midday they had given it up, and began in desolate spirits to pack up the camp; seven camels lost, and their water-casks with them, which they had left on to keep them weighted down and quiet. ‘Will we be able to buy more in Cherchen?’ Laurence asked Tharkay, wearily, wiping a hand across his brow; he did not recall seeing many animals in the streets of the town, which they had left nearly three days before.
‘Only with difficulty,’ Tharkay said. ‘Camels are very dear here, and men prize them highly; some may object to selling healthy beasts to be eaten. We ought not turn back, in my opinion.’ At Laurence’s doubtful look, he added, ‘I set the number at thirty deliberately high, in case of accidents: this is worse than I had planned for, but we can yet manage until we reach the Keriya River. We will have to ration the camels, and refill Temeraire’s water casks as best we can at the oases, forgoing as much as we can ourselves; it will not be pleasant, but I promise you it can be done.’
The temptation was very great: Laurence bitterly grudged the loss of more time. Three days back to Cherchen, and likely a long delay there acquiring new pack animals, all the while having to manage food and water for Temeraire in a town unaccustomed to supporting any dragons at all, much less one of his size; a clear loss of more than a week, certainly. Tharkay seemed confident, and yet— and yet—
Laurence drew Granby behind the tents, to consult in privacy: considering it best to keep their mission secret, so far as possible, and not to spread any useless anxiety over the state of affairs in Europe, Laurence had not yet shared their purpose with the rest of the crew, and left them to believe they were returning overland only to avoid the long delay in port.
‘A week is enough time to get the eggs to a covert somewhere,’ Granby said, urgently. ‘Gibraltar— the outpost on Malta— it might be the difference between success and failure. I swear to you there is not a man among us who would not go hungry and thirsty twice as long for the chance, and Tharkay is not saying there is a real risk we shall run dry.’
Abruptly Laurence said, ‘And you are easy in your mind, trusting his judgement on the matter?’
‘More than any of ours, surely,’ Granby said. ‘What do you mean?’
Laurence did not know quite how to put his unease into words; indeed he hardly knew what he feared. ‘I suppose I only do not like putting our lives so completely into his hands,’ he said. ‘Another few days of travel will put us out of reach of Cherchen, with our present supplies, and if he is mistaken—’
‘Well, his advice has been good so far,’ Granby said, a little more doubtfully, ‘though I won’t deny he has a damned queer way of going on, sometimes.’
‘He left the tent once, during the storm, for a long while,’ Laurence said quietly. ‘That was after the first day, halfway through— he said he went to look in on the camels.’
They stood silently together. ‘I don’t suppose we could tell by looking how long that camel has been dead?’ Granby suggested. They went to try an inspection, but too late: Gong Su already had what was left of the dead beast jointed and spitted over a fire, browning to a turn, and offering no answers whatsoever.
When consulted, Temeraire said, ‘It seems a very great pity to turn around to me also. I do not mind eating every other day,’ and added under his breath, ‘especially if it must be camel.’
‘Very well; we continue on,’ Laurence said, despite his misgivings, and when Temeraire had eaten, they trudged onward through a landscape rendered even more drear by the storm, scrub and vegetation torn away, even the scattering of colourful pebbles blown away, leaving no relief to the eye. They would have gladly welcomed even one of the grisly trail-markers, but there was nothing to guide their steps but the compass and Tharkay’s instincts.
The rest of the long dry day passed by, as terrible and monotonous in its turn as the storm, miles of desert grinding slowly away under their feet; there was no sign of life, nor even one of the old crumbling wells. Most of the crew were riding on Temeraire now, trailing the sad little string of camels remaining; as the day wore on, even Temeraire’s head drooped: he too had only had half his usual ration of water.
‘Sir,’ Digby said through cracked lips, pointing, ‘I see something dark over there, though it’s not very big.’
Laurence saw nothing; it was late in the day, with the sun beginning to make queer long shadows out of the small twisted rocks and stumps of the desert landscape, but Digby had the sharp eyes of youth and was the most reliable of his lookouts, not given to exaggeration. So they went on towards it: soon they could all see the round dark patch, but it was too small to be the mouth of a well. Tharkay stopped the camels beside it, looking down, and Laurence slid down from Temeraire’s neck to walk over: it was the lid of one of the lost water-casks, lying incongruously all alone atop the sand, thirty miles of empty desert away from the morning’s camp.
* * *
‘Eat your ration,’ Laurence said sternly, when he saw Roland and Dyer putting down their strips of meat half-eaten: they were all hungry, but the long chewing was painful in a dry mouth, and every sip of water now had to be stolen from Temeraire’s casks; another long day had gone, and still they had found no well. Temeraire had eaten his camel raw, so as not to lose any of the moisture in cooking: only seven left, now.
Two days later they stumbled across a dry, cracked irrigation channel, and on Tharkay’s advice turned northwards to follow its path, hoping to find some water still at its source. The wizened and twisted remains of dead fruit trees still overhung the sides, their small gnarled branches dry as paper to the touch, and as light, reaching for the vanished water. The city took shape out of the desert haze as they rode onwards: shattered timbers jutting out of the sand, sharpened by years of wind into pointed stakes; broken pieces of mud-and-wattle bricks; the last remnants of buildings swallowed by the desert. The bed of the river that had once given life to the city was filled with fine dust; there was nothing living in sight but some brown desert grass clinging to the tops of dunes, which the camels hungrily devoured.
Another day’s journey would put them beyond the hope of turning back. ‘I am afraid this is a bad part of the desert, but we will find water soon,’ Tharkay said, bringing an armful of old broken timbers to the campfire. ‘It is just as well we have found the city; we must be on an old caravan route now.’
Their fire leapt and crackled brightly, the dry seasoned wood going up hot and quick; the warmth and light was comforting in the midst of the ashes and broken relics of the city, but Laurence walked away brooding. His maps were useless, there were no marked roads, nothing to be seen in any direction for miles; and his patience was badly frayed at seeing Temeraire go hungry and thirsty: ‘Pray do not worry, Laurence, I am very well,’ Temeraire had assured him; but he had not been able to keep his eyes from lingering on the remaining camels, and it hurt Laurence to see how quickly he tired, each day, with his tail now often dragging upon the sand: he did not wish to fly, but plodded along in the wake of the camels, and lay down often to rest.
If they turned back in the morning, Temeraire could eat and drink his fill; they might even load two of the water-casks upon him, slaughter an additional camel for him to carry, and try to make Cherchen by air. Laurence thought two days’ flight would see them there, if Temeraire went lightly burdened and had food and water enough. He would take the youngest of the crew: Roland and Dyer and the ensigns, who would slow the others down on the ground and need less water and food for Temeraire to carry; though he would not like leaving the rest of the men, by his calculation the water carried by the last four camels would be just sufficient to see them back to Cherchen by land, if they could manage twenty miles in a day.
Money would then present difficulties: he did not have so much silver he could
