Blood of Tyrants

The river was empty, for the most part, in the advancing night; only fishermen seeking a last piece of luck were out, and not many of those, mere shadows; one they passed was singing softly to himself, and raised a hand to them as they glided on past. Laurence felt the deep peacefulness of the countryside, its stillness, and the loneliness of being outside that quiet.

“Are we likely to meet anyone along the river?” Laurence asked quietly.

“Only at the fords,” Junichiro said, “if we are unlucky.” He paused and then said a little too quickly, as though he at once wanted very much to ask, and was conscious he should not desire it, “Have you been in a battle, at sea?”

“Three fleet actions,” Laurence said, “and perhaps a dozen ship-to-ship. There is nothing very pretty in it. Have you never seen a battle?”

“The bakufu has kept the peace in Japan for two hundred years,” Junichiro answered, with not-unmerited pride. “There are pirates and bandits, of course, but not near my mas—not near the honorable Kaneko’s home.” For all his satisfaction, there was a small wistful note in his voice.

“They are to be congratulated, then,” Laurence said. “I do not think we have had peace in Europe for ten years together, in living memory: nor are like to have, with Napoleon roosting in France.”

They fell silent together: there were a few huts approaching, and a lantern hung with a gleam of light. Laurence took up the oars again and fell into the easy rhythm of the work, no sound but the faint dripping patter of the water upon the river surface with each oar-stroke, the hush of the wind going by. The moon rose, gibbous and pale on the black water, and he drifted. He might have been on the broad deck of his ship at the prow, facing into the wind and the sails making a low clap-clap behind, the hands singing at the stern and a lantern throwing light in a circle on a book before him as he read aloud, looking up to speak to—

He started and looked over his shoulder: there was a light, and music, up ahead. A road came to cross the river at a ford, and on the left bank stood several houses lit up and festooned with lamps, women in long gowns at their doors calling out in a great noise to a party of travelers on the road, and several porters and two ferrymen perched upon both sides of the crossing, watching the approach of their small boat with interest and suspicion.

Temeraire had meant to send Wampanoag another invitation, the next day, but he did not need to; instead in the morning, when the hands had just finished holystoning down the dragondeck, the American dragon flew over of his own volition with a white scrap waving. Kulingile grumbled: it was his turn to sleep, after staying aloft during all Maximus’s turn—as Temeraire could not presently take a turn aloft himself—and he disliked having to move.

“I am sorry to come shoving in amongst you,” Wampanoag said, as he came down, “but as I can’t ask you over to Lacewing, in turn, I hope you’ll forgive me for making this answer instead for all your hospitality,” and he lay down a large package wrapped in oilcloth, tied up with string.

“Oh!” Temeraire said, astonished but by no means displeased; Iskierka sat up and took notice. Maximus had been taking a swim, in lieu of going aloft, but he put his forelegs on the railing and peered over, and all the other dragons raised their heads to have a look; even Kulingile cracked an eye. “Roland, will you open it, if you please?”

She cut open the strings, and folding back the sheets revealed a glory of blaze, beautiful glass beads strung on silver chain, with pearls and gold beads scattered along the length, and how immensely long indeed—it might have made an anchor-chain for the Potentate, and a little more to spare.

“If you have a smith aboard, as I suppose you must,” Wampanoag said, while they all gazed upon it in mute delight, “he can parcel it out for you all into lengths: I thought that might be better than my trying to cut it up beforehand. We wear it like so, in Salem,” he added, and sitting up on his heels showed how a similar chain hung from one woolen pouch to another across his breast.

“Now that,” Temeraire said, “I must call very handsome.” No-one at all was inclined to disagree, and Temeraire considered it all the evidence which he required, of Wampanoag’s being a very good sort of dragon, and to be trusted with important business. He knew perfectly well that Hammond might have a different view of the matter, of course—Hammond had complained a great deal of Temeraire’s having spoken with Wampanoag yesterday at all—but Hammond had certainly forfeited any right to consideration after his shameful attempt to leave Laurence behind, and Temeraire did not mean to waste any time in useless quarreling with him where his own mind was made up.

It was too early to eat again, but Wampanoag was very ready to be persuaded to sit with them just for company, awhile, and when they had settled themselves as conveniently as possible, Temeraire delayed no longer in broaching the topic, very delicately. “For you see,” he said, “I am afraid that Mr. Hammond may not quite have pursued the matter properly: it does not seem to me that any real search can have been put into train. And,” he added, “I consider all the sailors of the ship to be our responsibility. I do not think it at all the thing for us to leave any of them here. We cannot sail away until we have found him: our lost sailor, I mean.”

He was not entirely insensible to all Hammond’s cautions: there was no need for anyone to know that Laurence should be a valuable hostage, so they might try to put him in prison; Temeraire much preferred for them only to know that if Laurence were returned, they would leave, and otherwise not.

“Are you sure he isn’t only dead?” Wampanoag said, greatly diminishing Temeraire’s opinion of his intelligence. “They usually are, if they get washed overboard.”

Temeraire with an effort restrained himself from mantling. “I am quite sure,” he said, repressively. “And I intend to remain so until I am offered proof otherwise.”

Wampanoag had a trick of tilting his head a little to one side, as though he were looking you over from another angle to see if you seemed different, which Temeraire now found had the effect of making him feel under a too-sharp observation. But Wampanoag only said, “So you are only lingering to find him, this fellow you lost?”