Sophronios Bythoson's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Sophronios had a bearing now, but no way to reach it. The trench lay deeper than any armor could survive. He drifted through the city's old boneyards, where wrecks lay half-buried in silt. He needed a vessel, and he had searched three days without one. A ruined surface ship caught his eye. Its broken timbers and torn sails hung frozen in the dark. He stared at it and thought of crushed hulls. No wooden thing would hold against that depth. No orichalcum plate either. A voice cut the quiet behind him. "You're hard to find, war-master. I had to ask three guards." Triton swam into view, conch at his hip, diadem crooked on his dark hair. Sophronios still tutored the prince on council matters. He had not expected him here. The young heir eyed the wreck with a bored tilt of his head. "Everyone says you left to chase ghosts. I came to see the ghost." "I chase a trench," Sophronios said. "And I cannot reach it. The pressure would kill any crew I take. I have no vessel that can hold." Triton floated closer. He did not offer comfort. He rarely did. "The sea runners," he said. "The bronze cars. My father's engineers built them for the deep patrols. One of them cracked a ridge nobody else could reach. You know this. You trained the pilots." He shrugged. "Or maybe you forgot. You're old." Sophronios went still. He did know the sleek bronze-and-glass craft. He had never thought to send one past its rated depth. "They were built for patrols," he said. "Not for the trench floor." "Then build one that is." Triton flicked his tail. "Take the strongest shell. Double the glass. I'll sign the order so the engineers stop stalling. I can do that much. I'm still the heir, last I checked." He said it flat, almost tired, but he meant it. Sophronios studied the prince. The spoiled boy he tutored had just handed him the answer the boneyards could not. "You would pull a war vessel off its line for me." "I'd pull ten. Keeps my mother off my back if I look busy." Triton grinned, then let it fade. "Just bring back whatever's down there. People think I'm useless. Prove the city still finds things worth finding." They went to the engineers that same tide. Triton's order cleared every delay. For six days the smiths reforged a sea runner, thickening its bronze skin and layering its glass. Sophronios watched them seal the last seam. The craft was squat, scarred, and ready. He took it to the shelf alone for a test drop. He sank past the volcano's glowing fissures, down into black water where the pressure pressed the hull like a fist. The bronze groaned. It held. His depth gauge passed every soldier's limit and kept falling. Sophronios breathed out slow. He had his vessel. Now he needed a crew mad enough to ride it to the bottom.