Chapter Twelve
Ayra Delune’s navigational plan worked perfectly, right up until the wind got involved.
‘I don’t see that anybody invited it,’ said Lady Fenella petulantly, after a few frigid, windy, miserable hours of trying futilely to penetrate the fog bank that hovered above the highest peaks of the Sammerill Mountains. The area it covered was not vast, but it was surrounded by some kind of endless cyclone which repelled every attempt the pilot made to steer the airship into it. Some damage had been suffered in the process, and the Baron had at last declared a halt to the endeavour.
‘Quite right,’ said Lord Bastavere, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets against the biting cold. ‘Stand aside! I shall simply order it to take itself off. It cannot possibly refuse me.’
‘A job fo
