The Magic Engineer by L. E. Modesitt Jr. Page A

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 handtouches 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 olderresidents 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