Magic Engineer

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

“Because you need black iron, and they can’t handle order. It takes order-hardened iron to make the shields and the rockets. You put powder in anything but black iron, and any chaos wizard can touch it off.” Dorrin shrugs. “I suspect that the Nordlans and Hamorians will be able to put lower-pressure steam engines on their sailing ships. In fact, I’ll even give them the design.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll trade for the design. We’ll still need more trade with the eastern continents. Liedral’s working up what we need.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “Why not? I doubt that we could keep it a secret for long. Why not take credit for it? They’ll have to use regular iron, and with the chaos of the heat, it’s really not suited for anything but ocean ships at low pressure. A good schooner could still sail rings around them, but the engines would be handy for calms and getting in and out of ports.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Dorrin sighs, not caring if his father hears the exasperation. “I tried not to use black iron. You can’t get enough containment and pressure for a high-power engine-at least I can’t- without a lot of black iron. If you use a lot of regular iron, the engine gets too heavy, and it doesn’t generate much power. If it’s light enough to get the power, it’s only a couple of days before things start cracking and breaking. Maybe on some other world-or the planets of the Angels-but not here, not with the force of chaos and the Balance.”

  “Why did you let most of the Fairhaven fleet return home?”

  “You should have figured that out. If I destroyed half a dozen chaos wizards at once, the Balance would want to concentrate that chaos in one focus. Candar doesn’t need another Jeslek. Besides, sending them back to Candar is bound to disorganize chaos there even more.” Dorrin laughs. “Disorganized chaos-what an absurdity.”

  “You’ve made everything a matter of calculations and numbers, haven’t you? There’s no art…”

  “There never was,” Dorrin snaps. “The Balance is mathematical in nature, not some god of the ancient Angels. That’s why you’ll still win.”

  For the first time, Oran is silent, and Dorrin can feel the confusion.

  “Look… Every bit of order that’s placed in black iron, every bit of order concentrated in a steam-powered ship or a black iron rocket means that there has to be an equal amount of chaos somewhere. Chaos can be concentrated through wizardry. Generally, order can’t except through machines and black iron. No matter what I feel, Recluce can’t afford order machines-only those necessary for her defense. Building machines into every hamlet in Recluce would only” guarantee greater chaos in Fairhaven, perhaps enough to raise hundreds of Jesleks.“

  “What… how can…”

  “The Black Order of Engineers stays in the Black City of Nylan. You and the Brotherhood just keep doing what you’re doing. Except…” Dorrin pauses. “Anyone who wants to come to Nylan and whom we accept can stay.”

  Oran looks at the floor, the smooth-planked, evenly matched, near-perfect flooring. Then he focuses on the red-headed engineer at the other end of the table. “How will you do that?”

  “A wall should do the trick. The symbolism is what will make it effective. But a tall wall of ordered black stone separating the peninsula and Nylan from the rest of Recluce will make it real enough for most, and for those who don’t accept it… well, Nylan is where they belong… or Candar.”

  “So you’ll just take all the rebels?”

  “I’m not a Temple priest.” Dorrin snorts. “You made a simple mistake, my dear father. You never understood the difference between rebelling against something and wanting to create something. Even so, you were right.”

  Oran waits.

  “Steel and ideas have to be tempered and quenched.” Dorrin shrugs. “Why should I change what works?”

  Oran clears his throat. “You know, son, you’re a bigger man than I ever was.”

  “Nonsense.” Dorrin flushes. “I just did what had to be done.”

  Oran nods. “How did you know just what had to be done? How many people know what has to be done and still don’t act?” The tall wizard steps forward and around the table, setting his hands on the shoudlers of the shorter engineer for a moment before releasing his son.

  Dorrin’s eyes burn, and he cannot speak, not just because of his father’s approval, but because of all those others who have helped pay the price, and who will continue to pay-like Kadara, and Petra, and Quenta, and the dead Black trooper whose name he does not even know.

  “Your lady trader is right, son. You are one of the great ones, even though no one will ever list your name with Ryba’s or even with Creslin’s or Megaera’s. In that, I suspect, you are most fortunate.”

  Liedral, who has remained silent, takes Dorrin’s left hand, squeezes it. “A live engineer is more fortunate than a dead hero.”

  Dorrin squeezes her hand in return as his father, the tall black wizard, bows deeply. “You need rest, I think. But come to see us when you can. You are welcome anywhere on Recluce. The Council would have decided that without me, but I’m glad I can agree with them.” His narrow face breaks into a smile as his hand sweeps around the room. “But we all know this is your home. You are, after all, the magic engineer.” Then he bows and is gone.

  “It is home, isn’t it?” Dorrin swallows.

  Liedral squeezes his hand and lets go. “You knew that a long time ago.” She grins at him. “You magic engineer.”

  CLXXXIII

  THE SWIRLS IN the mirror depict perhaps a dozen ships bearing the red thunderbolt banner straggling back into the Great North Bay. Cerryl raises a finger, and the image vanishes from the mirror. “Now what?”

  “You send out another fleet, this time one that will follow orders,” Anya says lazily from the reclining chair. Her eyes focus on the high gray clouds visible through the tower window slit beyond the table. On one side of the table sits a deep basin of cold water.

  “Sterol was right,” Cerryl adds, his voice conversational as he looks at the box on the small table, a box containing a gold-painted amulet.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to let that nobody on Recluce humiliate us?” Anya’s voice takes a harder tone.

  “There is a Balance, and we can accept it, or fight it. Everyone who has fought it has lost. The trick is to make it work for you.”

  “You sound like you’re weaseling out, Cerryl. We can’t have that.” Anya sits up straight in the chair, but does not rise to her feet.

  “Why don’t you listen, for a moment? It won’t hurt.”

  “I’m listening.” The words are cold, yet white flames lurk beneath her eyes.

  “This smith-wizard builds machines. Those machines must contain chaos-fired steam or water. That means they embody great, great order. If he builds many of his machines, he increases the amount of chaos in the world. That would increase our power more greatly than his, because his order would be locked in those machines.”

  “So you would encourage him to build those machines? To attack and destroy our ships? That would certainly increase chaos. How much good it would do us is another question.” Anya rises like a pillar of white flame.

  “He won’t do that.” Cerryl gestures at the now-blank mirror. “He could have destroyed the entire fleet with his little black ship. He didn’t. He’s certainly no weak-willed Black idiot either. Weak-willed idiots don’t fight head-on. He destroyed Jeslek and Fydel one on one-Fydel with a staff, not even that ironclad chaos of his.” He steps over to the larger dining table and slips off the amulet he wears, setting it on the table, his back to Anya. He opens the box and removes the painted amulet, concealing a wince as the metal burns his hands. “Besides, you saw his ship. Even if we could board it, what could anyone do? Our White Guards couldn’t even touch half of it with all that black iron.”

  Anya steps toward Cerryl’s back. “It’s too bad you’ll follow Sterol, Cerryl dear.”

  “I don’t think so.” Cerryl lifts the amulet and turns. “But, here, you wear it. Yo
u always wanted to.” With a quick gesture, he drops the gold-painted iron links around her neck.

  Anya lifts her hands, then screams as a circle of flame burns away the gold paint and the white cloth beneath it. Her hands reach for the hot iron, but Cerryl grasps her wrists and nods toward the door.

  “I’m not quite as dense as I look, dear Anya. And while I’m not as powerful as you, or Sterol, I do occasionally think.”

  The three guards who hurry across the white stone floor bear chains of heavy and cold iron in their gloved hands.

  “You need me!” the redhead screams as the additional heavy iron chains slip around her.

  “Indeed we do. You will make a perfect example for future would-be schemers. You will look ravishing once your image is captured for display. Most fetching.” Cerryl smiles and inclines his head to the guards. “Good day, Anya.” He plunges his hands into the basin of cold water, taking a deep breath as the water cools his burns.

  CLXXXIV

  LIEDRAL UNWINDS THE black string, letting it drop on the light-green grass of early spring. Dorrin follows with the heavy stakes and the black steel hammer. With short strokes, he pounds in each stake and fastens the string.

  In time, they reach the dusty stone road in the middle of the peninsula. Dorrin hammers in another stake on the eastern side of the road, then takes his belt knife and cuts the string, tying it tightly to the stake. After crossing the road he pounds in another stake and ties the string to it. They proceed westward until they stand on the rocky headland overlooking the western shore. Dorrin hammers in a last stake and turns to watch the dark green of the Gulf waters, to drink in the whitecaps that break on the gray stones below.

  Liedral stands beside him. After a time, his arm goes around her broad shoulders, and he squeezes.

  “Will the string be enough?” She removes the broad-brimmed hat and brushes back the light brown hair.

  “It’s only a symbol. That’s where the wall goes that we promised the Council. All our people will live on our side, except for trade or visits to family-and all machines, ships, and the artifacts Oran has worried about for so long will stay behind the walls. Nylan, the Black City of the order-smiths.”

  “I prefer the magic engineers.” She shakes her head. “I know, I know. We don’t want to say much about the deplorable machines. You’ve said enough about that.”

  “It’s not because the Council deplores them. I agree with them, because too much order in machines can only lead to greater chaos.”

  “You think it will?”

  “With people like us in the world?” Dorrin grins. “Of course. But not for a long time. Then it will be someone else’s problem.” He kisses her cheek. “In the meantime, we’ll look for other problems.”

  “Problems?” asks Liedral, putting her arms around his neck.

  “Problems,” he answers before her lips cover his, as the gentle rounding swell of her body against his defines the next problem.