The Magic Engineer (23 page)

“Well…ask him…”

Dorrin senses the whisper, rather than hears it, even as his hammer continues to weld the upset ends of the broken wagon
brace. He thrusts the brace back into the fire, noting the coolness of the iron almost as automatically as he checks the grain and the crystal sizes. As the metal reheats, he looks up to see Petra outlined in the smithy door.

“Gerrol’s dying…” protests another feminine voice, a deeper hoarser one.

“Dorrin’s a smith,” Yarrl says.

“He’s also a healer.”

“Who will pay for his time?”

Dorrin’s head throbs. Money or not, he cannot refuse what he knows will be asked. He pulls the brace from the forge and turns it on the anvil. Another series of sequenced hammer blows and the brace goes on the forge bricks to cool slowly. Then he sets the hammer in its place on his rack, followed by the cross peen hammer and the punch.

“I will, if it comes to that.”

“Oh…daughter. You ask him.”

Petra walks to the forge, followed by a young woman with straight brown hair and bloodshot eyes. Both wear loose gray trousers and gray jackets.

“Dorrin?” Petra’s frizzy hair flares away from the heat of the forge, and she blinks from the heat and the tiny particles in the air.

“Yes, mistress Petra?”

“Will you help us?”

“I can but try.” He continues to rack his tools, in contrast to the ordered disorder of Yarrl’s hammers and punches and swages.

“You didn’t ask who or what.” Petra coughs. “Sheena’s little brother Gerrol is fevered and dying.”

“It doesn’t really matter. I am, like it or not, still a healer.”

“Oh…” Petra’s sharp face softens. “How awful. I didn’t know.”

“Do I have enough time to wash off quickly?”

Petra looks at his smudged and sweating figure. “It might be best. Honsard would not believe a sweating smith to be a healer.”

“Fine. I’ll bring my staff.” Dorrin grins briefly, as he grabs a pail from the hook on the wall and heads for the well.

“Do bring that staff,” Petra says quietly.

A chill northern breeze reminds him that it is near winter, despite the clear skies and a bright midafternoon sun. Dorrin quickly lifts a full bucket of water. As he straightens, his trousers are jerked.

“Oh, it’s you, little demon.” He scratches Zilda between the ears and ruffles the kid’s neck. With a last scratch for the little goat, he carries the bucket to his quarters, where he pours some into the wash basin. Then he strips to his drawers and washes as quickly as he can, using the water in the basin for his face. After drying off with a gray towel, he pulls on one of his two brown traveling outfits and takes the staff from the corner.

Petra has already saddled Meriwhen by the time he reaches the barn. He checks the cinches and mounts, following the two women, Petra on the bay, and Sheena on a gray, as they start down the north road toward Diev.

Honsard’s wagonry is less than three kays downhill from the smithy. Two barns flank a two-storied yellow house with a wide covered porch. A matched team of Rumoag draft horses pulls an empty flatbed wagon from the hauling yard. Their hoofs clop easily on the stones of the main road.

Petra reins up at the rail before the house. Dorrin dismounts, leaving his staff in the lanceholder, and follows them onto the porch.

“This your famed healer, daughter?” Honsard is square-built, with a paunch below heavy shoulders and chest. His small green eyes are set deeply under thin eyebrows. His faded blue tunic and trousers are mud-spattered.

Sheena nods.

“You’re paying for him.”

“No, I’m paying for him,” announces Petra.

“Could I see the child, ser?” asks Dorrin.

“Help yourself, esteemed healer. Or my daughter will show you the way.”

Dorrin studies the haul-master, sensing flickerings of chaos within him. Then he leaves Honsard standing on the top of the stairs to the covered porch.

The boy is dying. The thin frame shivers from a chill, despite the heat radiating from the parched forehead, despite the quilts heaped over him, and the closed and shuttered window.

Dorrin’s fingers brush the child’s forehead, and he concen
trates. The fever alone will kill the child before too long. He straightens.

“He hasn’t been cut or wounded, has he?”

“No. He fell sick two days ago, and he just kept getting hotter, and he wouldn’t wake up this morning.”

“Is there a tub, one you can fill with water?”

“A bath! You must be mad! Baths are the demon’s invention, or the legacy of the cursed Legend,” rasps Honsard from the hallway.

Dorrin’s eyes harden into black steel and focus on the heavy-set man. “Do you want him to die?”

The man’s eyes say yes as he shakes his head.

“The fever alone will kill him before long.”

“You’re a healer.”

“I know my limits, ser. Without a cool bath to drop that fever, I cannot help enough to heal. Even with a bath, it will be hard. Wait longer, and no healer, not even the greatest, could save him.”

“Please…father…”

“On your head, daughter! Have the man do as you will! You have already. You brought this to pass.” Honsard turns. “There is a tub in the kitchen.”

Dorrin looks at Petra. “Can you boil some water? Water from the well will be too cold, I think.” As the two scurry for water, Dorrin again touches the fevered brow, letting his weak order senses touch what he can. He does not know what the disease is, only that flickers of an ugly whitish-red permeate the child.

In time, a tub of lukewarm water stands in the kitchen. Dorrin lifts the boy from his quilts and, with Sheena’s and Petra’s aid, strips off his soaked underclothes.

“He’ll need a dry bedgown and bedclothes, and a towel in a bit.” Dorrin lowers Gerrol, moaning and thrashing, into the tub.

“Now what?” asks Petra. “Will this stop his burning?”

Dorrin shakes his head. “Some fever is not too bad.” Not from what he recalls of his mother’s teaching. “But too much can kill. The water helps also if he cannot drink. At least his skin can.”

He tries again to strengthen the black flames of order within the boy. Has he succeeded? He cannot really tell, except that
Gerrol seems to breathe easier. He watches—how long he cannot tell—until the boy’s skin begins to raise chill bumps.

“Can you get his bed ready?” he asks Sheena.

She nods, her eyes bloodshot, but not tearing.

Dorrin turns to Petra. “He’s going to need several baths like this. If he stays in the water too long, it will also raise the fever.”

“Bah…” mumbles Honsard from the doorway. “He’ll live or die, not mattering what some quack does.”

“Are you telling me to let him die?” snaps Dorrin.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Good,” says Petra coolly.

Dorrin lifts the light figure from the water and into the towel held by Petra. She staggers under the boy’s weight, and Dorrin slips an arm under Gerrol’s shoulders to help.

“You’re stronger than you look,” Petra says wryly.

“Your father works me hard.”

“Not as hard as you work yourself.”

They wrap Gerrol in the quilts again, and Dorrin watches.

By the time the sun touches the horizon, Dorrin has immersed Gerrol three times, and the boy’s fever has clearly dropped and stayed lower. Gerrol lies under the clean but gray sheet. A light sheen of perspiration coats the boy’s forehead, and the worst of the reddish-white flickers of chaos have vanished.

“You need something to eat,” Sheena says.

Dorrin’s head feels light.

“Sit down.”

The healer slumps into the chair, and a cup of broth is placed under his nose. He sips, and the worst of the lightheadedness departs. He eats three large slabs of bread with cheese. His head clearer, he studies the child again, the too-long lank brown hair and the narrow face so like his sister’s. He touches Gerrol’s forehead and lends a shade more order to the still-faint blackness within. The red-white ugliness of chaos has retreated into faint flickers of white.

“He needs some boiled water.”

“Boiled?” asks the narrow-faced young woman.

“Boil the water and let it cool in a clean and covered pitcher that has not been used for milk.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Petra promises, as she leaves for the kitchen.

Dorrin takes another slab of bread, understanding for the first time why his mother often came home white-faced and exhausted. Healing is every bit as hard as smithing.

“Why does he need boiled water?” asks the sister.

“It’s easier for the sick to drink and keep in their body,” Dorrin simplifies. “You want a good clean well, don’t you?”

Sheena nods.

“Boiled water is cleaner than even good well water—if you store it in a clean pitcher.”

“Where did you learn all this?”

“From my mother.”

“Does she live near here?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Petra returns. “The kettle is filled and over the coals. Is the old gray pitcher in the corner cupboard all right?”

“That’s fine. Just be careful, please. It was mother’s.”

“I can use another.”

“Use it. She’d be pleased.”

Petra leaves Sheena and Dorrin on the stools, watching the sleeping boy faintly bathed in the flickering light of a single candle.

Dorrin touches Gerrol’s forehead again and nods. “I think he’ll be all right. Just make sure he has plenty of the boiled water and just breads for a while until his stomach settles. Then try some soup, and little bits of other things.” He stands.

“Thank you.” Sheena’s arms go around Dorrin, and her lips—hot and dry—touch his…and cling, and her hips move suggestively against him. “…all I can give…”

Dorrin gently disengages from her.

“Don’t you…?”

“You don’t owe me for doing what I had to do.”

“No one else could have saved him.”

“I almost didn’t, and it will be weeks before your brother’s well.”

Sheena looks at the faded carpet, her eyes focusing on a rose pattern.

“Darkness.” Why hadn’t he seen? “Your son?” Dorrin whispers.

Sheena does not look up, but Dorrin can see the tears.

“It is your secret.” His voice is low, and his own eyes burn. “But, then, you have more than paid.” His hand touches her shoulder, and he wills her what comfort he can.

Finally, she looks up, muddy tracks streaking her cheeks. “Are they all like you—the Black ones?”

“They are good, mostly, but not like me.”

“They sent you away?”

Dorrin nods.

“Why couldn’t they see?”

“They and I have different dreams. For them, as for most people, what is different is evil.” He stands, then walks toward the door.

Honsard stands halfway down the stairs.

“He should recover,” Dorrin says quietly.

“What do I owe you?” the wagon-master asks peevishly.

“Nothing.” Dorrin pauses. “Unless you want to give Yarrl some more paying smithy work.” He steps out into the morning chill.

Sheena stands on the porch. “I gave your mare some grain and water.”

“Thank you.”

Sheena is still standing on the porch when he turns onto the road back to the smithy.

“They’ve adopted another surtax.” The tall Black wizard opens the meeting with his announcement.

“That’s not as big a problem as the Whites deciding that they want the Fairhaven ships to sink all blockade runners.” The slender dark-haired woman’s voice is level. “The Nordlans will not unload grain at Land’s End once Fairhaven threatens their ships—unless we’ll take steps to remove the White ships.”

“Why don’t we?”

“Because the only real weapon we have is the winds, and even I can’t bring more than one or two big storms—not without changing Recluce back into a desert…or a swamp.” The air wizard lifts his hands. “Or handing Jeslek even greater power than it took to raise mountains. We already have given him too much.”

“What are we supposed to do—starve? Or forsake order just to keep a White Wizard from getting power?”

“I’ve given up more than you—far more! And we won’t starve. We have our orchards, and the Feyn River fields produce some wheat and more than enough barley…”

“Darkness, Oran! We haven’t had to eat barley for generations. Drink it, yes. Why can’t we grow more wheat, like the farmers have below Extina?”

“The ground isn’t ready—not without a lot of healer work, and that just strengthens Fairhaven’s side of the Balance.” Oran wipes his forehead.

“You’ve got so many demon-driven reasons why we can’t do anything…”

“You were the one who opposed our building warships.”

“And what would we fight with? We can’t use the winds—at least we haven’t had an air wizard who would dare in generations. We can’t use gunpowder or cammabark because the Whites would blow us apart with our own powder. We’ve been coasting on Creslin’s reputation, and they’ve called our bluff. They’ll burn any ships we have before we can get close enough to board. Sure, black iron shields work fine on the ground, but how do you get close enough at sea?”

Oran shrugs. “We can work with some of the healers on switching the oldest Feyn Fields.”

“What about timber? We’re still—”

“I know…”

“What will we do with the excess wool…?”

“…and what about the chaos-tinged ones we send to Candar and Nordla or Hamor?” asks the white-haired blade.

“We don’t have to reach solutions right now,” temporizes the air wizard.

“No,” answers a quiet voice from the left corner. “But how will things be any better next year or the year after?”

Oran wipes his forehead again.

Dorrin chews through the last chunk of cheese he has cut and swallows it quickly, hungry as he is, for he has slept later than he should have. Healing Gerrol had been harder work than he thought it would be, far harder, and he had gone right back to the smithy. His shoulders still ache, and a dull throbbing ebbs and flows behind his eyes.

“Don’t try to swallow it whole, Dorrin. Papa knows how tired you are.” Petra refills the mug with warm cider. “Gerrol was so much better last night.”

“Hee-yaaaa…hee-yaaa…”

All three look through the single kitchen window into the yard where a small wagon has drawn up, heavily laden enough that the tires leave narrow ruts in the yard clay.

“That’s Honsard’s man Wenn. Why’s he here?”

Dorrin swallows the cider and bolts for the porch. The scent of the forge, dried leaves, and moldering post-harvest fields swirl past him on the light breeze. Zilda butts his leg as he hurries past the half-grown goat. He reaches the carter before the man enters the smithy. “Ser…might I help you? I’m Yarrl’s striker.”

“I got a pretty load of work for your boss, fellow. Honsard’s stuff.”

“I’ll tell him.”

The man looks at the broken parts and sections heaped in the wagon box, then at Dorrin.

“Just wait a moment, and I’ll help you unload.”

The carter nods. “That’d be fine.”

When Dorrin walks into the smithy, Yarrl jabs the hot set he holds toward Dorrin’s leather apron. “Need to get working, healing or no healing.”

“Honsard’s man is outside. He has a pile of work for you, and he wants to talk to you.”

“Honsard? Cheap bastard said I charged too much. Said it’d be a white day in heaven ’fore he’d come here. Course, he was
tanked.” Yarrl lays the iron on the forge, shaking his head. “Let’s see.”

Dorrin follows the smith to the yard.

“This is what you and Honsard talked about last eight-day. He said he’d hold you to your price.” The carter looks down at the pile of dried leaves by the porch steps, scuffing a foot in the clay.

Yarrl glances from the heaped wagon to the carter and then to Dorrin. A flutter of gray catches his eye, and he looks up on the porch, where Petra stands. She nods at her father and points to Dorrin.

“Can’t do all this at once,” the smith says.

“Honsard knows that. When you get some done, let him or me know. We’ll get it. He’ll pay as each bit’s done.”

“I don’t say as I understand, but that’s what will be done.”

“I’ll help unload,” Dorrin volunteers.

“Demons,” mutters the smith. “Seeing as I won’t get back to work until it’s done, might as well have everyone unload. You, too, Petra.”

The carter legs his breath out as Yarrl slides the big smithy door open more than the normal two cubits.

The fall breeze flings leaves around the trousers of the four, but Zilda has only managed to clank her chain half a dozen times before the wagon is empty and the carter is on his way.

“Honsard…be demon-damned.” The smith looks at Dorrin. “Your doing?”

“Well…”

“Dorrin?” Petra is smiling mischievously.

Dorrin thinks about evading the question, but the pounding behind his eyes returns. “I suppose so. Honsard asked me how much I owed him. Nothing, I told him. But I felt a little nasty. So I added that he could send you some honest smith work.”

Yarrl shakes his head. “Must have scared the darkness right out of him. He’s a hard man.”

“Baaaa…” interjects Zilda.

“Not as hard as Dorrin,” Petra adds.

“I’m not hard at all,” protests Dorrin.

Both Petra and her father raise their eyebrows.

“Really.”

The smith puts his shoulder to the door, returning it to the
mostly closed position. “We got work to do, healing or no healing. Even more now, with all this stuff.” He gestures to the additional items stacked up in order. “You get business, and you have to deliver.”