Melanterol strolled through the crowd, listening. Some were alarmed over the fate of the flotilla; others still believed that Alston would bring it through. Still others chattered of the fishing and the crops and exchanged gossip that wouldn't have been out of place in his native city. He looked northward; the harbor was crowded too, a leafless forest of mast and spar, and many of the ships were very large; he could see barge-loads of beam and plank being towed eastward to the shipyards, where new clipper-frigates were abuilding. The sound of hammering, of power-driven saws, the chuffing of steam engines came over the murmur of the crowd. He shivered a little. That was the noise of weapons being forged, a spear that might well be pointed at the heart of his folk. Perhaps they should strike first…

There were a dozen steam tugs or whalers in sight as well, their paddles churning the cold blue waters; a flight of gulls took wing at the melancholy howl of a steam whistle. I hope the king's artificers are doing better with the engines of steam, he thought. That was turning out to be endlessly frustrating, even now that they knew the principles.

A young woman in smoke-grimed overalls applauded next to him as the speech ended. "Lot of new stuff going up," she said. "Extension to the casting plant, too. Double shifts."

"Ah," Melanterol said. "You work there? A great thing. Even in Alba, we've heard of it.''

"You Alban?" she said, turning to him. A snub nose with a smut of charcoal across it, blue eyes-and by her accent, not a native speaker of this tongue either. "I don't hear where you're from; I'm from the Glimmerfish country, myself."

He touched head, breast, and groin in a gesture of Alban formality he'd learned. "I'm from the Summer Isle-Ireland, the Eagle People call it. I trade-cloaks, horses, gold dust. My tribe wished to see if it would profit us to send here directly, and not go through Pentagon Base in Alba." He grinned at her. "And I wished to see its magic and marvels for myself."

She smiled back a little wryly. "Wonders, yes. I wondered and marveled at how much they would pay for work, until I saw how fast the coins flow away from you here!"

"Then let me buy you some of the wonderful bitter ale they serve at the Brotherhood," he said.

The woman gave him a considering look, up and down. Fiernan Bohulugi, he thought; they were even bolder than Amurrukan women, in some ways. And she works for Leaton. Works at the Bessemer casting plant.

The king was very interested in the place that made cast steel for cannon. There was a general description of the process in one of the books the palace had, but experiments had produced nothing but disaster and unusable spongy metal. Walker had been curiously unhelpful as well.

"Why not?" the woman said. "You get a thirst, pouring steel."

Marian AIston-Kurlelo stepped back from the pump handle, working her fingers and then wiping a forearm across her forehead. Hell, at least I don't have to be afraid of sunburn. Poor Heather had to watch that carefully in these latitudes, or she peeled like an onion.

"Reliefs on," she said aloud.

A new shift of twelve stepped up to the bars and began working them, up and down like the action on an old-fashioned rail handcar.

"Chips?" she said, walking forward and looking over the side where crewfolk were fothering another sail over the hull.

"It's gaining on us again, ma'am," the warrant officer said. He looked lobster-red; he'd been in the water a good deal. "It's not just the damaged planking. With that cross-chop during the storm, she spewed oakum from half the seams. We're taking water in trickles over big sections of the hull and I can't get at it with the state the hold's in. Every time the pumps clog we lose ground."

"Damn," Alston said, squinting up at the sky.

No more bad weather, thank Ghu, as Ian would say. The Chamberlain was making four knots across the wind, heading west by south; all the mizzen sails set, the main course, main lower topsail, and a big improvised triangular staysail on the line that led down from the mast to the bowsprit, through the area where the foremast should be. Hmmm… we could use the upper half of the mainmast as a jury foremast, cut it off right where it's cracked.

A figure emerged from the forward companionway, naked except for a pair of shorts and covered in oil, water, and swollen barley. Swindapa walked across the deck, plunged off the windward bow- there was a slick of sesame oil stretching downwind from the ship on the other side-and came up a line seconds later, glistening and reasonably clean.

"We've got most of the whole jars out," she said to Alston as she walked up, drying herself. "But there's just too much of the barley and it keeps shifting. The reed baskets it was in are all ruptured, and it's sludging around the ballast and everywhere."

Alston nodded soberly. They needed to get in to shore, maybe even beach the ship. That would be risky-this hull wasn't made for it- but it should be possible if they could get the right ground, soft sand or, better still, mud. Then they could recaulk, replank the smashed-in section of hull on the port bow, and really clean out the hold.

Hmmm. If worst came to worst, we could break up the hull, use the materials to build a couple of sloop-rigged pinnaces, and just sail down the coast to Mandela Base. She hated the thought of losing the ship, but they could salvage the cannon and come back for them later. Walking was out of the question; according to their best estimate, they'd make shore nearly two thousand miles from the Cape.

A belch of air came up the companionway, smelling of rancid sesame oil and spoiled barley. Her lips thinned.

"Quartermaster, have you finished checking the stores?" she said.

The warrant officer nodded. "Eight thousand gallons of fresh water in the intact tanks," she said. That sounded like a lot, until you considered how much two hundred thirsty humans could use in a day. "The others are repairable, if we can water somewhere. About half the dry provisions are salvageable, if you don't mind a little mold on the edges."

"On deck, there!"

Everyone not doing something that required close attention looked up. The lookout continued his hail: "Ship ho!"

Alston cupped her hands around her mouth. "Where away?"

"Three points on the starboard bow. Hull down. No masts!"

"I'd better take a look," Alston said. "Ms. Alston-Kurlelo, you have the deck."

"There," Prince Kashtiliash said softly into the hot stillness of the morning. "There, see? Where the reeds move against the wind."

The horses sensed it too, snorting a little in the chariot traces, the sound of their hooves on dirt sharp through the endless rustling murmur of the ten-foot sea of reeds. Kashtiliash shifted automatically and brought up his bow as their stamping hooves shifted the war-car. It wasn't rigged for war, now, of course, but hunting lions wasn't all that different. There was a quiver of arrows with broad-bladed, barbed heads strapped to the frame, and a bucket of javelins, plus a long spear and a hunting shield. His robe was plain wool, kirted up to let his hairy muscular legs have full play, with a new steel sword and dagger at his waist and leather bracers on his forearms.

The Kassite prince bared his teeth in sheer happiness. There was no better sport than marsh lion, unless it was elephant, and hunting lions was a royal man's duty as well as pleasure, so he needn't even feel guilty at neglecting affairs of state.

You will deal with the Nantukhtar all your life, his sire had said. These warriors of theirs are young men, however eldritch they may be and whatever their powers. Drink wine with them, hunt with them- thus you will know them as men, and they you.