“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 against 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 graygreen 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 tru
sting 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 Yarrl’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.
“I wish we had something besides fish and mutton.”
“I baked some pearapple pies for later,” Merga adds. “But you don’t get any, lad, unless you eat your stew.”
“Master Dorrin?” protests Rek, looking at the heap of fish on his plate.
“I have to agree with Merga.”
“You’re mean,” Liedral teases.
Dorrin recovers the bread, and finds he has the end crust.
“When will your ship be going to sea, master Dorrin?” asks Frisa. “Can I have a ride on the new one?”
“Not this time, young woman.” Dorrin realizes he has too much in his mouth and swallows, but not before Liedral glances sharply at him. “I think we’ll be taking her out into the Gulf in about an eight-day.” If the gear train works as it is supposed to, if the thrust bearing mounts can stand up to the vibrations, if…
He takes a sip of the bitter greenberry, and then another mouthful of fish. His next ship will be a big steam trader. He has been well-off; he is not well-off, at least not in food, and he prefers the former.
“You best eat that stew,” Rylla warns Kadara.
Liedral rolls her eyes, and Dorrin waits for the pearapple pie.
CLXXVI
At the sturdy stone pier are tied a small schooner with sails apparently furled and a black pipe protruding from the main deck, a small two-masted fishing boat, and another ship, jet black, without masts, but with a slant-sided deckhouse, an open cylinder behind it, and smooth curved hull lines. Workers attach black metal to the rear of the deckhouse.
The three White Wizards study the scene in the mirror.
“What in darkness is it?” asks Fydel.
“Do we really want to find out?” Cerryl’s voice is sardonic.
“Cerryl dear, you are so cautious. Look at the hillside. Those are tents beyond the houses. Clearly, this…settlement is scarcely begun.”
Fydel raises his eyebrows. “The stone buildings appear rather solid, Anya.”
“You…men! If you can call yourselves that. We need to stop this before the Black Council gets fully behind this…renegade. Right now, all he has is two small ships and a fishing boat, and a few buildings. We wait much longer, and it gets that much harder.”
“Anya, the southern fleet is already gathering in the Great North Bay. Within the next two eight-days, depending on the winds, it will be ready to set forth—exactly according to your plans.” Cerryl offers the redhead a broad smile. “What else would you have us do?”
“You are too accommodating, Cerryl.” Anya’s voice is smooth. “But I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I do trust that the fleet’s departure will be as you have projected, and that there will be sufficient troop support to level this Black settlement.”
“You wish to prove to the Blacks that we can strike even upon their beloved isle?”
“It would aid our effort, would it not?” asks the red-headed wizard.
“If you so believe, then I bow to your wisdom.” Cerryl inclines his head. “I will ensure that the fleet leaves as you have planned.”
“Thank you.” Anya steps back, and inclines her head. “By your leave, Highest of High Wizards?”
“Of course.” Cerryl inclines his head in return, watching as she leaves.
Fydel waits impassively until the door shuts. “You push her too much, Cerryl. With all her supporters, she could have your head tomorrow.”
“Perhaps. But would you want this position?”
Fydel shakes his head.
CLXXVII
The clear morning light of early winter cascades across the harbor, and steam seems to rise from the water. On the hillside above, white rime begins to melt off the rooftops. Hoofs sound on the extension of the High Road that now extends all the way to the black stones of the wharf.
Dorrin turns from his study of the needle-shaped Black Hammer. At least in comparison to the Black Diamond, the Hammer is longer and narrower, with a correspondingly narrower but deeper keel. And the Hammer not only looks black, from the iron and lorkin finish, but feels black.
The engineer watches as the post carriage clicks past the small building serving as Reisa’s office as harbormaster. While Reisa insists that she is only a disabled blade, Dorrin knows better, having watched as she has rebuilt a marshy inlet into a real, if small harbor, and as she has begun to extend the breakwaters to allow for operation in more stormy seas.
Dorrin frowns momentarily, for the post carriage normally stops to deliver letters at the harbormaster’s. He waits until the carriage pulls up, the door opens, and three figures step out—Oran, Ellna, and Videlt.
He bows. “I had not expected you.”
“We had not expected to be here.” Ellna’s normally musical voice is hoarse. “But we thought that we should see your progress.”
“This is our progress.” Dorrin gestures toward
the Black Diamond.
“Frankly,” states the squarish Videlt, “I am more impressed by the buildings and the harbor and the organization than a single ship.”
So is Dorrin, but he would prefer the Council come to that conclusion without his words. “Since you are here, would you like to see the ship?”
“We might as well.” Oran’s voice is sour. “Would you show us?”
“This ship is not much larger than the first. Is it that much more capable?” asks Videlt.
“It is a warship,” Dorrin states flatly, leading the way up the gangway. “There’s nothing that is easily flamed.”
“Could we see your engine?”
Dorrin leads the way to the engine compartment, climbing down the ladder first. “This is the fire box, and the coal is shoveled from the bins here…”
The three Council members are silent as he explains the steam generation, flow, the reciprocating nature of the cylinders and the gearing to the shaft and the propeller.
“No chaos…not now,” mumbles Videlt.
“You won’t find any traces, either.” Dorrin watches his father’s face go blank, knowing Oran strains to find any sense of the whitish-red of chaos.
Oran blinks and straightens up. “Has your ship been seatested?”
“Twice. She can outrun Kyl’s craft, especially in rougher seas or in light winds.” Dorrin nods toward the ladder, then follows the three back onto the main deck.
Ellna touches the plate on the deckhouse. “Did you forge all the black iron?”
“No. I had help from Yarrl and others.”
“You forged it, then, so far as adding the order component.”
“Put that way, I suppose so. But I could not have done it by myself.”
“Commendable modesty,” offers Videlt.
Dorrin follows the three past the funnel to the stern, where Videlt looks down into the gray-green of the harbor.
“Not a big rudder.”
“If it’s behind the screw, we don’t need as big a rudder. The flow of water past it increases its effect.”
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