Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The fish dishes arrive. “I’ll bring the honeycakes later.”

  “How can they have honeycakes with a trade embargo? Honey is expensive.”

  “Not here. It’s a trade item. Honeybees thrive on order. So do crops and flowers.”

  Liedral shakes her head, then cuts a slice of fish and lifts it to her mouth. Dorrin swallows, realizing that his mouth is watering and his stomach growling. He can’t remember when he last had a meal other than bread and cheese and fruit or roots-or cold mutton. For a time, they eat silently. Except for those at Tyrel’s table, so does everyone else in the room.

  “No wonder everyone hates Recluce,” Liedral says finally.

  Dorrin raises his eyebrows, afraid to open his mouth. The quilla is still as crunchy as he remembers. Now it only grows in the highest southern hills, although old tales mention when it was once common.

  “Orderly, calm, rich-and with good food.”

  “I put a higher value on running water.”

  “I noticed that before I got here. And I thought you were so clever with the running water in your house.” Liedral sips the wine.

  “I was. I was clever enough to figure out how to install it. You know, just dreaming about something or knowing it can be done is the easy part. Doing it is what’s hard.” Dorrin savors the redberry, glad to have it again, then eats the last slice of the delicate whitefish.

  Their plates disappear, to be replaced with smaller light brown dishes, each containing a large honeycake.

  “Such luxury…” murmurs Liedral.

  “Such temptation,” snorts Dorrin as he picks up the cake, sniffing the aroma of fresh-baked pastry and warm honey and carna nuts.

  “You’re so cynical.”

  “Perhaps.” He bites off half the pastry.

  “You think they’re actually tempting you?”

  Dorrin slowly chews and swallows. “More like reminding me.”

  Liedral, her mouth full, nods in turn, then swallows. “How good order truly is?”

  “Something like that. They’re also putting on a show for everyone else.”

  “So you’ll think about the fate of the others?”

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe it’s more like a bribe? Maybe, just maybe, they need you.”

  “You really think so?”

  Liedral makes a motion with her hand to indicate her mouth is full.

  “And you clearly like the bribe?” Dorrin grins.

  “I intend to enjoy it fully.”

  The serving woman passes, and Dorrin raises a hand. “How much for the supper?” He reaches for the leather purse at his belt.

  “Nothing, ser. The Council is paying for your stay.” The serving woman smiles, and refills the glass tumbler.

  “That makes it very expensive,” Dorrin remarks to Liedral.

  “Perhaps,” Liedral says. “On the other hand, maybe other members of the Council are less against you and your machines than your father.”

  “You may have something there.” Dorrin rubs his chin. “So long as it were just me, they’d defer to him… but if it affects all Recluce…”

  “Keep that in mind.” Liedral looks toward the door where three figures in black stand. “Here they come.”

  Dorrin stands and waits until the three are near. “I’d like you to meet Liedral. She’s the trader to whom you and I owe my success in building the Black Diamond.”

  Liedral has also risen. She inclines her head and half-bows.

  “Dorrin, Liedral, Magistra Ellna, and Magister Videlt,” Oran says. The two other Councillors both incline their heads to the couple.

  Dorrin inclines his head in return.

  “I am honored to meet you,” Liedral offers. “I was just leaving-”

  “We would also be pleased if you would join the discussion,” offers Oran. “Your views would be helpful.” He nods to a large table in the corner.

  As the group walks toward the table, Merga’s and Rylla’s eyes follow, and Dorrin can catch the whisper from the old healer.

  “… them’s the real mighty of the world…”

  Pergun eats slowly with Merga and Frisa, while Tyrel eats with several of his crew, their fare spiced more with frequent refills from tall bottles of a green brandy. Dorrin sees the brandy bottles and shudders. The green brandy of Recluce is powerful. Besides the three Council members, none of the tables holds anyone who was not on the Black Diamond.

  Once the five have seated themselves, Oran begins. “We understand that you and Brede and Kadara made a valiant effort to save Spidlar.”

  Valiant-that is one word, Dorrin thinks. How about doomed, stupid, and bloody? “We did make an effort,” he concedes. “At times, I doubt that it was wise.”

  All three Blacks look at the table. Finally, Oran looks up. “You feel that building your engine was unwise?”

  “No. Building the engine, I still believe, was necessary and wise. Using what I learned to try to defend Spidlar was unwise.”

  “Would you like to explain that?” asks the magistra, her eyes even darker than her black tunic and trousers.

  “The Whites don’t do much harm to most people. They do maintain better order than would exist without them. They have good roads, clean cities, and not much crime or theft. But they’re caught in a trap. Their power rests on chaos, but to maintain their power they also need order. Too much order would destroy their power; so will too much chaos.”

  Videlt nods; Oran watches; Ellna puts both hands on the table.

  “That’s really beside the point,” Dorrin says. “I’m sorry about wandering, but my mind isn’t as clear as it should be. Anyway, by introducing better tactics and some combat engineering, all we succeeded in doing was killing a lot of innocent, or relatively innocent, people, a handful of White Wizards, and ensuring that a lot of people will go hungry this winter. We forced the traders to relocate, which will improve the trading abilities in places like Sarronnyn and Suthya and which will hurt eastern Candar.” His eyes turn on the three. “Part of this is your fault.”

  Oran’s mouth opens, but the black-haired Ellna extends a hand. “Let him finish.” She looks again at Dorrin. “Go on.”

  Dorrin clears his suddenly dry throat. “You pushed me out, and the Whites didn’t like what I was starting to do. Blacks- especially not male Blacks-aren’t welcome west of the Westhorns. So… I tried to defend Spidlar. A lot of people died, and where am I? Back here, being judged again. I don’t claim to be wise. But that sort of foresight is supposed to be what a Council is for.”

  “There is that.” Videlt’s hand strays to his short-trimmed and dark brown beard, a beard darker than his lank light brown hair.

  “You have shown that the White blockade can be broken,” says Ellna.

  “But only with Dorrin’s ship,” interjects Liedral. “That won’t encourage either the Bristans or the Hamorians.”

  “In any case,” says Dorrin, trying to steer the conversation back where he wants it, “because we share this responsibility, I think we should try to work out something that will benefit everyone.” He smiles grimly. “Unless you’ve already made a decision.”

  “The Council hasn’t come to a final decision. We felt we ought to talk to you.”

  Dorrin wipes his forehead, tanned from nearly an eight-day at sea, wrestling with sails and a ship never designed for open ocean or an engine. Despite his shower, he still feels grimy, almost as if still smeared with the black of the coal. “It seems that you think I might offer some sort of answer, but you still don’t feel I quite belong, and you don’t know what to do.”

  “That’s close enough,” Ellna says. “Why do you think you might offer us an answer?”

  “Without something like my ship, Fairhaven will choke Recluce again. Or at the very least, isolate you. Is that what you want?”

  “The Council has been concerned…” begins Oran.

  “We’re more than concerned,” Ellna says. “But we also don’t want to destroy what Recluce is base
d upon for mere survival. That’s what the Blacks in eastern Candar did in the time of Creslin. They accepted more and more domination of the chaos wizards for the sake of civil peace and good roads. We don’t want to build machines or devices that lead us down the same path.”

  “Any high-energy machine must embody chaotic energy by definition,” adds Oran.

  “Life embodies some chaotic energy-by definition,” says Dorrin. “The question is whether order or chaos dominates.” Is he being wise in being so forthright? Can he be otherwise?

  “You really haven’t answered the question,” observes Videlt.

  “I can tell you what I think,” Dorrin says. “And you can tell me what you think. But what any of us thinks isn’t the issue. My engine is mostly of black iron, and you can sense its roots in order.”

  “Chaos can use order…”

  “How about this? You let me build my smithy and ship-works at Southpoint. There’s nothing there.”

  “There’s no harbor. How?”

  “There’s one small inlet. That’s enough for now for the Black Diamond. Later, we can expand it.”

  The color leaches from the tall wizard’s face. “We can’t accept potential chaos on Recluce itself.”

  “Stop jumping to conclusions. Machines and chemicals aren’t chaos. I can’t deal with chaos either, and you know it.”

  “You’ve changed.”

  “Probably not enough.”

  “Oran,” interrupts Ellna gently, “have you considered a trial period? Let Dorrin build his works, and then let us evaluate them. We could gain, and at the least he would have a respite.”

  “How long?” asks Videlt.

  “At least two years,” Liedral says.

  Dorrin is glad she has spoken. He would have asked for less, because he feels that he must have a new ship ready long before two years.

  “Isn’t that a bit… extended?” asks Videlt.

  “It is if things go well,” Dorrin admits. “But matters often don’t where the Whites are concerned. Also, we have to build facilities…”

  “I suspect there would be some willing to offer their help,” says Oran dryly.

  “Perhaps,” Dorrin responds. “In that case, you can evaluate earlier.”

  “That seems fair,” Ellna interjects. “It is in our interests.” , “Oh?” says Oran.

  “He’s building another port, Oran. How can that hurt us? You’ve often pointed out how the winter seas make Land’s End unsuitable.”

  The taller wizard nods-reluctantly. His lips pucker as if he has swallowed a pickled pearapple.

  “There’s one other thing,” Dorrin says. “I need iron- enough to build another ship.”

  “Another one?” Oran’s voice is tart.

  “I didn’t build this one,” Dorrin explains. “It was a grounded hull, and I put an engine on it. If you want to evaluate my works, I should have the chance to build one ship the way I think it should be built.”

  “That seems fair to me,” says Ellna. “It fits the idea of a trial.”

  “Surely, you don’t expect us to pay-”

  “I think I have enough to pay for at least some of the iron,” Dorrin says, “thanks to Liedral. We have some more trading goods which we can factor here.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “We’d have to sell some to whatever Bristans or Hamorians put in here.”

  “There aren’t many,” says Videlt with a twist to his lips. “But we’ll give you a Council letter. You’ll need that for the iron, you know.”

  “No,” Dorrin smiles, “I didn’t know that. I can’t say I’m surprised. What about coal?”

  “That’s not under Council seal, and you’ll have to make your own arrangements there.”

  “How soon can we begin?” Dorrin is tired, and feels the evening is dragging on, even though they have not talked that long.

  “You will have the Council letter for the iron in the morning, and it will cover not only the iron, but convey a suggestion that your… project is in our interests.” Ellna’s smile is more than perfunctory, but not much.

  Dorrin yawns. “I’m sorry, but…”

  “We understand.” Ellna rises, and the other two Blacks follow.

  Oran catches his son’s eyes, and Dorrin understands the tall wizard would like a few words privately.

  Dorrin waits until Liedral has touched his hand, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and climbed the stairs. Ellna and Videlt have already left the inn.

  “I’d like to think you’ve changed, son,” Oran says gently.

  “I haven’t changed the way you’d like,” Dorrin says heavily. “And I think that might be why you’re losing to the White Wizards.”

  “Creslin destroyed Jenred, and you destroyed Jeslek.”

  Dorrin shakes his head. “You still don’t understand. Jeslek was a chaos focus. That was why he could raise mountains. I destroyed the focus, but the forces remain. There will be another Jeslek… with great powers, and another, so long as Recluce embodies order.”

  “You’re being too mechanical. The higher order considerations…”

  “That’s animal crap,” snorts the engineer. “Creslin sold his soul to found Recluce-or at least his sight for a good part of his life. The order you already have created Jeslek-I didn’t. And you’re worried about a few order-based machines on one end of the isle. The Whites sure as the demons didn’t like order-based machines.”

  “Don’t you see? That’s exactly why we can’t afford more concentrated order.”

  “Do you want me to take my ship and my ideas to Brista-or Hamor? Is that what you have in mind?”

  “We agreed to a trial…”

  “I know. But I want a real trial, not just a few years so that Recluce can get back on its feet and throw me out again.”

  “We’ll keep our word.”

  Dorrin does not shake his head, however much he wants to. “I know you will. So will I.”

  “Good night, son.” Oran raises his hand in almost a benediction before turning.

  Dorrin waits until his father has left before he walks up the stone stairs. He smiles when he enters the bedroom. Liedral is asleep on one side of the bed, facing the door, the lamp still lit. He undresses silently, blows out the lamp, and slips into the cool sheets, permitting himself only a single gentle squeeze of her bare shoulder.

  “… night…” she murmurs. “… love…”

  “Good night,” he whispers.

  CLX

  “HOW DID YOU incompetents ever let this happen?” Sterol’s voice is low.

  The three White Wizards look at the table with the mirror, then back to the High Wizard. Finally, Fydel speaks. “He built a ship that can run into the teeth of the wind. The White Storm went aground trying to catch him.”

  Cerryl nods in agreement, stepping back from the others ever so slightly.

  “Why didn’t they at least fire his ship?”

  “They weren’t carrying canvas. He’d stripped the topside, and this engine thing somehow pushed or pulled them away. They skirted the sandbars all along the coast until they got to the Gulf, where the winds changed. Then they lifted sail, and with the engine and sails, no one could catch up.”

  “Wait an instant. You said they didn’t have sails.”

  “The sails were furled,” explains Anya. Her voice is cold, cutting. “This engine of his is as hot as chaos and bound in black iron.”

  “How does it work?”

  “We don’t know, exactly.”

  “Wonderful. Just marvelous. We now have a renegade Black Wizard who can build an engine that nullifies our whole blockade of Recluce, and his ship is sitting at Land’s End.” Sterol sighs. “Well… you three and Jeslek did it. You’ll have to live with it.” Anya raises her eyebrows.

  “Really, Anya. Are you that dense? Have we ever had any success against Recluce proper?” The High Wizard smiles coldly. “You three incompetents can leave. You had better hope that the Blacks on Recluce hold the price of asylum on their fa
ir isle as no more Black engines.”

  “Or… ?” asks Anya.

  “I told you. Now, please go away.” Sterol fingers the gold amulet. After the door closes, he wipes his forehead with a white cloth from his pocket and looks toward the mirror. Then he wipes his forehead again.

  CLXI

  DORRIN AND KADARA ride down the Great Highway, side by side, with Liedral and the cart following.

  “I never thought I’d get home.” The redhead holds the reins in her left hand, her right still in the sling across her abdomen.

  Dorrin glances to his left, down into the fertile plains around the Feyn River, and the waving green stalks of grain. “It is home, and it’s not.”

  Shortly, if he understands the directions, they must turn uphill and take the winding road toward the one iron mine and smelter that exist on Recluce.

  The solid gray kaystone is clear enough. Two arrows appear. The one points straight ahead and states Feyn-5. The other points to the right, along a narrower, but still stone-paved, road, and reads Iron Works-4.

  They turn uphill, following the gently inclined road with the wide turns.

  “This is a side road and better than some highways in Candar,” says Liedral above the creaking of the cart.

  “It’s designed for the iron wagons.”

  “The road to Froos’s place didn’t look like this.”

  There are definite advantages to order. Thinking about the doubt on his father’s face, Dorrin decides there are also definite disadvantages.

  The iron works is a complex of five stone buildings set on a terrace cut from the hillside roughly two hundred cubits below the top of the ridge lines. Smoke filters from the top of several beehive-shaped structures-the blast furnaces. A slightly inclined stone-walled road runs from what appears to be the mine entrance to the top of the blast furnaces. Lower yet are two shorter buildings from which an earthshaking and dull hammering issues. Between the two buildings runs a millrace with an overshot waterwheel.

  Dorrin reins up in front of the smallest building, the one away from the furnaces and the hammering and suiting mills. “Do you want to come in?” he asks Kadara.

  “No.” She draws the single blade she wears and begins to work through the exercises with her left hand.