The workshop smelled of smoke and salt and something chemical that Lysander still couldn't name. Daidalos had been working on the project for weeks, ever since the black ships first appeared on the northern horizon, and the evidence of his labour was scattered across every surface: clay jars filled with viscous liquids, scraps of timber marked with burn patterns, diagrams scratched onto wax tablets and then scratched out and redrawn.
"Stand back," Daidalos said.
Lysander stood back.
The device was crude—a clay pot fitted with a bronze nozzle, mounted on a wooden frame that looked like it had been assembled from spare ship parts. A length of rope, soaked in something that smelled like pitch, served as the fuse. Daidalos lit it with a taper and stepped away.
