Page 118 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

“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 Tiendoms 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 tacn. “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.