Modesitt, L.E. - The Saga of Recluce 03 - The Magic Engineer by Modesitt L.E

Author:Modesitt, L.E.
Language: eng
Format: epub

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"They won't have much choice. They've posted notice of spring levies in Certis, Kyphros, Montgren, and Gallos."

"Has the Council recalled Spidlarian mercenaries from other duchies?"

Brede and Kadara exchange glances.

"They have, but the Whites are making it hard for them to return?"

Brede nods. "We'll get some back, but some have no desire to get ground down under the levies in the spring."

"Levies aren't as good as fully trained troops," Dorrin points out.

"No, but there are a lot more of the levies."

"And we can't even get the darkness out of here," snaps Kadara. The cider splashes onto the table when she sets down the tumbler. "There aren't any ships to Recluce, and Suthya and Sarronnyn have refused to allow anyone from Recluce to land there."

"Why?" Dorrin raises his eyebrows.

"Fairhaven is paying top golds for grain, but the ban is part of the agreement. We tried to book passage to Rulyarth."

"It's going to be a long and cold winter," Dorrin says.

"And a bloody spring."

"Can you stop them?"

Brede shrugs. "Do you have any machines that would help?"

"No. Nothing I can make would help."

"What good-" Kadara breaks off as Brede's eyes catch hers. "I'm sorry."

"Let me think about it." He finishes his medicine and refills his mug with cider. "Darkness ... I can't even make a sword, you know?" Dorrin holds up his hands helplessly. "Maybe I can think of something else."

"Well..." Kadara says, "we heard you were sick."

Dorrin raises his eyebrows.

Brede coughs. "It was ... sort of a joke ..."

"I see. The wonderful healer can't even heal himself?"

Brede looks down.

"That's all right. My own helper asked me the same question. It sounds stupid, but that's the way it works."

Brede stands up. "We really need to get back to the barracks. We're only here to get back up to strength and to resupply."

"How long?"

"An eight-day, if we're lucky." Brede steps toward the door.

"Dreamer," mumbles Kadara. "We'll be out again in three days." She drains the last of the cider.

"Damned good cider." Then she too stands and heads for the door.

"Take care," Dorrin says. What else can he say? It is as though they are slipping away from him.

"You, too, Dorrin."

He watches from the door as they ride through the cold misting rain. Mud streaks both their horses and their trousers and boots. His eyes flicker to the muddy streaks on the once-clean plank floor. After he rests, then he will mop it again. And after he finishes the letter to Liedral.

A long cold winter, and a bloody spring-wonderful.

XCII

THE COLD RAIN that seems more like early winter than autumn continues to pour down. Except near the forge, the air in the smithy is damp. Vaos pushes the wheelbarrow inside, stops to close the door, and then wheels the load of charcoal up the forge. Rek pulls the bellows lever. Yarrl turns the iron on the anvil, and Dorrin strikes the cherry-red metal.

Yarrl returns the iron to the forge. Dorrin sets down the sledge and wipes his forehead.

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