“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 the 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.
He walks to the stern, where only the housing for the shaft and the screw need to be completed. On the blocks beside the hull rests the black iron screw, the largest single piece of work Dorrin and Yarrl have ever done. The polishing alone took almost three days and a special hoist.
“Friggin‘ big chunk of metal, master Dorrin,” offers Styl, pausing to set down a set of shorter beams that are braces for the main deckhouse or the pilot house above. “Lot bigger than the screw on the Diamond.”
“More power at a lower shaft speed, I hope,” Dorrin answers.
“You know… master Dorrin…” Styl coughs.
“Yes?” Dorrin says cheerfully.
“I was wondering… I mean about the black iron. Folks know that iron binds magic… Guess it’s always been that way… I was wondering if you could tell me why. It must do something, the way you plated this here Hammer.”
Dorrin’s eyes slide along the ship, visualizing her as complete, with the angled and black-plated sides to the
deckhouse and the pilot house and the big funnel aft of both, tall enough to add significantly to the draft and power of the engine. The Hammer has no masts, only two covered wells where low temporary masts can be set in the event of engine failure, for Dorrin has designed her only for use in defending Recluce or in the Gulf of Candar. He has neither time nor coins to build a more ambitious vessel, and to carry and steep even a single large mast will add too much weight.
“Iron and magic,” Dorrin begins, belatedly realizing that his thoughts have wandered from Styl’s question. “Have you ever watched the iron when a smith works? What does it look like?”
“It gets hot, sort of reddish.”
“Cherry red. That’s because the iron absorbs all that heat- call it the power of the coals. Well, magic is like heat. It’s a power, and just like iron can hold the heat of the forge, it can hold and bind the heat of magic. Black iron does it even better. That’s why the some of the magisters carry black iron shields. The troopers on the Black Hammer will, too.”
“Hmmmm…” ponders Styl. “Sounds right, leastwise to me. That a secret among the wizards?”
Dorrin frowns. The conclusion is his, but outside of his own writing in his book, he has never seen it in ink anywhere else. “It might be. I had to figure it out. No one told me, if that’s what you mean.”
Styl nods, almost ponderously. “Thank ye, master Dorrin. Best I be getting these up to Tyrel afore he starts bellowing.”
“Don’t let me stop you. Tell him I’ll be up there in a bit.” Dorrin continues to check the hull before walking up the ramp onto the main deck.
A new assistant Dorrin does not know passes by with another set of braces, and Styl grunts as he lifts his load. The two move toward the deckhouse structure.
Dorrin has to climb down a temporary ladder into the engine compartment because the walls and the permanent ladder cannot be installed until the shaft and main thrust bearings are in place. Right now, the power train stops at the big flywheel, but the engine is complete, and Yarrl has fired up the boiler at low temperatures several times to help temper the firebrick.
The low temperature runs also disclosed tubing leaks and, unfortunately, the need to rework both cylinders’ steam inlet valves.
Wondering what will happen on this higher-pressure test, Dorrin checks the water level in the tank and inspects the firebox. Then he whittles shavings into a pile, which he lights with the striker from his pouch. As the wood fragments catch, he runs his fingers across the boiler and then the engine. It feels solid.
A shovelful of fragmented coal goes into the firebox.
“You starting already?” asks Yarrl from the deck above.
“I just began lighting her off. I didn’t think you’d mind, since it will be a while before we have enough pressure.”
“Why would I mind? It’s your engine.” Yarrl climbs down beside Dorrin. “At times… it’s hard to believe…”
Dorrin feels the same way; and yet, the engine feels right- so black and so solid. How could his father ever believe it was a creation of chaos? He smiles crookedly. Then again, that has been the problem with Recluce itself. Its very order requires a greater amount of chaos in opposition.
Does that mean each engine will create more chaos in the world? Dorrin’s smile fades. The ship is necessary-but can the world stand many of them?
“What are you thinking about?” asks Yarrl.
“Order and chaos,” Dorrin says absently, looking up to see Tyrel’s crew gathering on the deck to watch. He reaches for the shovel, and Yarrl opens the firebox door. Another shovel of coal goes through the open iron door.
Shortly, Dorrin adds another, and yet another. The boiler creaks as the heat increases, and the plume of smoke from the funnel thickens.
Dorrin checks the bypasses, waiting for the pressure to build more. Finally, he looks at Yarrl. “Let’s hope.” He twists one valve and then another, and steam hisses within the carefully crafted tubes toward the cylinders.
As the operating steam pressure builds, even above the chunking/sliding sound of the rods and the wisps of steam escaping from the packing of the cylinder rods, a fainter hiss begins to build.
Dorrin cocks his head, trying to listen, trying to sense the source of the new hiss.
“Looks good!” Yarrl bellows above the combination of muted boiler roar, moving pistons, and steam.
Dorrin walks back to the heavy flywheel-the extra weight was Yarrl’s idea for smoothing the power delivery to the shaft gears. The gears stand separated from the flywheel because the last conversion gear has to be completed. Then, if Dorrin and Yarrl can get the new bearing system to work, the shaft can be installed and the propeller attached. Then the Black Hammer can be floated.
For a long time, the younger engineer studies the flywheel, thinking about a better design for the next engine. He shakes his head. He needs to finish one engine at a time.
The faint hissing is not so faint when Dorrin steps back toward the steam section of the engine.
“Do you know what it is? The hissing?” asks Yarrl, bending close to Dorrin’s ear and not quite bellowing.
Dorrin shakes his head, then begins to trace the steam flow from the boiler tubes to the steam drum and to the cylinders, and from the cylinders to the main condenser. He stops. Air is entering the condenser, dropping the vacuum pressure and the engine’s efficiency, and causing the hissing.
Getting down on the deck on his knees he studies the cover plate, finally straightening up and looking at Yarrl. “There’s a little gap in the plate, almost too small to see. Maybe it got chipped somehow when we installed it. We’ll need to do something about it. It’s costing us power.”
“Always something.”
Dorrin shakes his head. There is always something going wrong. This is the fourth test, and each has revealed another problem. He throttles up the steam pressure another notch, but the power rods still run smoothly.
Dorrin and Yarrl watch and study, until midmorning, when Dorrin begins cooling the engine, slowing it back down, and finally venting off enough pressure to stop the cylinders.
Taking the heavy cloth and tongs, he can finally remove the condenser cover plate and store it in a canvas bag to carry back to the smithy/engineering shop.
“It can cool down from here on its own,” Dorrin tells Tyrel. “I need to replace the condenser cover, maybe rebuild it. Then we’ll finish the last gear and the bearings.”
“How long?” asks Tyrel.
“Another eight-day,” Dorrin guesses.
“We should have the deckhouse framing finished before that, and we’ll need the plates for it.”
“I know.” The plates from the iron works are too soft and too thick, and even with the rough trip-hammer Yarrl has rigged off Dorrin’s small millrace, reforging each is time-consuming.
Dorrin walks uphill slowly. The condenser cover is heavy.
“Let me carry it for a while.”
The younger man hands over the canvas case. “What about the bearings?”
“They bind too much, even when there’s almost no weight on them. You install them like that and the whole shaft will vibrate.”
The two walk into the smithy, where Rek is using the small anvil to forge nails. Vaos is using the large anvil for spikes. There are never enough nails or spikes, it seems.
“Let’s see the bearings.” Dorrin takes the canvas sack and puts it on the corner of his bench. The bearing problem comes first.
Yarrl hands one of the cylindrical bearings to Dorrin. “They bind here on the edges. You can see where the metal’s scratched.”
Dorrin runs his fingers across the cylinder. The center section is smooth, but he can feel the abrasion, even on the hard steel, at the edges. Setting the bearing, its diameter not much smaller than the large rod stock from which it was forged, on the smooth iron plate Dorrin uses to check the parts for evenness, he places another plate on top of the bearing, and gradually exerts as much force as he can, gently rolling the bearing
back and forth, trying to sense where the pressures fall.
From beside the slack tanks, Vaos and Rek watch, Vaos scratches his head, but the younger brother suddenly grins.
Finally, Dorrin straightens and wipes the dampness from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “Let’s trying grinding bevels on the ends.”
“I thought of that. Won’t that make them wobble in the track?”
“Maybe… but what if we slanted the holding flange just a bit? The tangs on the ends will help.”
“Might be worth it.”
Dorrin takes a deep breath and pulls off his tunic. “Let’s get the big stone moving, Vaos.”
“Yes, ser.”
Dorrin takes down the bearing tongs he built, with the attached screw clamps to hold the tang ends against the grinding pressure.
“I can’t help with that. You’ve got a finer touch,” Yarrl says. “I’m going back to that last blank on the gears.”
“Good.” Dorrin takes the first of the bearings. It will be another long day, and after that he must still redesign and reforge the pressure cover for the condenser. Then, once the gear and bearings are finished, they will have to test the system for vibration again. And probably again after that. Sometimes, he wonders if the ship will ever be completed.
At least, he can take a short break for lunch, and at least Liedral will be there, before she goes back to Land’s End again.
He sighs, remembering the three uncompleted cheese-cutters, real cheese cutters, for which he must still draw the wire before she goes.
CLXXI
DORRIN TIES BASLA to the iron ring on the stone post, half turning to glance at the Black Holding, where the Council usually meets. Then he turns toward the well-kept stone walk, still damp from the morning rain. The yellow flowers in the plantings beside the walk still bloom, but they will fade within the eight-day, for fall is indeed upon Recluce.
He steps toward the house, carrying the folder with him. While he does not look forward to the meeting, it is something he must do.
Magic Engineer Page 62
