The Magic Engineer

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “It’s got a name now. Kyl’s idea, mostly. The Black Hammer.”

  “Black Hammer, eh? You going to hammer the Whites?” Hegl sets aside several shovels and two pickaxes. “These be for the one-armed lady.” He picks up a narrow hoe. “And this for the old healer and her garden. Light as a feather.”

  “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “Of course I didn’t. Haven’t had this much satisfaction in a long time. I just grinned at your father every time I put something on the wagon.”

  Dorrin looks at his mother, but she is smiling. So he unloads a half-barrel of smaller deck spikes. Intar carts the barrel off into the shed.

  “That’s it for here,” Hegl announces. “I’m up to the big house next to unload Kadara’s goods. Hop on.”

  Dorrin offers a hand to his mother, as she climbs back onto the wagon seat. Then he vaults into the back.

  When they reach the point on the road nearest the house, Hegl sets the brake and blocks the wheels. Except for Merga and Frisa, the house proper is empty, although Yarrl’s hammer rings from the smithy.

  “Where is Kadara?” asks Hegl.

  “Down where the armory will be, I’d guess.” Dorrin points to where several figures are digging out a foundation.

  “We’re here. Let’s unload.”

  Hegl and Dorrin carry the furniture into Kadara’s room—a bed, a mattress, the cradle, and a small dresser.

  “Next trip I’ll bring the rest.” Hegl closes the tailboard and wipes his forehead. “Think the one-armed lady’d mind if I gave the pick and shovels to Kadara for now?”

  “Darkness, no!” laughs Dorrin. “Half the time they work together anyway.”

  “I’ll be heading down there.”

  “You’re welcome for lunch,” Dorrin insists.

  “Aye, and I’ll be there—after I unload.”

  Dorrin and Rebekah watch from the porch as the wagon rumbles back down to the armory site.

  “Why did you come?” Dorrin asks as relative quiet settles over the porch.

  “Kyl tells me that I might be able to help.”

  “You did. I can’t thank you enough for what you did for Pergun.” Dorrin shifts from one foot to the other, looking down on the slight and red-haired figure, who seems ageless.

  “You still do it…hopping around when I look at you. You’d think I’d set you on a bed of red ants.” Rebekah smiles fondly at her son. “I was talking about Liedral.”

  “There isn’t anything physically wrong.” Dorrin gestures to the bench, and she sits down. He sits at the other end, straddling it to face her.

  “I figured that. But…I do have some experience.” Her voice is wry.

  “I’ll readily grant that.” Dorrin laughs ruefully. “If you want to see Liedral, she’s down at the warehouse.”

  “I saw her on the way in—just from the wagon. I wanted to talk to you first. If you’re willing for me…”

  “I’m willing for anything. Rylla’s tried everything she can think of. So have I.”

  Rebekah nods. “I need to know exactly what the Whites did.”

  “I don’t know exactly. From what she can remember and the cuts and welts, they…whipped, tortured her…and planted false memories of my doing it to her. She knows the memories are false, but that doesn’t seem to help much. The idea was to get her to kill me.”

  Rebekah’s voice is steady as she asks, “Was she raped?”

  “No. At least there was no blood and no memory.”

  The healer sighs. “That’s something…I think…although that would have been hard on a White.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’d like to talk it over with Liedral first. It has to be her decision, son. I don’t see why she wouldn’t agree, but…it is her body and her choice.”

  Dorrin frowns. She sounds as if she has something fearsome in mind.

  “Oh…it’s nothing fearful. It’s rather simple, certainly physically painless, even possibly pleasurable…but it will take a long time. You have to keep in mind that Liedral must be totally in control, and you listen to her, and especially not to your male instincts.”

  “I understand.”

  “I doubt that. Not fully.” Rebekah smiles.

  Dorrin blushes.

  “Tell me about the progress with your ship.”

  Dorrin looks down at the porch floor.

  “Darkness, I’m not your father, and I am old enough to make my own mind up, as I hope you would have understood a long time ago.”

  The young engineer represses a grin at the asperity in his mother’s voice. Some things don’t change. “Well…we’ve decided on a name, the Black Hammer. It really came from Kyl in a way…”

  CLXVIII

  “The Council wants to know what you intend to do.” Anya’s eyes drop to the blank mirror upon the table.

  Sterol gestures, and the white mists vanish. A view appears in the glass, so solid that it might have been painted there, a view of a black ship moored at a pier in the narrow inlet, with five black stone buildings on the hillside above. “Look. Have you ever seen anything so clear?”

  “No.”

  “I haven’t either. What aspect of the Balance created that monster, I don’t know…”

  “The Council is worried. They want you to do something.”

  “Fine! What am I supposed to do? Send a fleet out against Recluce? What good will it do?” Sterol snorts and looks at the image in the mirror on the table. “The old Black ones won’t respond. Should we attack the island? Do you know what black iron swords do to our White guards? Do you want one of those things he built blowing you into shreds? Like the great Jeslek?”

  “The Blacks are divided,” says Anya quietly. “They want this Dorrin to disappear as much as we do.”

  “That may be, but how does that explain all the people helping build this new town? He didn’t carry them all on that little ship. And they’re all still Blacks. That means he isn’t creating any chaos on Recluce, the demons know why…” Sterol rubs his forehead.

  “Why can’t you send a fleet? Recluce doesn’t have even a half-score of warships, if that. They don’t like fighting. And most of those ships are spread across the oceans.”

  Sterol rubs his forehead again, then touches the amulet that rests against his chest. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

  “The Council wants some action, Sterol.” Anya’s voice is sharp.

  The High Wizard lifts the amulet. “Here. You take it. Be my guest.”

  The redhead looks at the amulet, then at Sterol. “I won’t be tricked like Jeslek.”

  “Either shut up or take the amulet,” Sterol snaps.

  Anya’s hand lifts, then drops. Finally, she sighs. “Someone has to do something.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you intend to do nothing while this…oddity…builds so much order into black iron that Recluce will dominate the Eastern Ocean forever?”

  “I don’t see that much of a threat. He can’t live forever.”

  Anya laughs, harshly. “You know those were Jenred the Traitor’s exact words? Creslin didn’t live forever, but he lived long enough that you—the High Wizard of Fairhaven—are afraid to take any direct action against Recluce. Will you be the one who’s remembered for letting Recluce dominate all of Candar?”

  “No.” Sterol chuckles, bitterly, and lays the amulet on the table beside the mirror. The image of Southpoint vanishes. “You want action. Take the amulet—or give it to someone else.”

  “I’m asking you, Sterol.”

  “And I’m refusing.”

  She nods toward the door, and three guards appear, all bearing chains. Behind them stand three White Wizards.

  “How predictable, dear Anya. You would all chain me rather than act yourselves.”

  The redhead’s eyes burn; her fingers tighten on the white bronze dagger.

  Fire, white flames, and swirling mists fill the room. The mirror upon the table explodes, and two of the
guards shrivel into dust on the white-powdered stones.

  As the remaining white smoke subsides, Anya picks up the amulet, glancing down at the pile of white dust that lies within the white robes and white boots. She turns to one of the remaining wizards and extends the amulet. “Here. You earned it, Cerryl.”

  Cerryl looks at her sadly. “No. You earned it, but I’ll wear it for you.” His eyes flicker to the white powder on the stone, which vanishes as he watches.

  “Good. We need to plan the attack on Recluce.”

  “As you wish.” He gestures. The sole guard, the other wizard, and Anya step outside the tower room. Anya closes the door behind her.

  CLXIX

  Dorrin closes the bedroom door and turns to Liedral.

  “You don’t have to do this.” Liedral’s eyes meet his.

  “What do I have to lose?”

  “Your patience, your mind, your self-esteem…” She forces a laugh.

  “What do I do?” Dorrin looks at the smoothed plank floors that need oiling or some sort of finish, then at the bed, almost stark in the light of the single lamp.

  “Lie down on your stomach.”

  “On the bed?”

  “No. On the floor.” Liedral snorts. “Of course on the bed. I may be difficult, but I’m not that cruel. Besides, I don’t want to be responsible for the splinters.”

  Dorrin eases off his boots and lies on the bed, fully clothed, facedown. “Now what?” His voice is muffled.

  “You just lie there and let me rub and massage your back. According to your mother, I need to reestablish physical closeness and an instinctive understanding that you won’t hurt me.”

  “But—”

  “I know. But…will trying this hurt?”

  Dorrin feels like shrugging, but does not. She is right. Nothing else has worked. He takes a slow deep breath and releases it, conscious of the faint perfume from the coverlet that reminds him of Liedral and the physical closeness they once shared. His eyes burn, but he keeps his face averted as her strong fingers knead the muscles in his shoulders and upper back.

  “You’ve put on more muscle.”

  “There, anyway, it’s muscle.”

  Despite the knot in his stomach, her fingers are strong, and soothe the strain in his shoulders and neck. His breath becomes more even.

  “How do you feel?” he asks.

  “Hush…I’m working.” Despite the amused tone to her voice, there is also an edge.

  Dorrin turns his head more to avoid breathing through the feather mattress that seems determined to cover his nostrils. “Ahhh…chwwww.” He rubs his nose and resettles himself so he breathes fewer stray bits of down.

  The intermittent wind carries bits of conversations to them.

  “…thought black stone…be depressing, but it’s not…”

  “…amazing the difference…”

  “…you think master Dorrin’s a wizard, a real wizard?”

  Liedral proceeds quietly and methodically for some time, and Dorrin enjoys the relaxation.

  “My fingers are tired.” Liedral shakes her hands and leans back.

  “You’ve been doing it for a long time.” As Dorrin shifts his weight on the soft mattress and turns over to see her, Liedral wobbles on her knees. He reaches and catches her, momentarily holding her close.

  “Ah…that’s not…”

  Dorrin lets go as if she were molten iron.

  “I didn’t mean…” Liedral shakes her head, lets her lips touch his cheek.

  Dorrin sits up, leaving a slight space between them.

  “Now…you do the same thing.”

  He grins.

  “Exactly the same thing. No additions.”

  Rather than kneeling, Dorrin sits at an angle and begins with her shoulder blades.

  “You can knead just a little harder. I’m not made of porcelain.”

  He applies a touch more pressure.

  “That feels good.”

  Dorrin continues to work down her back, eventually going slightly below her lower back.

  “That’s a little low and a little familiar…” Again, the humorous tone has an edge, almost of fear, and Dorrin moves his fingers upward to her lower back, where he returns to kneading out the kinks.

  “That feels so good.”

  In time, he, too, must stop, for his fingers are almost numb. As he shakes them out, Liedral sits up.

  “What happens next?”

  “Wait and see.” She flashes a smile that fades quickly.

  This time Dorrin understands. If she tells him, then she may not feel she has control, and it is all too clear she needs that feeling of control.

  “I understand.” He squeezes her arm and stands up.

  She blows out the lamp, and slips out of her clothes in the dark, and into the long shift. Dorrin, as always, refrains from looking anywhere near her, although he feels himself breathing more quickly, and forces himself to take deeper and slower breaths.

  They lie there, side by side, hands flat, only the edges brushing. A cool evening breeze flutters in through the open window, as do gnats and infrequent mosquitoes.

  Dorrin almost wishes for the distraction of a mosquito, something that he could crush, but in the late summer, or the early fall—he is not sure of the seasons at Southpoint, which seem milder than at Extina, and certainly milder than in Spidlar—even mosquitoes have become rarer.

  While Dorrin has been blind, often for nearly an eight-day, while he has been wounded, while he suffers agonizing headaches for his misuse of order, others have suffered far more. Although he is convinced, and his rough calculations bear him out, that the Balance is mechanical, and nothing more, he sighs softly in the darkness. Is the world just a mechanism? Why do the beliefs and strivings of those who hold order count for even less than those who would use chaos, the destructive force?

  Even among those who seek order, why do so many reject difference, such as his engine, merely because it is different? Why will they not look at the order beneath?

  The breeze across his face brings no answer, nor did he expect that it would. Liedral snores lightly, and shivers. Dorrin draws the coverlet over her. His eyes rest blankly on the rough-dressed ceiling beams as the wind moans, and the distant surf whispers against the base of the cliffs.

  CLXX

  The cold fall wind whistles down off the brown grasses of the southern plateau and whips dust off the Great Highway, past the laboring wagon heaped with the last load of iron plate for the Black Hammer. As the wind gusts around the large house, it rattles the newly installed windows, almost as if testing them.

  On the wide front porch, Liedral wraps the cloak around her more tightly. Dorrin’s arm drops away from her. Why? Why did Jeslek have to pick such a nasty torture? He sighs. Torture is by definition nasty.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks.

  “Cruel thoughts about cruel people.”

  “Being angry at the Whites doesn’t help much.” Her voice is soft, and a warm hand touches him. “I love you, you know.”

  “I love you.”

  “You must.” Her short laugh is both sad and harsh at once.

  The cool wind fluffs her hair into his, and he puts his arm back around her for a time. Before long he must head back down to the shipwright’s.

  “You’re testing the new engine today?”

  “Just the engine. We still haven’t finished the gearing for the shaft, and Yarrl’s had troubles with the shaft bearings.”

  “For something that was supposed to make traveling by ship simpler, it sounds more complicated.”

  “It’s always—” Dorrin breaks off.

  “What is it?”

  He laughs. “I was thinking. In a way, Oran was both wrong and right. In the natural order of things, you harness the wind with your sails and you go where you can with the wind. Then, if you get more complicated sails and rigging you can tack and go crosswind and sometimes upwind. With my engine, which is made possible by order, you can go against th
e natural order. When you think about it, natural order isn’t always orderly. Storms are a mixture of order and chaos, and they cause the winds. So he was right that what I’m doing is against natural order, but he’s wrong in assuming that all things natural are orderly. I need to write that down and add it to the book.”

  “That book about order you’re been working on ever since I’ve known you?” Liedral shivers again as the wind gusts around them. “It’s cold out here.”

  Dorrin nods.

  “Why don’t you give it to him—your father?”

  “I’d really need it copied.”

  “Petra and I can do it. I’ve been teaching her to write Temple, and it would be a good exercise.”

  Dorrin glances downhill, toward the gray waters of the small harbor, with the stone pier that holds the Black Diamond and the Gatherer—Kyl’s fishing boat. Reisa has ensured that the new pier is long enough to berth four ships the size of the new Black Hammer. Pergun has salvaged the timbers from the temporary wharf and is using them to build a second warehouse.

  Liedral stands. “I need to get down to the warehouse. If you can, don’t forget about the cheese cutters and one of those windmill toys…if you can.”

  “I’ll see after we test the engine.” He gives her a hug, and her arms go around him for a while—proof, he supposes, that the exercises between them have helped. But building everything, from affection to ships, takes so long.

  Her lips touch his, and the kiss is real, if short. He grins as she steps back.

  “See?” asks Liedral.

  “I do see.” After she steps into the house to get her manifest for the next trading ship, Dorrin begins the short walk down to Tyrel’s.

  Tyrel has already slid the Black Hammer halfway down the graving ways to the water in order to ensure that the funnel is clear of the shed.

  The hull is complete, and Dorrin admires the smooth curves once again, letting his fingers drift over the varnished black oak and even across his own work. The thin black iron plates above the waterline seem to meld into the lower beams. While copper sheathing would improve the hull, there are neither the coins nor the time necessary to install it. Even though the White Wizards of Fairhaven have been quiet, even though the Council has said nothing, Dorrin has no doubts that he will soon have to respond to both.