The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

From one corner, Rek watches the engine, trying to puzzle its workings.

  “Too wet,” Yarrl says.

  Water seeps from several tubes, and the deck is soaked. Dorrin tries to trace the leaks. One is in the seawater line that provides cold water to the condenser shell. Another is around the exit valve of the first cylinder. From what he can tell, nothing will break, split, or fail—not immediately.

  “We need to fire up more.”

  “Will it take it?”

  “For a while.”

  “You’re the engineer,” Yarrl says with a crooked grin, opening the firebox door again and lifting the shovel.

  Slowly, slowly the connecting rods begin to pick up speed, and the heat from the boiler builds, and more water spills across the heavy-timbered half-deck that holds the engine. A dull vibration builds, and Dorrin spills steam, fractionally, until the engine returns to a stable rhythm, faster than before, but not what, he thinks, the engine might be capable of with work and time. Unfortunately, he has had neither.

  After stepping back on deck, Dorrin checks the white schooner, then hurries to Tyrel, who is talking to Styl.

  “…pails of water…any sand left?”

  “We put some on.” The lanky bearded man jabs a fist toward the approaching schooner. “Don’t know as it will work if they got a hot White.”

  “We’ll do what we can.”

  “Aye, ser.” Styl vaults gracefully onto the main deck.

  “Used to be a mate for Gossag. Good man,” Tyrel says.

  “How are we doing?”

  “Going to be close. Looks like we’re going to hit off the Cape at about the same time.”

  Dorrin studies the full-sailed vessel. “Will our canvas burn if a fireball hits?”

  “Probably not if we keep it furled. See, they get you one way or another. It’s hard to fire ship’s wood with a flame; needs something like burning canvas, pitch, to set it going. But…you furl your sails, and you go dead in the water, and they board or flame the crew standing off a bit.”

  “If everyone’s below, and the sails are furled tight, we could get pretty close.”

  “Aye…”

  “I’ll get everyone below.” Dorrin climbs down the ladder to where Merga ministers to Pergun. “Can you and Petra get him below?”

  “It’s cooler here, master Dorrin.”

  Dorrin points to the oncoming schooner. “They’re going to attack. You can bring him up later.”

  Merga looks at the fevered man.

  “He’ll die here. They’ll flame the deck.” Dorrin takes down the blanket that has served as a shade for the former mill hand, folding it quickly and setting it on the deck. “Get this below also.”

  He begins to search for his staff, both with his eyes and senses, and finally reclaims it from a corner in the empty stall where Meriwhen should have been. He steps out of the stalls, carrying the staff, toward the bow. Kadara sits propped against the forward side of the one fully completed stall, in the shade. She looks up warily.

  “You need to get below. There’s a White ship coming.”

  “I can fight.”

  “I think we can get by without fighting. If they board, you’ll need to fight, but I’d rather avoid this fight.”

  “Wouldn’t you always?”

  “Yes.” He steps around her toward the bow and Rylla and Frisa, where he repeats his warning, and asks Rylla to pass it on to Vaos. Looking to the helm, he sees Tyrel gesturing and motioning below. Styl and the two other men finally leave the poop deck, but not until they have lashed an open-topped barrel, filled with seawater and a bucket, to the railing closest to the helm.

  Liedral? Where is she?

  He finds her in the mess space with Reisa and Petra. Reisa is directing Liedral in sharpening an ancient pike. All three are fully armed.

  “We may not need that…I hope.” He repeats his warning, and then climbs topside, where he goes to the engine space.

  “The Whites are getting close. I’m going to close this halfway.”

  “Leave it open. We’ll die from the heat,” Yarrl yells over the sound of the engine.

  Dorrin looks from the oncoming schooner to the engine compartment. “Then stay low on the deck here.”

  Yarrl nods and glances at Rek, even as he throws another shovelful of coal into the firebox. “You hear that, boy?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Dorrin climbs back to the helm, almost dragging the staff.

  The White ship is perhaps a dozen cables from the Black Diamond, close enough that Dorrin can make out the name—White Storm.

  “Let me take this,” Dorrin insists, looking over his shoulder at the approaching White Storm.

  “I’m a better helmsman, master Dorrin,” Tyrel insists.

  “I know. I need you alive. You don’t want to get fried, do you?”

  “I was a-hoping you could protect us both.”

  “I’ll be lucky to protect myself,” Dorrin admits.

  Tyrel looks nervously to the starboard, toward the breakers that seem all too close. “Don’t get any nearer to shore…and if…when you get abreast of the cut in the beach there, just before the tip of the cape, you need to bring her seaward another dozen rods at least.”

  “Let me loop this here.” Tyrel makes two quick rope loops to secure Dorrin’s staff to the side of the wheel cage.

  “Thank you. I’ll need it.” Dorrin takes the wheel, swallowing. Why is he getting into positions like this?

  “Thought you might.” Tyrel eases down onto the main deck, where he stands by the hatch into the poop. Other than the man Dorrin regards as the ship’s captain, the decks are now clear.

  The White Storm seems to slash through the water, and the bearing between the two ships seems almost constant, the distance steadily decreasing. Dorrin watches the approach. Is the Black Diamond gaining ever so slightly?

  A swirl of wind carries coal cinders into his face, and he blinks. The stack should be taller, and that would also increase the boiler draft. But again, he has not had the time to work all the details out. It is a miracle of sorts that the engine works so well.

  More cinders fly in his face. He looks at the stack, sensing a vibration in the deck, realizing that Yarrl is forcing more power into the engine.

  The Black Diamond continues to gain on the angled approach of the White Storm. Dorrin is now actually looking slightly back.

  More cinders fly toward Dorrin. Why now?

  He grins. They’re nearing the Cape and the time when the White ship will face a straight headwind. Dorrin sobers and swallows as he sees the cleft in the beach appear to starboard. Now he must turn the Diamond seaward, cutting the distance between the two ships. He eases the wheel, but the turn is gentle—too gentle.

  He turns the wheel more, and the Black Diamond angles closer to the White schooner, close enough that Dorrin can see a white-garbed figure standing just aft of the bow. The White Wizard raises an arm and white fire flashes southward.

  PHsssttttt…

  The fireball sails by the upper spars.

  “Turn her back, master Dorrin!” yells Tyrel.

  Dorrin tries to bring the Black Diamond back onto a more eastern course now that the ship has regained its separation.

  PHHHssttttt…

  Another fireball flies past, lower, and close enough that Dorrin can feel the heat and the chaos as he wrestles with the wheel. As he straightens the helm on what he hopes is the proper course line, Dorrin grabs for his staff with one hand, yanking it upward as another flash of fire flames toward the Black Diamond.

  Phhhssst…platttt!!! Fire sprays around Dorrin and the staff he has raised barely in time, but the ship heels because Dorrin has lost the wheel. He grabs for the spokes, and pain sears through his hand, although, somehow, he halts the bow from falling off into the breakers and brings the ship back toward course line.

  He looks over his shoulder, and raises the staff one-handed against another fireball.

  Shhhh…plattt…Chaos-fire splatt
ers around him, blown back by the wind.

  Suddenly, it seems, the Black Diamond begins to pull away from the White Storm as if the White ship were standing still.

  Another firebolt flies, but lands in the green sea behind the Diamond. Dorrin turns the helm slightly more seaward, hoping he has not already run too close to the breakers and the sandbars and rocks over which they break.

  His head aches; his shoulder throbs, and now his thumb seems broken or…something, as he shifts the staff to the injured left hand and tries to wrestle the ship onto the course he feels is safe.

  Yet another fireball falls astern.

  “Master Dorrin, let me take her!”

  Dorrin nods, and Tyrel scrambles for the helm, frantically turning the ship more to sea.

  The sometime healer and smith holds the staff loosely facing aft, watching as the White Storm, sails almost flat, struggles to find the wind before being carried onto the cape. The Black Diamond chugs onward.

  Dorrin finally walks forward to the engine space. “Let her go slower,” he yells.

  Yarrl wipes his forehead and closes the firebox door, slumping against a cross-brace.

  Dorrin listens. A series of vibrations he does not like have crept into the engine…or the shaft. He limps aft to the helm once more.

  “Can we run on sail later?” he asks.

  “Aye…if we can get enough to sea.”

  “I’m going to let the others come on deck.”

  Tyrel laughs and jabs a hand back toward the cape. “He’ll not be coming after us for a time. White bastards…” He spits downwind.

  Dorrin sits down on the deck, too tired to move, but the word has passed, because Liedral arrives carrying a basket.

  “You need to eat.”

  Dorrin does not protest.

  “What did you do to your hand?”

  “Lost an argument with the wheel.”

  “Dorrin…” Liedral shakes her head, and her short hair flies out. “You eat, and I’ll get Rylla.”

  He eats, one-handed, while Tyrel sings a vaguely obscene song, tunelessly, and Styl and the other two begin to rig for sail.

  CLVII

  “Raze the city.” Sterol looks down at the twisted links in his hand and the blackened amulet.

  “The whole city? Those who were left surrendered and accepted the banner of Fairhaven.” The eyes of the red-haired female wizard widen.

  “I don’t care about the people. Let them go where they will. No city strikes down a High Wizard and remains to mock Fairhaven. I want all the crops and livestock taken. Then sow every other field with salt and fire, and level every structure. Destroy the breakwater and fill the port with stone.”

  “I did not realize you so loved Jeslek.”

  “I hated the man. That’s scarcely the point, is it?” Sterol’s voice is almost silky. “Do you want the world thinking that leaders should be targets in warfare?”

  “I understand. Do you wish a reward published for the Black…wizard?”

  “Light, no. Do I have to spell out everything for you? We post a reward, and those idiots on Recluce might take him back. This way, everyone around him has to look over their shoulder.”

  “Wasn’t that Jenred’s idea with Creslin?”

  “Hardly. Jenred forgot that those he drove out had no alternatives. Do you think those sniveling cowards on Recluce are going to take in someone who is using machines, black steel, and order to create horrible destruction?”

  “What if he forces them—”

  “With what? He has one magical ship and a handful of followers.”

  CLVIII

  Pure order cannot nourish life, for living requires growth, and the process of growth is the constant struggle to bring order out of chaos.

  When a fire destroys the great forests of the Westhorns, immediately order replenishes itself with scores of seedlings and bushes striving to recover the hillsides.

  When a stone wall is built, the forces of frost and heat continually tumble the stones. So too is it with a house, once the constant order of the hearthholder is removed.

  The function of order is to support that life which can order chaos; and without chaos to be ordered, there can be no purpose to life.

  The function of chaos is to destroy order. Without order, no structure can exist—no man nor woman, no plant, not even an earth upon which to walk. Thus, the total triumph of chaos is its defeat.

  What can be said of order and chaos, then? Since the world was, is, and will be, neither order nor chaos may triumph. Therefore, in the world as a whole there must be equal measures of each, and that Balance will be maintained; for, if it is not, there shall be either no world or no life.

  And upon this world are the lands and the seas.

  People call the sea chaos, but the sea contains a deeper order within the ever-changing waves and depths, and the seas wash upon the beaches and retreat, and that changes not.

  Likewise people call the land orderly, for it changes seldom, yet beneath that surface order is great disorder, filled with the fires and chaos of the demons.

  A people of the sea must be of order, for order must contain the surface chaos of the oceans and harmonize with the deeper order under the waves.

  Likewise, a people of chaos can only exist upon the land, for the sea will rend them unto nothing.

  The Basis of Order

  Fragment attributed to Section II

  CLIX

  The Black Diamond is tied at the end bollard on the smallest pier inside the breakwater at Land’s End, and smoke and steam trickle into the air as the firebox cools. A barrel, perhaps two, remains of the coal.

  Four Black guards stand beyond the foot of the plank, although two large barrels of fresh water have been set by the plank for the use of the crew and passengers of the ship.

  “Now what, Master Dorrin?” asks Tyrel.

  “We wait,” Dorrin says tiredly. He tries to wipe his forehead, but the splint on his thumb makes the gesture difficult. At least, his shoulder is on the way to healing, and the white-fired headaches are less frequent.

  “Not for long.” Liedral points toward the harbormaster’s flag, below which several individuals in black alight from an open carriage.

  One is a tall and thin Black wizard. Dorrin takes a deep breath.

  “Oh…shit…” Kadara’s curse carries from the bow on the light wind.

  Dorrin shares her feelings, but he waits as the black-clad group walks down the pier. Liedral stands beside him, grasping his hand.

  The tall wizard gestures to the guards. One salutes, and all four walk back toward the harbor and, eventually, to the old keep on the hillside. The wizard turns to the ship, looking directly at Dorrin. “For now, you all have the freedom of Recluce. We would prefer you remain near Land’s End, but that is your choice.” The tall wizard smiles gently. “In view of your various…ordeals, we offer the two guesthouses beyond the inn to you, and the guest apartment in the old inn to Dorrin and his…consort.” Oran gestures toward the middle of the ship. “You may also avail yourself of the stables.”

  “That’s very generous,” Dorrin says. “The last few eight-days have been rather hard. If you could persuade a master healer to attend to Pergun for us, I would appreciate it. He received a head injury. I may have stopped the worst of the damage, but…more needs to be done.”

  “…fine, mast’ Dorr…” Pergun leans on the railing, Merga by his side, but he still clips and slurs his words.

  “We would be pleased to see what might be done.” Oran answers smoothly.

  Merga drops her hand from her mouth, and clutches Frisa in one hand.

  “Later, after dinner, we would like to meet with you.” Oran’s eyes meet his son’s. Dorrin nods, but does not look away. After a time, Oran does.

  Even after the pier clears, after Tyrel, his crew, Pergun, Merga, and Frisa have made for the guesthouse, Dorrin stands by the gangway.

  “Dorrin…?” Liedral sits on the clean-scrubbed planks by the mainm
ast with Reisa, Yarrl, and Petra. Kadara sits next to them, but back, as if she is not quite a part of the group.

  Dorrin grins as he walks toward them, for they look like a council of war. The grin drops. It is a war of sorts. He sits on the hard planks next to Liedral, enjoying the afternoon sea breeze.

  “You haven’t said much about what we can do,” Liedral begins.

  “I haven’t really thought it through. Originally, I just wanted to build an engine and then the ship and stay in Spidlar. I can’t say that Recluce will take us—me, anyway—back. They don’t like machines…”

  “But they’ve suffered from the trade cutoff,” Liedral says. “Your kind of ship—you proved it could be valuable. Wouldn’t they be interested?”

  “No.” The cold voice is Kadara’s. “They’ll die before they’ll change their precious beliefs.”

  “Who says they have to?” offers Reisa. “We’ll build the ships and protect them. They don’t have to change. They could just let us alone.”

  “You’ll still”—Kadara searches for words—“contaminate them.”

  “They can’t be that cold,” protests Petra.

  “Maybe not,” Dorrin says. “What if we build an enclave on the south end of Recluce? There’s a small inlet and cove there. The plateau behind it is fertile; it’s just too far from Land’s End for Recluce to have settled yet. I mean, there are a few holders, but they’re the kind that wouldn’t mind.”

  “Dorrin,” Liedral says, “don’t give that to them. Trade for it.”

  Dorrin understands. Still…“I don’t know if I can.”

  “Makes sense to me,” affirms Yarrl.

  “We’ll stand behind you,” Reisa adds.

  Kadara shakes her head.

  “Well…” Dorrin draws out the words. “We might as well avail ourselves of the facilities.” He does not add “while we can,” though the thought occurs.

  Before long, the six descend the plank, all carrying bags or packs. Long shadows from the hills west of the harbor almost touch the pier.

  Dorrin glances back at the deserted ship. At least Recluce is a place where one has no worries about theft. He laughs, suspecting that Fairhaven itself is the one other place where theft is rare, if not unheard of.