The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “I’m beginning to see why everyone here is so driven,” Liedral says. “Trying to live up to the accomplishments of the greatest hero in history is a bit much.”

  “He wasn’t that great,” Kadara points out. “He put Megaera through the demon’s hell itself, and then followed her to redeem himself. They almost didn’t survive their daughter’s birth.”

  Dorrin is silent, reflecting on what Kadara has said. Must every great accomplishment require a price not only from the doers, but from those around them? Do the payments of soul and blood ever end?

  “What happened to the daughter?” asks Liedral.

  “She lived and had children. Ask Dorrin.”

  “Dorrin?”

  “Supposedly, her name was Dylyss, after Creslin’s mother, although some insist it was Lyse, after his dead sister. She had three children.” Dorrin reins up at the top of the slope down to Southpoint and waits for Kadara and Liedral. “There.” The Highway angles right for nearly a kay to a wide sweeping turn that carries the road back nearly directly below them for another turn. From the second turn, the stone road arrows straight for a marshy area bisected by a narrow inlet. Twice the stream, spanned with well-crafted stone bridges, wanders under the road. While the stream runs into the marsh, the road stops at the edge of the marshy area. From the sides of the marsh rises slightly higher grassy land that circles the marsh and almost touches the inlet where the thin line of water meets the ocean.

  “Not very prepossessing.”

  “It has possibilities,” Dorrin says. “I can blast out some of the marshy area and widen the inlet. The ground north of the marsh is solid, and the rocks can be cut and order-hardened into solid black stones for building.”

  “You are an optimist,” Kadara responds.

  “I did build an engine.” Dorrin urges the gelding forward and down the dusty stones of the seldom-used highway.

  Liedral and Kadara exchange glances as they follow Dorrin downhill. With the lower elevation comes dampness, and various bugs, including flies, which Liedral fans away one-handed.

  At the end of the Great Highway, Liedral pulls up the cart. “What next?”

  “I’d like to ride around the marsh.”

  “I can’t take the cart, you know.”

  “Tether it. Basla can carry us both for that little bit.”

  Dorrin dismounts and uses his small sledge, taken from Liedral’s cart, to pound in the iron tether stake. Then, while she secures the cart, he unharnesses the cart horse and leads both animals to the edge of the stream. Their hoofs and his boots sink into the swampy ground, and, as they drink, he flails at the flies. Kadara just rides her mount to the stream and lets the mare seek the water herself.

  When Dorrin walks back, Liedral takes the harness leads from him and ties them to the tether stake. He mounts, but slips his foot from the stirrup to allow her a step up. Then he helps her into place behind the low saddle. “We’ll have to go slowly, I think.”

  “You think? This isn’t the most comfortable position I’ve ever been in.”

  Dorrin, feeling her arm around his waist, grins.

  “And stop grinning.”

  “How do you know I’m grinning?”

  “You just feel like it.”

  “She knows you, Dorrin,” calls Kadara from behind them.

  “It’s firmer here.” Dorrin guides the black gelding around the left side of the marsh, still enjoying the feel of Liedral’s arm around his waist. So long as he follows the shorter grass, the horse has no problem with footing.

  As they near the end of the vegetation and the soft sound of the ocean on sand and rock increases, he realizes that the area of grass has widened into a rough oblong that sits almost two cubits higher than the grassy path they have taken.

  “Let’s get down. I want to look at this.” He helps Liedral down and then dismounts, prodding the grass and scuffing away the shallow layer of dirt until he reaches stone—flat stone. “Someone used this as a harbor or outpost before.”

  “It has to have been a long time ago.”

  “Longer than that, and what difference does it make?” asks Kadara.

  “Not much, except that the inlet might be deeper than we thought.” He pauses. “On the other hand, if it was all man-made—”

  “It might be shallower?”

  Dorrin walks toward the point where a pile of stone rises even above the grasses. He looks across the inlet to a similar pile of stone and nods. “We’ll need to widen this, probably not for the Diamond, but the next one.”

  “The next one?” asks Kadara. “They’ll let you build another one?”

  “They already agreed.” Dorrin looks back around the small marsh, certainly no more than five hundred cubits from end to end, less than half that wide. “I need to get busy figuring out where to put things and what we’ll need where. Promised Tyrel I’d be back before long with some idea of supplies.”

  Once more, Liedral and Kadara exchange glances. This time, Liedral shrugs.

  Dorrin turns from his study of the ocean, and swings up into the saddle. “There’s some sort of channel beyond the points, and it’s still pretty deep. You can tell by how smooth the water is—almost like someone put an underwater breakwater there.” He extends a hand to Liedral. “…a lot to do here…not much time…”

  They ride back toward the cart under the midafternoon sun, the cool breeze sliding in off the Gulf of Candar and toward the Eastern Ocean beyond.

  CLXIII

  Dorrin nods to Vaos, and the youth lifts the white flag with the crimson crossbars. Dorrin kneels and flicks the striker. As the fuse burns, he and Vaos race along the planks and drop behind the low embankment.

  CRRRuuummmppp! Earth, sand, vegetation, and water erupt from the edge of the marsh.

  Dorrin rises and surveys the mess, watching the water from the hillside stream slowly carry some of the debris seaward. So far his efforts have succeeded in widening the inlet into a channel nearly sixty cubits wide and almost twenty deep.

  Still, the Black Diamond is anchored offshore in the momentarily quiet water on the Gulf side of the point, waiting until the blasting is complete.

  Behind him beyond the end of the road, a pile of stones is slowly growing, already almost enough for the footings for the first pier.

  He turns and squints into the midmorning sunlight. Another wagon rolls down the road from the last turn.

  “Who’s that?” asks Vaos.

  “I don’t know. Let’s go see.” The two walk toward the end of the road. Northward, on the hillside, below the tents, are foundations for five buildings where Pergun, his lisping and slurring almost gone, toils with the stones and soil until the timber Dorrin has ordered arrives.

  “Looks like timber,” Vaos comments.

  “They said it wouldn’t be here for another two or three days.”

  “Maybe they’re early.”

  Dorrin doubts that, but anything is possible, he supposes. He lengthens his stride toward the faint dust raised by the approaching wagon. The carter, a slender figure with graying hair, reaches the road end before Dorrin does and stands by the team.

  Dorrin swallows as he recognizes Hegl. The smith waits by the wagon laden with heavy timbers. “You brought her back, Dorrin. I owe you.”

  “No.” Dorrin shakes his head, thinking of Kadara’s injuries, her anger, and her losses.

  Hegl smiles, a bitter smile. “I know my daughter. I talked to her. She’ll never tell you, but I know.” His face clears. “Besides, I like the idea of building a Black seaport and a real ship like what you started. And I like the idea of you getting the last word on your father. Makes me small, I know, but in some ways, I am small.” The old smith gestures to the wagon. “These are for a temporary wharf. They’re just pine, but you’ll need that until you can quarry the right kind of stone. Julka’s bringing another wagon with smithy tools and firebricks. That’ll take longer, probably a couple of days.”

  Dorrin has trouble keeping his mouth from dr
opping open.

  “There’ll be others, too. Some of us want to see some changes.” Hegl grins. “Like your mother.”

  “Dorrin! Those the timbers we need?”

  “So where do you want them?” asks Hegl. “You got work to do, and I need to rustle up some more stuff.”

  Dorrin calculates. The ground beside the pier site is too soft for the heavy wagon. “Right there. I’m just about through cleaning out the channel, so we can put the footings down.”

  “I’m just an old smith, boy. But, remember, you need to make this a big port, so don’t think small, like me.” He gives Dorrin another grin and his face sobers. “I owe you more than you know. Weidra never thought she’d see Kadara again, let alone see grandchildren.”

  Vaos stands back, his eyes darting from one smith to the other.

  Dorrin wants to scream that it wasn’t his doing. He holds back, instead only demurring. “Kadara did it all. The only thing I did was build a ship.”

  “The only thing…nonsense. Now let’s get on with these timbers.”

  Dorrin knows what he is, and he is not the hero figure that some are making him out to be. Belatedly, he points to Vaos. “Hegl, this is Vaos, my apprentice. Vaos, Hegl was the smith who made it all possible.”

  Hegl flushes. “Nonsense, I say…stuff and nonsense.” He looks at Vaos. “You’re strong enough for the shorter cross-beams. Pitch in.”

  Vaos smiles and steps toward the wagon.

  Idly, as he lifts a timber, Dorrin wonders if Creslin ran into the same problem. Then he shakes his head. Even mentally comparing himself to Creslin is sheer gall. He cannot control storms, nor can he wield a blade, nor has he founded a kingdom and the basis of order. All he has done is build one ship and get a whole lot of people killed—scarcely the basis for greatness.

  He lifts down another timber.

  CLXIV

  Sterol glares at the mirror, and the vision of the ship at the pier, and the buildings on the hillside. “How you ever let this happen, Anya…” The White Wizard gestures and the swirling mists refill the mirror.

  “The question is whether they keep him.” Anya brushes her long red hair back over her shoulder, seating herself in a chair placed to catch the afternoon breeze from the open window. “What happens next?”

  “It would appear they’re staying on Recluce. The chief Councillor might still send them off to Hamor, but it doesn’t look that way.”

  “Chief Councillors have been known to be overridden…”

  “Veiled hints don’t become you, Anya. Every High Wizard has to worry about being replaced. Perhaps you should take the post to learn about it.”

  “Me? A mere woman? No, thank you.”

  Sterol coughs and rubs his forehead. “If their Council allows him to stay, it might cause actual chaos on Recluce.”

  “You’re dreaming. I saw that young smith, or whatever he is. He’s so Black that even Jeslek’s fire wouldn’t touch him.” Anya shivers at the recollection. “Whatever he does, he won’t create chaos.”

  “He certainly did in Spidlar,” reminds Sterol.

  Anya frowns. Her eyes flicker from the bed in the corner to the door, and she forces a slow deep breath.

  CLXV

  “How do you like the fish?” asks Merga.

  “Good…” mumbles Pergun from one side of the long table.

  Beside him, in a row, are Frisa, Rek, and Vaos. Frisa stares at the fish, much as Dorrin does, while the two youths eat without tasting. Across the table, Rylla grins, but half her fish is already gone.

  “I’m beginning to feel like a fish,” Dorrin says in a low voice to Liedral, who sits to his right. He looks at the fish on the plate, one of a mismatched set scrambled together by his brother Kyl, then out the as-yet-unglazed window. Above him rises a roof, with exposed beams, but no ceilings.

  All five of the buildings at Southpoint share the same state—mostly finished walls and roofs, but minimal ulterior work, except for the shipwright shed and the smithy.

  The basic frame for the second ship is taking shape, and already Dorrin and Tyrel have had words, and Dorrin has been forced to compromise yet again, although the compromises have not changed the look of the ship from the model he developed, mainly for Tyrel.

  “Begging yer pardon, master Dorrin…begging yer pardon…you cannot put that much iron on that small a ship…not if you want her to cross the Gulf…”

  “…that bad. Are you listening? Dorrin?”

  “Sorry,” he apologizes.

  Liedral gives him a rueful grin. “Even when you are here, you’re not. It’s a good thing I’m going back to Land’s End for a while.”

  “Oh…yes.” Now he remembers that she will be waiting for a Hamorian ship that seems likely to put in on the way back from Renklaar. “What do you think will sell best?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d guess the toys. If you could spare a little time to make a few more for the next ship, whenever it might come in, I think it would be well worth the time.”

  “Listen to the trader,” suggests Yarrl from the other end of the table.

  Reisa and Petra grin. Even a faint smile crosses Kadara’s lips, followed by a disconcerted expression as she covers her mouth with the back of her hand. A hand strays to her slowly growing abdomen before she catches herself and cuts another piece of the dark fish.

  Rylla follows the gesture. “You need all that fish, mistress Kadara.”

  Kadara groans.

  Fish tastes like fish to Dorrin, and the meat at Southpoint has been generally fish supplemented with some mutton. On good days, there are crunchy quilla roots, or perhaps dried pearapples. Although there is adequate food on Recluce, the blockade has limited imported food to items that can be dried or salted, since most must come from Brista or far Hamor.

  Even past midsummer, it is too early for the fresh pearapples, or for the few apples nursed along in secluded orchards, or for the greenberries or redberries that cling to the higher cliffs, but ripen late.

  There is some flour, barley bread, and mutton, and fish. There are adequate spices, but Dorrin feels that he has already tasted every spice possible on mutton, and no spice changes a fish from a fish—not any that he has tasted.

  Still, he should not complain about the fish, not when much of it is basically a gift from Kyl. His brother has only come to Southpoint once, and then only to bring in a huge basket of fish from his boat. All the other times, his crew or someone else has delivered the fish, almost like a peace offering or a thank you. But why? They had never fought, not beyond boyish squabbles, and what has Dorrin done to merit thanks from Kyl?

  Thinking about the fish will not get it eaten or Dorrin back to the smithy. He cuts a large slice and stuffs it in his mouth, trying not to think about it. The he takes a drink of water. Water is about all they have for beverages. Redberry is out of season, and, with the constant drain of his coins for supplies, Dorrin cannot buy spirits, nor has there been time to set up a brewery, or a distillery, let alone do the brewing.

  He takes another bite of the fish and of the boiled seaweed, which tastes even worse. Kadara was right: he had been well-off in Spidlar, and he misses those small luxuries.

  “Could you wait a day?” he asks Liedral. “I could work on some toys and things. There are a couple of things that I could do this afternoon and tomorrow—like the simple boats and the crank-fan.”

  “If I leave early the next morning…”

  “At least, you’re listening some of the time,” says Yarrl.

  Dorrin knows he isn’t always listening, but he is trying to juggle so much, and more and more he feels like everything is chaotic, out of control.

  Still…the unproved new boiler sections are almost done, and the shaft gearing will take days, if not an eight-day. He takes another bite of fish and seaweed, and follows it with the last of the stale biscuits on his plate, and more water.

  “Master Dorrin eats his seaweed,” Merga explains to Frisa. “It’s good for you.”


  Both Vaos and Frisa look unconvinced as they stare at the brown tendrils on their plates.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll have quilla. It’s soaking now,” Merga adds.

  “That’s not much better,” mumbles Rek.

  Reisa, looking up from a clean plate, only shakes her head. Dorrin will appreciate the quilla more than seaweed, but the choice is between something crunchy and tasteless and something that tastes like oily sawdust. He finishes his water.

  After lunch—Dorrin finds it hard to adjust to “lunch” as opposed to dinner as the midday meal—the smith marches back to the smithy and, after packing the forge fire, and starting Rek on a gentle rhythm with the bellows, pulls out a section of three-span-wide plate.

  “What would you like me to do?” asks Yarrl.

  “Can you finish the steam drum without me?”

  “Mostly. Least until we get to the last weld. That’s going to take us both if you want it to hold.”

  “Let me know. I really need to do these boats.”

  “I know, Dorrin. Coin speaks.” Yarrl pauses. “You know, some of those holders want some wagon work. They don’t like traveling all the way to Feyn for that smith there.”

  “Do it.” Dorrin measures on the workbench before lifting the tongs. “If they want it tomorrow, start taking it. We can work on the ship later, if we have to, but…you need coin. You can’t live forever on what you brought.”

  “It’s not that bad. You know, Reisa’s charging the holder youth for blade training. Not much, but it helps.”

  “Everything helps.” Dorrin swings the iron into the forge. “Pick it up a little, Rek. Vaos, you’ll need the small sledge. We’re going to fuller this down to not much more than sheet.”

  Vaos slips the bottom fuller onto Dorrin’s anvil.

  “You take over the bellows for a while. Yarrl’s going to need Rek for that boiler section.”

  “Yes, ser.” Vaos’s voice is resigned to the assignment of the drudge work, and that, Dorrin reflects, is normal. His eyes stray to the large grindstone that will be necessary to polish and shine the propeller for the Black Diamond. The metal surface must be as smooth as possible, Dorrin senses. He shakes his head. He needs to get on with making goods for coin, not wool gathering over the new ship when he is not working on it.