“It seems to be a very solid ship, Dorrin,” offers Oran.
“We hope so.”
“We don’t have that much time, and I would like to see some of the buildings. What is the long one there?” asks Ellna.
“That’s Liedral’s warehouse, where we keep our trading goods. She has an office there also. Actually, she will when we can make furniture for it.”
“Is it full?”
“Hardly.” Dorrin laughs. “It’s mostly empty now, but she thinks that’s what we’ll need within a year.”
The three Councillors exchange glances.
“Dorrin,” begins Ellna, “you may not have a year.”
“The Whites are coming?”
“How did you know?”
The engineer shrugs. “I didn’t know for certain. I had the feeling that they would. That’s why we pushed so hard on completing the Hammer. That’s why we don’t have furniture, why we keep eating fish and quilla and tough mutton, why all my coins have gone into iron and lumber and fittings.”
He starts back to the gangway and leads the three forward to the gangway, where he pauses to survey the ship. Booted feet click on the order-strengthened black oak of the deck.
From the top of the pilot house, Styl and two assistants who have appeared from somewhere on the isle look down silently. When the Council members look away, Styl clenches a fist and lifts it in a gesture of triumph.
Dorrin represses a grin and walks down to the pier. After the others join him, he asks, “What else do you want to see?”
“You don’t want to know about the Whites?” Ellna’s voice is curious.
“Magistra, if you wish to tell me, you will. If you do not, no effort of mine could make you.”
“Like Creslin…” mumbles Videlt.
Dorrin waits.
“The White fleet is gathered in the Great North Bay off Lydiar. We expect that they will set sail within the next eight-day.” Ellna coughs to clear her throat.
“How do you plan to defend Recluce?” Dorrin asks.
“As we always have. They will have to land, and we do not believe that could be successful anywhere near Land’s End.”
“And at sea?” Dorrin pursues.
Videlt adds. “There’s not much we can do. We’ve not that many ships, and only two are within days of Recluce. We have to send a pair on every trading voyage these days, and we have no copper or tin on Recluce. Nor cobalt for the glass works, nor…”
“We’re on our own, then?”
“How would you plan to stop a White force?” asks Oran.
“I’d try to stop them at sea, first.”
“With what? I did not see a ram on your ship, and one ship cannot match a fleet in troops.”
“We have a small boarding force—and some black steel rockets.”
“Rockets? Those firetubes?” Videlt frowns.
Dorrin nods.
“Barbaric weapons.”
“No more barbaric than the White Wizards’ firebolts.”
“Some of them are designed to go through a hull,” Dorrin adds.
Ellna winces.
“I’m not pleased, either, magistra, but if we must fight, we must be prepared to fight to win.” Dorrin wonders if he will ever be able to avoid volunteering disturbing information. Will the existence of his ship dissuade the White Wizards? That he doubts. Can his ship turn back an entire fleet? Not without more rockets…and a great deal of luck—or unless the Whites can be persuaded to turn back themselves.
“We will leave such decisions in your hands,” Videlt adds smoothly, brushing back the long brown hair off his forehead. “I, for one, would like to wander around your…town…by myself.”
“Whatever you wish.”
Ellna looks to Videlt, then Oran. “We’ll meet back at the harbormaster’s before noon. That’s when the post coach is scheduled to leave.” She turns and begins to walk toward the empty warehouse.
Videlt walks along the harbor wall, as if he will circle the eastern side, leaving Dorrin and Oran standing on the pier.
After a long moment, Oran asks, “What are you going to call your town?”
“We really haven’t discussed it. We just refer to it as Southpoint.”
“That’s really the whole end of the isle.”
“Do you have any suggestions?” Dorrin inquires.
“How about Nylan, after Ryba’s first smith?”
“I don’t have a problem with that, but I’d like to ask a few others, like Yarrl and Liedral and Reisa. Besides, names haven’t been a real priority.”
“I know. Kyl said you had your ship half-built before you ever got around to naming it.”
“I guess I’m more interested in the results than the name.”
“I know that, too.” Oran’s voice no longer contains its earlier edge and sourness. “Let’s walk to your place. Tell me about the town…and the people.”
The two men start inland, passing the harbormaster’s building.
“That’s for the harbormaster, Reisa. She’s a former blade, from Southwind—”
“The one-handed woman?”
“Yes. She’s also been training our troopers.”
“You have armed troopers?”
“Not a lot. Roughly two squads, so far. She heads one, and Kadara heads the other—or did, and will, later.”
They turn to two other buildings spread apart and across from the armory and training grounds.
“This is Yorda’s. He’s a cooper and basket maker—from up beyond Feyn, I think. And this”—Dorrin points—“belongs to Alerk. He’s a wool factor. I asked him why he wanted to build a place here when most of the herders and sheep were at the other end of the isle. He said that he wanted to be where the trade would be.” The younger man laughs. “He’s also got a larger place at Land’s End.”
They pass a small house, where roofers are setting tiles. Pergun pauses from giving instructions and waves, then resumes his discussion.
“That’s Pergun. He was a mill hand in Diev, but he’s the one who’s done most of the building. He helped me build my place in Diev.”
Oran watches as a horse-crane levers a timber frame up and into stone-framed foundation holes. “I don’t recall seeing that used before.”
“Something I worked out in Diev when I couldn’t afford much help to raise the walls.”
Farther uphill, they stop before another modest home, this one with turned soil, some in the shadows with traces of frost upon it, edged in neat stone borders, with a stone walk leading to a narrow porch. The front windows are shuttered, awaiting glazing, but side windows are glassed and the shutters drawn back. A thin line of white smoke rises from the chimney.
“This is Kadara’s. Rylla, the older healer, lives with her. Usually, we still all eat together most of the time. That way, people have more time to get things done.”
Halfway up the hill, the air wizard turns and looks out onto the cold green Eastern Ocean. “You have a good view here.”
“Yes.” Dorrin wishes they had more time to enjoy it.
The two walk to Dorrin’s, toward the door of the smithy, from where the sound of hammers and the whir of the grindstone filter into the cool air.
Dorrin gestures, and Oran steps inside. Yarrl is busy with the big anvil and what appear to be wagon braces or iron straps. Vaos employs the smaller anvil and hammers out nails. He nods at Dorrin, but does not stop.
Rek alternates between the bellows and the grindstone, where he is finishing edges on blades for wood planes.
Dorrin waits until Oran nods, and they step back into the cold sunlight outside the smithy and under the empty porch. The thin line of white from the chimney that serves the stove tells Dorrin that Merga is baking. Then, with the crowd she feeds, Merga is always baking.
“You’ve done a great deal here.” Oran looks down at his son. “The coach is waiting, and I should be going. Take care, Dorrin.” The tall man steps away from the door to the workshop and smithy, then walks briskly d
ownhill.
Dorrin watches, conscious that Liedral has stepped onto the porch.
“What did they want? To make our life harder?”
Dorrin takes the stairs and gathers her in his arms. “No. They came to warn us. The Whites are moving a fleet against us. They think it will leave the Great North Bay in the next few days.”
“Will they help us?” Liedral eases out of his arms.
“They can’t.” Dorrin snorts. “All but two of their ships are out trying to get the goods no one will bring here voluntarily.”
“Two ships? That’s all?”
“I don’t think Recluce has ever had more than a dozen in my lifetime. Who would bother them? Who wouldn’t take gold or buy the needed goods or spices?”
“That’s stupid.” Liedral glances westward, out at the sun-sparkled waves of the Gulf. “What will you do? Don’t tell me. You’re going to be a hero.”
“Do I have any choice?”
“No.” Her hands take his. “What are you going to do next?”
“Build more rockets. Have you and Rylla gather more of the ingredients for powder. Make sure we have enough black iron shields for the boarding force. What else can I do?”
“I’ll tell Reisa. Rylla will have to stay with Kadara. Her labor won’t be easy, even with the help you’ve already provided. Rylla says she’s nearly ready to have that baby.” She kisses him lightly. “You might as well get started.”
He might as well. He returns the kiss, more lingeringly before he lets go of her, and takes a deep breath.
“I’ll gather the sulfur and saltpeter…and what else I can round up. The holders north of here said they would have some, and there’s a little in the big warehouse.” She heads for the shed at the end of the house which serves as the temporary stable.
Dorrin strides back into the smithy. “Vaos!”
“Yes, ser!”
“We’ll be working late—for near an eight-day.” Dorrin studies the plate he has—more plate than he will have powder, he suspects.
CLXXVIII
“You will direct the fleet, Fydel.” Anya smiles winningly.
The wizard with the square-cut brown beard frowns, looking from the High Wizard to Anya. “You want me to go against that demon ship?”
“It’s only one ship, and you’ll have a dozen well-armed war schooners. Besides, you don’t even have to land. Just use your skills to fire the town.”
“What if the…whatever he is…comes after us?”
“You sink his ship,” Cerryl says quietly. “I recall your telling the Council that would be possible were you in charge. You’re the wizard in charge.”
“Fine. I’ll need some assistants.”
“Pick whom you need.”
Fydel purses his lips, then inclines his head. “By your leave?”
“Of course.”
After Fydel has departed and the door has been closed, Cerryl massages his forehead and looks out the window into the rain pelting Fairhaven. “Damned rain, always gives me a headache.”
The red-headed woman sits, legs crossed, before the table. The circular mirror that lies upon the white oak is blank. She smiles.
“You really don’t care if we win, do you?” asks Cerryl.
“What ever gave you that idea?”
“Everyone who supported you has been given a position on those fleets. That’s a page from Hartor’s book.”
“You’ve read a great deal of history. It makes you much more appealing.”
The High Wizard fingers the amulet once worn by a High Wizard named Hartor, and more recently by Sterol. “If they win, they owe you—”
“They owe you, High Wizard.”
“That is so thoughtful of you.” Cerryl inclines his head to Anya. “Humor me, if you please, and listen. You owe me that, at least.”
Anya smiles faintly, but only with her mouth.
“If we somehow destroy or humiliate this Black builder of magic ships, then all your supporters will be indebted. If this unknown Black proves as great as, say, Creslin, then no one is left to challenge you. And,” Cerryl adds wryly, “like Hartor, no one will want this position for at least a decade, or until their memories grow somewhat fainter. You are rather astute, Anya dear.” He pauses. “Of course, if they fail, but return, then I will follow Sterol.”
“Then why did you accept my proposition?” Anya asks.
“Why not? All life is a gamble. Besides, like Sterol, I suspect attacking Recluce is doomed to failure.”
“You admit that, and yet will send out those fleets?”
“I could be wrong.” Cerryl smiles.
“So you could.” Anya returns the smile, stands, and steps toward him, lips parted.
CLXXIX
Both the hammer and the anvil horn blur in the lamplight. Dorrin racks the hammer and sets the curved sheet that will be a rocket casing on the forge bricks. He rubs his forehead.
“You all right, master Dorrin?” asks Rek.
“Just tired. Can you sweep up and bank down the coals?”
“Yes, ser.”
Dorrin trudges out toward the stone-walled shower that is as similar to the one he grew up with as he could make it—or have the masons make it, more properly. All he provided was the shower head and the valves.
After checking to make sure there is a towel in the covered box set in the wall, he strips, frowning at his own stench, and turns on the water.
“Ooo…” The water is not lukewarm, or cool, but frigid. As soon as he is wet, the water goes off, and he lathers up with the soap Liedral brought back from her last trip to Land’s End. Then he rinses, shivering. He has to repeat the process once more before he feels clean.
After drying, he steps from the shower into the back hall and tiptoes, clothes in hand, towel around his waist, into the bedroom.
“How are you?” Liedral is reading from his manuscript, the table and lamp pulled close to her side of the bed and the coverlet almost to her neck.
“Cold…tired…” He sets his clothes on the rack in the corner. They need to be washed, but he will worry about that later. Then he rummages in the wardrobe for some underdrawers, which he exchanges for the towel.
“I can’t believe how well you thought this out,” Liedral says, reaching over and replacing the pages in the wooden box.
Dorrin sees her shoulders are bare and looks away. “Thought you read it when you and Petra copied it.”
“I only read what I copied, and I really didn’t have time to think about it.”
He slides into his side of the bed. The sheet and coverlet are cool, but not so cold as the air or the shower were.
“You smell clean.”
“Mmmm…” Dorrin has not realized how tired he is until he lies back.
“Tired?”
“Yes. I was making casings for a few more of the heavy rockets.”
“When will you take the Black Hammer out?”
“Tomorrow, I’d guess. Maybe the next day. Not until we see them. Not much sense in wasting time or coal.” He leans back on the thin pillow.
“I need something…”
He half turns toward her.
“Hold me…please.” She slips into his arms. She wears no shift, and her skin is warm against his.
“Don’t think…Is this…wise? I mean…” Wanting her, he still worries, wonders…Will the memories surface?
“Very wise…almost…too late…” Her hands reach his damp hair and draw his face to hers.
In time, her hands reach lower, and her lips warm his, then caress his cheeks, burning away the tears that flow from his eyes, even as his hands stroke her back and brush along the smooth skin of her thighs.
They move together, slowly…warmly.
The lamp flickers in the faint breeze, and the top page in the wooden box flutters.
When they separate, her lips nibble his left ear. “I missed you.”
“Darkness…I missed you. I love you.”
“You can keep holding me…pleas
e.” Her arms wind around him yet again, and her lips are warm and soft on his.
Dorrin’s arms tighten around her, holding her even as he wonders what has changed after so long. He draws in the scent of her, of fine soft hair, and his lips brush her cheek before their lips meet again.
CLXXX
The wagon creaks up to the pier, opposite the Black Diamond, and Dorrin hops down onto the stones, taking out the wagon blocks and setting them on each side of the iron tires.
He lowers the tailboard. In the rough crate are another dozen rockets—the heavy kind, as Dorrin thinks of them, that will penetrate ship hulls.
Kyl is the first to reach the wagon. “More of the rockets?”
“The heavy kind.”
Tyrel appears. “There’s a sail just at the horizon.”
“Do we know whose sail?”
“Not yet.”
Dorrin rubs his forehead. His head aches even in anticipation of using the damned rockets. “All right. Light off a small fire in the firebox, just enough that we maintain a little steam.”
Tyrel nods. “Yarrl coming?”
“No. If something happens, I’d like someone left who could build another ship.”
“Makes sense.” The shipwright and captain of the Black Hammer frowns. “You’re not planning on losing, I hope?”
“Hardly.”
With the sound of hoofs on stone Dorrin looks up. Liedral rides toward the pier, leading a riderless Basla. In the lanceholder is his black staff.
“Rylla needs you.”
“But…” Kyl looks puzzled.
“Kadara?”
Liedral nods.
“If it is the White fleet, and it looks like they’re getting within say…less than ten kays, blow the whistle.” Dorrin looks at Tyrel. “With Basla, I can be back here quickly. Kyl, you know where the rockets go, and I’m counting on you.” As he speaks, Dorrin mounts, looking at Liedral, whose eyes seem red-rimmed. He reaches across the gap between horses and squeezes her hand, but loses touch as she turns the brown and starts back uphill.
There is no hitching post outside the small dwelling, and Dorrin ties Basla to the timber supporting the railing on the left side of the porch steps. Liedral ties her mount to the right side.
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