The Magic Engineer (58 page)

“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.

“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 fair 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.

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 slitting 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.

Liedral ties the cart and follows Dorrin.

A gray-haired man looks up from the table where he studies what appear to be drawings of the mine shafts. He steps forward. “I’m Korbow. How might I be helping you?”

“Dorrin. I’m a smith with a special Council project.” Dorrin takes out the letter with the seal and presents it to the lean older man.

Korbow slowly reads through the letter, scratching his head as he goes. Finally, he looks up. “You want how much iron?”

While Dorrin would like a ship built entirely of black iron and steel, he knows that it is not feasible, not yet, since he would need well over ten thousand stone of iron, and he cannot possibly calculate the cross-beams, and even the structure he would need. So he gives his estimate for what it will take to plate the oak and fir ship he has in mind.

“Something like two thousand stone.”

The mine chief shakes his head. “Maybe a thousand stone in two seasons, and that would run close to two hundred golds.” He looks at the letter Dorrin has presented. “Must be a terrible-like problem for the Council to be so interested.”

Liedral raises her eyebrows.

The engineer clears his throat. He has perhaps a hundred golds, another thirty golds’ worth of goods, and the
Black Diamond
. “What about a season and a half?”

“For a thousand? We’d have a problem with the slitting mills there, running it through.”

“What if I took most of it in plate, half a span thick?”

“Might make it easier, but those plates weigh almost seven stone each, and they’re just two cubits by three.”

Dorrin laughs. “That’s about the right size.”

“Shouldn’t that lower the price?” suggests Liedral.

Korbow grins. “Aye.”

“By about half,” adds Liedral.

Korbow’s grin fades somewhat. “I don’t know that it would be that much.”

“You’re delivering to one customer, and that’s easier,” persists Liedral.

“Aye.” The iron works man coughs into a huge hand.

“And the Council thinks it’s a good idea.”

“That they say.” Korbow shakes his head. “We do this, and I need to run out extra stock for my regulars first. What are you building, something out of all iron?”

“Not quite.”

“It’s also a long haul to Land’s End.”

“I’d want it at Southpoint.”

“There’s nothing there.”

“Not yet, but there will be.”

“What about my regulars?” Korbow asks again.

“You take care of them first.” Dorrin will not be in a position to use the iron for at least four eight-days, in any case.

“Be three-four eight-days.”

“Eighty golds for the thousand,” Liedral says.

Korbow’s face turns sour. “You drive hard, trader.”

Dorrin calculates, then decides. “I’ll offer more than coin…if you’ll trust me. I’m working on a new kind of ship that doesn’t rely on just the wind. I don’t know as you’d need it…but once the second one is built, you can look and see if there are devices we build that you can use.”

“So…you’re the one with the magic ship?”

“It’s not magic. It has an engine powered by steam.”

“The Council won’t allow that ashore, not even here.”

“I know. But what about gears, clutches, other things? I might be able to make a better pump.”

“Pumps…that’s another thing. They’d rather I go deeper than farther north on the seam, but I can’t do that without better drainage.” Korbow purses his lips. “I’ll take your eighty—and a pump or something that will help.” He grins. “I know you
Black types. If I leave it to you to be fair, I won’t get cheated.”

Dorrin grins back. Liedral shakes her head.

“You have to send someone to come with the wagon, the first time, anyways. We’ll say four eight-days from now?”

Dorrin nods.

“Now…not that I wouldn’t trust a man supported by the Council, you understand…”

“But you want a token of faith?”

“Your faith, I’m sure, is good. But what if you fail, and I have to cart back all that plate and reslit it smaller?”

“Say ten golds? Toward the iron, but forfeit if we fail?”

Korbow frowns.

“Each time,” Dorrin adds. “I give you another ten when you deliver the first load.”

“Fair’s fair.”

Dorrin counts out the ten golds, not wanting even to think about how much more his project will cost.

“In four eight-days in your location by Southpoint, and you send a messenger to guide my wagon.”

They shake hands.

“You’re stronger than you look. Might be a smith at that.” The iron works chief smiles again. “Now…I need to figure out how to squeeze and brace the lower seam…”

Dorrin inclines his head. “Our thanks.”

After they leave, and find Kadara still practicing outside, almost in rhythm to the dull hammering from the hillside above, Liedral turns to Dorrin. “He would have taken eighty.”

“I know. But he’s happy now, and…if I get him a better pump or something, he just might help more in the future. I don’t want to build just one ship.”

“You really think they’ll let you?”

“I don’t think they have any choice. Has any ship ported since we did?”

“I see what you mean.”

“They really don’t want the world to ignore Recluce, and that’s what’s happening.” While he can tell himself that, Dorrin’s thoughts still come back to the doubtful look on his father’s face, and his recollections of even more adamant opposition to engines of iron.

To the left of Great Highway, grass stretches perhaps a kay, then ends abruptly at the cliffs that drop sheerly to the Eastern Ocean below. To the right, the grass stretches nearly three kays, sloping downward to a lower set of more ragged bluffs overlooking the Gulf of Candar.

Winding through the grass, and marked by occasional scrub oaks, is a narrow stream, no more than a few cubits wide. On either side of the road, the plains grass grows almost stirrup-high. The muted wash of the sea and the twitter of insects are the only sounds besides the impact of hoofs on stone and the creaking of Liedral’s cart.

“I can’t believe this road,” says Liedral. “It’s magnificent, and there’s nothing here.”

“Supposedly, it was Creslin’s last project. He liked stonework a lot, and he insisted that there should be a Great Highway from one end of Recluce to the other.” Dorrin studies the nearly straight road ahead, looking for the point where it will drop through the rocky hills to the more marshy land at the tip of the isle. “It does stop about a half kay from the inlet. Back then, no one could see the point in driving it through a saltwater marsh.”

“That was only because he died before they finished the Highway,” adds Kadara sourly. “Otherwise, we’d have a road and a stone pier there.”

“I’m beginning to see why everyone here is so driven,” Liedral says. “Trying to live up to the accomplishments of the greatest hero in history is a bit much.”

“He wasn’t that great,” Kadara points out. “He put Megaera through the demon’s hell itself, and then followed her to redeem himself. They almost didn’t survive their daughter’s birth.”

Dorrin is silent, reflecting on what Kadara has said. Must every great accomplishment require a price not only from the doers, but from those around them? Do the payments of soul and blood ever end?

“What happened to the daughter?” asks Liedral.

“She lived and had children. Ask Dorrin.”

“Dorrin?”

“Supposedly, her name was Dylyss, after Creslin’s mother, although some insist it was Lyse, after his dead sister. She had three children.” Dorrin reins up at the top of the slope down to Southpoint and waits for Kadara and Liedral. “There.” The Highway angles right for nearly a kay to a wide sweeping turn that carries the road back nearly directly below them for another turn. From the second turn, the stone road arrows straight for a marshy area bisected by a narrow inlet. Twice the stream, spanned with well-crafted stone bridges, wanders under the road. While the stream runs into the marsh, the road stops at the edge of the marshy area. From the sides of the marsh rises slightly higher grassy land that circles the marsh and almost touches the inlet where the thin line of water meets the ocean.

“Not very prepossessing.”

“It has possibilities,” Dorrin says. “I can blast out some of the marshy area and widen the inlet. The ground north of the marsh is solid, and the rocks can be cut and order-hardened into solid black stones for building.”

“You are an optimist,” Kadara responds.

“I did build an engine.” Dorrin urges the gelding forward and down the dusty stones of the seldom-used highway.

Liedral and Kadara exchange glances as they follow Dorrin downhill. With the lower elevation comes dampness, and various bugs, including flies, which Liedral fans away one-handed.

At the end of the Great Highway, Liedral pulls up the cart. “What next?”

“I’d like to ride around the marsh.”

“I can’t take the cart, you know.”

“Tether it. Basla can carry us both for that little bit.”

Dorrin dismounts and uses his small sledge, taken from Liedral’s cart, to pound in the iron tether stake. Then, while she secures the cart, he unharnesses the cart horse and leads both animals to the edge of the stream. Their hoofs and his boots sink into the swampy ground, and, as they drink, he flails at the flies. Kadara just rides her mount to the stream and lets the mare seek the water herself.

When Dorrin walks back, Liedral takes the harness leads
from him and ties them to the tether stake. He mounts, but slips his foot from the stirrup to allow her a step up. Then he helps her into place behind the low saddle. “We’ll have to go slowly, I think.”

“You think? This isn’t the most comfortable position I’ve ever been in.”

Dorrin, feeling her arm around his waist, grins.

“And stop grinning.”

“How do you know I’m grinning?”

“You just feel like it.”

“She knows you, Dorrin,” calls Kadara from behind them.

“It’s firmer here.” Dorrin guides the black gelding around the left side of the marsh, still enjoying the feel of Liedral’s arm around his waist. So long as he follows the shorter grass, the horse has no problem with footing.

As they near the end of the vegetation and the soft sound of the ocean on sand and rock increases, he realizes that the area of grass has widened into a rough oblong that sits almost two cubits higher than the grassy path they have taken.

“Let’s get down. I want to look at this.” He helps Liedral down and then dismounts, prodding the grass and scuffing away the shallow layer of dirt until he reaches stone—flat stone. “Someone used this as a harbor or outpost before.”

“It has to have been a long time ago.”

“Longer than that, and what difference does it make?” asks Kadara.

“Not much, except that the inlet might be deeper than we thought.” He pauses. “On the other hand, if it was all man-made—”

“It might be shallower?”

Dorrin walks toward the point where a pile of stone rises even above the grasses. He looks across the inlet to a similar pile of stone and nods. “We’ll need to widen this, probably not for the
Diamond
, but the next one.”

“The next one?” asks Kadara. “They’ll let you build another one?”

“They already agreed.” Dorrin looks back around the small marsh, certainly no more than five hundred cubits from end to end, less than half that wide. “I need to get busy figuring out where to put things and what we’ll need where. Promised Tyrel
I’d be back before long with some idea of supplies.”

Once more, Liedral and Kadara exchange glances. This time, Liedral shrugs.

Dorrin turns from his study of the ocean, and swings up into the saddle. “There’s some sort of channel beyond the points, and it’s still pretty deep. You can tell by how smooth the water is—almost like someone put an underwater breakwater there.” He extends a hand to Liedral. “…a lot to do here…not much time…”

They ride back toward the cart under the midafternoon sun, the cool breeze sliding in off the Gulf of Candar and toward the Eastern Ocean beyond.