Read Online The Magic Engineer by L. E. Modesitt Jr. - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: L. E. Modesitt Jr.
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hasn’t ever liked the coasters’ being involved with Recluce.” He swings his pack on his shoulder, readjusting the harness to ensure that he can still reach the blade quickly, and marches toward the gangway.
The gangplank is barely in place as the three line up.
“Thank you for a smooth trip, Captain.” Brede’s voice is deep and mellow.
“Yes.” Kadara offers a flash of the smile that Dorrin wishes were directed at him.
“My pleasure, lady,” answers the captain. “My pleasure.”
Dorrin nods politely to the ship’s master, but only mumbles a low “Thank you.”
The captain inclines his head in return.
A pair of seamen are still tying lines to the bollards on the pier as Dorrin steps onto the weathered planks.
A long-faced functionary with a white circular patch on the shoulder of his heavy quilted leather jacket waits just shoreward of the gangplank. He carries a thin leather folder. Behind him stand the two White guards, while off to one side loiter three travelers, all with grips or packs, presumably waiting to embark upon the coaster. Each guard wears a sword, but their hands are empty as they wait with bored looks upon their faces.
In the chill sunlight of midmorning, more like late winter than the spring that the calendar indicates, Dorrin wants to shiver. Instead, he stands straight behind Brede and Kadara, tightening his grasp on the staff.
“Travelers?” squeaks the long-faced man in a high and thin voice. Because he is not even as tall as Dorrin, his eyes must look up to Brede, who overtops everyone on the pier by a least half a head. “The entry fee is half a silver a person.”
Brede presents a single coin. So does Kadara. Dorrin fumbles forth five coppers.
The functionary places the coins in a purse and makes three marks on a parchment sheet. “Do you have any weapons beyond what you show?”
“Nothing except a brace of knives…”
“Knives…”
“A knife,” finishes Dorrin.
“Noted. You are free to travel the domains of Candar.” The functionary jerks his head at the guards. “The cargo and the manifest…”
Dorrin glances back at the Ryessa . Only a regular crewman remains by the railing looking at the pier. The man grins at Dorrin, then lets his face turn impassive as the captain walks past him to the top of the gangplank to greet the long-faced man with the folder.
Dorrin follows Brede and Kadara up the pier toward Tyrhavven. The wind from the hills behind the city ruffles his hair, but not even a gale would loosen those tight curls. His ears tingle in the chill that seems more like winter than spring.
Of the bollards on both piers, only three sets are used. The Ryessa is moored on the eastern pier. Two smaller fishing boats rest at the western pier.
Dorrin lengthens his stride to catch up to Kadara. Her steps are still quick, and she does not even look at the shorter man as the three step off the pier and onto the stone pavement in front of what appears to be a warehouse.
“Where now?” asks Dorrin.
“Who knows?” snaps Kadara.
“We need to see about mounts,” interjects Brede quickly. “We can’t just walk across Candar.”
“What about provisions?” asks Dorrin.
“That, too.”
The buildings behind the warehouse—timbered and weathered—scarcely resemble the neat and polished stone frontages of Land’s End. He swallows, wondering if he will see Land’s End again.
XVIII
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
The gangplank is barely in place as the three line up.
“Thank you for a smooth trip, Captain.” Brede’s voice is deep and mellow.
“Yes.” Kadara offers a flash of the smile that Dorrin wishes were directed at him.
“My pleasure, lady,” answers the captain. “My pleasure.”
Dorrin nods politely to the ship’s master, but only mumbles a low “Thank you.”
The captain inclines his head in return.
A pair of seamen are still tying lines to the bollards on the pier as Dorrin steps onto the weathered planks.
A long-faced functionary with a white circular patch on the shoulder of his heavy quilted leather jacket waits just shoreward of the gangplank. He carries a thin leather folder. Behind him stand the two White guards, while off to one side loiter three travelers, all with grips or packs, presumably waiting to embark upon the coaster. Each guard wears a sword, but their hands are empty as they wait with bored looks upon their faces.
In the chill sunlight of midmorning, more like late winter than the spring that the calendar indicates, Dorrin wants to shiver. Instead, he stands straight behind Brede and Kadara, tightening his grasp on the staff.
“Travelers?” squeaks the long-faced man in a high and thin voice. Because he is not even as tall as Dorrin, his eyes must look up to Brede, who overtops everyone on the pier by a least half a head. “The entry fee is half a silver a person.”
Brede presents a single coin. So does Kadara. Dorrin fumbles forth five coppers.
The functionary places the coins in a purse and makes three marks on a parchment sheet. “Do you have any weapons beyond what you show?”
“Nothing except a brace of knives…”
“Knives…”
“A knife,” finishes Dorrin.
“Noted. You are free to travel the domains of Candar.” The functionary jerks his head at the guards. “The cargo and the manifest…”
Dorrin glances back at the Ryessa . Only a regular crewman remains by the railing looking at the pier. The man grins at Dorrin, then lets his face turn impassive as the captain walks past him to the top of the gangplank to greet the long-faced man with the folder.
Dorrin follows Brede and Kadara up the pier toward Tyrhavven. The wind from the hills behind the city ruffles his hair, but not even a gale would loosen those tight curls. His ears tingle in the chill that seems more like winter than spring.
Of the bollards on both piers, only three sets are used. The Ryessa is moored on the eastern pier. Two smaller fishing boats rest at the western pier.
Dorrin lengthens his stride to catch up to Kadara. Her steps are still quick, and she does not even look at the shorter man as the three step off the pier and onto the stone pavement in front of what appears to be a warehouse.
“Where now?” asks Dorrin.
“Who knows?” snaps Kadara.
“We need to see about mounts,” interjects Brede quickly. “We can’t just walk across Candar.”
“What about provisions?” asks Dorrin.
“That, too.”
The buildings behind the warehouse—timbered and weathered—scarcely resemble the neat and polished stone frontages of Land’s End. He swallows, wondering if he will see Land’s End again.
XVIII
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
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