Victory of Eagles

‘Murder, murder most foul, there is no other word,’ Reynolds declared, covering Laurence's hand with his own, pinning it to the table by the wrist, and looking at him with the focused, earnest expression of the profoundly drunk. Laurence did not know what to say. He had agreed, and had laid down his life to prevent it, but he did not care to be congratulated for it, by a stranger.

‘Treason is another word,’ another officer said, at the nearest populated table, making no pretence about eavesdropping. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood before him.

‘Hear, hear,’ another man said.

There were too many bottles in the room, and too many angry and disappointed men. It was an invitation for a scene. Laurence disengaged his hand. He would have liked to excuse himself and shift tables, but Frette had abandoned him to Prewitt and his willing company, and Laurence could not imagine imposing himself on anyone else in the room. ‘I beg you gentlemen not to speak of it,’ he said quietly, to the table. But to no avail. Reynolds was already arguing with the whiskey-drinker, and their voices were rising.

Laurence set his jaw, and tried not to listen. ‘And I say,’ the whiskey-drinker was saying, ‘that he is a traitor who ought to be drug outside, strung up, and drawn and quartered after, and you with him, if you say otherwise—’

‘Medieval sentiment—’ They were both standing now, Reynolds shaking off Gounod's half-hearted restraining hand to get up. Their voices were loud enough to drown all nearby conversation.

Laurence rose, and catching Reynolds by the shoulder firmly, pressed him back towards his chair. ‘Sir, you do me no kindness by this. Leave off,’ he said, low and sharply.

‘That's right, let him teach you how to be a coward,’ the other man said.

Laurence stiffened. He could not resent insults he had earned, he had sacrificed the right to defend himself against traitor, but coward was a slap he could not gladly swallow. But he could not make the challenge. He had caused enough harm. He could not—would not, do more. He closed his mouth on the bitterness in the back of his throat, and did not turn to look the man in the face, though he now stood so close his liquored breath came hot and strongly over Laurence's shoulder.

‘Call him a coward, when you would've sat and done nothing,’ Reynolds flung back. He shook off Laurence's hand, or tried. ‘I suppose your dragon would enjoy you being happy to see ten thousand of them put down, poisoned or good as, like dogs—’

‘One at least ought to be poisoned,’ the other man said, and Laurence let go of Reynolds, turned, and knocked the officer down.

The man was drunk and unsteady, and as he went down pulled the table and the bottle over with him. Cheap liquor bubbled out over the ground as it rolled away. For a moment no one spoke, and then chairs went back across the tent, as if nothing more had been wanted than a pretext.

The quarrel at once devolved into a confusing melee, with nothing no sides. Laurence even saw two men from the same table wrestling in a corner. But a few men singled him out, one a captain he knew by face from Dover, if not immediately by name. He had fresh streaks of black dragon-blood on his clothing. His name was Geoffrey Windle, Laurence remembered incongruously, as they grappled, just before Windle struck him full on the jaw.

The impact rocked him back on his heels; his teeth snapped together, and he felt the startling pain of a bitten cheek. Gripping a tent-pole for purchase, Laurence managed to seize a chair and pull it around between them as Windle lunged at him again; the man tripped over it and went into the pole with his full weight, which was considerable: he had some three stone over Laurence. The canvas roof above them sagged precipitously.

Two more men came at Laurence, faces ugly with anger. They caught him by the arms and rushed him against the nearest table. They were drunk enough to be belligerent, but not enough to be clumsy. He still wore his buckled shoes and laddered stockings, and lacked good purchase on the ground, and the weight of his boots to kick out with. They pinned him down, and one of them held out a blade, a dull eating-knife, still slick with grease from his dinner. Laurence set his heel down against the surface of the table and heaved, managing to get his shoulders loose for a moment, twisting away from the short furious stabbing, so the blade only tore into his ragged coat.

The tent pole creaked and gave way. Canvas fell upon them in a sudden catastrophic rush. Laurence had freed his arms, only to be imprisoned in the smothering folds. They were heavy, and he had an effort to lift it enough from his face to breathe. He rolled off the table, and then felt hands gripping his arm again, pulling at him. Laurence struck out blindly at the new attacker, and they struggled upon the ground until the other man managed to drag the edge of the canvas off their heads and heave them into the open air. It was Granby.

‘Oh, Lord,’ Granby said. Laurence turned and saw that half the tent had crumpled in on the heaving mass beneath. Those sober enough to have avoided the fighting were carrying out the lanterns from the other side. Others doused the collapsed canvas with water; smoke trickled out from beneath.

‘You'll do a damned sight better out of the way,’ Granby said, when Laurence would have gone to help, and drew him along one of the camp paths, narrow and stumbling-dark, towards the dragon clearings.

They walked in silence over the uneven ground. Laurence tried to slow his short, clenched breathing without success. He felt inexpressibly naïve. He had not even thought to fear such a possibility, until he heard it in the mouth of a drunkard. But when they did hang him, knowing it would lose them Temeraire's use,—what might those men do, those men who had meant to infect all the world's dragons with consumption and condemn them to an agonizing death. They would see Temeraire dead, rather than of use to anyone they were disposed to see as an enemy: France, or China, or any other nation. They would not scruple at any sort of treachery necessary to achieve his destruction. To them Temeraire was only an inconvenient animal.

‘I suppose,’ Granby said, abruptly, out of the dark, ‘that he insisted on it? Your carrying the stuff to France, I mean.’

‘He did,’ Laurence said, after a moment, but he did not mean to hide behind Temeraire's wings. ‘I am ashamed to say, he was forced to, but only at first. I would not have you believe I was taken against my will.’

‘No,’ Granby said, ‘no, I only meant, you shouldn't have thought of it at all, on your own.’

The observation felt true, and uncomfortably so, though Laurence supposed Granby had meant it as consolation. He felt a sharp sudden stab of loneliness. He wanted very badly to see Temeraire. Laurence had slept his last night beneath his sheltering wing nearly four months ago, in the northern mountains. Their treason committed, they had snatched a few hours of freedom before they made the fatal flight across the Channel. Since then there had been only a succession of prisons, more or less brutal, for them both. Temeraire had spent months alone, friendless and unhappy, in breeding grounds full of feral beasts and veterans, with no order or discipline to keep them from fighting.

They passed the clearings one by one, the millhouse rumble of sleeping dragons to either side, their dinners finished and their crews toiling on the harnesses by lantern-light, the faint clanking of hammers tapped away and the acrid smoky stink of harness oil carried on the breeze. They had a long walk out in the dark after the last clearing, up a steep slope to the crown of a hill overlooking all the camp, where Iskierka lay sleeping in a thick spiny coil, steam issuing with her every breath, and the feral dragons scattered around her.

She cracked an eye open as they came in and inquired drowsily, ‘Is it a battle time yet?’

‘No, love, back to sleep,’ Granby said, and she sighed and shut her eye. But she had drawn the attention of the men, they looked from Laurence to Granby, and then they looked back down again, saying nothing.

‘Perhaps I had best not stay,’ Laurence said. He knew some of the faces, men from his own crew, even some of his former officers. He was glad they had found places here.

‘Stuff,’ Granby said. ‘I am not so damned craven, and anyway,’ he added, more despondently, when he had led Laurence into his own tent, pitched in the comfortable current of heat which Iskierka gave off, ‘I cannot be much farther in the soup than I am already, after yesterday. She's spoilt, there is no other word for it. Wouldn't keep in formation, wouldn't obey signals, took the ferals with her—’ He shrugged, and taking a bottle from the floor poured them each a glass, which he drank with an unaccustomed enthusiasm.

‘It's not so bad, on patrol,’ Granby said, after wiping his mouth. ‘She doesn't need any coaxing to look out the enemy, and she'll take directions to make it easier. But in a fleet action—I don't mean she was useless,’ he added, with a defensive note. ‘They did for a first-rate and three frigates, and chased off a dozen French beasts. But she hasn't a shred of discipline. Pretended not to hear me, left the right wing of the Corps wide open, and two beasts badly hurt for it. I would be broken for it, if they could afford to give her up.’

He was pacing the small confines of his tent, still holding the empty glass, and talking swiftly, almost nervously. More to be saying something, to fill the air between them, than to impart these particular words. ‘This is the sort of thing that rots the Corps,’ he said. ‘I never thought I would be a bad officer, someone who ruins his dragon, the kind of fool, kept on only because his beast won't serve otherwise. The Army— the Navy—they sneer at us for that, as much as for anything else we do, but there at least they are right to sneer. So our admirals have to dance to the Navy's tune, and meanwhile the youngsters see it, too, and you can't ask them to be better, when they see a fellow let off anything, anything at all—’

He pulled himself up abruptly, realizing too late that his words were applicable to more of his audience than himself, and looked at Laurence miserably.

‘You are not wrong,’ Laurence said. He had assumed the same himself, in his Navy days. He had thought the Corps full of wild, devil-may-care libertines, who delighted in disregarding law and authority as far as they dared, barely kept in check. To be used for their control over the beasts, but not respected.

‘But if we have more liberty than we ought,’ Laurence said, after a moment, struggling through, ‘it is because our dragons haven't enough. They have no stake in victory other than our happiness. Any nation would give them their daily bread just to have peace and quiet. We are granted our license for as long as we do what we should not. So long as we use their affections to keep them obedient.’

‘How else do you make them care?’ Granby said. ‘If we did not, the French would run right over us, and take our eggs themselves.’

‘They care in China,’ Laurence said, ‘and in Africa. They care that their rational sense is not imposed on, nor their hearts put into opposition with their minds. If they cannot be woken to a natural affection for their country, such as we feel, it is our fault and not theirs.’

Laurence slept the night in Granby's tent, on top of a blanket. He would not take Granby's cot. It was odd to sleep warmly and wake in a sweat, then step out and see the camp below dusted overnight with snow, soiled grey tents for the moment clean white, and the ground already churning into muddy slush.

‘You are back,’ Iskierka said, looking at Laurence. She was wide awake, picking over the charred remnants of her breakfast, and watching the sluggish camp with a disgruntled eye. ‘Where is Temeraire? He has let you get into a wretched state,’ she added, with rather a smug air. Laurence could not argue, he was a pitiful sight indeed. He coat was ragged and his shoes were starting to open at the seams. The less said of his stockings the better. ‘Granby,’ she said, looking over his shoulder, ‘you may lend Laurence your fourth-best coat, and then you may tell Temeraire,’ she added to Laurence, ‘that I am very sorry he cannot give you nicer things.’

However, Granby was wearing his fourth-best coat, as the other three were wholly unsuitable for actual fighting. They were ostentatiously adorned with the fruits of Iskierka's determined prize-hunting. It would not in any case have been a very successful loan, as Laurence had some four inches in the shoulders, which Granby had instead in height. But Granby sent word out, and shortly a young runner returned carrying a folded coat, and a spare pair of boots.

‘Why, Sipho,’ Laurence said. ‘I am glad to find you well; and your brother, also, I hope?’ He had worried what might have become of the two boys, brought from Africa, who had helped them there. He had made them his own runners by way of providing for them, but had then found himself unable to be of further assistance.

‘Yes, sir,’ Sipho said in perfect English, though less than a year before the child had never heard a word of it. ‘He is with Arkady, and Captain Berkley says, you are welcome to these, and to come and say hello to Maximus would you, if you are not too damned stiff-necked. He said to say just that,’ he added earnestly.

‘You aren't the only one who owes them,’ Berkley said, in his blunt way, when Laurence had come and thanked him for assuming responsibility for the boys. ‘You needn't worry about them being cast off anyway, we need them. They can jaw with those damned ferals better than any man jack of us. That older boy talks their jabber quicker than he does English. You'd better worry about them getting knocked on the head instead. I had a fight on my hands to make the Admiralty let me keep this one grounded for now. They would have put him up as an ensign, if you like, not nine years of age. Demane they would have no matter what I said, but that is just as well. He fights,’ he added succinctly, ‘so he may as well do it against the Frogs, where it don't get him in hot water.’

Maximus was much recovered, from the last time Laurence had seen him. Three months of steady feeding on shore had brought him nearly up to his former fighting weight, and he put his head down and said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Tell Temeraire that Lily and I have not forgotten our promise, and we are ready to fight with him whenever he should ask. We will not let them hang you, not at all.’

Laurence stared up at the immense Regal Copper. All his crew looked deeply distressed, as well they might, the outlaw remark being perfectly audible several clearings over. Berkley only snorted. ‘There has been plenty of talk like that, and louder,’ he said. ‘I expect that is why you have been kept stuffed between decks in a ship instead of a in a decent prison on land. No, don't beg my pardon. It was sure as sixpence you and that mad beast of yours would make a spectacle of yourselves sooner or later. Bring him back, do for a dozen Frogs, and save us all the bother of the execution.’

With this sanguine if unlikely recommendation, Laurence reported to the courier-clearing with his orders, looking a little less shabby. Berkley was a thickset man, and if the borrowed coat was too large, at least he could get it on. And the borrowed boots were entirely serviceable, with a little padding of straw at the toes. His repaired appearance got him no better treatment, however. There were a dozen beasts waiting for messages and orders, and when Laurence had presented himself, the courier-master said, ‘If you will be so good as to wait,’ and left him outside the clearing. Laurence was near enough to see the master talking with his officers. None of the courier captains looked very inclined to take him up. He was left standing an hour, while four messages came in and were sent out, before another Winchester landed bringing fresh orders from the Admiralty, and at last the courier-master came and said, ‘Very well; we have a man to take you.’

‘Morning, sir,’ the captain said, touching his hat, as Laurence came over. It was Hollin, his former ground-crew master. ‘Elsie, will you give the captain a leg up? There is a strap there, sir, handy for you.’

‘Thank you, Hollin,’ Laurence said, grateful for the steady, matter-of-factness, and climbed up to her back. ‘We are for Pen Y Fan.’

‘Right you are, sir, we know the way,’ Hollin said. ‘Do you need a bite to sup, Elsie, before we go?’

‘No,’ she said, raising her head dripping from the water-trough. ‘They always have lovely cows there, I will wait.’

They did not speak very much during the flight. Winchesters were so small and quick one felt always on the point of flying off from the force of the wind steadily testing the limits of the carabiner straps. Laurence's hands, already blistered, grew bruised where he held on to the leather harness. They raced past blurred fields of brown stalks and snow. The thin cold air chapped at their faces and leaked into the neck of Laurence's coat, and through his threadbare shirt. He did not mind, he wished they might go quicker still. He resented now every mile remaining.

Goodrich Castle swelled up before them, on its hill, and Hollin put out the signal-flags as they flashed by: courier, with orders, and the fort's signal-gun fired in acknowledgment, already falling behind them.