The workshop smelled of sulfur and smoke and the sharp, chemical tang that Daidalos's experiments always left in the air. Lysander stood at the workbench, looking at the small clay jar that held the last of the sulfur powder. It was barely enough to fill a man's cupped hands. Beside it, the fire-ship device sat half-finished, its bronze nozzle waiting for the fuel mixture that would make it more than an ornament.
"This is all we have," Daidalos said. He didn't need to point at the jar. Lysander had been staring at it for a full minute. "Enough for one more test. Maybe two. After that—nothing."
"And without sulfur."
"No fire ships. The mixture doesn't ignite without it. We've tried alternatives—naphtha from the eastern traders, pitch mixed with oil—but nothing burns hot enough to catch a ship's sails at fifty cubits. The sulfur is the key."
