Outrageous Fortune-Errant Freight Book One

Chapter 6

"So there he was, hanging from the line, this high off the ground." Sitting in The Frayed Rigging, back in the day, Jagati raised a hand up above her head to indicate the height, "Begging me to promise I'd tell his mama he died bravely."

"And did you?" John asked, leaning forward over the little table to avoid another celebrant's low-swinging mug.

"I did so promise." Jagati let her hand drop to the table with a thud. "Right before I promised it'd be me who killed him if he didn't unclip in the next three seconds."

John's mouth twitched. "I'm guessing he unclipped."

"Of course he did." She snorted at the memory. "Never been a fledge on the lines wasn't more scared of me than the drop."

"Not only the fledges," John said. He spoke with the careful pronunciation of the supremely drunk because "just one drink" had devolved into "just one more drink," which led, of course, to another, and another, and another.

So many, in fact that Rory—who had indeed been waiting for John and Jagati—now slumped in a drunken stupor, his light brown head pillowed on the table, oblivious to the tides of chatter flowing through The Frayed Rigging.

John thought this impressive, given how much louder and more crowded the Rigging was in comparison to A Fine Mess.

Though here the majority of clientele were in the uniform of the Colonial Air Corps, and while the air in the Rigging was as redolent with sweat and smoke as the Mess, the patina of damp wool and acrid booze gave way to that of seasoned leathers and single malt, underscored by a hint of apple from the hukkah snug at the back of the pub.

"You saying you're scared of me?" Jagati asked, drawing his attention back to the table.

"Being of sound mind, yes," he said with a nod. "Yes, I am."

"Smart man." She nodded and swirled the liquor in her glass. "But the thing is, yeah, I can be scary as... As..."

"As a big scary thing?" John suggested when she trailed off.

"Yes!" Jagati stabbed the air in agreement. "But what I'm saying is... I am saying what is... I mean, where's the future in it?"

"Future?" John echoed the question of the night. He'd heard variations of same voiced by various uniformed types over various drinks at various tables throughout The Frayed Rigging as aeronauts of every rank pondered the imponderable—a tomorrow unburdened by war.

Around and between these deeper conversations rose the requisite toasts to comrades fallen and airships lost, and a young redhead in the uniform of the Airborne Infantry was singing a song older than Fortune to the accompaniment of a mandolin, bodhran, and oud.

It was all so familiar to him, the crowd, the noise, the scents of leather and whiskey and the Parting Glass of which the young woman sang.

"Hey." Jagati poked him, reaching over Rory's shoulder to do it. "You're not payin' attention."

"I am so." He moved his arm out of reach.

"Oh yeah?" She flopped back in the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. "Then what's the answer?"

Had there been a question? "I have... I have... I have no idea."

"Exactly!" Jagati slammed both hands down on the table with enough force to set their glasses rocking.

Rory didn't even twitch.

"But I do have an idea," she continued, tapping the table.

Now Rory let out a soft snore.