Page 120 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
The Leyfarer’s tacn served as a compass and other things; he pressed it against the golden half globe at intervals, and against flat silver plates. A series of pendulums hung above the windscreen; one of them spun violently in a tight circle while others swung slowly, and one stayed completely still in spite of the craft’s shudders. They were made of precious metals, various woods, and one or two of bone. Gauges spun and rang, inscribed with things that weren’t letters or numbers. Ruain consulted them frequently, followed by bits of mysterious arithmetic on a notepad. Osric’s respect for the Leyfarer Order increased substantially; allhisOrder required was a bit of stabbing.
Fairhrim slumped onto Osric’s shoulder. He tried not to move; her head on his shoulder gave him again that feeling of having been chosen by a rare thing.
Ruain observed them in the dark reflection of the windscreen.
“Are you two together?” he asked.
“Yes,” lied Osric, because fuck Ruain.
“Lucky,” said Ruain.
The word meant something different coming from a man from Irland; there was weight to it beyond the opportune.
“Are you helping her with her research?” he asked.
“I’m the test subject,” said Osric.
“Have you got a tacn under those gloves?”
“No,” lied Osric again.
“Ah.” Ruain concentrated on steering for a moment before saying, “You bear yourself like a man who’s got a tacn.”
“Do I?”
“And after that remark, if you didn’t have one, you’d hasten to show me.”
“I’ve got eczema,” said Osric.
Ruain studied him in the reflection. “I suppose the Haelan knows what she’s doing.”
“She does.” Osric interrupted himself, given that luminous blue flames suddenly sizzled upon the leycraft’s sails. “Er—I don’t mean to alarm you, my good man, but I think your boat is on fire.”
Ruain studied the phenomenon with remarkable calm. Osric didn’t know whether he should respect him or screech that he was a lunatic.
“That’s witch-fire,” said Ruain.
“Should we—should we not put it out?” said Osric. (Was there water on the premises? What was in the chamber pot?)
“It’s harmless,” said Ruain. “Happens under certain meteorological conditions. You see it on mastheads, before a storm.”
“Ah.”
“You don’t sail, then?”
“No.”
“What do you do?”
“Business.”
“What sort of business?”
“Acquisitions. Terminations.”
Fairhrim awoke, mercifully missing Osric’s display of panicked idiocy about the witch-fire by half a minute.
“How are you feeling, Aurienne?” asked Ruain, before Osric could make the same enquiry, which aggravated him.
