Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Dorrin waves the green flag and watches until the coaster dips her flag.

  Then he triggers the striker and touches the fuse. The rocket carries the line, but veers in front of the coaster, plowing into the water.

  The Mocked Hare trims into the wind, and a seaman with a hooked pole leans down, jabbing at the line in the water. After three attempts, the man snags the line.

  Gently, Dorrin pays out the heavier line, and then the cable.

  Once the cable is taut, he uses the axe and cuts the anchorline.

  The Harthagay swings about, and the cable squeaks as it takes the schooner’s full weight. Dorrin wonders if the cable will hold.

  The schooner rolls and turns slowly in an arc after the Mocked Hare. According to Kusman, skipper of the Hare, all he must do is keep the rudder straight until they near the breakwater for lower Diev. Dorrin hopes so.

  When the Mocked Hare sheds sail outside the breakwater, the captain dips his ensign again. Shortly, a boat and four sailors bounce across the chop, guided by the cable. The four tie the boat to the Harthagay, and climb aboard.

  “You’re a clever man, master Dorrin. Not a soul thought you’d bring her off.” Kusman checks the ropes from the wheel to the rudder, and motions another man to take the helm from Dorrin.

  Dorrin flushes. “I almost didn’t, and may not yet. She’s taking a little water.” He releases the wheel.

  “Light! If it’s only a little, you’re doing a demon-damned sight better than Jarlsin did. Say his crew pumped half the day.” Kusman studies the harbor. “Have to winch her in, but that’s no problem.” Then he grins. “That’s where your problems begin. Owning a ship is nothing but headaches.”

  CXXXII

  MERIWHEN’S HOOFS CRUNCH through the ice-crusted snow that covers the stone pavement. Dorrin glances at the thin plume of smoke rising from the Red Lion. All the windows, save the one closest the front door, are shuttered. The Red Lion is open, unlike the Tankard, which once hosted the troopers, until the previous summer, when all squads were rushed southward to protect the river road against the Certan incursions.

  The cold damp wind from the Northern Ocean rattles ‘ shuttered windows of the Red Lion, and Dorrin fumbles the button of his jacket closed.

  Wheeennn… Even the heavy-coated mare protests.

  “Easy, girl.” Dorrin pats her neck as they turn down toward the shipwright’s. He touches the black staff he feels he must now carry everywhere, then looks down the near-deserted street.

  A man in a heavy herder’s jacket is pounding the knocker of a doorway, and two young men, their breath like steam, are wrestling a barrel out of the cooper’s shop. Nothing else moves except the overhead clouds. Like the previous winter, only a handful of chimneys show smoke against the gray sky.

  Dorrin looks north toward the ocean, where the clouds are lower and blowing southward, promising more snow, more cold. Meriwhen tosses her head.

  All the piers in the harbor are empty, the warehouses shuttered tight.

  At the shipwright’s, where the Harthagay rests on blocks beside the foot of the western breakwater, Dorrin ties Meriwhen inside the open shed. There a fishing boat or some craft under construction normally rests, but the blocks are empty. Then he takes the leather case and walks toward the building beside the schooner.

  The shipwright opens the door. “Only could be you in this weather.”

  Dorrin unfastens his jacket and spreads the drawings he takes from the leather case across the drafting table, weighting them on the corners with worn brick fragments.

  He points toward the top drawing, his eyes flicking to Tyrel. “I’d like a platform, braced like this, right here. Ladders…”

  The shipwright swings the lantern bracket over the drafting table, ignoring the faint black smoke and the acrid odor of the not-quite-pure lamp oil, and studies the drawings. “That platform’s heavy. You need something that strong?”

  “It might have to support a hundred stone of iron.”

  “You need something that strong, maybe even a cross-brace set here.” The shipwright looks up. “That’ll play demon-light with your aft cargo hold, and how will you get there?” Tyrel walks over to the fireplace and eases a small log onto the coals. “Another ass-freezing winter. Like the frigging wizards ordered it.”

  Dorrin looks at the drawing. “What do you suggest?”

  Tyrel recenters the log with a poker. He returns to the drawing, worrying his lower Up with a pair of buck teeth. “I can move this aft another couple of cubits…”

  Dorrin frowns. That will make the angle from the engine to the shaft even steeper, when he has been trying to minimize the angle, but he will save some weight by using a shorter shaft. “All right, but that means these braces for the shaft have to be changed.”

  “We can do that.” Tyrel gestures toward the door. “What else we going to do? Once you get her in the water again, you’ll need guards.”

  “I know.”

  “What about sealing this shaft of yours? It’s well under water…”

  Dorrin looks over the drawings again, while the lamp sputters for a moment and releases a thin line of black smoke before settling back into an even yellow light.

  Outside the long shedlike building, the wind whistles, and light snow drifts under the eaves and falls toward the timbered floor like white dust.

  CXXXIII

  AFTER SPRINKLING DRIED willow bark and astra into the mortar, Dorrin takes the pestle and begins to grind the mixture into a finer powder.

  Rylla, adding a touch of syrup to crushed brinn, clears her throat. “You really don’t have to be here, you know.”

  “I suppose not.” He looks to the small south window, one of the few unshuttered. Outside, granular snow skids across the crusty white surface. Even though the window is small, Dorrin squints against the glare.

  “Merga says you’re still trying to build an engine for your ship.”

  “The engine’s mostly built, but I need to finish the boiler and get the pieces down to the shipyard.” He continues to grind, although the best he will do with the willow bark is to create very small, striplike pieces.

  “Boilers, engines-they’re all magic.” Rylla spoons her mixture into a small cup, then adds steaming cider and stirs. “And your lady?”

  “Things are better… but…” He shrugs. “I wish there were a quicker way than just being loving and patient.”

  “Did you build that engine in a season, or learn how to?” Rylla’s voice is somewhere between sharp and amused.

  “Of course not. It doesn’t make things any easier.” He funnels the mixture into a bag, which he carefully ties and carries into the main room.

  A stocky woman bundled in faded woolens stands by the armless chair where a thin and pale youth slumps. Dorrin can feel the boy’s fever, and has already strengthened his system with some slight addition of order. He hands the bag to the mother. “Add two pinches of this to a cup of something hot at breakfast and supper. It will help keep the fever down.”

  “Thank you, healer. He’s better for a time when he sees you, but it doesn’t seem to last.”

  “I do what I can.”

  She presses a copper upon him. He does not refuse, for he will pass it to Rylla. Dorrin closes the door behind them and watches as Rylla brings the small cup to a white-haired woman.

  “You need to drink this, Gerd.”

  “It’s vile stuff, Rylla. Vile… smells like the river where the fisherman leave their offal, maybe worse.”

  “I’ve sweetened it with syrup and cider.”

  Gerd lifts the cup and sets it down. “It smells vile.”

  “You want to die of the flux, go ahead,” Rylla snaps. “I just wish you hadn’t wasted my good herbs.”

  “I’ll drink it, but I don’t have to like it.” She lifts the cup and swallows. “Uuughhhhh…”

  Dorrin understands. While brinn is effective against the flux, its bitterness is legend, even buried in sweetened cider.

 
“You’ll feel better afore long, Gerd.” Rylla hands her a tiny folded square of cloth. “Put this in something hot tonight. Drink it all.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “No. You can have your guts run out the jakes on you until you’re so weak you can’t walk here.”

  “You’re a hard healer, Rylla.”

  Rylla snorts.

  At last, the thin figure wraps her cloak around her and totters out into the cold white glare. Rylla closes the door and rums to Dorrin. “You don’t need to be here,” she repeats. “Scat! Get on your jacket and be on your way to that smithy. All you do here is humor an old woman.”

  “I need to be here, and it’s not humoring you. What I’m doing for Brede is creating death. This helps a little.”

  “That’s the way of the world. Fighting death with death.” The healer shakes her head. “But we’re done for now, and you best be going.”

  “I keep trying to find a better way…”

  “Aye… and that’s a problem, too.”

  Dorrin pulls on his coat and waits.

  “New ways aren’t always better.”

  “You sound like my father.”

  “Ha!” Rylla cackles. “Old ways aren’t always better, neither. People pick a way, be it old or new, and then they want to do it that way. Takes a strong soul to accept the best of both the old and the new.” She cackles again, then motions toward the door. “Scat. We can’t tell if your engine thing will be good or bad, leastways, not until you finish it, and you won’t be finishing it jawing with an old healer.”

  Dorrin is still grinning when he reaches the smithy. Perhaps he can add Rylla’s words to his growing penned thoughts on order and chaos.

  CXXXIV

  THE SQUARE-BEARDED wizard studies the unfolded parchment on the table. Beside it lie fragments of blue wax from the seal that had closed it.

  Whistling outside the window, the wind still cannot drown out the clink of masons’ trowels and stones. The candles in the three-branched candelabra flicker with the gusts that find their way around the ill-fitting window.

  The White Wizard walks to the cloudy glass of the window Below, conscripted villagers toil with the stones of the walls slowly dragging them back into position for the masons. Dart clouds, overhead promise snow or rain, but neither yet falls.

  Finally, the more slender wizard, hunched in a heavy white wool cloak, speaks. “What are they offering?”

  “Just about everything to save their necks.” Fydel laughs. “They’ll turn over any of the ‘unfaithful’; effectively disband the Guards by reducing them to a handful of squads; open the roads to our traders.”

  “Why aren’t you taking their offer?” asks Cerryl.

  “You assume too much.”

  Cerryl laughs softly. “I’m assuming nothing. You won’t take the Spidlarian Council’s offer. I’d just like to know why.”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Why hand it to Jeslek? He’s back in Fair-haven, enjoying fires, good food, and a few other pleasures.” A wide grin reveals large white teeth. “Who knows? We might get a better offer before spring.”

  “We won’t. What you’re hoping is that Jeslek will have to face some mighty Black. But that won’t happen. Do you really think that Recluce will send more warriors or wizards to Spidlar?”

  “No.” Fydel smiles. “But there’s no reason to make it easy for Jeslek, is there? No real reason to hand him an easy victory after he’s muddled through a year of doing nothing, is there?”

  “What about the levies? Why kill them off unnecessarily?”

  “You’re too soft, Cerryl. What are a few hundred peasants one way or the other?”

  Cerryl shakes his head, but says nothing.

  The wind whistles, and the sound of stone work echoes through the window, and the candles flicker in the late afternoon.

  Part IV

  Order-Forger

  CXXXV

  FROM THE ROOM next door, Dorrin hears Liedral’s breathing, and he wishes he were lying with her. While they can now hug each other, or exchange brief kisses, the internal scars from her torture have only faded, not disappeared. Outside, the low wail of the wind reminds him that winter is not yet over, even though the days are getting longer once more.

  Dorrin slowly sets the paper back in the box, and leans back for a moment in the chair, reflecting on order. His father, his mother, Lortren-they all equate order with good. Yet Dorrin himself has used order to create destruction. Is destruction of those who would impose chaos by force good?

  In an ideal sense, probably not. But pure order almost invariably loses to pure chaos. Yet even Creslin used order to create destruction to stop the Whites.

  Is it wrong to use ordered metal to destroy or stop the spread of chaos? He frowns. If all destruction is evil, then, could not those who oppose order claim that the use of force to oppose chaos is also evil?

  If use of destruction is good for some purposes, then cannot any means be justified by a good enough end? He shakes his head. Logic will not solve his problems there, for he can certainly think up good excuses for anything.

  Still, his father has said that there is always an order-based way to solve a problem. He smiles grimly. Supposedly, the White Wizards can enchant someone’s eyes so they see what is not there. In some way, that is what they did to Liedral-made her see false images of him.

  Conversely, could he not use order to show true images? But what good would that do? Yet… he cannot tell a lie, but as a child-and even as an adult-it has not been as uncomfortable to tell part of the truth.

  He looks at the lamp, then at the small mirror on the chest. He stands and places the lamp before the mirror, then stands behind the lamp. If the lamp were not there, the mirror would only show him-and that would be part of the truth.

  He concentrates on somehow letting the image of himself flow around the lamp, as if it were not there. For an instant the room is plunged into darkness-so dark that he cannot see, and he can always see in the dark. He can sense where things are, but not see. Between surprise and speculation, he loses his concentration, and the room fills with soft lamplight again.

  He laughs softly. Of course, if the lamp were not there, neither would the light to see by be, and the room would be dark. But since the lamp did not move, did he merely imagine the darkness? Or did he somehow remove the. image of the lamp and its light?

  His forehead is damp, and he has a slight headache. With a deep breath he finishes putting away his scribblings.

  Outside, the wind still moans. Next door, Liedral turns uneasily in sleep, and somewhere in Kleth, Kadara and Brede prepare for the spring invasion of the Whites. Dorrin turns back the quilt on the narrow bed that has replaced his pallet-once he realizes that Liedral’s recovery will be slow. Then he blows out the lamp.

  CXXXVI

  “FORCE LEADER BREDE, is it not true that, unless the Certan and Gallosian forces are stopped before Kleth, they will take over all of Spidlar?”

  Brede looks across the table at the white-haired man in the royal-blue velvet. “Yes, Councilman. They intend to take all of Spidlar.”

  “Do they not intend to destroy all traders in Spidlar?”

  “I cannot read their minds, ser.”

  “Let me put it another way, Force Leader. So far, have they allowed any traders or anyone else who opposes chaos to live?”

  “Not within Spidlar.”

  The Councilman spreads his velvet-covered arms. “Then we must stop them before they advance farther.”

  The two other members of the Council, one on each side of the Councilman, each also in the blue velvet, nod.

  Brede inclines his head respectfully to the Council. “What do you suggest? And how would you recommend we accomplish this effort? You have managed to gather perhaps three hundred half-trained cavalry and two thousand levy troops. The Whites have twice that many garrisoned in Elparta, and have posted levies for the spring for another five thousand. They also have a company of White Wizards who throw thunderbol
ts.”

  “We leave the details of such to you, Force Leader. But you must stop them before Kleth.”

  “Might I ask if you have tried to negotiate with them?” Brede asks. The Council room is suddenly hot and stuffy.

  “We have sent intermediaries,” concedes the Councilman.

  “And?”

  “It was suggested that until either victory or stalemate developed, negotiations would be premature.”

  “Then, could I presume that you are ordering an all-out effort to hold Kleth, regardless of cost or losses?”

  “We leave the military details to you, Force Leader. But if Kleth falls…” The Councilman shrugs. His cold eyes center on Brede.

  CXXXVII

  “THEY’VE BUILT SOME fortifications around the southern side.” Dorrin leans in the saddle toward Liedral. In the rear of her cart are eight sets of slicers adapted for use on the river. His other works of destruction are still in progress, but the spring melt has come sooner this year, and Brede will need the river slicers soon, once the runoff dies down.

  “Will that do any good, really?” Liedral fingers her bow.

  “Against a White Wizard who can raise mountains and topple walls?” Dorrin’s laugh is hard. “Not if they get close to the city.”

  The day is bright, even with the white puffy clouds that dot the sky, and the wind blows warm out of the south. The road mud is only damp, rather than ankle-deep. The road itself is empty, save for Dorrin and Liedral, and flattened, bearing the imprint of many feet, all headed from Kleth.

  Four soldiers stand by a rough hut meant to guard the western approach.

  “Where you bound?” asks the stocky man in an ill-fitting breastplate.

  Dorrin studies the ironwork for an instant, dismissing it. “I have some equipment ordered by Brede. We’re delivering it to him.”