Free The Magic Engineer by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

insistent. “The chandlery has to be this way.”
    “But chandleries are for ships,” protests Dorrin.
    “Here they sell everything,” adds Brede, over his shoulder.
    “But shouldn’t we get horses first?”
    “The chandlery is next to the stable.”
    “How do you know?”
    Dorrin adjusts his pack and scrambles to follow the two taller exiles as they stride away up the uneven pavement.
    “…haa…haaa…”
    The redhead with the wiry hair ignores the cackling laugh of the old man sitting against the seawall, but he moves even faster to catch up.
    “…haaa…haa…”
    The three turn left at the first cross street. While the brown cobblestones are worn and often cracked, the street does contain virtually all its paving stones. Only a few small puddles offer a reminder of the morning rain, although the clouds remain dark and threatening. A single horse, swaybacked, is tethered before the store Brede points out as a chandlery. The sign that swings from the protruding crossbeam has no name, just acrude black outline of two crossed candles on a white background. Much of the white has flaked away, showing weathered gray wood beneath.
    Brede’s feet, half again as big as Dorrin’s, whisper on the wide plank steps, as do Kadara’s. Dorrin’s boots thump as though he were the heaviest.
    The interior of the store smells faintly of oil, varnish, rope, and candles. Those are the scents which Dorrin can distinguish. A dozen steps inside the doorway stands a squat iron stove, radiating a gentle heat. On the right hand wall is a row of barrels. Each barrel is topped with a circular wooden cover. Across from the barrels is a counter running the remaining depth of the store. Another counter runs across the back of the store.
    Beside the stove lies a thin dog on a tattered blanket folded into a rough bed. One eye opens as Dorrin closes the door with a thunkkkk…
    “Is there anything special you need?” The flat voice comes from a man with thinning sandy and silver hair and a drooping handlebar mustache. His leather jacket bears a range of leather patches that do not match the original, and he sits on a stool behind the counter almost opposite the stove.
    “We’re looking for some travel goods,” explains Kadara politely.
    “Suit yourself.”
    Brede studies the counter, while Kadara starts with the barrels.
    …hhhnnnnn…
    Dorrin looks at the dog again and swallows, sensing the animal’s pain. Then he looks at Brede and Kadara, efficiently determining their needs. He steps toward the counter.
    …hhhnnnn…
    With a sigh, he edges toward the stove and squats next to the hot iron and the dog. “You hurt, lady?” His voice is low.
    “She’s just old.” The storekeeper’s voice remains flat.
    “All right if I pet her?”
    “Suit yourself. She’s a touch cranky.”
    Dorrin extends his senses toward the dog, feeling the infection and the age within the body.
    …hhhhnnnn…thump… The dog’s tail flicks against the plank floor.
    His hands, as gently as he knows how, scratch the shaggy brown coat between her ears, even as he tries to help the ailing animal. Certainly, a little order cannot hurt.
    …slurrppp… A damp tongue runs across his wrist.
    “Easy, lady, easy…”
    …thump…thump…
    Dorrin scratches the dog’s head again before standing up. “You’ll feel better in a while, lady,” he says quietly, bending and patting her head.
    Both eyes are open, watching as the wiry redhead walks to the counter.
    “Like dogs, boy?”
    Dorrin looks toward the flat-voiced shopkeeper. “I never had one,” he admits, “but I do like them. She seems nice.”
    “Best bird-dog I ever had. Just got too old.” The man shifts on his stool, but does not rise.
    There is another silence while Dorrin studies the small rectangles of dried travel food wrapped in paper and dipped in some sort of wax.
    “The trail cheeses are in the cooler at the end.”
    Behind him, Dorrin can hear Brede and Kadara quietly talking about