officer, and friendly enough. He told Laurence abruptly, as they sat at the empty table waiting for the other officers to join them, ‘You will have to face down a damn sight of jealousy, of course, for not having to wait for a prime ’un as much as anything. I was six years waiting for Maximus; it was well worth it, but I don’t know that I would be able not to hate you if you were prancing about in front of me with an Imperial while he was still in the shell.’
‘Waiting?’ Laurence said. ‘You were assigned to him before he was even hatched?’
‘The moment the egg was cool enough to touch,’ Berkley said. ‘We get four or five Regal Coppers in a generation; Aerial Command don’t leave it to chance who mans ’em. I was grounded the moment I said yes-thank-you, and here I sat staring at him in the shell and lecturing squeakers, hoping he wouldn’t take too much bloody time about it, which by God he did.’ Berkley snorted and drained his glass of wine.
Laurence had already formed a high opinion of Berkley’s skill in the air after their morning’s work, and he did indeed seem the sort of man who could be entrusted with a rare and valuable dragon; certainly he was very fond of Maximus and showed it in a bluff way. As they had parted from Maximus and Temeraire in the courtyard, Laurence had overheard him telling the big dragon, ‘I suppose I will get no peace until you have your harness taken off too, damn you,’ while ordering his ground crew to see to it, and Maximus nearly knocking him over with a caressing nudge.
The other officers were beginning to file into the room; most of them were much younger than himself or Berkley, and the hall quickly grew noisy with their cheerful and often high-pitched voices. Laurence was a little tense at first, but his fears did not materialize; a few more of the lieutenants did look at him dubiously, and Granby sat as far away as possible, but other than this no one seemed to pay him much notice.
A tall, blond man with a sharp nose said quietly, ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ and slipped into the chair beside him. Though all the senior officers were in coats and neckcloths for dinner, the newcomer was noticeably different in having his neckcloth crisply folded, and his coat pressed. ‘Captain Jeremy Rankin, at your service,’ he said courteously, offering a hand. ‘I believe we have not met?’
‘No, I am just arrived yesterday; Captain Will Laurence, at yours,’ Laurence answered. Rankin had a firm grip, and a pleasant and easy manner; Laurence found him very easy to talk to, and learned without surprise that Rankin was a son of the Earl of Kensington.
‘My family have always sent third sons to the Corps, and in the old days before the Corps were formed and dragons reserved to the Crown, my however-many-great grandfather used to support a pair,’ Rankin said. ‘So I have no difficulties going home; we still maintain a small covert for fly-overs, and I was often there even during my training. It is an advantage I wish more aviators could have,’ he added, low, glancing around the table.
Laurence did not wish to say anything that might be construed as critical; it was all right for Rankin to hint at it, being one of them, but from his own lips it could only be offensive. ‘It must be hard on the boys, leaving home so early,’ he said, with more tact. ‘In the Navy we – that is, the Navy does not take lads before they are twelve, and even then they are set on shore between cruises, and have time at home. Did you find it so, sir?’ he added, turning to Berkley.
‘Hm,’ Berkley said, swallowing; he looked a little hard at Rankin before answering Laurence. ‘Can’t say that I did; squalled a little, I suppose, but one gets used to it, and we run the squeakers about to keep them from getting too homesick.’ He turned back to his food with no attempt to keep the conversation going, and Laurence was left to turn back and continue his discussion with Rankin.
‘Am I late – oh!’ It was a slim young boy, his voice not yet broken but tall for that age, hurrying to the table in some disarray; his long red hair was half coming out of his plaited queue. He halted abruptly at the table’s edge, then slowly and reluctantly took the seat on Rankin’s other side, which was the only one left vacant. Despite his youth, he was a captain: the coat he wore had the double golden bars across the shoulders.
‘Why, Catherine, not at all; allow me to pour you some wine,’ Rankin said. Laurence, already looking in surprise at the boy, thought for a moment he had misheard; then saw he had not, at all: the boy was indeed a young lady. Laurence looked around the table blankly; no one else seemed to think anything of it, and it was clearly no secret: Rankin was addressing her in polite and formal tones, serving her from the platters.
‘Allow me to present you,’ Rankin added, turning. ‘Captain Laurence of Temeraire, Miss— oh, no, I forget; that is, Captain Catherine Harcourt, of, er, Lily.’
‘Hello,’ the girl muttered, not looking up.
Laurence felt his face going red; she was sitting there in breeches that showed every inch of her leg, with a shirt held closed only by a neckcloth; he shifted his gaze to the unalarming top of her head and managed to say, ‘Your servant, Miss Harcourt.’
This at least caused her to raise her head. ‘No, it is Captain Harcourt,’ she said; her face was pale, and her spray of freckles stood out prominently against it, but she was clearly determined to defend her rights; she gave Rankin a strangely defiant look as she spoke.
Laurence had used the address automatically; he had not meant to offend, but evidently he had. ‘I beg your pardon, Captain,’ he said at once, bowing his head in apology. It was indeed difficult to address her so, however, and the title felt strange and awkward on his tongue; he was afraid he sounded unnaturally stiff. ‘I meant no disrespect.’ And now he recognized the dragon’s name as well; it had struck him as unusual yesterday, but with so much else to consider, that one detail had slipped his mind. ‘I believe you have the Longwing?’ he said politely.
‘Yes, that is my Lily,’ she said, an involuntary warmth coming into her voice as she spoke her dragon’s name.
‘Perhaps you were not aware, Captain Laurence, that Longwings will not take male handlers; it is some odd quirk of theirs, for which we must be grateful, else we would be deprived of such charming company,’ Rankin said, inclining his head to the girl. There was an ironic quality to his voice that made Laurence frown; the girl was very obviously not at ease, and Rankin did not seem to be making her more so. She had dropped her head again, and was staring at her plate with her lips pale and pressed together into an unhappy line.
‘It is very brave of you to undertake such a duty, M— Captain Harcourt; a glass – that is to say, to your health,’ Laurence said, amending at the last moment and making the toast a sip; he did not think it appropriate to force a slip of a girl to drink an entire glass of wine.
‘It is no more than anyone else does,’ she said, muttering; then belatedly she took her own glass and raised it in return. ‘I mean: and to yours.’
Silently he repeated her title and name to himself; it would be very rude of him to make the mistake again, having been corrected once, but it was so strange he did not entirely trust himself yet. He took care to look at her face and not elsewhere. With her hair pulled back so tightly she did look boyish, which was some help, along with the clothes that had allowed him to mistake her initially; he supposed that was why she went about in male dress, appalling and illegal though it was.
He would have liked to talk to her, although it would have been difficult not to ask questions, but he could not be steadily talking over Rankin. He was left to wonder at it in the privacy of his own thoughts; to think that every Longwing in service was captained by a woman was shocking. Glancing at her slight frame, he wondered how she supported the work; he himself felt battered and tired after the day’s flying, and though perhaps a proper harness would reduce the strain, he still
