of Temeraire’s wings, gazing at it with greedy passion. Temeraire had craned his head about to watch, but was keeping otherwise still, and did not seem to mind having his wing handled.
‘Do you recognize him, then?’ Laurence asked Sir Edward tentatively; the man looked quite overwhelmed.
‘Recognize? Not, I assure you, in the sense of ever having seen his kind before; there can scarcely be three living men in Europe who have, and on the strength of this one glance I am already furnished with enough material for an address to the Royal Society,’ Sir Edward answered. ‘But the wings are irrefutable, and the number of talons: he is a Chinese Imperial, although of which line I certainly cannot tell you. Oh, Laurence, what a prize!’
Laurence gazed at the wings bemused; it had not occurred to him before that the fanlike divisions were unusual, nor the five talons which Temeraire had upon each foot. ‘An Imperial?’ he said, with an uncertain smile; he wondered for a moment if Sir Edward was practicing a joke on him. The Chinese had been breeding dragons for thousands of years before the Romans had ever domesticated the wild breeds of Europe; they were violently jealous of their work, and rarely permitted even grown specimens of minor breeds to leave the country. It was absurd to think that the French had been trundling an Imperial egg across the Atlantic in a thirty-six gun frigate.
‘Is that a good breed?’ Temeraire asked. ‘Will I be able to breathe fire?’
‘Dear creature, the very best of all possible breeds; only the Celestials are more rare or valuable, and were you one of those, I suppose the Chinese would go to war over our having put you into harness, so we must be glad you are not,’ Sir Edward said. ‘But though I will not rule it out entirely, I think it unlikely you will be able to breathe fire. The Chinese breed first for intelligence and grace; they have such overwhelming air superiority they do not need to seek such abilities in their lines. Japanese dragons are far more likely among the oriental breeds to have any special offensive capabilities.’
‘Oh,’ said Temeraire, glumly.
‘Temeraire, do not be absurd, it is the most famous news anyone could imagine,’ Laurence said, beginning to believe at last; this was too far to carry a joke. ‘You are quite certain, sir?’ he could not help asking.
‘Oh yes,’ Sir Edward said, returning to his examination of the wings. ‘Only look at the delicacy of the membrane; the consistency of the colour throughout the body, and the co ordination between the colour of the eyes and the markings. I should have seen he was a Chinese breed at once; it is quite impossible that he should have come from the wild, and no European or Incan breeder is capable of such work. And,’ he added, ‘this explains the swimming as well: Chinese beasts often have an affinity for water, if I recall correctly.’
‘An Imperial,’ Laurence murmured, stroking Temeraire’s side in wonder. ‘It is incredible; they ought to have convoyed him with half their fleet, or sent a handler to him rather than the reverse.’
‘Perhaps they did not know what they had,’ Sir Edward said. ‘Chinese eggs are notoriously difficult to categorize by appearance, other than having the texture of fine porcelain. I do not suppose, by the by, that you have any of the eggshell preserved?’ he asked wistfully.
‘Not I, but perhaps some of the hands may have saved a bit,’ Laurence said. ‘I would be happy to make inquiry for you; I am deeply indebted to you.’
‘Not at all; the debt is entirely on my side. To think that I have seen an Imperial – and spoken with one!’ He bowed to Temeraire. ‘In that, I may be unique among Englishmen, although le Comte de la Pérouse wrote in his journals of having spoken with one in Korea, in the palace of their king.’
‘I would like to read that,’ Temeraire said. ‘Laurence, can you get a copy?’
‘I will certainly try,’ Laurence said. ‘And sir, I would be very grateful if you could recommend some texts to my attention; I would be glad of any knowledge of the habits and behaviours of the breed.’
‘Well, there are precious few resources, I am afraid; you will shortly be more of an expert than any other European, I imagine,’ Sir Edward said. ‘But I will certainly give you a list, and I have several texts I would be happy to lend you, including the journals of La Pérouse. If Temeraire does not mind waiting here, perhaps we can walk back to my hotel and retrieve them; I am afraid he would not fit very comfortably in the village.’
‘I do not mind at all; I will go swimming again,’ Temeraire said.
Having taken tea with Sir Edward and collected a number of books from him, Laurence found a shepherd in the village willing to take his money, so he could feed Temeraire before their return journey. He was forced to drag the sheep down to the shore himself, however, with the animal bleating wildly and trying to get away long before Temeraire even came into view. Laurence ended up having to carry it bodily, and it took its last revenge by defecating upon him just before he flung it down at last in front of the eager dragon.
While Temeraire feasted, he stripped to the skin and scrubbed his clothing as best he could in the water, then left the wet things on a sunny rock to dry while the two of them bathed together. Laurence was not a particularly good swimmer himself, but with Temeraire to hold on to, he could risk the deeper water where the dragon could swim. Temeraire’s delight in the water was infectious, and in the end Laurence too succumbed to playfulness, splashing the dragon and plunging under the water to come up on his other side.
The water was beautifully warm, and there were many outcroppings of rock to crawl out upon for a rest, some large enough for both of them; when he at last led Temeraire back onto the shore, several hours had gone by, and the sun was sinking rapidly. He was guiltily glad the other bathers had stayed away; he would have been ashamed to be seen frolicking like a boy.
The sun was warm on their backs as they winged across the island back to Funchal, both of them brimming with satisfaction, with the precious books wrapped in oilskin and strapped to the harness. ‘I will read to you from the journals tonight,’ Laurence was saying, when he was interrupted by a loud, bugling call ahead of them.
Temeraire was so startled he stopped in midair, hovering for a moment; then he roared back, a strangely tentative sound. He launched himself forwards again, and in a moment Laurence saw the source of the call: a pale grey dragon with mottled white markings upon its belly and white striations across its wings, almost invisible against the cloud cover; it was a great distance above them.
It swooped down very quickly and drew alongside them; he could see that it was smaller than Temeraire, even at his present size, but it could glide along on a single beat of its wings for much longer. Its rider was wearing grey leather that matched its hide, and a heavy hood; he unhooked several clasps on this and pushed it to hang back off his head. ‘Captain James, on Volatilus, dispatch service,’ he said, staring at Laurence in open curiosity.
Laurence hesitated; a response was obviously called for, but he was not quite sure how to style himself, for he had not yet been formally discharged from the Navy, nor formally inducted into the Corps. ‘Captain Laurence of His Majesty’s Navy,’ he said finally, ‘on Temeraire; I am at present unassigned. Are you headed for Funchal?’
‘Navy? Yes, I am, and I expect you had better be as well, after that introduction,’ James said; he had a pleasant-looking long face, but Laurence’s reply had marred it by a deep frown. ‘How old is that dragonet, and where did you get him?’
‘I am three weeks and five days out of the shell, and Laurence won me in a battle,’ Temeraire said, before Laurence could reply. ‘How did you meet James?’ he asked, addressing the
