His Majesty's Dragon(Temeraire #1) By Naomi Novik
PART ONE
Chapter 1
THE DECK OF the French ship was slippery with blood, heaving in the choppy sea; a stroke
might as easily bring down the man making it as the intended target. Laurence did not have
time in the heat of the battle to be surprised at the degree of resistance, but even through
the numbing haze of battle-fever and the confusion of swords and pistol-smoke, he marked
the extreme look of anguish on the French captain's face as the man shouted
encouragement to his men.
It was still there shortly thereafter, when they met on the deck, and the man surrendered
his sword, very reluctantly: at the last moment his hand half-closed about the blade, as if he
meant to draw it back. Laurence looked up to make certain the colors had been struck, then
accepted the sword with a mute bow; he did not speak French himself, and a more formal
exchange would have to wait for the presence of his third lieutenant, that young man being
presently engaged belowdecks in securing the French guns. With the cessation of hostilities,
the remaining Frenchmen were all virtually dropping where they stood; Laurence noticed
that there were fewer of them than he would have expected for a frigate of thirty-six guns,
and that they looked ill and hollow-cheeked.
Many of them lay dead or dying upon the deck; he shook his head at the waste and eyed the
French captain with disapproval: the man should never have offered battle. Aside from the
plain fact that the Reliant would have had the Amitié slightly outgunned and outmanned
under the best of circumstances, the crew had obviously been reduced by disease or hunger.
To boot, the sails above them were in a sad tangle, and that no result of the battle, but of the
storm which had passed but this morning; they had barely managed to bring off a single
broadside before the Reliant had closed and boarded. The captain was obviously deeply
overset by the defeat, but he was not a young man to be carried away by his spirits: he
ought to have done better by his men than to bring them into so hopeless an action.
"Mr. Riley," Laurence said, catching his second lieutenant's attention, "have our men carry
the wounded below." He hooked the captain's sword on his belt; he did not think the man
deserved the compliment of having it returned to him, though ordinarily he would have
done so. "And pass the word for Mr. Wells."
"Very good, sir," Riley said, turning to issue the necessary orders. Laurence stepped to the
railing to look down and see what damage the hull had taken. She looked reasonably intact,
and he had ordered his own men to avoid shots below the waterline; he thought with
satisfaction that there would be no difficulty in bringing her into port.
His hair had slipped out of his short queue, and now fell into his eyes as he looked over. He
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impatiently pushed it out of the way as he turned back, leaving streaks of blood upon his
forehead and the sun-bleached hair; this, with his broad shoulders and his severe look, gave
him an unconsciously savage appearance as he surveyed his prize, very unlike his usual
thoughtful expression.
Wells climbed up from below in response to the summons and came to his side. "Sir," he
said, without waiting to be addressed, "begging your pardon, but Lieutenant Gibbs says
there is something queer in the hold."
"Oh? I will go and look," Laurence said. "Pray tell this gentleman," he indicated the French
captain, "that he must give me his parole, for himself and his men, or they must be
confined."
The French captain did not immediately respond; he looked at his men with a miserable
expression. They would of course do much better if they could be kept spread out through
the lower deck, and any recapture was a practical impossibility under the circumstances;
still he hesitated, drooped, and finally husked, "Je me rends," with a look still more
wretched.
Laurence gave a short nod. "He may go to his cabin," he told Wells, and turned to step down
into the hold. "Tom, will you come along? Very good."
He descended with Riley on his heels, and found his first lieutenant waiting for him. Gibbs's
round face was still shining with sweat and emotion; he would be taking the prize into port,
and as she was a frigate, he almost certainly would be made post, a captain himself.
Laurence was only mildly pleased; though Gibbs had done his duty reasonably, the man had
been imposed on him by the Admiralty and they had not become intimates. He had wanted
Riley in the first lieutenant's place, and if he had been given his way, Riley would now be the
one getting his step. That was the nature of the service, and he did not begrudge Gibbs the
good fortune; still, he did not rejoice quite so wholeheartedly as he would have to see Tom
get his own ship.
"Very well; what's all this, then?" Laurence said now; the hands were clustered about an
oddly placed bulkhead towards the stern area of the hold, neglecting the work of
cataloguing the captured ship's stores.
"Sir, if you will step this way," Gibbs said. "Make way there," he ordered, and the hands
backed away from what Laurence now saw was a doorway set inside a wall that had been
built across the back of the hold; recently, for the lumber was markedly lighter than the
surrounding planks.
Ducking through the low door, he found himself in a small chamber with a strange
appearance. The walls had been reinforced with actual metal, which must have added a
great deal of unnecessary weight to the ship, and the floor was padded with old sailcloth; in
addition, there was a small coal-stove in the corner, though this was not presently in use.
The only object stored within the room was a large crate, roughly the height of a man's
waist and as wide, and this was made fast to the floor and walls by means of thick hawsers
attached to metal rings.
Laurence could not help feeling the liveliest curiosity, and after a moment's struggle he
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yielded to it. "Mr. Gibbs, I think we shall have a look inside," he said, stepping out of the way.
The top of the crate was thoroughly nailed down, but eventually yielded to the many willing
hands; they pried it off and lifted out the top layer of packing, and many heads craned
forward at the same time to see.
No one spoke, and in silence Laurence stared at the shining curve of eggshell rising out of
the heaped straw; it was scarcely possible to believe. "Pass the word for Mr. Pollitt," he said
at last; his voice sounded only a little strained. "Mr. Riley, pray be sure those lashings are
quite secure."
Riley did not immediately answer, too busy staring; then he jerked to attention and said,
hastily, "Yes, sir," and bent to check the bindings.
Laurence stepped closer and gazed down at the egg. There could hardly be any doubt as to
its nature, though he could not say for sure from his own experience. The first amazement
passing, he tentatively reached out and touched the surface, very cautiously: it was smooth
and hard to the touch. He withdrew almost at once, not wanting to risk doing it some harm.
Mr. Pollitt came down into the hold in his awkward way, clinging to the ladder edges with
both hands and leaving bloody prints upon it; he was no kind of a sailor, having become a
naval surgeon only at the late age of thirty, after some unspecified disappointments on land.
He was nevertheless a genial man, well liked by the crew, even if his hand was not always
the steadiest at the operating table. "Yes, sir?" he said, then saw the egg. "Good Lord above."
"It is a dragon egg, then?" Laurence said. It required an effort to restrain the triumph in his
voice.
"Oh, yes indeed, Captain, the size alone shows that." Mr. Pollitt had wiped his hands on his
apron and was already brushing more straw away from the top, trying to see the extent.
"My, it is quite hardened already; I wonder what they can have been thinking, so far from
land."
This did not sound very promising. "Hardened?" Laurence said sharply. "What does that
mean?"
"Why, that it will hatch soon. I will have to consult my books to be certain, but I believe that
Badke's Bestiary states with authority that when the shell has fully hardened, hatching will
occur within a week. What a splendid specimen, I must get my measuring cords."
He bustled away, and Laurence exchanged a glance with Gibbs and Riley, moving closer so
they might speak without being overheard by the lingering gawkers. "At least three weeks
from Madeira with a fair wind, would you say?" Laurence said quietly.
"At best, sir," Gibbs said, nodding.
"I cannot imagine how they came to be here with it," Riley said. "What do you mean to do,
sir?"
His initial satisfaction turning gradually into dismay as he realized the very difficult
situation, Laurence stared at the egg blankly. Even in the dim lantern light, it shone with the
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warm luster of marble. "Oh, I am damned if I know, Tom. But I suppose I will go and return
the French captain his sword; it is no wonder he fought so furiously after all."
Except of course he did know; there was only one possible solution, unpleasant as it might
be to contemplate. Laurence watched broodingly while the egg was transferred, still in its
crate, over to the Reliant: the only grim man, except for the French officers. He had granted
them the liberty of the quarterdeck, and they watched the slow process glumly from the rail.
All around them, smiles wreathed every sailor's face, private, gloating smiles, and there was
a great deal of jostling among the idle hands, with many unnecessary cautions and pieces of
advice called out to the sweating group of men engaged in the actual business of the
transfer.
The egg being safely deposited on the deck of the Reliant, Laurence took his own leave of
Gibbs. "I will leave the prisoners with you; there is no sense in giving them a motive for
some desperate attempt to recapture the egg," he said. "Keep in company, as well as you
can. However, if we are separated, we will rendezvous at Madeira. You have my most hearty
congratulations, Captain," he added, shaking Gibbs's hand.
"Thank you, sir, and may I say, I am most sensible-very grateful-" But here Gibbs's
eloquence, never in great supply, failed him; he gave up and merely stood beaming widely
on Laurence and all the world, full of great goodwill.
The ships had been brought abreast for the transfer of the crate; Laurence did not have to
take a boat, but only sprang across on the up-roll of the swell. Riley and the rest of his
officers had already crossed back. He gave the order to make sail, and went directly below,
to wrestle with the problem in privacy.
But no obliging alternative presented itself overnight. The next morning, he bowed to
necessity and gave his orders, and shortly the midshipmen and lieutenants of the ship came
crowding into his cabin, scrubbed and nervous in their best gear; this sort of mass summons
was unprecedented, and the cabin was not quite large enough to hold them all comfortably.
Laurence saw anxious looks on many faces, undoubtedly conscious of some private guilt,
curiosity on others; Riley alone looked worried, perhaps suspecting something of
Laurence's intentions.
Laurence cleared his throat; he was already standing, having ordered his desk and chair
removed to make more room, though he had kept back his inkstand and pen with several
sheets of paper, now resting upon the sill of the stern windows behind him. "Gentlemen," he
said, "you have all heard by now that we found a dragon egg aboard the prize; Mr. Pollitt has
very firmly identified it for us."
Many smiles and some surreptitious elbowing; the little midshipman Battersea piped up in
his treble voice, "Congratulations, sir!" and a quick pleased rumble went around.
Laurence frowned; he understood their high spirits, and if the circumstances had been only
a little different, he would have shared them. The egg would be worth a thousand times its
weight in gold, brought safely to shore; every man aboard the ship would have shared in the
bounty, and as captain he himself would have taken the largest share of the value.
The Amitié's logs had been thrown overboard, but her hands had been less discreet than her
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officers, and Wells had learned enough from their complaints to explain the delay all too
clearly. Fever among the crew, becalmed in the doldrums for the better part of a month, a
leak in her water tanks leaving her on short water rations, and then at last the gale that they
themselves had so recently weathered. It had been a string of exceptionally bad luck, and
Laurence knew the superstitious souls of his men would quail at the idea that the Reliant
was now carrying the egg that had undoubtedly been the cause of it.
He would certainly take care to keep that information from the crew, however; better by far
that they not know of the long series of disasters which the Amitié had suffered. So after
silence fell again, all Laurence said was simply, "Unfortunately, the prize had a very bad
crossing of it. She must have expected to make landfall nearly a month ago, if not more, and
the delay has made the circumstances surrounding the egg urgent." There was puzzlement
and incomprehension now on most faces, though looks of concern were beginning to
spread, and he finished the matter off by saying, "In short, gentlemen, it is about to hatch."
Another low murmur, this time disappointed, and even a few quiet groans; ordinarily he
would have marked the offenders for a mild later rebuke, but as it was, he let them by. They
would soon have more cause to groan. So far they had not yet understood what it meant;
they merely made the mental reduction of the bounty on an unhatched egg to that paid for a
feral dragonet, much less valuable.
"Perhaps not all of you are aware," he said, silencing the whispers with a look, "that England
is in a very dire situation as regards the Aerial Corps. Naturally, our handling is superior,
and the Corps can outfly any other nation of the world, but the French can outbreed us two
to one, and it is impossible to deny that they have better variety in their bloodlines. A
properly harnessed dragon is worth at least a first-rate of one hundred guns to us, even a
common Yellow Reaper or a three-ton Winchester, and Mr. Pollitt believes from the size and
color of the egg that this hatchling is a prime specimen, and very likely one of the rare large
breeds."
"Oh!" said Midshipman Carver, in tones of horror, as he took Laurence's meaning; he
instantly went crimson as eyes went to him, and shut his mouth tight.
Laurence ignored the interruption; Riley would see Carver's grog stopped for a week
without having to be told. The exclamation had at least prepared the others. "We must at
least make the attempt to harness the beast," he said. "I trust, gentlemen, that there is no
man here who is not prepared to do his duty for England. The Corps may not be the sort of
life that any of us has been raised to, but the Navy is no sinecure either, and there is not one
of you who does not understand a hard service."
"Sir," said Lieutenant Fanshawe anxiously: he was a young man of very good family, the son
of an earl. "Do you mean-that is, shall we all-"
There was an emphasis on that all which made it obviously a selfish suggestion, and
Laurence felt himself go near purple with anger. He snapped, "We all shall, indeed, Mr.
Fanshawe, unless there is any man here who is too much of a coward to make the attempt,
and in that case that gentleman may explain himself to a court-martial when we put in at
Madeira." He sent an angry glare around the room, and no one else met his eye or offered a
protest.
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He was all the more infuriated for understanding the sentiment, and for sharing it himself.
Certainly no man not raised to the life could be easy at the prospect of suddenly becoming
an aviator, and he loathed the necessity of asking his officers to face it. It meant, after all, an
end to any semblance of ordinary life. It was not like sailing, where you might hand your
ship back to the Navy and be set ashore, often whether you liked it or not.
Even in times of peace, a dragon could not be put into dock, nor allowed to wander loose,
and to keep a full-grown beast of twenty tons from doing exactly as it pleased took very
nearly the full attention of an aviator and a crew of assistants besides. They could not really
be managed by force, and were finicky about their handlers; some would not accept
management at all, even when new-hatched, and none would accept it after their first
feeding. A feral dragon could be kept in the breeding grounds by the constant provision of
food, mates, and comfortable shelter, but it could not be controlled outside, and it would not
speak with men.
So if a hatchling let you put it into harness, duty forever after tied you to the beast. An
aviator could not easily manage any sort of estate, nor raise a family, nor go into society to
any real extent. They lived as men apart, and largely outside the law, for you could not
punish an aviator without losing the use of his dragon. In peacetime they lived in a sort of
wild, outrageous libertinage in small enclaves, generally in the most remote and
inhospitable places in all Britain, where the dragons could be given at least some freedom.
Though the men of the Corps were honored without question for their courage and
devotion to duty, the prospect of entering their ranks could not be appealing to any
gentleman raised up in respectable society.
Yet they sprang from good families, gentlemen's sons handed over at the age of seven to be
raised to the life, and it would be an impossible insult to the Corps to have anyone other
than one of his own officers attempt the harnessing. And if one had to be asked to take the
risk, then all; though if Fanshawe had not spoken in so unbecoming a way, Laurence would
have liked to keep Carver out of it, as he knew the boy had a poor head for heights, which
struck him as a grave impediment for an aviator. But in the atmosphere created by the
pitiful request, it would seem like favoritism, and that would not do.
He took a deep breath, still simmering with anger, and spoke again. "No man here has any
training for the task, and the only fair means of assigning the duty is by lot. Naturally, those
gentlemen with family are excused. Mr. Pollitt," he said, turning to the surgeon, who had a
wife and four children in Derbyshire, "I hope that you will draw the name for us. Gentlemen,
you will each write your name upon a sheet here, and cast it into this bag." He suited word
to deed, tore off the part of the sheet with his own name, folded it, and put it into the small
sack.
Riley stepped forward at once, and the others followed suit obediently; under Laurence's
cold eye, Fanshawe flushed and wrote his name with a shaking hand. Carver, on the other
hand, wrote bravely, though with a pale cheek; and at the last Battersea, unlike virtually all
the others, was incautious in tearing the sheet, so that his piece was unusually large; he
could be heard murmuring quietly to Carver, "Would it not be famous to ride a dragon?"
Laurence shook his head a little at the thoughtlessness of youth; yet it might indeed be
better were one of the younger men chosen, for the adjustment would be easier. Still, it
would be hard to see one of the boys sacrificed to the task, and to face the outrage of his
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family. But the same would be true of any man here, including himself.
Though he had done his best not to consider the consequences from a selfish perspective,
now that the fatal moment was at hand he could not entirely suppress his own private fears.
One small bit of paper might mean the wreck of his career, the upheaval of his life, disgrace
in his father's eyes. And, too, there was Edith Galman to think of; but if he were to begin
excusing his men for some half-formed attachment, not binding, none of them would be left.
In any case, he could not imagine excusing himself from this selection for any reason: this
was not something he could ask his men to face, and avoid himself.
He handed the bag to Mr. Pollitt and made an effort to stand at his ease and appear
unconcerned, clasping his hands loosely behind his back. The surgeon shook the sack in his
hand twice, thrust his hand in without looking, and drew out a small folded sheet. Laurence
was ashamed to feel a sensation of profound relief even before the name was read: the sheet
was folded over once more than his own entry had been.
The emotion lasted only a moment. "Jonathan Carver," Pollitt said. Fanshawe could be heard
letting out an explosive breath, Battersea sighing, and Laurence bowed his head, silently
cursing Fanshawe yet again; so promising a young officer, and so likely to be useless in the
Corps.
"Well; there we have it," he said; there was nothing else to be done. "Mr. Carver, you are
relieved of regular duty until the hatching; you will instead consult with Mr. Pollitt on the
process to follow for the harnessing."
"Yes, sir," the boy responded, a little faintly.
"Dismissed, gentlemen; Mr. Fanshawe, a word with you. Mr. Riley, you have the deck."
Riley touched his hat, and the others filed out behind him. Fanshawe stood rigid and pale,
hands clasped behind his back, and swallowed; his Adam's apple was prominent and
bobbed visibly. Laurence made him wait sweating until his steward had restored the cabin
furniture, and then seated himself and glared at him from this position of state, enthroned
before the stern windows.
"Now then, I should like you to explain precisely what you meant by that remark earlier, Mr.
Fanshawe," he said.
"Oh, sir, I didn't mean anything," Fanshawe said. "It is only what they say about aviators, sir-" He stumbled to a stop under the increasingly militant gleam in Laurence's eye.
"I do not give a damn what they say, Mr. Fanshawe," he said icily. "England's aviators are
her shield from the air, as the Navy is by sea, and when you have done half as much as the
least of them, you may offer criticism. You will stand Mr. Carver's watch and do his work as
well as your own, and your grog is stopped until further notice: inform the quartermaster.
Dismissed."
But despite his words, he paced the cabin after Fanshawe had gone. He had been severe, and
rightly so, for it was very unbecoming in the fellow to speak in such a way, and even more to
hint that he might be excused for his birth. But it was certainly a sacrifice, and his
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conscience smote him painfully when he thought of the look on Carver's face. His own
continued feelings of relief reproached him; he was condemning the boy to a fate he had not
wanted to face himself.
He tried to comfort himself with the notion that there was every chance the dragon would
turn its nose up at Carver, untrained as he was, and refuse the harness. Then no possible
reproach could be made, and he could deliver it for the bounty with an easy conscience.
Even if it could only be used for breeding, the dragon would still do England a great deal of
good, and taking it away from the French was a victory all on its own; personally he would
be more than content with that as a resolution, though as a matter of duty he meant to do
everything in his power to make the other occur.
The next week passed uncomfortably. It was impossible not to perceive Carver's anxiety,
especially as the week wore on and the armorer's attempt at the harness began to take on a
recognizable shape, or the unhappiness of his friends and the men of his gun-crew, for he
was a popular fellow, and his difficulty with heights was no great secret.
Mr. Pollitt was the only one in good humor, being not very well informed as to the state of
the emotions on the ship, and very interested in the harnessing process. He spent a great
deal of time inspecting the egg, going so far as to sleep and eat beside the crate in the
gunroom, much to the distress of the officers who slept there: his snores were penetrating,
and their berth was already crowded. Pollitt was entirely unconscious of their silent
disapproval, and he kept his vigil until the morning when, with a wretched lack of
sympathy, he cheerfully announced that the first cracks had begun to show.
Laurence at once ordered the egg uncrated and brought up on deck. A special cushion had
been made for it, out of old sailcloth stuffed with straw; this was placed on a couple of
lockers lashed together, and the egg gingerly laid upon it. Mr. Rabson, the armorer, brought
up the harness: it was a makeshift affair of leather straps held by dozens of buckles, as he
had not known enough about the proportions of dragons to make it exact. He stood waiting
with it, off to the side, while Carver positioned himself before the egg. Laurence ordered the
hands to clear the space around the egg to leave more room; most of them chose to climb
into the rigging or onto the roof of the roundhouse, the better to see the process.
It was a brilliantly sunny day, and perhaps the warmth and light were encouraging to the
long-confined hatchling; the egg began to crack more seriously almost as soon as it was laid
out. There was a great deal of fidgeting and noisy whispering up above, which Laurence
chose to ignore, and a few gasps when the first glimpse of movement could be seen inside: a
clawed wing tip poking out, talons scrabbling out of a different crack.
The end came abruptly: the shell broke almost straight down the middle and the two halves
were flung apart onto the deck, as if by the occupant's impatience. The dragonet was left
amid bits and pieces, shaking itself out vigorously on the pillow. It was still covered with the
slime of the interior, and shone wet and glossy under the sun; its body was a pure, untinted
black from nose to tail, and a sigh of wonder ran throughout the crew as it unfurled its large,
six-spined wings like a lady's fan, the bottom edge dappled with oval markings in grey and
dark glowing blue.
Laurence himself was impressed; he had never seen a hatchling before, though he had been
at several fleet actions and witnessed the grown dragons of the Corps striking in support.
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He did not have the knowledge to identify the breed, but it was certainly an exceedingly
rare one: he did not recall ever seeing a black dragon on either side, and it seemed quite
large, for a fresh-hatched creature. That only made the matter more urgent. "Mr. Carver,
when you are ready," he said.
Carver, very pale, stepped towards the creature, holding out his hand, which trembled
visibly. "Good dragon," he said; the words sounded rather like a question. "Nice dragon."
The dragonet paid him no attention whatsoever. It was occupied in examining itself and
picking off bits of shell that had adhered to its hide, in a fastidious sort of way. Though it
was barely the size of a large dog, the five talons upon each claw were still an inch long and
impressive; Carver looked at them anxiously and stopped an arm's length away. Here he
stood waiting dumbly; the dragon continued to ignore him, and presently he cast an anxious
look of appeal over his shoulder at where Laurence stood with Mr. Pollitt.
"Perhaps if he were to speak to it again," Mr. Pollitt said dubiously.
"Pray do so, Mr. Carver," Laurence said.
The boy nodded, but even as he turned back, the dragonet forestalled him by climbing down
from its cushion and leaping onto the deck past him. Carver turned around with hand still
outstretched and an almost comical look of surprise, and the other officers, who had drawn
closer in the excitement of the hatching, backed away in alarm.
"Hold your positions," Laurence snapped. "Mr. Riley, look to the hold." Riley nodded and
took up position in front of the opening, to prevent the dragonet's going down below.
But the dragonet instead turned to exploring the deck; it flicked out a long, narrow forked
tongue as it walked, lightly touching everything in its reach, and looked about itself with
every evidence of curiosity and intelligence. Yet it continued to ignore Carver, despite the
boy's repeated attempts to catch its attention, and seemed equally uninterested in the other
officers. Though it did occasionally rear up onto its hind legs to peer at a face more closely,
it did as much to examine a pulley, or the hanging hourglass, at which it batted curiously.
Laurence felt his heart sinking; no one could blame him, precisely, if the dragonet did not
show any inclination for an untrained sea-officer, but to have a truly rare dragonet caught in
the shell go feral would certainly feel like a blow. They had arranged the matter from
common knowledge, bits and pieces out of Pollitt's books, and from Pollitt's own imperfect
recollection of a hatching which he had once observed; now Laurence feared there was
some essential step they had missed. It had certainly seemed strange to him when he
learned that the dragonet should be able to begin talking at once, freshly hatched. They had
not found anything in the texts describing any specific invitation or trick to induce the
dragonet to speak, but he should certainly be blamed, and blame himself, if it turned out
there had been something omitted.
A low buzz of conversation was spreading as the officers and hands felt the moment
passing. Soon he would have to give it up and take thought to confining the beast, to keep it
from flying off after they fed it. Still exploring, the dragon came past him; it sat up on its
haunches to look at him inquisitively, and Laurence gazed down at it in unconcealed sorrow
and dismay.
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It blinked at him; he noticed its eyes were a deep blue and slit-pupiled, and then it said,
"Why are you frowning?"
Silence fell at once, and it was only with difficulty that Laurence kept from gaping at the
creature. Carver, who must have been thinking himself reprieved by now, was standing
behind the dragon, mouth open; his eyes met Laurence's with a desperate look, but he drew
up his courage and stepped forward, ready to address the dragon once more.
Laurence stared at the dragon, at the pale, frightened boy, and then took a deep breath and
said to the creature, "I beg your pardon, I did not mean to. My name is Will Laurence; and
yours?"
No discipline could have prevented the murmur of shock which went around the deck. The
dragonet did not seem to notice, but puzzled at the question for several moments, and
finally said, with a dissatisfied air, "I do not have a name."
Laurence had read over Pollitt's books enough to know how he should answer; he asked,
formally, "May I give you one?"
It-or rather he, for the voice was definitely masculine-looked him over again, paused to
scratch at an apparently flawless spot on his back, then said with unconvincing indifference,
"If you please."
And now Laurence found himself completely blank. He had not given any real thought to the
process of harnessing at all, beyond doing his best to see that it occurred, and he had no
idea what an appropriate name might be for a dragon. After an awful moment of panic, his
mind somehow linked dragon and ship, and he blurted out, "Temeraire," thinking of the
noble dreadnought which he had seen launched, many years before: that same elegant
gliding motion.
He cursed himself silently for having nothing thought out, but it had been said, and at least it
was an honorable name; after all, he was a Navy man, and it was only appropriate- But he
paused here in his own thoughts, and stared at the dragonet in mounting horror: of course
he was not a Navy man anymore; he could not be, with a dragon, and the moment it
accepted the harness from his hands, he would be undone.
The dragon, evidently perceiving nothing of his feelings, said, "Temeraire? Yes. My name is
Temeraire." He nodded, an odd gesture with the head bobbing at the end of the long neck,
and said more urgently, "I am hungry."
A newly hatched dragon would fly away immediately after being fed, if not restrained; only
if the creature might be persuaded to accept the restraint willingly would he ever be
controllable, or useful in battle. Rabson was standing by gaping and appalled, and had not
come forward with the harness; Laurence had to beckon him over. His palms were
sweating, and the metal and leather felt slippery as the man put the harness into his hands.
He gripped it tightly and said, remembering at the last moment to use the new name,
"Temeraire, would you be so good as to let me put this on you? Then we can make you fast
to the deck here, and bring you something to eat."
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Temeraire inspected the harness which Laurence held out to him, his flat tongue slipping
out to taste it. "Very well," he said, and stood expectantly. Resolutely not thinking beyond
the immediate task, Laurence knelt and fumbled with the straps and buckles, carefully
passing them about the smooth, warm body, keeping well clear of the wings.
The broadest band went around the dragon's middle, just behind the forelegs, and buckled
under the belly; this was stitched crosswise to two thick straps which ran along the
dragon's sides and across the deep barrel of his chest, then back behind the rear legs and
underneath his tail. Various smaller loops had been threaded upon the straps, to buckle
around the legs and the base of the neck and tail, to keep the harness in place, and several
narrower and thinner bands strapped across his back.
The complicated assemblage required some attention, for which Laurence was grateful; he
was able to lose himself in the task. He noted as he worked that the scales were surprisingly
soft to the touch, and it occurred to him that the metal edges might bruise. "Mr. Rabson, be
so good as to bring me some extra sailcloth; we shall wrap these buckles," he said over his
shoulder.
Shortly it was all done, although the harness and the white-wrapped buckles were ugly
against the sleek black body, and did not fit very well. But Temeraire made no complaint,
nor about having a chain made fast from the harness to a stanchion, and he stretched his
neck out eagerly to the tub full of steaming red meat from the fresh-butchered goat, brought
out at Laurence's command.
Temeraire was not a clean eater, tearing off large chunks of meat and gulping them down
whole, scattering blood and bits of flesh across the deck; he also seemed to enjoy the
intestines in particular. Laurence stood well clear of the carnage and, having observed in
faintly queasy wonder for a few moments, was abruptly recalled to the situation by Riley's
uncertain, "Sir, shall I dismiss the officers?"
He turned and looked at his lieutenant, then at the staring, dismayed midshipmen; no one
had spoken or moved since the hatching, which, he realized abruptly, had been less than
half an hour ago; the hourglass was just emptying now. It was difficult to believe; still more
difficult to fully acknowledge that he was now in harness, but difficult or not, it had to be
faced. Laurence supposed he could cling to his rank until they reached shore; there were no
regulations for a situation such as this one. But if he did, a new captain would certainly be
put into his place when they reached Madeira, and Riley would never get his step up.
Laurence would never again be in a position to do him any good.
"Mr. Riley, the circumstances are awkward, there is no doubt," he said, steeling himself; he
was not going to ruin Riley's career for a cowardly avoidance. "But I think for the sake of the
ship, I must put her in your hands at once; I will need to devote a great deal of my attention
to Temeraire now, and I cannot divide it so."
"Oh, sir!" Riley said, miserably, but not protesting; evidently the idea had occurred to him as
well. But his regret was obviously sincere; he had sailed with Laurence for years, and had
come up to lieutenant in his service from a mere midshipman; they were friends as well as
comrades.
"Let us not be complainers, Tom," Laurence said more quietly and less formally, giving a
14
warning glance to where Temeraire was still glutting himself. Dragon intelligence was a
mystery to men who made a study of the subject; he had no idea how much the dragon
would hear or understand, but thought it better to avoid the risk of giving offense. Raising
his voice a little more, he added, "I am sure you will manage her admirably, Captain."
Taking a deep breath, he removed his gold epaulettes; they were pinned on securely, but he
had not been wealthy when he had first made captain, and he had not forgotten, from those
days, how to shift them easily from one coat to another. Though perhaps it was not entirely
proper to give Riley the symbol of rank without confirmation by the Admiralty, Laurence
felt it necessary to mark the change of command in some visible manner. The left he slipped
into his pocket, the right he fixed on Riley's shoulder: even as a captain, Riley could wear
only one until he had three years' seniority. Riley's fair, freckled skin showed every emotion
plainly, and he could hardly fail to be happy at this unexpected promotion despite the
circumstances; he flushed up with color, and looked as though he wished to speak but could
not find the words.
"Mr. Wells," Laurence said, hinting; he meant to do it properly, having begun.
The third lieutenant started, then said a little weakly, "Huzzah for Captain Riley." A cheer
went up, ragged initially, but strong and clear by the third repetition: Riley was a highly
competent officer, and well liked, even if it was a shocking situation.
When the cheering had died down, Riley, having mastered his embarrassment, added, "And
huzzah for-for Temeraire, lads." The cheering now was full-throated, if not entirely joyful,
and Laurence shook Riley's hand to conclude the matter.
Temeraire had finished eating by this point, and had climbed up onto a locker by the railing
to spread his wings in the sun, folding them in and out. But he looked around with interest
at hearing his name cheered, and Laurence went to his side; it was a good excuse to leave
Riley to the business of establishing his command, and putting the ship back to rights. "Why
are they making that noise?" Temeraire asked, but without waiting for an answer, he rattled
the chain. "Will you take this off? I would like to go flying now."
Laurence hesitated; the description of the harnessing ceremony in Mr. Pollitt's book had
provided no further instructions beyond getting the dragon into harness and talking; he had
somehow assumed that the dragon would simply stay where it was without further
argument. "If you do not mind, perhaps let us leave it awhile longer," he said, temporizing.
"We are rather far from land, you see, and if you were to fly off, you might not find your way
back."
"Oh," said Temeraire, craning his long neck over the railing; the Reliant was making
somewhereabouts eight knots in a fine westerly wind, and the water churned away in a
white froth from her sides. "Where are we?"
"We are at sea." Laurence settled down beside him on the locker. "In the Atlantic, perhaps
two weeks from shore. Masterson," he added, catching the attention of one of the idle hands
who were not-very-subtly hanging about to gawk. "Be so good as to fetch me a bucket of
water and some rags, if you please."
These being brought, he endeavored to clean away the traces of the messy meal from the
15
glossy black hide; Temeraire submitted with evident pleasure to being wiped down, and
afterwards appreciatively rubbed the side of his head against Laurence's hand. Laurence
found himself smiling involuntarily and stroking the warm black hide, and Temeraire
settled down, tucked his head into Laurence's lap, and went to sleep.
"Sir," Riley said, coming up quietly, "I will leave you the cabin; it would scarcely make sense
otherwise, with him," meaning Temeraire. "Shall I have someone help you carry him below
now?"
"Thank you, Tom; and no, I am comfortable enough here for the moment; best not to stir
him unless necessary, I should think," Laurence said, then belatedly thought that it might
not make it easier on Riley, having his former captain sitting on deck. Still, he was not
inclined to shift the sleeping dragonet, and added only, "If you would be so kind as to have
someone bring me a book, perhaps one of Mr. Pollitt's, I should be much obliged," thinking
this would both serve to occupy him, and keep him from seeming too much an observer.
Temeraire did not wake until the sun was slipping below the horizon; Laurence was
nodding over his book, which described dragon habits in such a way as to make them seem
as exciting as plodding cows. Temeraire nudged his cheek with a blunt nose to rouse him,
and announced, "I am hungry again."
Laurence had already begun reassessing the ship's supply before the hatching; now he had
to revise once again as he watched Temeraire devour the remainder of the goat and two
hastily sacrificed chickens, bones and all. So far, in two feedings, the dragonet had
consumed his body's weight in food; he appeared already somewhat larger, and he was
looking about for more with a wistful air.
Laurence had a quiet and anxious consultation with Riley and the ship's cook. If necessary,
they could hail the Amitié and draw upon her stores: because her complement had been so
badly reduced by her series of disasters, her supplies of food were more than she would
need to make Madeira. However, she had been down to salt pork and salt beef, and the
Reliant was scarcely better off. At this rate, Temeraire should eat up the fresh supplies
within a week, and Laurence had no idea if a dragon would eat cured meat, or if the salt
would perhaps not be good for it.
"Would he take fish?" the cook suggested. "I have a lovely little tunny, caught fresh this
morning, sir; I meant it for your dinner. Oh-that is-" He paused, awkwardly, looking back
and forth between his former captain and his new.
"By all means let us make the attempt, if you think it right, sir," Riley said, looking at
Laurence and ignoring the cook's confusion.
"Thank you, Captain," Laurence said. "We may as well offer it to him; I suppose he can tell us
if he does not care for it."
Temeraire looked at the fish dubiously, then nibbled; shortly the entire thing from head to
tail had vanished down his throat: it had been a full twelve pounds. He licked his chops and
said, "It is very crunchy, but I like it well enough," then startled them and himself by
belching loudly.
16
"Well," Laurence said, reaching for the cleaning rag again, "that is certainly encouraging;
Captain, if you could see your way to putting a few men on fishing duty, perhaps we may
preserve the ox for a few days more."
He took Temeraire down to the cabin afterwards; the ladder presented a bit of a problem,
and in the end the dragon had to be swung down by an arrangement of pulleys attached to
his harness. Temeraire nosed around the desk and chair inquisitively, and poked his head
out of the windows to look at the Reliant's wake. The pillow from the hatching had been
placed into a double-wide hanging cot for him, slung next to Laurence's own, and he leapt
easily into it from the ground.
His eyes almost immediately closed to drowsy slits. Thus relieved of duty and no longer
under the eyes of the crew, Laurence sat down with a thump in his chair and stared at the
sleeping dragon, as at an instrument of doom.
He had two brothers and three nephews standing between himself and his father's estate,
and his own capital was invested in the Funds, requiring no great management on his part;
that at least would not be a matter of difficulty. He had gone over the rails a score of times in
battle, and he could stand in the tops in a gale without a bit of queasiness: he did not fear he
would prove shy aboard a dragon.
But for the rest-he was a gentleman and a gentleman's son. Though he had gone to sea at
the age of twelve, he had been fortunate enough to serve aboard first- or second-rate ships-of-the-line for the most part of his service, under wealthy captains who kept fine tables and
entertained their officers regularly. He dearly loved society; conversation, dancing, and
friendly whist were his favorite pursuits; and when he thought that he might never go to the
opera again, he felt a very palpable urge to tip the laden cot out the windows.
He tried not to hear his father's voice in his head, condemning him for a fool; tried not to
imagine what Edith would think when she heard of it. He could not even write to let her
know. Although he had to some extent considered himself committed, no formal
engagement had ever been entered upon, due first to his lack of capital and more recently to
his long absence from England.
He had done sufficiently well in the way of prize-money to do away with the first problem,
and if he had been set ashore for any length of time in the last four years, he most likely
would have spoken. He had been half in mind to request a brief leave for England at the end
of this cruise; it was hard to deliberately put himself ashore when he could not rely upon
getting another ship afterwards, but he was not so eligible a prospect that he imagined she
would wait for him over all other suitors on the strength of a half-joking agreement
between a thirteen-year-old boy and a nine-year-old girl.
Now he was a poorer prospect indeed; he had not the slightest notion how and where he
might live as an aviator, or what sort of a home he could offer a wife. Her family might
object, even if she herself did not; certainly it was nothing she had been led to expect. A
Navy wife might have to face with equanimity her husband's frequent absences, but when
he appeared she did not have to uproot herself and go live in some remote covert, with a
dragon outside the door and a crowd of rough men the only society.
He had always entertained a certain private longing for a home of his own, imagined in
17
detail through the long, lonely nights at sea: smaller by necessity than the one in which he
had been raised, yet still elegant; kept by a wife whom he could trust with the management
of their affairs and their children both; a comfortable refuge when he was at home, and a
warm memory while at sea.
Every feeling protested against the sacrifice of this dream; yet under the circumstances, he
was not even sure he could honorably make Edith an offer which she might feel obliged to
accept. And there was no question of courting someone else in her place; no woman of sense
and character would deliberately engage her affections on an aviator, unless she was of the
sort who preferred to have a complacent and absent husband leaving his purse in her
hands, and to live apart from him even while he was in England; such an arrangement did
not appeal to Laurence in the slightest.
The sleeping dragon, swaying back and forth in his cot, tail twitching unconsciously in time
with some alien dream, was a very poor substitute for hearth and home. Laurence stood and
went to the stern windows, looking over the Reliant's wake, a pale and opalescent froth
streaming out behind her in the light from the lanterns; the ebb and flow was pleasantly
numbing to watch.
His steward Giles brought in his dinner with a great clatter of plate and silver, keeping well
back from the dragon's cot. His hands trembled as he laid out the service; Laurence
dismissed him once the meal was served and sighed a little when he had gone; he had
thought of asking Giles to come along with him, as he supposed even an aviator might have
a servant, but there was no use if the man was spooked by the creatures. It would have been
something to have a familiar face.
In solitude, he ate his simple dinner quickly; it was only salt beef with a little glazing of
wine, as the fish had gone into Temeraire's belly, and he had little appetite in any case. He
tried to write some letters, afterwards, but it was no use; his mind would wander back into
gloomy paths, and he had to force his attention to every line. At last he gave it up, looked out
briefly to tell Giles he would take no supper this evening, and climbed into his own cot.
Temeraire shifted and snuggled deeper within the bedding; after a brief struggle with
uncharitable resentment, Laurence reached out and covered him more securely, the night
air being somewhat cool, and then fell asleep to the sound of the dragon's regular deep
breathing, like the heaving of a bellows.
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