Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Rebekah opens the door even before Dorrin reaches the stoop. “I hoped you would come before long.” She smiles and gives him a quick hug before stepping back. “How is Liedral?”

  “We’re doing better.” Dorrin knows what she really means by the question. “I’m following her suggestions, and I’m glad you spent the time. Sometimes, it’s hard. The touching exercises…” He almost winces. “But they seem to work. It’s so hard to think of what we had and lost… and it wasn’t even our doing.”

  Rebekah nods sympathetically. “Would you like some redberry?”

  “Please.” He has not had redberry since early summer at the inn.

  “What’s in the folder?” His mother inclines her head quizzically.

  “Something for father.”

  “He’s in the library. The porch is a little chilly. I’ll join you before long.”

  Dorrin understands this as well. He wanders down the hall and into the library. “Hello.”

  The thin wizard sets down the book on the reading table. “Dorrin. Sit down.” He gestures to the other chair, clearly moved from the kitchen into the study in anticipation of Dorrin’s arrival.

  “Thank you.” Dorrin takes the chair, setting the heavy folder in his lap, then meets his father’s eyes. For only the second time since Dorrin can remember, Oran looks away from his son.

  “What do you want?” asks the older man.

  “I’d like you to stop trying to persuade everyone that what I’m doing is wrong and tied to chaos. I’m not a little boy anymore, and you’re not always right. Neither am I,” he adds, thinking about Diev, and Kleth, and Liedral and Kadara, and even Meriwhen.

  “I love you, Dorrin, and you’re my son. But this business with black iron and machines is wrong. Do you want me to say it’s right when I don’t think it is?”

  “I’d like you to think about the reasons why you feel it’s wrong.” Dorrin pauses. “Creslin did things which were not exactly perfectly in line with pure order, but had he done otherwise, neither you nor I would be here.”

  “You’ve done much, Dorrin, but you’re not a Creslin.”

  “No. I know that, but the lessons are the same. I intend to preserve Recluce. Intentionally or not, you intend to commit suicide, because you’ve never really understood order.”

  “Understood order? You’ve never stood on the storms, or held the sky, and you know about order?”

  Dorrin lifts the bound sheets beside him. “I had these copied for you. One of the things I found out in Candar is that nothing in your library explained the basis of order, just the constraints. So I did my best.”

  “Oh… it must be interesting, applying your engineering logic to order. Tell me, do you prove that your steam engine is a creation of the Angels of Heaven and founded on order?” Oran smiles crookedly.

  “Hardly. This is much more basic.” Dorrin tries not to sigh. “If that’s the way you want it, keep trying to persuade the Council to send me off to some darkness-forsaken corner of the globe.”

  “I don’t want to send you off, son. I just want you to return to the way of order.”

  “I have returned to the way of order.”

  The tall wizard’s mouth opens, then closes, but he listens as Dorrin continues.

  “I’ve had some time to think, and I’ve had to work things out for myself, and I had some help. You seem to have forgotten two things. First, I did stop Jeslek. And second, I’m still Black. There’s not one flicker of chaos around me, and you know it. And that doesn’t lie.”

  “Being honestly mistaken is not the same as being right.”

  “Perhaps not, but I’ve watched Southpoint, and the people there. We’re building something that is solid and order-based. You ought to give it a chance.”

  “For what? To corrupt generations of order?”

  “Perhaps there is a third way,” offers Rebekah. She has a tray with two glasses on it and offers it to Dorrin.

  Dorrin takes the redberry and inclines his head to the healer. “Yes, mother?”

  “Perhaps the Council could leave Southpoint and the defense of Recluce to you, and to any who would join you. That would give us each time to consider how to work out what you have discovered. That would also allow use of Dorrin’s work without the dangers of the corruption you fear, Oran.”

  “How do you know this would work?” mutters the air wizard.

  “I don’t,” Dorrin says, “but isn’t it better than handing Recluce over to the Whites, or leaving you isolated and stagnating while Fairhaven grows and dominates the world.”

  “He has a point, Oran. The Council has raised the same questions.”

  “But machines?”

  Dorrin nods and lifts the manuscript. “If you would read this…”

  Oran makes a gesture to push them both away. “All right… I’ll read the fool thing and think about it. That’s all you can expect.” Dorrin takes a sip of the redberry, enjoying the taste despite the circumstances.

  “I’d like to read it also,” says Rebekah.

  Oran takes the second glass of redberry, and swallows. After a moment, he says, “Tell me about this trader lady.”

  Dorrin finishes his glass, looking at it as if he cannot believe he drank it all.

  “I can send a large jug back with you.” Rebekah laughs.

  “Her name is Liedral. She’s a trader, originally from Jellico… helped us away from Fairhaven… factored some of my toys…”

  “Was she a White trader?”

  “… free trader… the Whites tried to put her family out of business…”

  Late afternoon comes before Dorrin finishes his narrative. He looks out at the darkening clouds. “I really need to go.”

  Rebekah stands from the padded stool she has brought into the study. “I’ll get that redberry, and there’s also a whole cold fowl you can take, and even a leg of mutton-not that it’s that much for that establishment of yours. And you keep some of that redberry for yourself.”

  Dorrin grins. Even Oran grins.

  After watering and feeding Basla, he makes three trips from the kitchen out to load his mount before he finally rides southward once more. He whistles as he rides along the High Road, back toward the Black Hammer, back toward Liedral.

  CLXXII

  THE HEALER LOOKS back away from the damp gray stones that lead to the High Road, and her eyes dwell briefly on the Black Holding while a faint smile plays across her lips. She turns to the tall man. “Have you looked at your son, Oran? Really looked?”

  “He’s the same old Dorrin. He’s obsessed with those demon-damned contraptions of his.”

  “He’s not the same Dorrin.”

  “He is still obsessed with those machines.”

  “No.” Rebekah’s voice is hard, almost as cold as black iron as she turns to her husband. “He is so steeped in order, so Black, that where he stands is like a pillar anchored deep into the earth. Oran, he makes you look shallow. Don’t let yourself act shallow. Why can’t you take pride in your son?”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Don’t listen to me. Just look for yourself.”

  The tall man licks his lips, shivering at the cold certainty in his guts and in her words. “What of Recluce, then?”

  “I doubt that much will change, dear. The really great ones don’t come along that often.”

  “But his machines…”

  “Oran… have you really considered your own question? The one about how to hold back chaos without turning the world upside down? The White ones cannot stand up to black iron.”

  “But… machines… ?”

  “Trust in the Balance, dear.”

  The tall wizard shakes his head, but the gesture is not all negative, and the slender woman takes his hand and squeezes, as they walk out from the front stoop around to the terrace off their kitchen to watch the shadows of the bluff lengthen across the Eastern Ocean.

  CLXXIII

  “ALMOST A SEASON has passed, and you have made no moves ag
ainst the Blacks, or against the renegade smith who cost us so dearly.” Anya’s voice is level as she looks across the table at Cerryl.

  “What would you suggest?” Cerryl’s tone is mild, inquisitive. He looks toward the tower window that is but ajar, observing the painted wooden rose that does not move with the cool breeze that passes it.

  “You cannot let such acts go unpunished, you know.”

  “We razed Diev, and neither the city nor the harbor remains. Kleth is no more, and Spidlaria does whatever we wish-willingly. We have added another half-dozen ships to the trade blockade of Recluce.” The High Wizard smiles politely. “I take it you believe that more should be done?”

  “You are so unfailingly polite and attentive, Cerryl. It’s one of your charms.”

  “I am so glad you find it so. Are you suggesting that an expedition against Southpoint is in order? A fleet, perhaps a firing of the new city?”

  “It is so refreshing not to have to outline the details. Sterol was so dense about it.”

  “I know.” Cerryl’s voice is dry. “Would you like me to propose this in the next meeting and appoint you to develop the plan, under my direction, of course?”

  Anya leans forward and touches his cheek. “You are so understanding, Cerryl. So understanding.”

  “We do try, Anya. We do try.”

  CLXXIV

  “EASY… EASY…” CALLS Tyrel.

  The Black Hammer shivers on the greased blocks, edging along the stone-braced and heavy timbers toward the gray- green waters of the harbor. Dorrin wipes the cold mist from his face and tries not to hold his breath as his ship ever-so-slowly slides seaward, watching the propeller housing as it barely clears a slight hump in the inclined ramp, hoping that Tyrel has calculated accurately and that neither the rudder nor the shaft will be bent.

  “She’s lovely,” admits Reisa, standing on the far side of Yarrl from Dorrin. “Lovely like a well-turned blade.”

  “Not much for a trader,” adds Liedral.

  “And you sure couldn’t fish with her. Scare off everything for kays,” laughs Kyl.

  “All right.” Dorrin continues to watch as the Hammer slides into the harbor water. A spray rises from the stern and a low rippling wave spreads across the calm water.

  A low cheer rises from the score of workers and others who have lined the pier to watch the launching.

  Dorrin wipes the chill mist from his face again, then steps toward the pier, checking the waterline. He grins as he sees that two lines of oak planks below the black iron are exposed above the water, just as he had calculated. That will change when the plating on the pilot house and deck house are completed, and the coal and water bins are filled.

  He peers at the stern and tries to sense whether the shaft has grounded, but there is no mud boiling up, nor tangles of vegetation, nor any bending in the rudder brackets. Tyrel and Reisa complained at his insistence on deepening the harbor more beyond the graving ways, but they had done so.

  Styl has already attached the bow line to the windlass mounted on the pier. The shipwright begins to crank, and the Hammer’s bow turns as the ship is drawn into position next to the pier. Tyrel stands by the three men holding the stern line, ready to tighten it around the other bollard.

  Dorrin waits until the ship is pulled alongside the pier. Then he jumps and clambers over the side, not waiting for the gangway, and scrambles down the engine compartment ladder and through the second hatch into the narrow space that holds the shaft. He lights the wall lamp and detaches it from its bracket, carrying it deeper into the ship and toward the stern, where he inspects the housing where the shaft penetrates the hull.

  From what he can see, there are no immediate leaks. He looks at the small pump in the bilges and the narrow steam line that runs to it. Dorrin grins. A hand-powered version forged mainly by Hegl has already been delivered to the iron works for Korbow.

  Dorrin lifts the lamp, and begins to check the hull. According to Tyrel, some leakage is likely, but for the moment, the engineer sees none. He climbs out of the bilges and back forward and up to the engine compartment.

  “There ye be.” Tyrel peers from the deck down.

  “The shaft looks sound, and I don’t see any leaks.”

  “We got no leaks tomorrow, and I’ll be happy. No leaks right after she hits water doesn’t mean much.”

  Dorrin agrees, but he will take what he can. He climbs back up onto the deck, where Liedral, Reisa, and Yarrl are waiting.

  “Gives me the shivers,” Yarrl admits.

  “What? The rain?” asks Reisa, with a half-smile.

  “You know what I mean, woman.”

  Dorrin knows. While the Hammer is solid and order-based, the ship has the directness and deadliness of a fine blade.

  Liedral has walked to the bow, where her fingers caress the smooth lines of the railings and their supports, all crafted without unnecessary projections.

  She turns, extends a hand. He takes it and steps up beside her, and they look westward, out over the gray waters of the channel and toward the black-green waters of the Gulf, toward the blackening clouds in the west.

  “It’s going to storm,” Dorrin says.

  “It won’t be much, not compared to the storm you’ve built here.”

  “You think I should have called her the Black Storm?”

  “No. The Black Hammer is right. You are a smith, perhaps the greatest ever.”

  Dorrin laughs, harshly. “Both Hegl and Yarrl know more than I’ll ever learn about smithing.”

  “You know what I mean. Yarrl told you that he understands what you do. He just can’t see it until you do it. Maybe I should have called you the greatest engineer ever.”

  “What am I? A magic engineer?”

  Liedral squeezes his fingertips. They stand watching the dark storm on the horizon as the shipwright’s crew begins to carry the last black iron plates aboard to be installed, as the cold drizzle drops around them, and as the whitecaps begin to form out in the Gulf of Candar.

  CLXXV

  “OH… I GOT a fair amount of coin.” Liedral opens the small chest on the bedroom table that doubles as her desk and Dorrin’s drafting platform.

  “I’d say so.” Standing just behind the trader, Dorrin takes in the heap of silvers and golds in the chest. He squeezes her shoulders. “So what was the problem?” . “They’d buy but not sell. I couldn’t get any of the cordage Tyrel wanted, nor any commitment for copper. According to Henshur, no one’s ever had trouble getting copper from Nordlans before.” Liedral closes the chest.

  “I missed you.” Still standing behind her, Dorrin puts his arms around her waist and his cheek against hers.

  “I missed you.” Liedral turns in his arms. Her lips demand his, and for a time they remain locked together.

  “Dinner’s ready! Master Dorrin and Mistress Liedral! Dinner’s ready.” Frisa’s high voice penetrates the closed door.

  Liedral lifts her lips. “I know it’s been a long time, but… please… just keep trusting me…”

  His lips brush hers. “I will… I do…” He wipes away a tear, and finds her hand wiping his cheek.

  “Dinner!”

  Dorrin starts to respond, but has to clear his throat. “We’re coming.”

  “Not yet,” comments Liedral wryly. “But we will get there.”

  Dorrin blushes. Liedral straightens her tunic and steps around Dorrin to open the door.

  Everyone else is at the long table, except for Merga and Frisa. Frisa sets two baskets of fresh-baked bread on the table- one at each end.

  “Smells good,” Yarrl announces.

  Dorrin sits in the chair at the head of the table, while Liedral slips next to him on the bench to his left.

  “Be lifting your rafters tomorrow, Reisa,” Pergun announces.

  “It’s about time,” Reisa says. “I expect you might even get the roof finished before midwinter.”

  “Aye, but that depends on the stonecutters. I need more of the slate tiles.”


  Merga sets a large casserole on the table.

  “What is it?”

  “Fish stew.”

  “Fish, always fish,” mutters Vaos from the middle of the bench.

  Dorrin agrees silently.

  “Fish be good for you,” snaps Rylla. “Better than starving in Spidlar. Or worse, and don’t ye forget it, you ungrateful scamp.” She spoils the effect by not being able to hide a small smile.

  “I got some greenberry from the holders.” Merga holds up the pitcher. “You like some, master Dorrin?”

  “If you please.” Although the drink is bitter, Dorrin prefers it to the watery beer or water that are the alternatives. He ladles out the stew onto his plate, noting various sliced and chopped creatures, as well as seaweed and quilla roots. At least it is nourishing, and the spices will help-he hopes. The bread is also good, but Merga has always baked good bread.

  “Whose dwelling comes after Yard’s?” asks Rek.

  “I’d say it was Mistress Kadara’s, and Rylla will be with her, I understand.” Pergun still speaks with his mouth full, and breadcrumbs spray onto the table.

  “Stop talking when you’re eating,” reminds Merga, settling next to him.

  “Somebody’s got to look after that child she’s carrying,” Rylla mumbles.

  Kadara chuckles. “You’d think it was your grandson about to be born.”

  “Only one I’d like as to see.”

  “You’re not that old,” prompts Vaos.

  “Never said as I was old.” Rylla gestures around the table. “You see any other children coming around this place?” Merga blushes and looks at the table. Petra raises her eyebrows and looks toward Dorrin and Liedral.

  “You never can tell,” Dorrin temporizes.

  “So… maybe you’ll prove me wrong,” the old healer says, “but with his mother a blade, and her own family an isle-length away, her son’s going to need another grandmother.” Rylla breaks off a chunk of bread and dips it into the stew on her plate.

  “Could I have some more greenberry?” asks Rek.

  “Stop washing your food down,” admonishes Reisa.