Chapter 22 The Leyfarer #3
“The research is time sensitive,” said Fairhrim, remaining polite but verging on austere. “Unless you’re telling me there’s the chance of a potentially fatal crash, it’s got to be tonight.”
“There’ll be no crashing with me leyfaring,” said Ruain, arrogant yet offended. “But we’re going to have the storm right in our teeth. You’re sure you want that?”
Fairhrim’s reply was the authoritative snap of a scissor. “Yes.”
Osric was pleased that someone other than him was on the receiving end of Fairhrim’s cuts.
“No opinions from Mr. Hungwell?” asked Ruain, turning to Osric.
“I’ve learned to do as the lady says,” said Osric. “Subside into orthodoxy. You’ll fare better.”
Ruain put his cigar in his mouth and sucked on it. Even unlit, it smelled as though it had been dipped in whiskey and anise. “Then we should leave sooner rather than later.”
“That’s fine,” said Fairhrim.
“Have either of you voyaged by leycraft before?” asked Ruain.
“No, only ley lines,” said Fairhrim.
“Likewise,” said Osric.
“How do you handle ley-line travel?” asked Ruain.
“Fine,” said Osric.
“Not well,” said Fairhrim.
“Pop one of those under your tongue,” said Ruain, passing Fairhrim a tin of electric-blue sweets. “They combat the nausea. I don’t want your grapefruit juice all over my cabin.”
Fairhrim took the sweets with suspicion. “Swanstone hasn’t yet worked out how to prevent ley-line nausea. Who developed these?”
“Druids.”
Fairhrim glanced at Osric, with whom she had explored the Druids’ unexpectedly advanced facilities. She popped one of the sweets under her tongue without further comment.
“Trip briefing,” declared Ruain, and, for no discernible reason, he stripped off his shirt.
In the face of Osric’s and Fairhrim’s blinks, he pointed to the map of the Tīendoms tattooed on his chest and said, “I never have to carry a map. Simpler this way. And I’ve got a built-in compass, of course,” he added, flashing his tācn.
“Right. So we’ll head off from the cape here and fly due west—there’s a major ley line off the coast that’ll carry us on… ”
Ruain went through a complicated trajectory of ley lines, pointing variously at his pectorals and abs among the inky coastlines decorating his skin. It was all ridiculous. Fairhrim’s face was neutral, but there was tension in her jaw as Ruain pointed to his nipple.
When Ruain had finished his explanation, they set out from the Rummy Thing.
Fairhrim looked back at Amagris as she left the pub. Amagris raised her drink to her (a hollowed-out beet).
Meanwhile, the suave and charming Leyfarer had irritated Osric into chivalry. He helped Fairhrim with her cloak and held the door open for her, to show that he was a gentleman and this man was a rat.
Osric and Fairhrim followed a little behind Ruain, who strode handsomely ahead, and demonstrated that he had a good bum.
“He’s ridiculous,” said Osric.
“He is,” said Fairhrim.
“I hate him.” After a beat, Osric felt forced to concede: “His voice is lovely.”
“My ears are pregnant.”
“His eyes—”
“Captivating.”
“I’ve never wanted to lick a map before.”
“Did you see his hair?”
“He’s got Good Hair.”
“Is he prettier than us?”
“He might be.”
Fairhrim looked vexed. Osric was equally vexed, though pleased that they were on the same page.
Ruain led them to his leycraft, which floated round the back of the pub.
She was a squat, podgy brute of a thing that wasn’t sure whether she was an airship or a ship-ship, a hot air balloon or a cutter; her genetics equally mixed naval and air travel.
There was rigging and there were sails and there were propellers.
The craft floated a few feet off the ground, tugging at the lines anchoring her against the wind.
“Weather’s already turning,” said Ruain.
“We just need to get there,” said Fairhrim.
“Her name is the Farewell,” said Ruain, loosing a rope ladder from the craft’s side. “Welcome aboard.”
Fairhrim clambered in first, followed by Osric.
The cabin was a cramped affair. Two seats for passengers—ancient upholstered things that looked as though they’d been stolen from some aunt’s dining room—were fixed to the floor with great bolts.
The portholes looked as though they’d been repurposed from a rusted cargo ship.
Toilet facilities consisted of an old-fashioned porcelain pot de chambre at the back of the craft.
There were safety belts provided in the form of literal men’s belts. Fairhrim’s opinion thereon was conveyed to Osric with an eloquent eyebrow as Ruain went through a safety briefing.
A taxidermised gnu head was affixed in pride of place at the back of the craft.
“I thought it was elegant,” said Ruain.
“Oh, yes,” said Osric. “Adds the weight of respectability to the whole affair.”
The control panel at the front of the craft was more reassuring than the cargo end: it was quite a wonder of buttons and gauges and brass knobs and things hissing and beeping. Ingenauts and Leyfarers worked together often, and the touch of the former was clear in this part of the craft.
Ruain slipped on a pair of goggles.
“What are those for?” asked Osric. “There’s a windscreen.”
Ruain tapped at the goggles, which shimmered opal and nacre. “Loggles. To see the ley lines. Are we ready?”
Osric and Fairhrim belted themselves in.
Ruain pressed his tācn to a golden half globe—like a writing ball without the keys—and the craft shuddered to life.
He tugged at pulleys; the sails outside tilted into the wind; the propellers sputtered and whirled; the craft rose and drifted towards the edge of the Downs, where the cliff fell into the sea.
Fairhrim adjusted her man’s leather belt and swallowed.
The Farewell advanced off the cliff like a briskly moving rhinoceros. Fairhrim snatched Osric’s hand and stared straight ahead with a look of resigned despair.
“Let’s fly, my darling,” said Ruain to the leycraft. To Osric and Fairhrim he said, with a wink, “Mind the gap.”
With a queasy leap, the Farewell took off into the twilight.