clawed iron grapnels and let go. Ruori saw one strike the foremast, rebound, hit a jib. . . the line to the blimp tautened and sang but did not break, it was of leather. . . the jib ripped, canvas thundered, struck a sailor in the belly and knocked him from his yard
the man recovered enough to straighten out and hit the water in a clean dive, Lesu grant he lived . . . the grapnel bumped along, caught the gaff of the fore-and-aft mainsail, wood groaned
– . . the ship trembled as line after line snapped tight.
She leaned far over, dragged by leverage. Her sails banged. No danger of capsizing—yet—but a mast could be pulled loose. And now, up over the gallery rail and seizing a rope between hands and knees, the pirates came. Whooping like boys, they slid down to the grapnels and clutched after any rigging that came to hand.
One of them sprang monkey-like onto the mainmast gaff, below the cross trees. A harpooner’s mate cursed, hurled his weapon, and skewered the invader. “Belay that!” roared Hiti. “We need those irons!”
Ruori scanned the situation. The leeward blimp was still maneuvering in around its mate, which was being blown to port. He put the megaphone to his mouth and a solar-battery amplifier cried for him: “Hear this! Hear this! Burn that second enemy now, before he grapples! Cut the lines to the first one and repel all boarders!”
“Shall I fire?” called Hiti. “I’ll never have a better target.”
“Aye.”
The harpooner triggered his catapult. It unwound with a thunder noise. Barbed steel smote the engaged gondola low in a side, tore through, and ended on the other side of interior planking.
“Wind ‘er up!” bawled Hiti. His own gorilla hands were already on a crank lever. Somehow two other men found space to help him.
Ruori slipped down the futtock shrouds and jumped to the gaff. Another pirate had landed there and a third was just arriving, with two more aslide behind him. The man on the spar balanced barefooted, as good as any sailor, and drew a sword. Ruori dropped as the blade whistled, caught a mainsail grommet one-handed, and
hung there, striking with his boat ax at the grapnel line. The pirate crouched and stabbed at him. Ruori thtught of Tresa, smashed his hatchet into the man’s face, and flipped him off, down to the deck. He cut again. The leather was tough, but his blade was keen. The line parted and whipped away. The gaff swung free, almost yanking Ruori’s fingers loose. The second Sky Man toppled, hit a cabin below and spattered. The men on the line slid to its end. One of them could not stop, the sea took him. The other was smashed against the masthead as he pendulumed.
Ruori pulled himself back astride the gaff and sat there a while, heaving air into lungs that burned. The fight ramped around him, on shrouds and spars and down on the decks. The other blimp edged closer.
Astern, raised by the speed of a ship moving into the wind, a box kite lifted. Atel sang a command and the helmsman put the rudder over. Even with the drag on her, the Dolphin responded well; a profound science of fluid mechanics had gone into her design. Being soaked in whale oil, it clung there for a time—long enough for “messengers” of burning paper to whirl up its string. The kite burst into flame.
The blimp sheered off, the kite fell away, its small gunpowder load blew up harmlessly. Atel cursed and gave further orders. The Dolphin tacked. The second kite, already aloft and afire, hit target. It detonated.
Hydrogen gushed out. There was no explosion, but sudden flames wreathed the blimp. They seemed pale in the sun-dazzle. Smoke began to rise, as the plastic between gas cells disintegrated. The aircraft descended like a slow meteorite to the water.
Its companion vessel had no reasonable choice but to cast loose all unsevered grapnels, abandoning the still outnumbered boarding party. The captain could not know that the Dolphin had only possessed two kites. A few vengeful catapult bolts spat from it. Then it was free, rapidly falling astern. The Maurai ship rocked toward an even keel.