L. E. Modesitt - Recluce 07 - The magic Engineer.pdf - L. E. Modesitt - margozap

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THE MAGIC ENGINEER

by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

Recluce Book Three

Edited by David G. Hartwell

Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet

A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010

To and for Carol Ann

Part I - SEEKER

THE BOY LOOKS at the iron, cherry-red in the tongs.

The wiry man-small and compact, unlike the traditional smith-holds the tongs higher as he

glances toward the boy. "That's hot enough to bind storms and wizards, boy. Strong enough to hold

giants, just like Nylan bound the demons of light for Ryba ..." Sweat pours from his forehead

despite the breezes channeled through the smithy by the Very nature of the building. "Iron . . .

iron runs through the center of Recluce. That's what makes Recluce a refuge of order."

"That story about Nylan isn't true. The demons of light were gone by then," states the child in

a clear, but low voice. His narrow solemn face remains unsmiling. "And there aren't any giants."

"So there aren't," agrees the smith. "If'n there were, though, iron's the stuff to hold 'em."

He returns to his work. "And black iron-that'll hold the worst of the White Wizards. Been true

since the time of Nylan."

"The strongest of the White Wizards? They weren't as strong as the founder."

"No," says the smith. "But that was back then. They're a-breedin' new demons in Fairhaven these

days. You wait and see." He lifts the hammer. "Then the Black Brothers'll need black steel . . .

even if I need an order-master to help me forge it.. ."

Clung . . . clung. The hammer falls upon the metal that the tongs have positioned on the anvil,

and the ringing impacts drown out the last of his words.

The solemn-faced boy, his hair redder than the cooling metal, nods, frowns.

"Dorrin, I'm done. Where are you?" A girl's voice, strong and firm, perhaps even a shout

outside the smithy, barely penetrates between the hammer blows rippling through the heat and faint

mist of worked metal.

"Good day, ser," says the redhead politely, before dashing from the smithy into the sunlight.

. . . clung. . .

The smith shakes his head, but his hands are sure upon the hammer and the metal.

THE RED-HEADED YOUTH leafs through the pages of the heavy book, his eyes flicking from line to

line, from page to page, oblivious to the scrutiny from beyond the archway.

"What are you reading?"

"Nothing." His thoughts burn at the evasion. "Just one of the natural philosophies," he adds

quickly.

"It wouldn't be the one on mechanical devices, would it?" asks the tall man.

"Yes, father," Dorrin responds with a sigh, waiting for the lecture. :

Instead, his father responds with a deep breath. "Put it back on the shelf. Let's get on with

your studies."

As he reshelves the heavy book and turns toward the tall, thin man, Dorrin asks, "Why don't we

build some of the machines in the books?" )

"Such as?" The tall man in black steps around his son and proceeds toward the covered porch

beyond the library.

Dorrin turns and follows. "What about the heated water engine?"

"Heated water is steam." The Black wizard shakes his head. "What would happen if chaos energy

were loosed in the cold water?" The wizard sits down on the high stool with the short back.

"It wouldn't work. But-"

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"That's enough, Dorrin. There are reasons why we don't use those machines. Some can be easily

disrupted by chaos. Some actually require the constant attention of a chaos wizard, and you can

understand why that's not practical here on Recluce, I trust?" Dorrin nods quietly, as he sits on

the backless stool across from his father. He has heard the lecture before.

"We work with nature, Dorrin, not against it. That is the basis of order, and the foundation of

Recluce." The wizard pauses. "Now, tell me what the winds are like off Land's End."

Dorrin closes his eyes and concentrates for a time. Finally, he speaks. "They're light, like a

cold mist seeping from the north."

"What about the higher winds, the ones that direct the weather?"

Dorrin closes his eyes again.

"You should have felt them all. You have to be able to feel the air, Dorrin, feel it at all

levels, not just the low easy parts," explains the tall man in black. He looks from the sky above

the Eastern Ocean back to the red-headed youngster.

"What good is feeling something if you can't do anything with it?" The boy's voice is both

solemn and curious.

"Just knowing what the air and the weather are doing is important." Despite his tall, thin

build, the man's voice is resonant and authoritative. "I have told you before. The fanners and the

sailors need to know."

"Yes, ser," acknowledges the redhead. "But I can't help the plants,, and I cannot even call the

slightest of breezes."

"I'm sure that will come, Dorrin. In time, and with more work." The man in black sighs softly,

turning his eyes from the black stone railing to the other covered porch where a shaded table set

for four awaits. "Think about it."

"I have thought about it, father. I would rather be a smith or a woodworker. They make real

things. Even a healer helps people. You can see what happens. I don't want to spend my life

watching things. I want to do things and to create things."

"Sometimes, watching things saves many lives. Remember the big storm last year ..."

"Father . . . ? The legends say that Creslin could direct the storms. Why can't-"

"We've talked about that before, Dorrin. If we direct the storms, it will change the weather

all over the world, and Recluce could become a desert once again. Even more people would die. When

the Founders changed the world, thousands upon thousands died, and they almost died as well. Now,

it would be worse. Much worse. Even if a Black as great as Creslin appeared, and that is not

likely. Not with the Balance."

"But why?"

"I told you why. Because there are more people. Because everything relates to everything else.

And because there is more order in the world today."

Dorrin looks at his father's earnest face, purses his lips, and falls silent.

"I'm going to help your mother with dinner. Do you know where Kyl is?"

"Down on the beach."

"Would you get him, please?"

"Yes, ser." Dorrin inclines his head and stands. As he crosses the close-grown lawn, his steps

are deliberate, carrying him along the knife-edged stone walk with the precision that

characterizes his speech and dress.

After a last look at his son, the wizard turns to wend his way through the library and toward

the kitchen.

III

"UNTIL YOU CAN prove you are the man with the white sword-that's how long before you could count

on being the High Wizard, Jeslek."

"I suppose I would have to raise mountains along the Analerian highlands? Is that what you're

saying, Sterol?"

"It wouldn't hurt," quips the man in white with the amulet around his neck.

"It could be done, you know. Especially with all the increased order created over the past

generations by Recluce." The sun in Jeslek's eyes bathes the room.

"The day you do that, I'll hand you the amulet." Sterol laughs, and the sound is colder than

the wind that swirls across the winter skies above Fairhaven.

"I mean it. It's not a question of pure force, you know. It's a question of releasing order

bounds deep within the earth."

"There is one condition, however."

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"Oh?"

"You must preserve the great road, and stand amidst your mountains as you raise them."

Jeslek chuckles. "Getting more cautious, I see."

"Merely prudent. One would not wish a High Wizard who could not control the chaos he released.

That was the example of Jenred."

"Spare me that lecture."

"Of course. You young ones do not need the ancient tales and parables because they do not apply

in a changing world."

Jeslek frowns, but bows. "By your leave?"

"Of course, dear Jeslek. Do let me know when you plan to raise mountains."

"I certainly will. I would not wish you to miss anything."

"DAMN IT, DORRIN!" The smith takes the short length of metal, already bearing a blackish sheen,

even while it retains a straw brown color, and uses the tongs to set it on the brick hearth beside

the anvil.

The youth flushes, the red from the forge combining with the red of chagrin climbing up from

his neck. "I'm sorry, Hegl."

"Bein' sorry don't count a whole lot. Now, I got a chunk of black-ordered steel that's useless.

Don't fit nothing, and nothing but a wizard's hearth gets hot enough to melt that. Darkness, you

dump so much order in things, Nylan himself couldn't have forged it." Hegl snorts. "Not much call

for black steel, anyway, but you don't order it until it's finished. What were you thinking of?"

"How it would look when you were done."

The smith shakes his head. "Go on. Let me finish. I'll send Kadara for you when it's time."

Dorrin swallows and turns, walking toward the open double doors designed to funnel the cool air

through the smithy. Behind him, the smith extracts another rod of iron from the bin and lifts it

toward the furnace.

The redhead holds his narrow lips so tightly they almost turn white. He has persuaded his

father to let him spend time with Hegl, and if Hegl will not have him .. .

He steps through the open doors and out toward the wash-stones, where he pauses and splashes

his face with the cool water, letting it carry away the heat of the smithy and the embarrassment.

After pumping a drink from the spout, he leans toward the garden fed by the runoff from the

washstones. Neatly edged in fitted gray stone, the different colored leaves of the herbs, and the

few purple-flowered brinn plants, have formed almost mathematically precise rectangles.

Dorrin lets his senses touch the herbs, feeling the beginning of root rot in the Winterspice,

always a problem, according to his mother, because Recluce was far warmer than the climes of

Nordla. With the practice borne of training, his senses enfold the Winterspice, adding the

strength the bluish-green-leaved spice needs to resist the dark fungal growths.

Out of habit, he checks the others, even the rosemary in the drier upper stone garden. With a

shake of his head that displaces not a strand of his tight-curled and wiry red hair, he

straightens.

"I wondered why my spices have grown so true this year." A gray-haired and stocky woman stands

by the washstones.

"Your pardon," offers Dorrin.

"My gain, you mean, if you have even a fraction of the skill of your mother." She smiles. "Why

are you out here?"

"Wandering thoughts," confesses the youth. "I thought about the wrong thing and turned an

unfinished ingot into black steel. Hegl was less than pleased."

"He would not be," affirms the smith's wife. "But he will find some use for it, if only to

demonstrate the strength of his work."

Dorrin shakes his head.

"Kadara will not be back from the Temple until later ... she has afternoon classes."

"I know. I'm going home until Hegl needs me." The red-haired youth turns and walks down the

flagged path toward the stone paved street.

Behind him, the smith's wife shakes her head for an instant before looking at the herb garden.

She smiles as she studies the plants.

Dorrin's steps carry him past two of the stone-walled and split-stone shingled homes of Extina

before he turns and walks up the stone drive slightly wider than the drives of the neighboring

dwellings. A set of prints in the faint dust that has settled on the short wiry grass indicates

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where his mother's light steps have trod as she has inspected her own garden and trees.

THE MAN IN black looks up, preoccupied, almost as if he does not see the youth on the covered

terrace as he walks slowly up the stone walk.

Looking out beyond his father, Dorrin can see the Black Holding, where the Council on which his

father serves meets. No one has lived there in the three centuries since the deaths of the

Founders. Slightly to the left of the Black Holding begins the High Road, which stretches to the

southeastern tip of Recluce. Much of the southern part of the isle remains forested and

uninhabited, except for the few crafthalls and the rich Feyn River plains, where most of the

isle's grains are grown.

As his eyes flick back to the black buildings on the highest point of the cliffs, Dorrin

frowns, absently wondering how true the tales are about Creslin and Megaera. How could they have

died at the same exact instant-just as the sun rose? Or is that just another bit of superstition

he is supposed to swallow? At least his models do not rely on belief. He frowns. Or do they?

"Dorrin ..." calls the thin-faced man. "We need to talk. Get your brother. The kitchen is

fine."

"Yes, ser." He turns and walks down the rear steps from the terrace. Kyl is weeding his own

private herb garden, as result of their mother's threat to withhold sweets until both youths'

gardens are presentable and orderly. Dorrin smiles. The order of Dorrin's garden has never been a

problem. On the other hand, Kyl-his dark-haired younger brother-prefers fishing or crabbing or

just staring at the Eastern Ocean to any sort of gardening.

The stocky boy is not weeding. Instead, he sits disconsolately beside a small pile of wilted

weeds. "I hate gardening. Why can't I go off with Brice, like I wanted?"

"I suppose," begins Dorrin, kneeling down beside Kyl and immediately removing small unwanted

sprouts as he talks, "because father is a black wizard of the air and mother is a healer. If they

were fisherfolk, like Brice's parents, then they wouldn't want us to be wizards or healers ..."

"I hate gardening."

Dorrin continues to weed, his hands quick and precise among the plants. As he weeds, his

fingers stroke the herbs, infusing them with order. "I know."

"You don't like learning about the air, do you?"

Dorrin shrugs. "I don't mind learning anything. I like to know about things. I want to make

things-not like Hegl, but machines that do things and help people. I'll never shift the winds or

control the storms."

"Father can only do little things with the winds. He said so himself."

Dorrin shakes his head. "He only does little things, because he fears the effect on the

Balance. What good is it to have a power you can't use? I'd rather do something useful."

"Fishing is useful," Kyl observes. His eyes stray to Dorrin's hands. "You make weeding look so

easy."

Dorrin shakes dirt off his fingers and stands, brushing off his gray trousers before

straightening up. "Father sent me after you. He has some news."

"About what?"

Dorrin shrugs again before he turns back toward the house. "I don't think it's good. He was

walking slowly and thinking about something."

"Like the time when you ruined Hegl's iron?"

Dorrin flushes, but does not turn to let his younger brother see the reaction. "Come on."

"I didn't mean that..."

Dorrin keeps walking.

"... and thanks for the help with the weeding."

"That's all right."

The weather wizard stands by the kitchen table that seats but four. Both youths incline their

heads slightly as they step into the room from the covered porch where they all dine together in

weather better than the raw overcast outside. Their mother is sitting in the chair by the window.

"Sit down," suggests their father.

They sit, one on each side of Rebekah. Sitting on the remaining chair, the tall wizard clears

his throat.

"... not another lecture ..." mumbles Kyl under his breath.

"Yes . . . another lecture," affirms their father. "This is a lecture that you have heard and

forgotten. And it's very important, because a time of change is upon us." The wizard sips from the

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cup he has carried to the table. "Among the White Wizards of Fairhaven there is a chaos wizard

whose like has not been seen for centuries. They call him Jeslek. He has even begun to raise

mountains in the high plains between Gallos and Kyphros."

Rebekah shivers. "Not even the Founders ..."

Oran takes another sip from his cup before speaking. "Something is going to happen, and we have

to be prepared. Chaos could crop up just about anywhere."

"Anywhere? That's silly," comments Kyl.

"You think that Recluce is immune to chaos?" snorts the tall man. "You think that the order

with which we live just happened?"

"No," answers Dorrin heavily, wishing his father would get to the point. "This has something to

do with me, doesn't it?"

His mother looks out the window. Kyl looks at the tile of the floor, then at his brother.

"Dorrin, now is not the time for your games with machines and models." Oran draws out the

words.

"Now, Oran," temporizes the red-haired woman. "He's still young."

"Young he may be, but order doesn't flow right when he's around. Have you talked to Hegl? Poor

man's afraid to work iron when Dorrin's nearby. I can't sense the storms when he gets worried.

Crellor- Never mind! And with the Fairhaven wizards talking about fleets and pressuring the

Nordlans to stop trading with us, things are getting too serious to have order disrupted." The air

wizard frowns, then coughs. "Too serious," he repeats.

"What do you want me to do? Disappear?"

Oran shakes his head, pulls at his chin, then purses his lips. "Nothing is ever that simple.

Never that simple." Dorrin picks up the heavy tumbler and sips the lukewarm redberry.

Kyl winks at his older brother, and Rebekah glares at her younger son. Kyl shrugs when her

glance shifts to Oran.

Finally, Oran looks at Dorrin. "We've talked about this all before, about how you insist on

making your models and thinking about machines. And I asked you to think about it." The tall

wizard pauses. "It's clear that you haven't taken my words seriously enough."

"I have thought about it," Dorrin says slowly. "I would rather be a smith or a woodworker. They

make real things. Even a healer helps people. You can see what happens. I don't want to spend my

life watching things. I want to do things and to create things."

"Sometimes, watching things saves many lives. Remember the big storm last year ..."

"Father . . . ? The legends say that Creslin could direct the storms. Why can't-"

"We've talked about that before, Dorrin. If we direct the storms, it will change the world's

weather, make a desert of Recluce again, and kill thousands everywhere. You're just going to have

to concentrate on what you're supposed to be doing. And I can't make you. I'm sending you to study

with Lortren."

"Is that wise?" asks Rebekah.

"What else can I do? He doesn't listen to me."

"Father?"

"Yes, Dorrin."

The redhead takes a deep breath. "I do listen to you. I can't do what you want me to do, and I

don't want to. You are a great air wizard. I never will be. Can't you just let me be what I am?"

"Dorrin, machines and chaos were what brought down the Angels. Now, admittedly, you couldn't

handle chaos if your life depended on it, which, thankfully, it doesn't. But this obsession with

building machines is unnatural. What good will they bring? Will they make people healthier, the

way healers do? Or will we tear up the earth in search of metals? Will we poison the rivers

refining them? And part of the order of Recluce is supported by the core of cold iron ore that

runs down the hills above the Feyn. Would you throw that away for machines that would run and

wither away?" Dorrin looks down for a moment, then turns to his father. "It doesn't have to be

that way. Hegl doesn't make a mess. Everything there is reused."

"Hegl doesn't need stones' and stones' worth of metals. Machines do." Oran shakes his head.

"Perhaps Lortren can make you two understand."

"What did I do?" protests Kyl.

"Nothing," answers the air wizard.

"But.. .?"

"Oh ... I was referring to Dorrin's friend Kadara. She thinks that strength and skill are the

answer to everything. She refuses to listen to her mother, only to Hegl, because she only respects

physical strength."

"Kadara's going to the Academy, too?" Dorrin looks from his brother toward his father.

Oran nods. "I am not exactly pleased with the idea. Nor is Hegl, but the Brotherhood is even

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