The Magic Engineer (63 page)

“Oh…I got a fair amount of coin.” Liedral opens the small chest on the bedroom table that doubles as her desk and Dorrin’s drafting platform.

“I’d say so.” Standing just behind the trader, Dorrin takes in the heap of silvers and golds in the chest. He squeezes her shoulders. “So what was the problem?”

“They’d buy but not sell. I couldn’t get any of the cordage Tyrel wanted, nor any commitment for copper. According to Henshur, no one’s ever had trouble getting copper from Nordlans before.” Liedral closes the chest.

“I missed you.” Still standing behind her, Dorrin puts his arms around her waist and his cheek against hers.

“I missed you.” Liedral turns in his arms. Her lips demand his, and for a time they remain locked together.

“Dinner’s ready! Master Dorrin and Mistress Liedral! Dinner’s ready.” Frisa’s high voice penetrates the closed door.

Liedral lifts her lips. “I know it’s been a long time, but…please…just keep trusting me…”

His lips brush hers. “I will…I do…” He wipes away a tear, and finds her hand wiping his cheek.

“Dinner!”

Dorrin starts to respond, but has to clear his throat. “We’re coming.”

“Not yet,” comments Liedral wryly. “But we will get there.”

Dorrin blushes. Liedral straightens her tunic and steps around Dorrin to open the door.

Everyone else is at the long table, except for Merga and Frisa. Frisa sets two baskets of fresh-baked bread on the table—one at each end.

“Smells good,” Yarrl announces.

Dorrin sits in the chair at the head of the table, while Liedral slips next to him on the bench to his left.

“Be lifting your rafters tomorrow, Reisa,” Pergun announces.

“It’s about time,” Reisa says. “I expect you might even get the roof finished before midwinter.”

“Aye, but that depends on the stonecutters. I need more of the slate tiles.”

Merga sets a large casserole on the table.

“What is it?”

“Fish stew.”

“Fish, always fish,” mutters Vaos from the middle of the bench.

Dorrin agrees silently.

“Fish be good for you,” snaps Rylla. “Better than starving in Spidlar. Or worse, and don’t ye forget it, you ungrateful scamp.” She spoils the effect by not being able to hide a small smile.

“I got some greenberry from the holders.” Merga holds up the pitcher. “You like some, master Dorrin?”

“If you please.” Although the drink is bitter, Dorrin prefers it to the watery beer or water that are the alternatives. He ladles out the stew onto his plate, noting various sliced and chopped creatures, as well as seaweed and quilla roots. At least it is nourishing, and the spices will help—he hopes. The bread is also good, but Merga has always baked good bread.

“Whose dwelling comes after Yarrl’s?” asks Rek.

“I’d say it was Mistress Kadara’s, and Rylla will be with her, I understand.” Pergun still speaks with his mouth full, and breadcrumbs spray onto the table.

“Stop talking when you’re eating,” reminds Merga, settling next to him.

“Somebody’s got to look after that child she’s carrying,” Rylla mumbles.

Kadara chuckles. “You’d think it was your grandson about to be born.”

“Only one I’d like as to see.”

“You’re not that old,” prompts Vaos.

“Never said as I was old.” Rylla gestures around the table. “You see any other children coming around this place?”

Merga blushes and looks at the table. Petra raises her eyebrows and looks toward Dorrin and Liedral.

“You never can tell,” Dorrin temporizes.

“So…maybe you’ll prove me wrong,” the old healer says, “but with his mother a blade, and her own family an isle-length away, her son’s going to need another grandmother.” Rylla breaks off a chunk of bread and dips it into the stew on her plate.

“Could I have some more greenberry?” asks Rek.

“Stop washing your food down,” admonishes Reisa.

“I wish we had something besides fish and mutton.”

“I baked some pearapple pies for later,” Merga adds. “But you don’t get any, lad, unless you eat your stew.”

“Master Dorrin?” protests Rek, looking at the heap of fish on his plate.

“I have to agree with Merga.”

“You’re mean,” Liedral teases.

Dorrin recovers the bread, and finds he has the end crust.

“When will your ship be going to sea, master Dorrin?” asks Frisa. “Can I have a ride on the new one?”

“Not this time, young woman.” Dorrin realizes he has too much in his mouth and swallows, but not before Liedral glances sharply at him. “I think we’ll be taking her out into the Gulf in about an eight-day.” If the gear train works as it is supposed to, if the thrust bearing mounts can stand up to the vibrations, if…

He takes a sip of the bitter greenberry, and then another mouthful of fish. His next ship will be a big steam trader. He has been well-off; he is not well-off, at least not in food, and he prefers the former.

“You best eat that stew,” Rylla warns Kadara.

Liedral rolls her eyes, and Dorrin waits for the pearapple pie.

At the sturdy stone pier are tied a small schooner with sails apparently furled and a black pipe protruding from the main deck, a small two-masted fishing boat, and another ship, jet
black, without masts, but with a slant-sided deckhouse, an open cylinder behind it, and smooth curved hull lines. Workers attach black metal to the rear of the deckhouse.

The three White Wizards study the scene in the mirror.

“What in darkness is it?” asks Fydel.

“Do we really want to find out?” Cerryl’s voice is sardonic.

“Cerryl dear, you are so cautious. Look at the hillside. Those are tents beyond the houses. Clearly, this…settlement is scarcely begun.”

Fydel raises his eyebrows. “The stone buildings appear rather solid, Anya.”

“You…men! If you can call yourselves that. We need to stop this before the Black Council gets fully behind this…renegade. Right now, all he has is two small ships and a fishing boat, and a few buildings. We wait much longer, and it gets that much harder.”

“Anya, the southern fleet is already gathering in the Great North Bay. Within the next two eight-days, depending on the winds, it will be ready to set forth—exactly according to your plans.” Cerryl offers the redhead a broad smile. “What else would you have us do?”

“You are too accommodating, Cerryl.” Anya’s voice is smooth. “But I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I do trust that the fleet’s departure will be as you have projected, and that there will be sufficient troop support to level this Black settlement.”

“You wish to prove to the Blacks that we can strike even upon their beloved isle?”

“It would aid our effort, would it not?” asks the red-headed wizard.

“If you so believe, then I bow to your wisdom.” Cerryl inclines his head. “I will ensure that the fleet leaves as you have planned.”

“Thank you.” Anya steps back, and inclines her head. “By your leave, Highest of High Wizards?”

“Of course.” Cerryl inclines his head in return, watching as she leaves.

Fydel waits impassively until the door shuts. “You push her
too much, Cerryl. With all her supporters, she could have your head tomorrow.”

“Perhaps. But would you want this position?”

Fydel shakes his head.

The clear morning light of early winter cascades across the harbor, and steam seems to rise from the water. On the hillside above, white rime begins to melt off the rooftops. Hoofs sound on the extension of the High Road that now extends all the way to the black stones of the wharf.

Dorrin turns from his study of the needle-shaped
Black Hammer
. At least in comparison to the
Black Diamond
, the
Hammer
is longer and narrower, with a correspondingly narrower but deeper keel. And the
Hammer
not only looks black, from the iron and lorkin finish, but feels black.

The engineer watches as the post carriage clicks past the small building serving as Reisa’s office as harbormaster. While Reisa insists that she is only a disabled blade, Dorrin knows better, having watched as she has rebuilt a marshy inlet into a real, if small harbor, and as she has begun to extend the breakwaters to allow for operation in more stormy seas.

Dorrin frowns momentarily, for the post carriage normally stops to deliver letters at the harbormaster’s. He waits until the carriage pulls up, the door opens, and three figures step out—Oran, Ellna, and Videlt.

He bows. “I had not expected you.”

“We had not expected to be here.” Ellna’s normally musical voice is hoarse. “But we thought that we should see your progress.”

“This is our progress.” Dorrin gestures toward the
Black Diamond
.

“Frankly,” states the squarish Videlt, “I am more impressed by the buildings and the harbor and the organization than a single ship.”

So is Dorrin, but he would prefer the Council come to that conclusion without his words. “Since you are here, would you
like to see the ship?”

“We might as well.” Oran’s voice is sour. “Would you show us?”

“This ship is not much larger than the first. Is it that much more capable?” asks Videlt.

“It is a warship,” Dorrin states flatly, leading the way up the gangway. “There’s nothing that is easily flamed.”

“Could we see your engine?”

Dorrin leads the way to the engine compartment, climbing down the ladder first. “This is the fire box, and the coal is shoveled from the bins here…”

The three Council members are silent as he explains the steam generation, flow, the reciprocating nature of the cylinders and the gearing to the shaft and the propeller.

“No chaos…not now,” mumbles Videlt.

“You won’t find any traces, either.” Dorrin watches his father’s face go blank, knowing Oran strains to find any sense of the whitish-red of chaos.

Oran blinks and straightens up. “Has your ship been seatested?”

“Twice. She can outrun Kyl’s craft, especially in rougher seas or in light winds.” Dorrin nods toward the ladder, then follows the three back onto the main deck.

Ellna touches the plate on the deckhouse. “Did you forge all the black iron?”

“No. I had help from Yarrl and others.”

“You forged it, then, so far as adding the order component.”

“Put that way, I suppose so. But I could not have done it by myself.”

“Commendable modesty,” offers Videlt.

Dorrin follows the three past the funnel to the stern, where Videlt looks down into the gray-green of the harbor.

“Not a big rudder.”

“If it’s behind the screw, we don’t need as big a rudder. The flow of water past it increases its effect.”

“It seems to be a very solid ship, Dorrin,” offers Oran.

“We hope so.”

“We don’t have that much time, and I would like to see some of the buildings. What is the long one there?” asks Ellna.

“That’s Liedral’s warehouse, where we keep our trading
goods. She has an office there also. Actually, she will when we can make furniture for it.”

“Is it full?”

“Hardly.” Dorrin laughs. “It’s mostly empty now, but she thinks that’s what we’ll need within a year.”

The three Councillors exchange glances.

“Dorrin,” begins Ellna, “you may not have a year.”

“The Whites are coming?”

“How did you know?”

The engineer shrugs. “I didn’t know for certain. I had the feeling that they would. That’s why we pushed so hard on completing the
Hammer
. That’s why we don’t have furniture, why we keep eating fish and quilla and tough mutton, why all my coins have gone into iron and lumber and fittings.”

He starts back to the gangway and leads the three forward to the gangway, where he pauses to survey the ship. Booted feet click on the order-strengthened black oak of the deck.

From the top of the pilot house, Styl and two assistants who have appeared from somewhere on the isle look down silently. When the Council members look away, Styl clenches a fist and lifts it in a gesture of triumph.

Dorrin represses a grin and walks down to the pier. After the others join him, he asks, “What else do you want to see?”

“You don’t want to know about the Whites?” Ellna’s voice is curious.

“Magistra, if you wish to tell me, you will. If you do not, no effort of mine could make you.”

“Like Creslin…” mumbles Videlt.

Dorrin waits.

“The White fleet is gathered in the Great North Bay off Lydiar. We expect that they will set sail within the next eight-day.” Ellna coughs to clear her throat.

“How do you plan to defend Recluce?” Dorrin asks.

“As we always have. They will have to land, and we do not believe that could be successful anywhere near Land’s End.”

“And at sea?” Dorrin pursues.

Videlt adds. “There’s not much we can do. We’ve not that many ships, and only two are within days of Recluce. We have to send a pair on every trading voyage these days, and we have
no copper or tin on Recluce. Nor cobalt for the glass works, nor…”

“We’re on our own, then?”

“How would you plan to stop a White force?” asks Oran.

“I’d try to stop them at sea, first.”

“With what? I did not see a ram on your ship, and one ship cannot match a fleet in troops.”

“We have a small boarding force—and some black steel rockets.”

“Rockets? Those firetubes?” Videlt frowns.

Dorrin nods.

“Barbaric weapons.”

“No more barbaric than the White Wizards’ firebolts.”

“Some of them are designed to go through a hull,” Dorrin adds.

Ellna winces.

“I’m not pleased, either, magistra, but if we must fight, we must be prepared to fight to win.” Dorrin wonders if he will ever be able to avoid volunteering disturbing information. Will the existence of his ship dissuade the White Wizards? That he doubts. Can his ship turn back an entire fleet? Not without more rockets…and a great deal of luck—or unless the Whites can be persuaded to turn back themselves.

“We will leave such decisions in your hands,” Videlt adds smoothly, brushing back the long brown hair off his forehead. “I, for one, would like to wander around your…town…by myself.”

“Whatever you wish.”

Ellna looks to Videlt, then Oran. “We’ll meet back at the harbormaster’s before noon. That’s when the post coach is scheduled to leave.” She turns and begins to walk toward the empty warehouse.

Videlt walks along the harbor wall, as if he will circle the eastern side, leaving Dorrin and Oran standing on the pier.

After a long moment, Oran asks, “What are you going to call your town?”

“We really haven’t discussed it. We just refer to it as Southpoint.”

“That’s really the whole end of the isle.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” Dorrin inquires.

“How about Nylan, after Ryba’s first smith?”

“I don’t have a problem with that, but I’d like to ask a few others, like Yarrl and Liedral and Reisa. Besides, names haven’t been a real priority.”

“I know. Kyl said you had your ship half-built before you ever got around to naming it.”

“I guess I’m more interested in the results than the name.”

“I know that, too.” Oran’s voice no longer contains its earlier edge and sourness. “Let’s walk to your place. Tell me about the town…and the people.”

The two men start inland, passing the harbormaster’s building.

“That’s for the harbormaster, Reisa. She’s a former blade, from Southwind—”

“The one-handed woman?”

“Yes. She’s also been training our troopers.”

“You have armed troopers?”

“Not a lot. Roughly two squads, so far. She heads one, and Kadara heads the other—or did, and will, later.”

They turn to two other buildings spread apart and across from the armory and training grounds.

“This is Yorda’s. He’s a cooper and basket maker—from up beyond Feyn, I think. And this”—Dorrin points—“belongs to Alerk. He’s a wool factor. I asked him why he wanted to build a place here when most of the herders and sheep were at the other end of the isle. He said that he wanted to be where the trade would be.” The younger man laughs. “He’s also got a larger place at Land’s End.”

They pass a small house, where roofers are setting tiles. Pergun pauses from giving instructions and waves, then resumes his discussion.

“That’s Pergun. He was a mill hand in Diev, but he’s the one who’s done most of the building. He helped me build my place in Diev.”

Oran watches as a horse-crane levers a timber frame up and into stone-framed foundation holes. “I don’t recall seeing that used before.”

“Something I worked out in Diev when I couldn’t afford much help to raise the walls.”

Farther uphill, they stop before another modest home, this
one with turned soil, some in the shadows with traces of frost upon it, edged in neat stone borders, with a stone walk leading to a narrow porch. The front windows are shuttered, awaiting glazing, but side windows are glassed and the shutters drawn back. A thin line of white smoke rises from the chimney.

“This is Kadara’s. Rylla, the older healer, lives with her. Usually, we still all eat together most of the time. That way, people have more time to get things done.”

Halfway up the hill, the air wizard turns and looks out onto the cold green Eastern Ocean. “You have a good view here.”

“Yes.” Dorrin wishes they had more time to enjoy it.

The two walk to Dorrin’s, toward the door of the smithy, from where the sound of hammers and the whir of the grindstone filter into the cool air.

Dorrin gestures, and Oran steps inside. Yarrl is busy with the big anvil and what appear to be wagon braces or iron straps. Vaos employs the smaller anvil and hammers out nails. He nods at Dorrin, but does not stop.

Rek alternates between the bellows and the grindstone, where he is finishing edges on blades for wood planes.

Dorrin waits until Oran nods, and they step back into the cold sunlight outside the smithy and under the empty porch. The thin line of white from the chimney that serves the stove tells Dorrin that Merga is baking. Then, with the crowd she feeds, Merga is always baking.

“You’ve done a great deal here.” Oran looks down at his son. “The coach is waiting, and I should be going. Take care, Dorrin.” The tall man steps away from the door to the workshop and smithy, then walks briskly downhill.

Dorrin watches, conscious that Liedral has stepped onto the porch.

“What did they want? To make our life harder?”

Dorrin takes the stairs and gathers her in his arms. “No. They came to warn us. The Whites are moving a fleet against us. They think it will leave the Great North Bay in the next few days.”

“Will they help us?” Liedral eases out of his arms.

“They can’t.” Dorrin snorts. “All but two of their ships are out trying to get the goods no one will bring here voluntarily.”

“Two ships? That’s all?”

“I don’t think Recluce has ever had more than a dozen in my lifetime. Who would bother them? Who wouldn’t take gold or buy the needed goods or spices?”

“That’s stupid.” Liedral glances westward, out at the sun-sparkled waves of the Gulf. “What will you do? Don’t tell me. You’re going to be a hero.”

“Do I have any choice?”

“No.” Her hands take his. “What are you going to do next?”

“Build more rockets. Have you and Rylla gather more of the ingredients for powder. Make sure we have enough black iron shields for the boarding force. What else can I do?”

“I’ll tell Reisa. Rylla will have to stay with Kadara. Her labor won’t be easy, even with the help you’ve already provided. Rylla says she’s nearly ready to have that baby.” She kisses him lightly. “You might as well get started.”

He might as well. He returns the kiss, more lingeringly before he lets go of her, and takes a deep breath.

“I’ll gather the sulfur and saltpeter…and what else I can round up. The holders north of here said they would have some, and there’s a little in the big warehouse.” She heads for the shed at the end of the house which serves as the temporary stable.

Dorrin strides back into the smithy. “Vaos!”

“Yes, ser!”

“We’ll be working late—for near an eight-day.” Dorrin studies the plate he has—more plate than he will have powder, he suspects.