The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “The Council hasn’t come to a final decision. We felt we ought to talk to you.”

  Dorrin wipes his forehead, tanned from nearly an eight-day at sea, wrestling with sails and a ship never designed for open ocean or an engine. Despite his shower, he still feels grimy, almost as if still smeared with the black of the coal. “It seems that you think I might offer some sort of answer, but you still don’t feel I quite belong, and you don’t know what to do.”

  “That’s close enough,” Ellna says. “Why do you think you might offer us an answer?”

  “Without something like my ship, Fairhaven will choke Recluce again. Or at the very least, isolate you. Is that what you want?”

  “The Council has been concerned…” begins Oran.

  “We’re more than concerned,” Ellna says. “But we also don’t want to destroy what Recluce is based upon for mere survival. That’s what the Blacks in eastern Candar did in the time of Creslin. They accepted more and more domination of the chaos wizards for the sake of civil peace and good roads. We don’t want to build machines or devices that lead us down the same path.”

  “Any high-energy machine must embody chaotic energy by definition,” adds Oran.

  “Life embodies some chaotic energy—by definition,” says Dorrin. “The question is whether order or chaos dominates.” Is he being wise in being so forthright? Can he be otherwise?

  “You really haven’t answered the question,” observes Videlt.

  “I can tell you what I think,” Dorrin says. “And you can tell me what you think. But what any of us thinks isn’t the issue. My engine is mostly of black iron, and you can sense its roots in order.”

  “Chaos can use order…”

  “How about this? You let me build my smithy and shipworks at Southpoint. There’s nothing there.”

  “There’s no harbor. How?”

  “There’s one small inlet. That’s enough for now for the Black Diamond. Later, we can expand it.”

  The color leaches from the tall wizard’s face. “We can’t accept potential chaos on Recluce itself.”

  “Stop jumping to conclusions. Machines and chemicals aren’t chaos. I can’t deal with chaos either, and you know it.”

  “You’ve changed.”

  “Probably not enough.”

  “Oran,” interrupts Ellna gently, “have you considered a trial period? Let Dorrin build his works, and then let us evaluate them. We could gain, and at the least he would have a respite.”

  “How long?” asks Videlt.

  “At least two years,” Liedral says.

  Dorrin is glad she has spoken. He would have asked for less, because he feels that he must have a new ship ready long before two years.

  “Isn’t that a bit…extended?” asks Videlt.

  “It is if things go well,” Dorrin admits. “But matters often don’t where the Whites are concerned. Also, we have to build facilities…”

  “I suspect there would be some willing to offer their help,” says Oran dryly.

  “Perhaps,” Dorrin responds. “In that case, you can evaluate earlier.”

  “That seems fair,” Ellna interjects. “It is in our interests.”

  “Oh?” says Oran.

  “He’s building another port, Oran. How can that hurt us? You’ve often pointed out how the winter seas make Land’s End unsuitable.”

  The taller wizard nods—reluctantly. His lips pucker as if he has swallowed a pickled pearapple.

  “There’s one other thing,” Dorrin says. “I need iron—enough to build another ship.”

  “Another one?” Oran’s voice is tart.

  “I didn’t build this one,” Dorrin explains. “It was a grounded hull, and I put an engine on it. If you want to evaluate my works, I should have the chance to build one ship the way I think it should be built.”

  “That seems fair to me,” says Ellna. “It fits the idea of a trial.”

  “Surely, you don’t expect us to pay—”

  “I think I have enough to pay for at least some of the iron,” Dorrin says, “thanks to Liedral. We have some more trading goods which we can factor here.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “We’d have to sell some to whatever Bristans or Hamorians put in here.”

  “There aren’t many,” says Videlt with a twist to his lips. “But we’ll give you a Council letter. You’ll need that for the iron, you know.”

  “No,” Dorrin smiles, “I didn’t know that. I can’t say I’m surprised. What about coal?”

  “That’s not under Council seal, and you’ll have to make your own arrangements there.”

  “How soon can we begin?” Dorrin is tired, and feels the evening is dragging on, even though they have not talked that long.

  “You will have the Council letter for the iron in the morning, and it will cover not only the iron, but convey a suggestion that your…project is in our interests.” Ellna’s smile is more than perfunctory, but not much.

  Dorrin yawns. “I’m sorry, but…”

  “We understand.” Ellna rises, and the other two Blacks follow.

  Oran catches his son’s eyes, and Dorrin understands the tall wizard would like a few words privately.

  Dorrin waits until Liedral has touched his hand, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and climbed the stairs. Ellna and Videlt have already left the inn.

  “I’d like to think you’ve changed, son,” Oran says gently.

  “I haven’t changed the way you’d like,” Dorrin says heavily. “And I think that might be why you’re losing to the White Wizards.”

  “Creslin destroyed Jenred, and you destroyed Jeslek.”

  Dorrin shakes his head. “You still don’t understand. Jeslek was a chaos focus. That was why he could raise mountains. I destroyed the focus, but the forces remain. There will be another Jeslek…with great powers, and another, so long as Recluce embodies order.”

  “You’re being too mechanical. The higher order considerations…”

  “That’s animal crap,” snorts the engineer. “Creslin sold his soul to found Recluce—or at least his sight for a good part of his life. The order you already have created Jeslek—I didn’t. And you’re worried about a few order-based machines on one end of the isle. The Whites sure as the demons didn’t like order-based machines.”

  “Don’t you see? That’s exactly why we can’t afford more concentrated order.”

  “Do you want me to take my ship and my ideas to Brista—or Hamor? Is that what you have in mind?”

  “We agreed to a trial…”

  “I know. But I want a real trial, not just a few years so that Recluce can get back on its feet and throw me out again.”

  “We’ll keep our word.”

  Dorrin does not shake his head, however much he wants to. “I know you will. So will I.”

  “Good night, son.” Oran raises his hand in almost a benediction before turning.

  Dorrin waits until his father has left before he walks up the stone stairs. He smiles when he enters the bedroom. Liedral is asleep on one side of the bed, facing the door, the lamp still lit. He undresses silently, blows out the lamp, and slips into the cool sheets, permitting himself only a single gentle squeeze of her bare shoulder.

  “…night…” she murmurs. “…love…”

  “Good night,” he whispers.

  CLX

  “How did you incompetents ever let this happen?” Sterol’s voice is low.

  The three White Wizards look at the table with the mirror, then back to the High Wizard. Finally, Fydel speaks. “He built a ship that can run into the teeth of the wind. The White Storm went aground trying to catch him.”

  Cerryl nods in agreement, stepping back from the others ever so slightly.

  “Why didn’t they at least fire his ship?”

  “They weren’t carrying canvas. He’d stripped the topside, and this engine thing somehow pushed or pulled them away. They skirted the sandbars all along the coast until they got to the Gulf, where the winds chang
ed. Then they lifted sail, and with the engine and sails, no one could catch up.”

  “Wait an instant. You said they didn’t have sails.”

  “The sails were furled,” explains Anya. Her voice is cold, cutting. “This engine of his is as hot as chaos and bound in black iron.”

  “How does it work?”

  “We don’t know, exactly.”

  “Wonderful. Just marvelous. We now have a renegade Black Wizard who can build an engine that nullifies our whole blockade of Recluce, and his ship is sitting at Land’s End.” Sterol sighs. “Well…you three and Jeslek did it. You’ll have to live with it.”

  Anya raises her eyebrows.

  “Really, Anya. Are you that dense? Have we ever had any success against Recluce proper?” The High Wizard smiles coldly. “You three incompetents can leave. You had better hope that the Blacks on Recluce hold the price of asylum on their fair isle as no more Black engines.”

  “Or…?” asks Anya.

  “I told you. Now, please go away.” Sterol fingers the gold amulet. After the door closes, he wipes his forehead with a white cloth from his pocket and looks toward the mirror. Then he wipes his forehead again.

  CLXI

  Dorrin and Kadara ride down the Great Highway, side by side, with Liedral and the cart following.

  “I never thought I’d get home.” The redhead holds the reins in her left hand, her right still in the sling across her abdomen.

  Dorrin glances to his left, down into the fertile plains around the Feyn River, and the waving green stalks of grain. “It is home, and it’s not.”

  Shortly, if he understands the directions, they must turn uphill and take the winding road toward the one iron mine and smelter that exist on Recluce.

  The solid gray kaystone is clear enough. Two arrows appear. The one points straight ahead and states Feyn—5. The other points to the right, along a narrower, but still stone-paved, road, and reads Iron Works—4.

  They turn uphill, following the gently inclined road with the wide turns.

  “This is a side road and better than some highways in Candar,” says Liedral above the creaking of the cart.

  “It’s designed for the iron wagons.”

  “The road to Froos’s place didn’t look like this.”

  There are definite advantages to order. Thinking about the doubt on his father’s face, Dorrin decides there are also definite disadvantages.

  The iron works is a complex of five stone buildings set on a terrace cut from the hillside roughly two hundred cubits below the top of the ridge lines. Smoke filters from the top of several beehive-shaped structures—the blast furnaces. A slightly inclined stone-walled road runs from what appears to be the mine entrance to the top of the blast furnaces. Lower yet are two shorter buildings from which an earthshaking and dull hammering issues. Between the two buildings runs a millrace with an overshot waterwheel.

  Dorrin reins up in front of the smallest building, the one away from the furnaces and the hammering and slitting mills. “Do you want to come in?” he asks Kadara.

  “No.” She draws the single blade she wears and begins to work through the exercises with her left hand.

  Liedral ties the cart and follows Dorrin.

  A gray-haired man looks up from the table where he studies what appear to be drawings of the mine shafts. He steps forward. “I’m Korbow. How might I be helping you?”

  “Dorrin. I’m a smith with a special Council project.” Dorrin takes out the letter with the seal and presents it to the lean older man.

  Korbow slowly reads through the letter, scratching his head as he goes. Finally, he looks up. “You want how much iron?”

  While Dorrin would like a ship built entirely of black iron and steel, he knows that it is not feasible, not yet, since he would need well over ten thousand stone of iron, and he cannot possibly calculate the cross-beams, and even the structure he would need. So he gives his estimate for what it will take to plate the oak and fir ship he has in mind.

  “Something like two thousand stone.”

  The mine chief shakes his head. “Maybe a thousand stone in two seasons, and that would run close to two hundred golds.” He looks at the letter Dorrin has presented. “Must be a terrible-like problem for the Council to be so interested.”

  Liedral raises her eyebrows.

  The engineer clears his throat. He has perhaps a hundred golds, another thirty golds’ worth of goods, and the Black Diamond. “What about a season and a half?”

  “For a thousand? We’d have a problem with the slitting mills there, running it through.”

  “What if I took most of it in plate, half a span thick?”

  “Might make it easier, but those plates weigh almost seven stone each, and they’re just two cubits by three.”

  Dorrin laughs. “That’s about the right size.”

  “Shouldn’t that lower the price?” suggests Liedral.

  Korbow grins. “Aye.”

  “By about half,” adds Liedral.

  Korbow’s grin fades somewhat. “I don’t know that it would be that much.”

  “You’re delivering to one customer, and that’s easier,” persists Liedral.

  “Aye.” The iron works man coughs into a huge hand.

  “And the Council thinks it’s a good idea.”

  “That they say.” Korbow shakes his head. “We do this, and I need to run out extra stock for my regulars first. What are you building, something out of all iron?”

  “Not quite.”

  “It’s also a long haul to Land’s End.”

  “I’d want it at Southpoint.”

  “There’s nothing there.”

  “Not yet, but there will be.”

  “What about my regulars?” Korbow asks again.

  “You take care of them first.” Dorrin will not be in a position to use the iron for at least four eight-days, in any case.

  “Be three-four eight-days.”

  “Eighty golds for the thousand,” Liedral says.

  Korbow’s face turns sour. “You drive hard, trader.”

  Dorrin calculates, then decides. “I’ll offer more than coin…if you’ll trust me. I’m working on a new kind of ship that doesn’t rely on just the wind. I don’t know as you’d need it…but once the second one is built, you can look and see if there are devices we build that you can use.”

  “So…you’re the one with the magic ship?”

  “It’s not magic. It has an engine powered by steam.”

  “The Council won’t allow that ashore, not even here.”

  “I know. But what about gears, clutches, other things? I might be able to make a better pump.”

  “Pumps…that’s another thing. They’d rather I go deeper than farther north on the seam, but I can’t do that without better drainage.” Korbow purses his lips. “I’ll take your eighty—and a pump or something that will help.” He grins. “I know you Black types. If I leave it to you to be fair, I won’t get cheated.”

  Dorrin grins back. Liedral shakes her head.

  “You have to send someone to come with the wagon, the first time, anyways. We’ll say four eight-days from now?”

  Dorrin nods.

  “Now…not that I wouldn’t trust a man supported by the Council, you understand…”

  “But you want a token of faith?”

  “Your faith, I’m sure, is good. But what if you fail, and I have to cart back all that plate and reslit it smaller?”

  “Say ten golds? Toward the iron, but forfeit if we fail?”

  Korbow frowns.

  “Each time,” Dorrin adds. “I give you another ten when you deliver the first load.”

  “Fair’s fair.”

  Dorrin counts out the ten golds, not wanting even to think about how much more his project will cost.

  “In four eight-days in your location by Southpoint, and you send a messenger to guide my wagon.”

  They shake hands.

  “You’re stronger than you look. Might be a smit
h at that.” The iron works chief smiles again. “Now…I need to figure out how to squeeze and brace the lower seam…”

  Dorrin inclines his head. “Our thanks.”

  After they leave, and find Kadara still practicing outside, almost in rhythm to the dull hammering from the hillside above, Liedral turns to Dorrin. “He would have taken eighty.”

  “I know. But he’s happy now, and…if I get him a better pump or something, he just might help more in the future. I don’t want to build just one ship.”

  “You really think they’ll let you?”

  “I don’t think they have any choice. Has any ship ported since we did?”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “They really don’t want the world to ignore Recluce, and that’s what’s happening.” While he can tell himself that, Dorrin’s thoughts still come back to the doubtful look on his father’s face, and his recollections of even more adamant opposition to engines of iron.

  CLXII

  To the left of Great Highway, grass stretches perhaps a kay, then ends abruptly at the cliffs that drop sheerly to the Eastern Ocean below. To the right, the grass stretches nearly three kays, sloping downward to a lower set of more ragged bluffs overlooking the Gulf of Candar.

  Winding through the grass, and marked by occasional scrub oaks, is a narrow stream, no more than a few cubits wide. On either side of the road, the plains grass grows almost stirrup-high. The muted wash of the sea and the twitter of insects are the only sounds besides the impact of hoofs on stone and the creaking of Liedral’s cart.

  “I can’t believe this road,” says Liedral. “It’s magnificent, and there’s nothing here.”

  “Supposedly, it was Creslin’s last project. He liked stonework a lot, and he insisted that there should be a Great Highway from one end of Recluce to the other.” Dorrin studies the nearly straight road ahead, looking for the point where it will drop through the rocky hills to the more marshy land at the tip of the isle. “It does stop about a half kay from the inlet. Back then, no one could see the point in driving it through a saltwater marsh.”

  “That was only because he died before they finished the Highway,” adds Kadara sourly. “Otherwise, we’d have a road and a stone pier there.”