The Magic Engineer (6 page)

“Why do I have to study weapons?” protests the wiry youth.

“First, we live in an uncertain world,” says the muscular white-haired woman. “Second, because the skills will improve your physical condition and mental processes. And third, because you will need them in Candar.”

“What? I’m not going to Candar. It’s dangerous there.”

The white-haired woman smiles, and her eyes twinkle. “You’re not going today, but you will go—along with a few others, like your friend Kadara.”

“Why is Kadara going?”

“For the same reason you are.”

“Because we don’t understand what a wonderful place we live in?”

“Not exactly. Because you don’t understand
why
it is a wonderful place.”

“But I do.”

“Then why do you use every free minute to sketch machines or build models of things that do not fit into our world?”

“But they could. The ones I think about are the ones you could use with order. I mean, you could forge them with black steel—”

“Dorrin…listen to what you’re saying. You’re admitting that there is no place for them. Who could build these machines? What smith could handle that much black iron? And who could use them?”

“You could,” Dorrin states.

“But why? Our fields are more bountiful than any in the world. Our healers keep us healthy and happy. Our stone and timber homes are solid and warm and proof against all elements. Our crafts are becoming known as the finest on the Eastern Ocean. And chaos is excluded.”

“But things could be so much better.”

“Better in what way? Would your machines make people happier or healthier? Would they make the crops stronger? The trees straighter or taller? Or would they require ripping open the
mountains for more iron? Or digging through fertile fields for the coal that lies beneath?”

“But it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Listen to your own words, Dorrin. Each time that I have said something, you have said ‘but.’ Doesn’t that say that you believe my words, but feel that the machines are worth more than the pain they will create?”

Dorrin cannot dispute her, yet something is missing, something he cannot exactly name or place. “It isn’t that way at all, but I cannot tell you why.”

Lortren shrugs. “You may be right. Darkness knows that you’ve taught me a thing or two. But—and it’s my turn to admit things—you cannot object to what is. You must find the understanding within you not just to build your machines, but to ensure that they improve our way of life. You will never gain that understanding here on Recluce.”

Dorrin looks helplessly at the desk in the corner of the study, with the row of texts. The faintest of breezes bearing the tang of the Eastern Ocean cools the dampness on his forehead.

“Now…off to the practice hall. You need to start on your weapons training.”

Dorrin’s steps are slow as he leaves, Lortren’s eyes hard upon his back. Even more deliberate are his steps into the room to which Lortren’s words have directed him.

“You’re Dorrin?” asks the guard. She stands next to a small table and chair, and her dark eyes pin Dorrin to a spot just inside the dark oak door.

The redhead nods, his eyes going past her to the racks of weapons that line the space, which is less than twenty cubits square.

“Well…the first thing is to wander around and pick a weapon that feels right.” The guard offers a lopsided smile that may conceal humor.

“I’m not particularly fond of weapons.”

“If you’re serious about traveling in Candar, you’re going to have to learn something about how to defend yourself,” says the thin woman in black. She gestures toward a rack of weapons on the armory wall. “We can give you some basic training in any of those.”

Dorrin steps toward the arrayed bows, blades, and other as
sorted tools to deliver force upon other individuals.

“Try a blade first.”

Dorrin takes another step. He recognizes the shortsword that many of the Brotherhood prefer, especially the women, perhaps because of the traditions established from their Westwind heritage. Or perhaps because the blade works.

His left hand grasps a plain hilt, and he lifts the blade. Somehow, the coldness of the metal, the feel of the edge—whatever the reason, the blade feels oily, almost unclean. He studies the weapon for a time, not only with his eyes, but with his senses, as a healer might study a sick person. Shivering, he sets it in the rack. Farther along he sees a battle axe. His eyes pass over the double-bladed weapon, as well as the broadsword, and the other bladed weapons, for his senses register the same uncleanliness.

At the end is a long staff, the wood polished smooth, although worn in places. His finger tips touch the wood, then grasp it. He nods as he picks up the staff.

“You a healer?” asks the guard. “Should have told me. Most healers have trouble with the edged weapons.”

Dorrin wants to protest that he is not a healer, but stops. He is nothing in particular, but a healer comes closest. That, or less than an apprentice smith. At least, that is what he thinks, and thinking so does not give him the throbbing in his skull that misstatements and evasions do.

“That’s as close as anything, but that’s the problem.”

“Oh…one of those…” nods the guard sagely, as if she has seen his kind before.

Dorrin finds himself flushing.

She gives an embarrassed grin in return. “I didn’t mean it badly. Besides, a staff is a better weapon for most travelers.”

“Why would that be?” He recalls the deadly feel of the blades.

“Most people don’t think of it as a real weapon, for one thing. For another, you can generally hold off two blades if you know what you’re doing. In time, a good blade can get you, though.”

“Then you must be a very good blade to know so much.”

The guard flushes. “You start here at the second morning bell.”

“That’s all I do today?”

“That’s all. You’ll make up for it on the days to come.”

The chill breeze riffles through the youth’s hair, and, to the east, when the wind dies, he can hear the winter waves crashing on the eastern shore. In his left hand is a small length of spruce, in his right, a knife.

Whiicckk, whiccckk…

The low clouds seethe, grayness moving within and around grayness, but no rain has fallen since they rolled over the Academy after the second bell.

“Hello…”

At the sound of the bright voice, he looks up.

Kadara, wearing the faded blue of her heavy exercise clothes, stands by the black stone wall where he sits. “Carving again?”

“I don’t have a forge, and I get tired of reading all these theoretical arguments about the basis of order and the inherent conflict between…” He flicks off another bit of wood. “I still don’t believe that machines and metals are the tools of chaos…”

Kadara grins. “They aren’t. A sword is a tool, and they teach us bladework. Woodcrafters use saws and chisels.” She brushes a wisp of the short hair back over her right ear.

Dorrin looks into the blue eyes of the redheaded girl he has known ever since he can remember. “It’s just the complex ones, anything that might use something besides water or muscles to operate.” He opens his hand. “See?”

Kadara frowns at the object which resembles three carved triangles joined at one end. “What is that?”

“This? It’s a fan, a mechanical one. I got the idea from a drawing showing the Imperial Court at Hamor. This is just the blade, but if you put a handle here, and ran it through something like an axle hoop, you could turn it with your hand. If you put a simple gear here…”

“Dorrin…”

“Sorry. I know—you half-believe that garbage about machines.” He lowers the carving.

“I’m going to the practice hall. Do you want to come? Gelisel says—”

“I know. I need more practice. A beggarman does better with a staff, and I make a one-armed, white-haired bandit look like a master blade.”

Kadara shrugs her broad shoulders. “Practice would help, Dorrin.”

“I know.” He sheathes the knife, tucking the length of spruce into the pack lying on the stone beside him. “I know.”

“What are you working on?”

“Just an idea.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Even Brede?”

“Dorrin.” The lilt leaves her voice.

“Sorry…but Brede…”

“Brede is a good person. He’d never say anything. It’s not as though I’d tell him anyway. He feels everyone should do what they want as long as no one gets hurt.” Her stride lengthens as the paved stone walk steepens. “But don’t ask me to keep things from him.”

“I’m sorry.” Dorrin takes a deep breath. “It’s just that Lortren…well, she’s not very happy about my toys.”

“Toys?”

“That’s what she calls them.”

“Hmmmm…I hadn’t thought of that.”

Dorrin has to stretch his legs to keep up with Kadara, though she is only slightly taller than he is. “Thought of what?”

“Why don’t you just make toys?”

“I don’t want to make toys.”

Kadara stops. “You’re not only stubborn, Dorrin. You’re slow. You make models of machines. What’s the difference between toys and models except the name?”

“But that’s not honest.”

“Your toys, models, machines—even I know they’re not chaotic or evil. So call them something else if it will make Lortren happy.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Dorrin purses his lips.

“I promised Brede I’d spar with him. You want to join us?”

“All right. It probably won’t be much of a challenge, though. You’re both a lot better.”

“Maybe we’ll try staffs. Gelisel has started us with them.”

“Why?”

“She says that you should learn something about all the other weapons.”

“Kadara!”

Both Dorrin and Kadara look up at the sound of Brede’s voice.

Jeslek walks along the edge of the hot springs, wrinkling his nose at the faint odor of sulfur. Finally, he brushes the snow from a small boulder and seats himself less than a dozen cubits from the springs.

The White Wizard frowns as he sends his perceptions into the water, tracing the warmth and the fire of chaos that feeds the springs. His thoughts flow ever deeper into the rock and heat beneath.

From under a pine that has been twisted and buffeted by the mountain winds until only the limbs on the southern side have retained needles, two White guards survey the cloudy afternoon.

The gray-bearded one glances from the rocky hillside behind the ice- and snow-strewn expanse back along the road leading down to the plains of Gallos. “This one’s a great one, light take him!” His voice is barely above a whisper.

The woman, her hair under the cold cap shorter than the man’s, smiles. “You don’t like the great wizards much, do you?”

“Demon’s flame, no. They do great deeds, and most everyone else gets scorched. We’re still paying for the great deeds of Creslin and Jenred the Traitor.”

As if to underscore his words, the ground trembles.

Both guards look toward Jeslek, who stands beside the boulder. Steam rises from the spring, yet the heat wells away from the figure in white, circling upward into a funnel that spreads into a white cloud.

Jeslek smiles, and his eyes flash.

The two guards exchange glances. The man takes a deep breath and shrugs; the woman smiles a smile of resignation.

“There’s the
Ryessa
,” announces Gelisel, her long legs slowing.

The harbor spreads out beneath them—the stone piers, the round-sided ship, and the dark green swells beyond the breakwater, swells that surge over the rough stones with alarming frequency. The ship seems toylike against the unending expanse of the ocean beyond the northern tip of Recluce.

While he has certainly been to Land’s End before, even eaten in the old tavern reputedly built by the Founders, he had not come before with the idea that he would be leaving Recluce. “It’s rather small.”

“Nonsense,” snaps the arms-master. “You should see the paintings of the old Montgren sloops the Founders used. Or what the Hydlen free-traders use.”

Brede pulls at his longish chin.

Kadara looks from her tall and muscular blond companion to the shorter and wiry redhead. “They do this all the time?”

“As regularly as a sand glass is changed. In the summer they trade the northern ports, and in the winter they alternate between Lydiar and Esalia.” Gelisel clears her throat. “Come on. They’re expecting you, but there’s no sense in lagging.”

“Will Edil and Jyll and the others take a ship like this?” asks Dorrin.

“The next group is bound for Brysta. No—they’ll probably be on a Nordlan brig. That’s a bigger ship, but then, they’ll have to cross the entire Eastern Ocean.” Gelisel strides down the last kays of the northern terminus of the High Road. The fitted stones of the road stretch nearly six hundred kays from Land’s End in the northeast to the black cliffs at the southwest tip of the island continent of Recluce.

Dorrin again thinks of the Founders’ insistence on the High Road, even when southern Recluce had been a worthless desert before the rains came. He is willing to think about anything except the trip ahead.

“Come on, Dorrin.” The red-headed girl’s right hand
touches the hilt of her blade, but she does not look back. Brede’s steps are easy, not even hurried as he matches the long strides of the arms-master.

Dorrin, on the other hand, has been forcing his shorter legs the entire walk from the coach stop at Alaren. The next wagon to the harbor would not have been until noon, and Gelisel had insisted that the five-kay walk wasn’t that far, especially considering the traveling the three have before them.

On each side of the inclined road that angles toward the old keep rise two- and three-story black stone dwellings, mainly of merchants and traders serving the spice and wool trade. The dark slate roofs appear silver in the bright but cool midmorning spring sun.

“…nyah, nyah, nyahhhh…Ferly is a White…Ferly is a White…”

Dorrin winces at the children’s taunting that drifts over the courtyard walls they pass, wondering who Ferly is and what the poor child has done.

“…nyah, nyah…Ferly is a White…”

“…am not…AM NOT!”

Dorrin hurries to catch up again.

…clickedy…click…

He steps to the left for a Brotherhood courier on a black mare. The young woman flashes a smile at Dorrin as she continues uphill. Dorrin smiles in return, although the dark-haired rider is already ten cubits behind him on her way toward Extina or Reflin or any number of towns on the High Road.

The four reverse direction as the port road swings through a wide descending turn away from the old black keep on the hillside and back toward the main pier of the harbor. The old keep still flies a replica of the Founders’ original ensign—the crossed rose and blade—rather than the current banner—the starker black ryall on a white background.

Dorrin’s nose twitches at the scent of winterspice and brinn from the narrow stone warehouses. For generations, Land’s End has smelled of spices, for only the master healers of Recluce can use their talents to grow all the world’s spices in one country, spices both to preserve food and to preserve health and life itself.

The calls of a few children, the conversations between older
residents on the small hillside square below the wide turn in the road, and the muffled sounds from within shops and warehouses are carried on the spring breeze.

“…won’t see a port this clean again…”

Dorrin misses some of Gelisel’s comments as his eyes take in the statue of the Founders in the square downhill from the road.

“Why?” asks Kadara.

“Only Fairhaven is this clean. Even Lydiar has garbage and slop in the back alleys.”

Brede shakes his uncovered head, his blond hair streaming in the breeze.

“This way…”

The road straightens and heads straight north, arrowing toward the main pier of the harbor. A hundred cubits or so later, they walk past an inn—The Founders’ Inn, according to the sign. Dorrin has eaten there once before, with his father and his brother Kyl.

“There’s the Founders’ Inn,” announces Gelisel. “The food’s not bad, but the prices are damned high.”

“Hmmm…” offers Brede.

Kadara keeps her eyes fixed on the harbor ahead.

Dorrin follows the other three over the time-polished stones toward the only ship on the pier. His eyes drop to the dark green water, then rise to the plank-gangway, where a single sailor, wearing a short blade, lounges in an imitation of guard duty. As the man sees Gelisel’s black tunic, he scrambles to attention, waiting as the four travelers approach.

“Magistra…you are expected.”

“Thank you.” Gelisel starts up the gangway.

Dorrin pauses, again studying the rounded sides of the coaster, his eyes catching the name plate under the bowsprit
—Ryessa
. The name is familiar, although he cannot say why it is.

“Come on. You need to meet the ship’s master.”

As Dorrin follows the other three up the wooden plank and onto the smooth planks of the deck, the ship seems to rise slightly with the swells that the breakwater cannot totally damp.