three coins across.

“You want this stuff in the saddlebags?”

“That would be fine.” Dorrin glances back at the dog, who has lifted her head. She struggles upright, then sits and looks back at him.

“Boy, how did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Stella. Poor bitch couldn’t move.”

Dorrin flushes.

“Recluce kid?”

Finding he cannot lie, Dorrin nods.

“Don’t tell anyone. You aren’t wanted.”

Dorrin waits.

“Boy?”

Dorrin looks up. “Here’s your change.” The shopkeeper counts out the coppers into Dorrin’s palm. Then he adds a wooden token. “Give that to Gerin. He’s at the stable. Tell him I sent you. Hertor…that’s me.” He lifts the partly full bags across the counter.

Dorrin nods as he takes the leather bags. “Thank you. I hope she”—he nods toward the stove—“is a little better. Maybe the warmth by the stove will help.”

“Best bird-dog I ever had,” repeats the older man in a low
voice. “Tell Gerin. Now don’t you stand on pride, young fellow.”

“I won’t, ser.” Dorrin nods politely and steps back.

At the end of the counter, Brede is holding up the heavy saddlebags.

Dorrin turns to Kadara, who is looking at the dog, as if she has overheard the low-voiced conversation with the shopkeeper. “I’m going over to the stable.”

“I’ll need some coin from you.”

“How much?” Dorrin fumbles in his wallet again.

“I’d guess around five coppers.”

He hands her the coins. “If it’s more, let me know.”

“Those will be two silvers, young ser.” The man’s voice is flat again as he addresses Brede.

Dorrin says nothing as he steps into the chill breeze and closes the heavy oak door behind him. He pauses at the top of the wooden steps. Is it wise to leave the others?

A woman, bundled in a worn leather coat, ungloved hands red from the cold, walks away from him, downhill toward the port, where three wagons creak toward the
Ryessa
. Across the mud and cobblestones from where Dorrin stands, an older man, heavy and bald, strains to roll a barrel toward a side door.

With a deep breath, the young man shrugs his pack into place, steadies the saddlebags that he carries on one shoulder, and, staff in hand, heads down the steps and to the right, toward the stable.

Thweeeeett…
The sound of a whistle drifts uphill from the harbor. Dorrin studies the storefronts he passes until his eyes and nose agree. Despite the chill, the stable smells like a stable, and Dorrin looks as much for where to put his feet as where to find Gerin, wherever the man may be.

Gerin is wrestling round bales of hay from a stack at the back of the stable onto a flat cart.

“I beg your pardon…” begins Dorrin.

“You want something…give a hand,” grouses the thin sweating figure.

Brede and Kadara are not around.

“Are you just going to stand there?”

Dorrin sets his gear on a half wall to an empty stall and hoists a heavy bale onto the cart. “Here all right?”

“Fine. Put the next one crossways.”

Dorrin lifts two more bales into place.

“That’s fine. If you want it, the job’s yours.”

Dorrin shakes his head.

“What do you mean? You don’t want it? You work good, but jobs aren’t that easy to find.”

“I’m sorry, ser. But I was really looking for a horse. Hertor sent me. Are you Gerin?” Dorrin flushes at the misunderstanding.

“And you hoisted hay?”

“You looked like you needed help,” Dorrin admits.

The thin man shakes his head. “Takes all kinds.” His face stiffens. “Lots of people say Hertor sends them.”

Dorrin fumbles and finally produces the wooden disc.

Gerin shakes his head again. “You’re too young to be buying a horse.”

“I really don’t have that much choice.” Dorrin reclaims his pack, staff, and saddlebags.

“And too damned young to be traveling alone.”

“I have two friends. They’ll need mounts, too. They’re still at Hertor’s, getting some supplies.”

“Stupid…should get the mounts first. How are they going to carry all that crap?”

Dorrin has no answer.

“Come on. I’ll show you what’s here. You ride much?”

“I can stay on a horse. That’s about it,” Dorrin says, feeling very inadequate at having to admit shortcoming after shortcoming.

“Hmmmmph…” The thin man heads back toward the front of the stable, ducking around a stall door that has fallen off its pins and dug into the packed clay floor.

Dorrin follows Gerin, wondering what is he doing alone in a strange country in a strange stable with a scarcely friendly liveryman. Still…what choice does he have? Lortren hadn’t said much, only that Dorrin can’t return until at least the following summer, and not until he has visited Fairhaven and until he knows why he had to leave Recluce. Dorrin takes another deep breath, and wishes he had not as they pass an open drain.

“Watch your step there.”

Watching his step is all he has been doing, it seems, but he
steps even more carefully in skirting the sloppy mess around the hole in the clay floor.

“Here. Two golds is the best I can do, even for Hertor.”

Dorrin follows the man’s hand to the horse that stands in the stall—black with what appears to be a white patch on the forehead.

Wheeee…eee…

The horse tries to nip, but Dorrin casts his senses at the beast, attempting to calm it, and discovers that she is a mare. She settles down and lets him stroke her neck—the little he can reach over the stall door.

“Thought you didn’t know horses.”

“I don’t.”

“Why did Hertor give you a token?”

“I’m not sure.”

“He gave up a token, and you don’t know why?”

“His dog,” Dorrin admits.

“Stella?”

“I don’t know her name. She was by the stove.”