League of Dragons (31 page)

The Regal startled and peered very carefully down. “Why, I didn't see you there,” he said, addressing a shrub somewhat to Laurence's left. “Who are you, then?”

“I am Temeraire's captain,” Laurence said in some asperity. “Do I understand that you are volunteering to come to the Continent with us? And fight?”

“I might as well, I guess,” Requiescat said. “I am tired of carrying rocks around. It may be good money, but it gets stale, there's no denying.”

Laurence contemplated without enthusiasm the project of feeding a Regal Copper, with six other heavy-weights to manage already among their force—but there was no denying the breed exerted a kind of moral force upon their fellows disproportionate to even their immense scale. He was sensible of the advantage Requiescat's presence should offer not merely in battle, but in securing the uncertain discipline of his company. His worst fear at present was not defeat, but a mutiny among his captains, which might rob them of a victory otherwise in reach—and he would hold himself responsible regardless of the ill-management of the Admiralty which had served him with such officers as made that mutiny a prospect more probable than unthinkable.

Laurence looked at Ning, who regarded him with placid mien. How she had prevailed upon an unharnessed and indolent beast to volunteer for war, Laurence did not know, and suspected some inducement had been privately offered, which might well be held to his own account in future. But so far as the practical side of the matter, she had indeed found a solution: Requiescat could certainly manage her weight, even if he were armored to boot.

“Very well,” Laurence said, yielding. “If you are set on this course, you are welcome; and you may accompany us as well, if you choose,” he added to Ning, “but I think I will require your promise that so long as you remain with us you will undertake no action inimical to Britain's interests, nor hold any conversation with the enemy.”

Ning considered this demand long enough to make Laurence glad he had made it, and at last judiciously said, “I believe I can commit myself so far: you have my word,” and he could only hope that would be sufficient bond to keep her from either imprudence, or a dishonorable excess of the reverse.

“Requiescat is welcome: he is very handy in a fight when he likes to be, even if he does want the biggest share of everything, always,” Temeraire said. “But I do not understand why Ning wishes to come along, and—Laurence, of course I do not mean to imply there is anything wanting in a dragon of
my
lineage, only I am afraid Ning—that she is—” He stopped, wondering how best to put it into words, without inviting any reflections on her breeding.

“Just so,” Laurence said with a sigh, “but we are most likely better off bringing her than leaving her behind; she would certainly make some form of mischief in our absence.”

“I am quite content to come,” Ning herself said, when Temeraire tried to suggest that perhaps she would be better off remaining out of the noise and tumult of war, where she might easily be injured, particularly at her small size. “I will be careful to evade any danger.”

“I am sure she
will,
” Temeraire muttered, disgruntled, but there was no more time for persuasion to act upon her; the last furious bustle of preparation was under way, and Challoner, the new second lieutenant, was begging his pardon, but they needed his help with the armor.

Temeraire had scarcely remembered the enormous effort involved in getting a British heavy-weight under full arms and under way, and the size of the crew required to make the operation possible at all. He had once taken it for granted. Now he had learned to look with a critical eye upon the service which had then been all his world, and yet the cheerful ordinary shouting and cursing still had the power to raise a pang of pleasurable nostalgia—officers and ground crew all scrambling in every direction, checking over every buckle; the supplies all laid out and going aboard in their orderly fashion, as unchanged as sunrise. There was even something satisfying in the imposing weight of harness and chainmail, and more still in knowing his belly-netting held nearly fifty incendiaries, and a full complement of seven riflemen were already gone aboard his back.

He had been luxuriously scrubbed yesterday, under Challoner's supervision—Lieutenant Challoner herself entirely satisfactory, with a silver-buttoned coat in bright green, hair neatly braided and tied at the end with a matching ribbon, everything about her deeply comforting to Temeraire's sense of what was due their new rank and stature. She had also the charming quality of being the sister of one of Temeraire's former officers who had died at the Battle of Dover, and therefore seemed rather like a lost valuable recovered: although it was puzzling Rebecca should have described herself to him as the
younger
sister, when she was older than Dilly had been; but Temeraire put this aside; he did not like to think too much about the way time passed for people.

She had gracefully accepted Temeraire's hints on the subject of the appearance he should like the crew to present, and acted upon them: there was not an officer who did not have a tidy black neckcloth and a freshly pressed coat; their boots were all blacked to an equal shine, and the ground crew, too, were all tidy and had clean shirts and clean leather vests. The whole clearing offered a handsome portrait of industry and order to Temeraire's survey, and he could not help but regret that Forthing should very soon mar it again with his own disgraceful appearance, quite likely leading a good number of the crew astray with him.

He had tried to broach the subject with Laurence—“Surely we ought have a first lieutenant more—more suitable”—but Laurence had firmly put a period to the discussion.

“My dear, I must ask your pardon. I know you are not fond of Forthing, but you must see the injustice of having accepted his toil and service all this long and thankless way, only to push him aside at the first opportunity where that service might receive its just reward. He has served honorably and to the best of his abilities, and I cannot entertain the suggestion of replacement.”

Temeraire sighed again, but consoled himself: at least he had no reason to blush for his crew
now,
and battlefield conditions might excuse the lack of that formality and neatness of uniform which were under better circumstances considered appropriate.

Half their company was leaving under Granby's command from Edinburgh, but even the two formations which would back them made an enthusiastic noise full of consequence. Temeraire only wished he could think better than he did of the dragons behind him. Obituria, the senior heavy-weight among them, was impressive in the physical sense: she was a large Chequered Nettle, with a fourteen-barbed club of a tail which she could lay about as skillfully as if it were another leg, but she was a stolid, dull creature who flew her formation-patterns without the least spirit of inquiry. She would never say,
Why are we turning left and upwards here? Would that not expose our flanks to those little French harriers?
No, she did as her captain told her, and Captain Windle was as dull as his beast: seemed to only speak in words of one syllable, or two if he were much pressed.

Then there was Fidelitas, their Anglewing, who had the very peculiar habit of being
almost
interesting. If they were ever near each other, breakfasting at the pen perhaps, and Temeraire struck up a conversation with him, very soon he would be talking animatedly and getting quite excited—and then abruptly he would stop as though someone had clapped his mouth shut for him, and go wooden. There was no accounting for it, and anyway Temeraire nursed a private irritation against his captain, Poole, who often forgot entirely to call Laurence “sir” and never touched his hat.

But they certainly made a good enough outward show, with their formations assembled behind them, to make Temeraire pleased to lead them. It was not as glorious of course as flying at the head of the massed legions of China, but one could not have everything, all the time. And their complete equipage was perhaps even more impressive—if not
attractive;
Temeraire did not see why the Corps could not spare a thought, when laying out their gear, to provide them with banners, perhaps, or streamers—narrow streamers of thin cotton, attached to the front wing-edges, would have produced quite a remarkable effect,
he
thought.

At least Requiescat added admirably to their color. The formation-dragons were more than a little startled when he landed as they were forming up; he had been outfitted with mail, and Perscitia had further sent him along a new leather-and-steel head covering of her own devising, which only made him look more impressive. “I would have ordered one made for you,” she had told Temeraire apologetically, “but it requires a great many measurements, to ensure it does not obstruct vision, and in any case I am not confident it would do for you, what with the divine wind—like being inside a bell when it has been rung, very likely.”

“So, we are off to give the French another good drubbing, are we?” Requiescat said genially, as Ning leapt aboard his back and settled herself, with a rather preening stretch of her neck, between his wings. “Where is everybody?” he asked, looking around.

“The other formation is leaving from Edinburgh,” Temeraire said, feeling this an unjustified aspersion on the size of their force: they had two formations, and besides that another dozen unharnessed beasts had been persuaded to join up.

“I don't mean formations,” Requiescat said, “but there they are coming, I guess,” and Temeraire looked round to see a cloud—no, a flock of birds—no, it was dragons; at least fifty smallish light-weights, all coming towards them—

It turned out to be Ricarlee, with a crowd of the Scots ferals. They produced a near-riot on their arrival—they had no notion of order, and directly they had landed they were scrambling into everyone's clearings, rousing up the Channel dragons from their sleep, poking their noses into the feeding pen, until finally Temeraire roared loud enough to secure their attention, and also to knock over one old oak, which crashed down into a barracks cabin and brought out a dozen ground crewmen shouting and cursing.

This noise quelled the better part of the horde. “Requiescat, go and round up those fellows away from the officers' mess there,” Temeraire said, more than a little exasperated, “and Fidelitas, pray chase those others out of the pen. It is quite intolerable your fellows should be making such a mess of all our arrangements,” he added severely to Ricarlee, who had landed with a handful of lieutenants—small dragons in dark shades with bright blue streaks painted upon their hides. “If you are here to steal, we will serve you out as that deserves straightaway; if not, you had better come to order and explain yourselves and this behavior at once.”

“No call to be unfriendly,” Ricarlee said. “You can't blame anyone for wanting a bite to sup. We are for France, isn't it? A long way to go on an empty belly. Now then,” he sidled in peculiarly close, and put his head near Temeraire's. “It'll be share and share alike, I trust?”

“Share and share alike of what?” Temeraire said suspiciously.

“Ha ha,” Ricarlee said, winking one eye in a strange fashion, “very good, I understand you. So long as we're agreed.”

“I do not understand
you,
” Temeraire said. “You cannot expect to eat as much as we heavy-weights.”

“Hmmrph,” Ricarlee said. “Oh, aye, fair enough,” in a tone of one yielding on an important point at a bargaining-table.

“Laurence, whatever do you suppose he is talking about?” Temeraire asked, in an undertone, while the covert's harried quartermaster began a scurrying effort to put out some hot mash with leftover beef bones for the blue-streaked ferals, mostly to keep them from hanging about the pen peering wistfully through the stakes and terrifying all the cattle within.

“I suppose that word has got about that there are heaps of treasure to be had, in fighting Napoleon,” Laurence said, “undoubtedly aided by legends of your recently acquired gold.” He was conferring with Challoner and his own supply-officer, a Lieutenant Doone. “We will have them, if they will come: I had not expected so many to answer your lure, but I think we can manage it, even if our commons must be a little short.”

“Do I understand correctly, sir,” Captain Windle said—he had walked over from Obituria—“that you propose to saddle us with this unruly gaggle for baggage, and feed them out of our supply? The winter is a hard time for feral beasts, I am sure, and as a form of charity this must recommend itself; I would be glad to know what
military
purpose you intend they should serve.”

More than you,
Temeraire would have liked to say, his ruff going back at Windle's tone, which he felt thoroughly disrespectful, but Laurence answered as though he had asked the question without rudeness.

“I propose, Captain, that they should be a screen for our formations, and a constant threat to the enemy's supply and cavalry—what he has left of it, after Moscow. If we cannot contrive to feed them, they must supply their wants somewhere, and better in French territory than in Scotland. We will not, however, delay our departure any further for their sake. Temeraire, they must be ready to go now, or not at all. Pray pass the word to check harness.”

Temeraire called out with a pleasant sensation of significance, “Let everyone see to their harness, if you please,” and himself spread his wings and rose onto his haunches to give himself a thorough shaking, politely ignoring the young rifleman Dubrough who lost his footing and mortified had to haul himself back up along his carabiner straps.

“Ha ha, like geese,” Ricarlee said, too audibly, but from every side the dragons were calling back, “All lies well,” and Captain Windle scowling retreated to Obituria as Laurence stepped into Temeraire's ready claw to be put up.