The final mid-air cable snapped forty arm-lengths above the High Dais with the violent crack of an iron tree splintering in a gale.
Released from the ceiling anchors, the four-hundred-ton hull of the Brass Sovereign dropped the leftover twelve feet into the rising flood. The massive oak and iron keel struck the surface of the dark water with a massive, hollow roar that sent a wall of foaming salt water twenty arm-lengths into the air.
For three long heartbeats, the warship was swallowed by the shifted weight of its own entry, the dark waters surging over the bulwarks and sweeping across the forecastle deck in a foaming clouded eye that reached Qiao Ming’s waist. Yan Zhiqiu clung to the fluted bronze rim of the hawse-pipe, holding the Broken Slate tight against her ribs, her breath held as the cold deluge battered her back.
Then, the ancient mathematics of shifted weight asserted its power.
Four hundred tons of hollow oak timber and sealed chain-lockers possessed more floating lift than the weight of the iron plating could suppress. With a deep, shuddering heave that groaned through every scarf-joint and keel-bolt, the Brass Sovereign surged back toward the surface. The bow broke through the foam, shedding thousands of tons of black water from its deck drains, settling into the swirling current with the dignified, floating balance of a true sea-vessel.
