He coughed. The air was thick with moisture, with the lard used as lubricant on the working surfaces, with the odors of sweat and scorched metal and wafts of soot where the twin stacks leaked smoke. Behind the boiler men were working in a frenzy, passing lengths of log to throw into the firebrick-lined pit beneath it; behind them others stood ready at the ropes and tackle that controlled the tiller, hitched to the world’s first sternpost rudder.
“I say it’s a wonder it’s working at all,” Adrian bawled back cheerfully.
He set hands to the ladder that ran up between the smokestacks, and gasped with relief as he came up into the square blockhouse that protruded four feet up through the turtleback deck of the Wodep’s Fist. Narrow slits lined it on all four sides, and looking through them he could see Preble spread out around him—as black and gray and blue with heads and faces as it had been for King Casull’s arrival yesterday. Now people flocked to see the latest wonder of the wonder-worker Adrian Gellert, their savior. . . .
And I do wish they wouldn’t call me that, he thought. He could see King Casull’s eyes narrow every time some fool yelled it out in the street, and Prince Tenny’s reaction was even worse.
He took a cork out of one of the speaking tubes, whistled sharply through it, and shouted into the funnel: “Left full rudder!”
An answering whistle came, and he grabbed for handholds as the Wodep heeled sharply. One of the paddles came nearly out of the water, and Adrian winced as the piston rod on that side danced wildly up and down for a moment, then again at the crunch as the paddle bit solid water once again. The fabric of the ship groaned, and he could hear water sloshing around in the boiler. A thought struck him, and he bent to peer down and check on the safety valve. Good. Back in Chalice some enthusiastic soul had fastened it down once, to make the engine go faster.
“Pass the word!” he called, and shouted into the three speaking tubes. “We’re going on a ramming run!”
More cheers, which made him shake his head in bemused wonder. Just sailing this thing on the straight and level was bad enough. . . .
“Do you see her?” he asked the Islander skipper.
“Yes, lord. That’s the Icebird’s Claw. Sun God, but my father served in her!”
The skipper was a young man; that might even be true. The galley lay drifting in the slow harbor eddy, its scarlet and blue paint chipped and faded, a low slender shape on the water a thousand yards away. Nobody was aboard but a crew of hastily trained criminals to man the catapults, promised their freedom if they put on a good show and impalement if they didn’t.
“Helm forward,” Adrian commanded. “All ahead full, but wait for my command on the reversing levers. Go!”
The paddles beat faster, throwing foam up higher than the command blockhouse. Occasional droplets came through the vision slits, welcome coolness even when they stung the eyes. Water broke aside from the ram, and washed up the deck as far as the triangular-board wave breaker he’d rigged to keep the bow from digging in too deeply; he didn’t want to think what might happen to this wallowing tub in any sort of sea. The forward motion built, like nothing he’d ever felt at sea before, even under oars—there was a blind purposeful waddle to it, a mechanical feeling. The galley grew, larger and larger. It was vastly lighter than the Wodep, but longer and higher at the gunwales. A dart arched out from the catapult, and another; distance made them seem to start slow and accelerate as they neared. They glanced harmlessly from the octagonal iron plates, with nothing but banging and sparks to show for it. Adrian ducked as one seemed to be coming straight for his eyes, but it caromed off the blockhouse as well. Closer, and he could see the empty oar ports of the trireme, the white faces of the men winching the catapults back.
Bang! Bang! More bolts skittering off the armor. They were aimed forward of the galley’s midships, at a thirty-degree angle.