The Magic Engineer by L. E. Modesitt Jr. Read Free Book Online Page B

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.”

XIII
    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