on Hollin, and Roland herself. ‘I will just step into the barracks here, and speak to Jervis,’ he said instead, and went to find the man who was overseeing Temeraire’s care.
Jervis was an older man, the better part of both his left limbs lost to a wicked raking stroke across the side of the dragon on which he had served as harness-master; on recovering against all reasonable expectations, he had been assigned to the slow duty of the London covert, so rarely used. He had an odd, lopsided appearance with his wooden leg and metal hook on one side, and he had grown a little lazy and contrary with his idleness, but Laurence had provided him with a willing ear often enough to now find a warm welcome.
‘Would you be so kind as to take a word for me?’ Laurence asked, after he had refused a cup of tea. ‘I am going to Dover to see if I can be of use; I should not like Temeraire to fret at my silence.’
‘That I will, and read it to him; he will need it, poor fellow,’ Jervis said, stumping over to fetch his inkwell and pen one-handed; Laurence turned over a scrap of paper to write the note. ‘That fat fellow from the Admiralty came over again not half an hour ago with a full passel of Marines and those fancy Chinamen, and there they are still, prating away at the dear. If they don’t go soon, I shan’t answer for his taking any food today, so I won’t. Ugly sea-going bugger; I don’t know what he is about, thinking he knows aught about dragons; that is, begging your pardon, sir,’ Jervis added hastily.
Laurence found his hand shook over the paper, so he spattered his first few lines and the table. He answered somehow, meaninglessly, and struggled to continue the note; words would not come. He stood there locked in mid-sentence, until suddenly he was nearly thrown off his feet, ink spreading across the floor as the table fell over; outside a terrible shattering noise, like the worst violence of a storm, a full North Sea winter’s gale.
The pen was still ludicrously in his hand; he dropped it and flung open the door, Jervis stumbling out behind him. The echoes still hung in the air, and Elsie was sitting up on her hind legs, wings half-opening and closing in anxiety while Hollin and Roland tried to reassure her; the few other dragons at the covert had their heads up as well, peering over the trees and hissing in alarm.
‘Laurence,’ Roland called, but he ignored her: he was already halfway down the path, running, his hand unconsciously gone to the hilt of his sword. He came to the clearing and found his way barred by the collapsed ruins of a barracks building and several fallen trees.
For a thousand years before the Romans first tamed the Western dragon breeds, the Chinese had already been masters of the art. They prized beauty and intelligence more than martial prowess, and looked with a little superior disdain at the fire-breathers and acid-spitters valued so highly in the West; their aerial legions were so numerous they had no need of what they regarded as so much showy flash. But they did not scorn all such unusual gifts; and in the Celestials they had reached the pinnacle of their achievement: the union of all the other graces with the subtle and deadly power which the Chinese called the divine wind, the roar with a force greater than cannon-fire.
Laurence had seen the devastation the divine wind wrought only once before, at the battle of Dover, where Temeraire had used it against Napoleon’s airborne transports to potent effect. But here the poor trees had suffered the impact at point-blank range: they lay like flung matchsticks, trunks burst into flinders. The whole rough structure of the barracks, too, had smashed to the ground, the coarse mortar crumbled away entirely and the bricks scattered and broken. A hurricane might have caused such wreckage, or an earthquake, and the once-poetic name seemed suddenly far more apt.
The escort of Marines were nearly all of them backed up against the undergrowth surrounding the clearing, faces white and blank with terror; Barham alone of them had stood his ground. The Chinese also had not retreated, but they were one and all prostrated upon the ground in formal genuflection, except for Prince Yongxing himself, who remained unflinching at their head.
The wreck of one tremendous oak lay penning them all against the edge of the clearing, dirt still clinging to its roots, and Temeraire stood behind it, one foreleg resting on the trunk and his sinuous length towering over them.
‘You will not say such things to me,’ he said, his head lowering towards Barham: his teeth were bared, and the spiked ruff around his head was raised up and trembling with anger. ‘I do not believe you for an instant, and I will not hear such lies; Laurence would never take another dragon. If you have sent him away, I will go after him, and if you have hurt him—’
He began to gather his breath for another roar, his chest belling out like a sail in high wind, and this time the hapless men lay directly in his path.
‘Temeraire,’ Laurence called, scrambling ungracefully over the wreckage, sliding down the heap into the clearing in disregard of the splinters that caught at his clothing and skin. ‘Temeraire, I am well, I am here—’
Temeraire’s head had whipped around at the first word, and he at once took the two paces needed to bring him across the clearing. Laurence held still, his heart beating very quickly, not at all with fear: the forelegs with their terrible claws landed to either side of him, and the sleek length of Temeraire’s body coiled protectively about him, the great scaled sides rising up around him like shining black walls and the angled head coming to rest by him.
He rested his hands on Temeraire’s snout and for a moment laid his cheek against the soft muzzle; Temeraire made a low wordless murmur of unhappiness. ‘Laurence, Laurence, do not leave me again.’
Laurence swallowed. ‘My dear,’ he said, and stopped; no answer was possible.
They stood with their heads together in silence, the rest of the world shut out: but only for a moment. ‘Laurence,’ Roland called from beyond the encircling coils: she sounded out of breath, and her voice was urgent. ‘Temeraire, do move aside, there is a good fellow.’ Temeraire lifted up his head and reluctantly uncurled himself a little so they could speak; but all the while he kept himself between Laurence and Barham’s party.
Roland ducked under Temeraire’s foreleg and joined Laurence. ‘You had to go to Temeraire, of course, but it will look very bad to someone who does not understand dragons. For pity’s sake do not let Barham push you into anything further: answer him as meek as mother-may-I, do anything he tells you.’ She shook her head. ‘By God, Laurence; I hate to leave you in such straits, but the dispatches have come, and minutes may make the difference here.’
‘Of course you cannot stay,’ he said. ‘They are likely waiting for you at Dover even now to launch the attack; we will manage, never fear.’
‘An attack? There is to be a battle?’ Temeraire said, overhearing; he flexed his talons and looked away to the east, as if he might see the formations rising into the air even from here.
‘Go at once, and pray take care,’ Laurence said hastily to Roland. ‘Give my apologies to Hollin.’
She nodded. ‘Try and stay easy in your mind. I will speak with Lenton even before we launch. The Corps will not sit still for this; bad enough to separate you, but now this outrageous pressure, stirring up all the dragons like this: it cannot be allowed to continue, and no one can possibly hold you to blame.’
‘Do not worry or wait another instant: the attack is more important,’ he said, very heartily: counterfeit, as much as her assurances; they both knew that the situation was black. Laurence could not for a moment regret having gone to Temeraire’s side, but he had openly disobeyed orders. No court-martial could find him innocent; there was Barham himself to lay the charges, and if questioned Laurence could hardly deny the act. He did not think they would hang him: this was not a battlefield offence, and the circumstances offered some excuse, but
