Naomi Novik - Temeraire 3 - Black Powder War

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Acknowledgments

IN WORKING OUTthe revised history of the campaign of 1806, I have relied especially onThe

Campaigns of Napoleon , by David G. Chandler, andA Military History and Atlas of the Napoleonic

Wars , by Brigadier General Vincent J. Esposito and Colonel John R. Elting, both of which share the

virtue of enabling even an amateur to grasp at understanding. Mistakes and implausibilities are my own;

any accuracy may be laid at their door.

Many thanks to my beta readers on this one for all their help: Holly Benton, Francesca Coppa, Dana

Dupont, Doris Egan, Diana Fox, Vanessa Len, Shelley Mitchell, Georgina Paterson, Sara Rosenbaum,

L. Salom, Rebecca Tushnet, and Cho We Zen. I am as ever indebted to Betsy Mitchell, Emma Coode,

and Jane Johnson, my splendid editors, and to my agent, Cynthia Manson.

And most of all, to Charles.

The Temeraire series by Naomi Novik

HIS MAJESTY’S DRAGON

THRONE OF JADE

BLACK POWDER WAR

Extracts from a letter published in the

Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society,

April 1806

March 3, 1806

Gentlemen of the Royal Society:

It is with trepidation that I take up my pen to address this august body regarding Sir Edward Howe’s

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recent discourse upon the subject of draconic aptitude for mathematics. For an amateur of so little

distinction as myself to make reply to so illustrious an authority must smack of vainglory, and I tremble at

the notion of offering offense to that gentleman or his many and justly deserved supporters. Only the

sincerest belief in the merits of my case, and, beyond this, a grave concern for the deeply flawed course

upon which the study of dragons seems bent, would suffice to overcome the natural scruple I must feel at

setting myself in opposition to the judgment of one whose experience so greatly outstrips my own, and to

whom I would show unhesitating deference, if not for evidence I must consider irrefutable; which, after

much anxiety, I herein submit to the consideration of this body. My qualifications for this work are by no

means substantial, my time for the pursuit of natural history being sadly curtailed by the demands of my

parish, so if I am to persuade it must be with the force of my argument alone, and not through influence or

impressive references….

By no means do I intend any disparagement of those noble creatures under discussion, nor to quarrel

with any man who would call them admirable; their virtues are manifest, and among the highest of these

the essential good-humour of their nature, evident in their submitting to the guidance of mankind for the

sake of affection, rather than through a compulsion it were quite impossible for any man to bring to bear

upon them. In this they have shown themselves very like that more familiar and most amiable creature the

dog, who will shun the company of his own kind and cleave in preference unto his master, thus displaying

almost alone among the beasts a discrimination for the society of his betters. This same discrimination

dragons show, greatly to their credit, and certainly no one can deny that with it is matched an

understanding superior to virtually all of the animal world that renders them arguably the most valuable

and useful of all our domestic beasts….

And yet it has been some years now since many eminent gentlemen, unsatisfied with these considerable

encomiums, have begun to put before the world, cautiously and in measured stages, a body of work

which in its sum total, almost as if by joint intention, leads the thinking man to the inevitable and seductive

conclusion that dragons rise beyond the animal sphere entirely: that they possess, in full measure equal to

man, the faculty of reason and intellect. The implications of such an idea I scarcely need enumerate….

The foremost argument of these scholars to date has been that dragons alone among the beasts possess

language, and show in their speech to the observer all the attributes of feeling and free will. Yet this

argument I cannot allow even to be persuasive, much the less conclusive. The parrot, too, has mastered

all the tongues of men; dogs and horses may be trained to comprehend some scattered words: if the latter

possessed the facile throats of the former, would they not speak to us also, and solicit of us greater

attentions? And as for these other arguments, who that has heard a dog whine, left behind by his master,

would deny that animals know affection, and who that has set a horse at a fence and had it refused would

deny that beasts possess their own—and often lamentably contrary!—will. Apart from these examples

drawn from the animal kingdom, we have further seen in the famous work of Baron von Kempelen and

M. de Vaucanson that the most astonishing automata may be produced, from a little tin and copper,

which may produce speech through the operation of a few levers, or even mimic intelligent motion and

persuade the uninformed observer of a lifelike animation, though they are nothing but clockwork and

gears. Let us not mistake these simulacra of intelligence in brutish or mechanical behavior for true reason,

the province only of man….

Once we have set these aside as insufficient proofs of draconic intelligence, we come to Sir Edward

Howe’s most recent essay, which puts forth an argument not so easily dismissed: the ability of dragons to

perform advanced mathematical calculations, an achievement which eludes many an otherwise educated

man and is not to be found anywhere in the animal world, nor imitated by machinery. However, upon

closer examination, we discover that…these feats we are to accept, upon the scantiest of evidence—the

testimony of the dragon’s captain and his officers, his fond and affectionate companions, affirmed by Sir

Edward Howe only through one examination made personally, over the course of a few hours. This may

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seem sufficient to some number of my readers, the essay made more plausible by its less-ambitious

forerunners in the field. However, permit me to point out that a similarly fragile body of evidence serves

as the foundation of many of these earlier works as well….

My audience may justly demand to know why such a claim might be pressed, intentionally or no; without

making any accusation, I will for the satisfaction of this demand speculate not upon theactual, but upon

plausible motives, though only considering those which may be called disinterested. I trust that these are

sufficient to allay any suspicion that I mean to suggest any sordid conspiracy, for nothing could be further

from my mind. It is natural that the huntsman should love his hounds and see in their brute devotions a

human affection, that he should read into the tenor of their barks and the gleam of their eyes a deeper

communication; it is the huntsman’s own sensitivity which makes truth of this illusion, and makes him all

the better a custodian of his flock. That the officers of the Aerial Corps have a communication of this sort

with their dragons I do not doubt; but this must be laid to the credit of the men and not the beasts, even if

the men deny the credit of it in all sincerity…. Furthermore, all those who have affection for these noble

creatures must desire the improvement of their condition, and an acknowledgment of, as it were, the

humanity of these beasts, must surely oblige us to deal with them more kindly than heretofore, which

cannot be called anything but a generous motive….

So far I have only endeavored to cast doubt upon the work of others. If positive evidence to the

contrary be desired, however, we need only to contemplate the condition of feral dragons to have this

truth at once illustrated before us. I have spoken at length with those good herdsmen who tend the

breeding-grounds at Pen Y Fan, whose work daily brings them into the circles of the wild dragons, and

who, rough as they themselves are, view these beasts with an unromantic disposition. Left to their own

devices, unharnessed and free, these feral dragons display native cunning and an animal intelligence, but

no more. They make no use of language, save the grunting and hissing common among animals; they form

no society nor civilized relations; they have no art and no industry; they manufacture nothing, neither

shelter nor tools. The same cannot be said of the meanest savage in the most barren part of the earth;

what dragons know of higher things, they have learned only from men, and the impulse is not native to the

species. Surely this is sufficient evidence of distinction between man and dragon, if such evidence be

necessary….

If with these arguments I have failed to convince, I will close with the final assertion that a conclusion so

extravagant, flying in the face of all recorded and Scriptural authority and much observation to the

contrary, must rather be proventrue thanfalse, and if even eligible for consideration ought to endure

challenge greater than what my own small powers have enabled me to offer herein, with however good a

will upon my part, and requires a far more substantial body of evidence, obtained and affirmed by

impartial observers. It is in hopes of provoking wiser men than myself to doubt and to fresh investigations

that I have ventured to make this attempt at refutation, and I most sincerely beg pardon of any man

whom I may have herein offended, whether through my opinions or my lack of skill in expounding upon

them.

Pray permit me to style myself, with the highest respect, your most humble obedient servant,

D. Salcombe

Brecon, Wales

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Read on for an early look at

the next book in the Temeraire series

by Naomi Novik!

Author’s Note: This is a work in progress. The author reserves

the right to make further changes before publication!

“SEND UP ANOTHER, damn you, send them all up at once if you have to,” Laurence said savagely to

poor Calloway, who did not deserve to be sworn at: the gunner was firing off the flares so quickly his

hands were scorched black, skin cracking and peeling to bright red where some powder had spilled onto

his fingers; he was not stopping to wipe them clean before setting each flare to the match.

One of the little French dragons darted in again, slashing at Temeraire’s side, and five men fell screaming

as a piece of the makeshift carrying-harness unraveled. They vanished at once beyond the lantern-light

and were swallowed up in the dark; the long twisted rope of striped silk, a pillaged curtain, unfurled

gently in the wind and went billowing down after them, threads trailing from the torn edges. A moan went

through the other Prussian soldiers still clinging desperately on to the harness, and after it followed a low

angry muttering in German.

Any gratitude the soldiers might have felt for their rescue from the siege of Danzig had since been

exhausted: three days flying through icy rain, no food but what they had crammed into their pockets in

those final desperate moments, no rest but a few hours snatched along a cold and marshy stretch of the

Dutch coast, and now this French patrol harrying them all this last endless night. Men so terrified might do

anything in a panic; many of them had still their small-arms and swords, and there were more than a

hundred of them crammed aboard, to the less than thirty of Temeraire’s own crew.

Laurence swept the sky again with his glass, straining for a glimpse of wings, an answering signal. They

were in sight of shore, the night was clear: through his glass he saw the gleam of lights dotting the small

harbors all along the Scottish coast and below heard the steadily increasing roar of the surf. Their flares

ought to have been plain to see all the way to Edinburgh; yet no reinforcements had come, not even a

single courier-beast to investigate.

“Sir, that’s the last of the flares,” Calloway said, coughing through the grey smoke that wreathed his

head, the flare whistling high and away. The powder flash went off silently above their heads, casting the

white scudding clouds into brilliant relief, reflecting from dragon scales in every direction: Temeraire all in

black, the rest in gaudy colors muddied to shades of grey by the lurid blue light. The night was full of their

wings: a dozen dragons turning their heads around to look back, their gleaming pupils narrowing; more

coming on, all of them laden down with men, and the handful of small French patrol-dragons darting

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among them.

All seen in the flash of a moment; then the thunderclap crack and rumble sounded, only a little delayed,

and the flare dying away drifted into blackness again. Laurence counted ten, and ten again; still there was

no answer from the shore.

Emboldened, the French dragon came in once more. Temeraire aimed a swipe which would have

knocked the little Pou-de-Ciel flat, but his attempt was very slow, for fear of dislodging any more of his

passengers; their small enemy evaded with contemptuous ease and circled away to wait for his next

chance.

“Laurence,” Temeraire said, looking round, “where is everyone? Victoriatus is in Edinburgh; he at least

ought to have come. After all, we helped him, when he was hurt; not that Ineed help, precisely, against

these little dragons,” he added, straightening his neck, which was curving with fatigue, “but it is not very

convenient to try and fight while we are carrying so many people.”

This was putting a braver face on the situation than it deserved: they could not very well defend

themselves at all, and Temeraire was taking the worst of it, bleeding already from many small gashes

along his side and flanks, which the crew could not bandage up, so cramped were they aboard.

“Only keep everyone moving towards the shore,” Laurence said; he had no better answer to give. “I

cannot imagine the patrol will pursue us over land,” he added, but doubtfully; he would never have

imagined a French patrol could come so near to shore as this either, without challenge, and how he

should manage to disembark a thousand frightened and exhausted men under bombardment, he did not

like to contemplate.

“I am trying; only theywill keep stopping to fight,” Temeraire said wearily, and turned back to his work.

Arkady and his rough band of mountain ferals found the small, stinging attacks maddening, and they kept

trying to turn around mid-air and go after the French patrol-dragons; in their contortions they were

flinging off more of the hapless Prussian soldiers than the enemy could ever have accounted for. There

was no malice in their carelessness: the wild dragons were unused to men except as the jealous guardians

of flocks and herds, and they did not think of their passengers as anything more than an unusual burden,

but with malice or none, the men were dying all the same. Temeraire could only prevent them by constant

vigilance, and now he was hovering in place over the line of flight, cajoling and hissing by turns,

encouraging the others to hurry onwards.

“No, no, Gherni,” Temeraire called out, and dashed forward to swat at the little blue-and-white feral.

She had dropped onto the very back of a startled French Chasseur-Vocifère: a courier-beast of scarcely

four tons, who could not bear up under even her slight weight, and was sinking in the air despite the

frantic beating of its wings. Gherni had already fixed her teeth in the French dragon’s neck and was now

worrying it back and forth with savage vigor; meanwhile the Prussians clinging to her harness were all but

drumming their heels on the heads of the French crew, crammed so tightly not a shot from the French

side could fail of killing one of them.

In his efforts to dislodge her, Temeraire was left open, and the Pou-de-Ciel seized the fresh opportunity,

this time daring enough to make an attempt at Temeraire’s back, claws striking so near that Laurence

saw the traces of Temeraire’s blood shining black on the talons’ curved edges as the French dragon lifted

away again; his hand tightened on his pistol, uselessly.

“Oh, let me, let me!” Iskierka was straining furiously against the restraints which kept her lashed down to

Temeraire’s back. The infant Kazilik would soon enough be a force to reckon with; as yet, however,

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scarcely a month out of the shell, she was too young and unpracticed to be a serious danger to anyone

besides herself. They had tried as best they could to secure her, with straps and chains and lecturing, but

the last she roundly ignored, and though she had been but irregularly fed these last few days, she had

added another five feet of length overnight: neither straps nor chains were proving of much use in

restraining her.

“Will you hold still, for all love?” Granby said despairingly; he was throwing his own weight against the

straps to try and pull her head down. Allen and Harley, the young lookouts stationed on Temeraire’s

shoulders, had to go scrambling out of the way to avoid being kicked as Granby was dragged stumbling

from side to side by her efforts. Laurence loosened his buckles and climbed to his feet, bracing his heels

against the strong ridge of muscle at the base of Temeraire’s neck; he caught Granby by the harness-belt

when Iskierka’s thrashing swung him by again and managed to hold him steady, but all the leather was

strung tight as violin-strings, trembling with the strain.

“But I can stop him!” she insisted, twisting her head sidelong as she tried to work free. Eager jets of

flame were licking out of the sides of her jaws as she tried once again to lunge at the enemy dragon, but

their Pou-de-Ciel attacker, small as he was, was still many times her size and too experienced to be

frightened off by a little show of fire; he only jeered, backwinging to expose all of his speckled brown

belly to her as a target in a gesture of insulting unconcern.

“Oh!” Iskierka coiled herself tightly with rage, the thin spiky protrusions all over her sinuous body jetting

steam, and then with a mighty heave she reared herself up on her hindquarters. The straps jerked

painfully out of Laurence’s grasp, and involuntarily he caught his hand back to his chest, the numb fingers

curling over in reaction. Granby had been dragged into mid-air and was dangling from her thick

neck-band, vainly, while she let loose a torrent of flame: thin and yellow-white, so hot the air about it

seemed to twist and shrivel away, it made a fierce banner against the night sky.

But the French dragon had cleverly put himself before the wind, coming strong and from the east; now

he folded his wings and dropped away, and the blistering flames were blown back against Temeraire’s

flank. Temeraire, still scolding Gherni back into the line of flight, uttered a startled cry and jerked away

while sparks scattered over the glossy blackness of his hide, perilously close to the carrying-harness of

silk and linen and rope.

“Verfluchtes Untier!Wir werden noch alle verbrennen,”one of the Prussian officers yelled hoarsely,

pointing at Iskierka, and fumbled with shaking hand in his bandoleer for a cartridge.

“Enough there; put up that pistol,” Laurence roared at him through the speaking-trumpet; Lieutenant

Ferris and a couple of the topmen hurriedly unlatched their harness-straps and let themselves down to

wrestle it out of the officer’s hands. They could only reach the fellow by clambering over the other

Prussian soldiers, however, and though too afraid to let go of the harness, the men were obstructing their

passage in every other way, thrusting out elbows and hips with abrupt jerks, full of resentment and

hostility.

Lieutenant Riggs was giving orders, distantly, towards the rear; “Fire!” he shouted, clear over the

increasing rumble among the Prussians; the handful of rifles spoke with bright powder-bursts, sulfurous

and bitter. The French dragon made a little shriek and wheeled away, flying a little awkwardly: blood

streaked in rivulets from a rent in its wing, where a bullet had by lucky chance struck one of the thinner

patches around the joint.

The respite came a little late; some of the men were already clawing their way up towards Temeraire’s

back, snatching at the greater security of the leather harness to which the aviators were hooked by their

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carabiner straps. But the harness could not take all their weight, not so many of them; if the buckles

stretched open, or some straps gave way, and the whole began to slide, it would entangle Temeraire’s

wings and send them all plummeting into the ocean together.

Laurence loaded his pistols afresh and thrust them into his waistband, loosened his sword, and stood up

again. He had willingly risked all their lives to bring these men out of a trap, and he meant to see them

safely ashore if he could; but he would not see Temeraire endangered by their hysteric fear.

“Allen, Harley,” he said to the boys, “do you run across to the riflemen and tell Mr. Riggs: if we cannot

stop them, they are to cut the carrying-harness loose, all of it, and be sure you keep latched on as you

go. Perhaps you had better stay here with her, John,” he added, when Granby made to come away with

him: Iskierka had quieted for the moment, her enemy having quit the field, but she still coiled and recoiled

herself in sulky restlessness, muttering in disappointment.

“Oh, certainly! I should like to see myself do any such thing,” Granby said, taking out his sword; he had

foregone pistols since becoming Iskierka’s captain, to avoid the risk of handling open powder around

her.

Laurence was too unsure of his ground to pursue an argument; Granby was not properly his subordinate

any longer, and was the more experienced aviator of the two of them, counting years aloft. Granby took

the lead as they crossed Temeraire’s back, moving with the sureness only a boy trained up from the age

of seven could have aloft; at each step Laurence handed forward his own lead-strap and let Granby lock

it onto the harness for him, which he could do one-handed, that they might go more quickly.

Ferris and the topmen were still struggling with the Prussian officer in the midst of a thickening clot of

men; they were disappearing from view under the violent press of bodies, only Martin’s yellow hair

visible. The soldiers were near full riot, men beating and kicking at one another, thinking of nothing but an

impossible escape; the knots of the carrying-harness were tightening, giving up more slack, so all the

loops and bands of it hung loose and swinging with the thrashing, struggling men.

Laurence came on one of the soldiers, a young man, eyes wide and staring in his wind-reddened face

and his thick mustache wet-tipped with sweat, trying to work his arm beneath the main harness, blindly,

though the buckle was already straining open, and he would in a moment have slid wholly free.

“Get back to your place!” Laurence shouted, pointing to the nearest open loop of the carrying-harness,

and caught the man’s hand away. Then his ears were ringing, a thick ripe smell of sour cherries in his

nostrils as his knees folded beneath him. He put a hand to his forehead slowly, stupidly; it was wet. His

own harness-straps were holding him, painfully tight against his ribs with all his weight pulling against

them. The Prussian had struck him with a bottle; it had shattered, and the liquor was dripping down the

side of his face.

Instinct rescued him; he put up his arm to take the next blow, and thrusting it away from himself pushed

the broken glass back at the man’s face; the soldier said something in German and let go the bottle. They

wrestled together a few moments more; then Laurence caught the man’s belt and heaved him up and

away from Temeraire’s side. The soldier’s arms were spread wide, grasping at nothing; Laurence,

watching, abruptly recalled himself, and at once he lunged out, reaching to his full length; but too late, and

he came thumping heavily back against Temeraire’s side with empty hands; the soldier was already gone

from sight.

His head did not hurt over much, but Laurence felt queerly sick and weak; Temeraire had resumed flying

towards the coast, having rounded up the rest of the ferals at last, and the force of the wind was

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increasing. Laurence clung to the harness a moment, until the fit passed and he was able to make his

hands work properly again. There were already more men clawing up: Granby was trying to hold them

back, but they were overbearing him by sheer weight of numbers, even though struggling as much against

one another as him. One of the soldiers grappling for a hold on the harness climbed too far out of the

press; he slipped, landed heavily on the men below him, and carried them all away; as a tangled,

many-limbed mass they fell into the slack loops of the carrying-harness, and the muffled wet noises of

their joints and bones cracking sounded together like a roast chicken being wrenched hungrily apart.

Granby was hanging from his harness-straps, trying to get his feet planted again; Laurence crab-walked

over to him and gave him a steadying arm. Below he could just make out the washy seafoam, pale

against the black water; Temeraire was flying lower and lower as they neared the coast.

“That damned Pou-de-Ciel is coming round again,” Granby panted, as he got back his footing; the

French had somehow gotten sticking plaster over the gash in the dragon’s wing, even if the great white

patch of it was awkwardly placed and far larger than the injury made necessary. The dragon looked a

little uncomfortable in the air, but he was coming on gamely nonetheless; they had surely seen that

Temeraire was vulnerable. If the Pou-de-Ciel were able to catch the harness and drag it loose, they might

finish deliberately what the soldiers had begun in panic, and the chance of bringing down a heavy-weight,

much less one as valuable as Temeraire, would surely tempt them to great risk.

“We will have to cut the soldiers loose,” Laurence said, low and wretched, and looked upwards, where

the carrying-loops attached to the leather: to send a hundred men and more to their deaths, scarce

minutes from safety, he was not sure he could bear; or ever to meet General Kalkreuth again, having

done it; some of the general’s own young aides were aboard Temeraire, and doing their best to keep the

other men quiet.

Riggs and his riflemen were firing short, hurried volleys; the Pou-de-Ciel was keeping just out of range,

waiting for the best moment to chance his attack. Then Iskierka sat up and blew out another stream of

fire: Temeraire was flying ahead of the wind, so the flames were not turned against him this time; but

every man on his back had at once to throw himself flat to avoid the torrent, which burned out too

quickly before it could reach the French dragon.

The Pou-de-Ciel at once darted in while the crew were so distracted; Iskierka was gathering herself for

another blow, and the riflemen could not get up again. “Christ,” Granby said; but before he could reach

her, a low rumble like fresh thunder sounded, and below them small round red mouths bloomed with

smoke and powder-flashes: shore batteries, firing from the coast below. Illuminated in the yellow blaze of

Iskierka’s fire, a twenty-four-pound ball of round-shot flew past them and took the Pou-de-Ciel full in

the chest; he folded around it like paper as it drove through his ribs, and crumpled out of the air, falling to

the rocks below: they were over the shore, they were over the land, and thick-fleeced sheep were fleeing

before them across the snow-matted grass.

The Edinburgh streets were quiet, unnaturally so, and deserted but for the dragons sleeping in stretched

ranks over the old grey cobbles. Temeraire’s great bulk was heaped awkwardly before the

smoke-stained cathedral, his tail running down into an alleyway scarcely wide enough to hold it. The sky

was clear and cold and very blue, only a handful of terraced clouds running out to sea, a faint suggestion

of pink and orange early light on the stones as Laurence climbed up to the castle gates.

He was tired, but glad to be walking, legs and back stiffened from the long ordeal of their flight. The

townspeople of the little harbor of Dunbar had been alternately terrified at the descent of a whole

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company of dragons onto their quiet hamlet, and elated by the success of their new shore-battery, put

into place scarcely two months ago and never before tried; half-a-dozen courier-dragons driven off and

one Pou-de-Ciel slain were already become a Grand Chevalier and several Flammesde-Gloire all

hideously killed; the town could talk of nothing else, and the local militia strutted through the streets to

general satisfaction.

The townspeople had grown less enthusiastic, however, after Arkady had eaten four of their sheep; the

other ferals had made only slightly less extravagant depredations, and Temeraire himself had seized upon

a couple of cows, shaggy yellow-haired Highland cattle, sadly reported afterwards to be prize-winning,

and devoured them to the hooves and horns.

“They were very tasty,” Temeraire said, apologetically, and turned his head aside to spit out some of the

hair.

Laurence was not inclined to stint the dragons in the least, after their long and arduous flight, and

perfectly willing to sacrifice his ordinary respect for property to their comfort on this occasion. Some of

the farmers made noises about payment, but Laurence did not mean to try and feed the bottomless

appetites of the ferals out of his own pocket; the Admiralty might reach into theirs, if they had nothing

better to do than sit before the fire and whistle while a battle was carrying on outside their windows, and

men dying for lack of a little assistance.

“We will not be a charge upon you for long; as soon as we hear from Edinburgh, I expect we will be

called to the covert there,” he said flatly, in reply to the protests; a horse-courier was sent off at once,

with nothing more spoken.

The townspeople were more welcoming to the Prussians, most of them young soldiers pale and

wretched after the flight. General Kalkreuth himself had been among these final refugees; he had to be let

down from Arkady’s back in a sling, his face white and sickly under his beard. The local medical man

looked doubtful, but cupped a basin full of blood from him and had him carried away to the nearest

farmhouse, to be kept warm and dosed with brandy and hot water.

Other men were less fortunate; the harnesses, cut away, came down in filthy and tangled heaps weighted

by corpses already turning greenish: some killed by the French attacks, others smothered by their own

fellows in the panic, or dead of thirst or plain terror. They buried in all sixty-three men of a thousand that

afternoon, some of them nameless, in a long and shallow grave laboriously pick-axed out of the frozen

ground; the rest of them were a ragged crew, clothes and uniforms inadequately brushed, faces still dirty,

attending silently. Even the ferals, though they did not understand the language, perceived the ceremony,

and sat on their haunches respectfully to watch from a distance.

Word had come straight back from Edinburgh only a few hours later, but with orders so queer as to be

incomprehensible: the Prussians were to be left behind in Dunbar and quartered on the town, reasonably

enough; the dragons, as expected, were summoned to Edinburgh. But there was no invitation to General

Kalkreuth or his officers to come along; to the contrary, Laurence was strictly adjured to bring no

Prussian officers with him. As for the dragons, they were not permitted to come into the large and

comfortable covert itself, not even Temeraire: instead Laurence was ordered to leave them sleeping in the

street, and to report to the admiral in command in the morning.

He had stifled his own reaction, and spoken mildly of the arrangements to Major Seiberling, now the

senior Prussian; implying as best he could without any outright falsehood that the Admiralty meant to wait

until General Kalkreuth was recovered for an official welcome.

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“Oh; must we fly again?” Temeraire said when Laurence told him; he heaved himself wearily back onto

his feet, and went around the drowsing ferals to nudge them awake: they had all crumpled into

somnolence after their dinners.

Their flight was slow and the days were grown short; it lacked only a week to Christmas, Laurence

realized abruptly. The sky was fully dark by the time they reached the city, but the castle on its high rocky

hill, standing above the shadowed expanse of the covert, shone out for them like a beacon, its windows

and walls bright with torches, the narrow buildings of the old medieval part of the city crammed together

close around it.

Temeraire hovered doubtfully above the cramped and winding streets; there were many spires and

pointed roofs to contend with, and not very much room. “I do not see how I am to land,” he said

uncertainly. “I am sure to break one of those buildings; why have they built these streets so small? It was

much more convenient in Peking.”

“If you cannot do it without hurting yourself, we will go away again, and orders be damned,” Laurence

said; his patience was grown very thin.

But in the end Temeraire managed to let himself down into the cathedral square without bringing down

more than a few lumps of ornamental masonry from the spire; the ferals, being all of them considerably

smaller, had less difficulty. They were a little anxious at being removed from the fields full of sheep and

cattle, however, and suspicious of their new surroundings; Arkady bent low and put his eye to an open

window to peer inside at the empty rooms, making skeptical inquiries of Temeraire as he did so.

“That is where people sleep, is it not, Laurence? Like a pavilion,” Temeraire said, trying cautiously to

arrange his tail into a more comfortable position. “And sometimes where they sell jewels and other

pleasant things. But where are all the people?”

Laurence was quite sure all the people had fled; the wealthiest tradesman in the city would be sleeping in

a gutter tonight, if it were the only bed he could find in the new part of town, safely far away from the

pack of dragons who had invaded his streets.

The dragons had eventually disposed of themselves in some reasonable comfort; the ferals, used to

sleeping in rough-hewn caves, were even well pleased with the soft and rounded cobblestones. “I do not

mind sleeping in the street, Laurence, truly; it is quite dry, and I am sure it will be very interesting to look

at, in the morning,” Temeraire had said, drowsily, before falling straight asleep again, his head lodged in

one alleyway and his tail in another.

But Laurence minded for him; it was not the sort of welcome which he felt they might justly have looked

for, a long year away from home, having been sent halfway round the world and back.

Having left Temeraire and all his officers still sleeping, in whatever comfort they managed to find,

Laurence now presented himself to the guards at the castle gate and was shown to the admiral’s office at

once, escorted by a young red-coated Marine through the dark and quiet courtyards of stone, empty and

free from hurry. The doors were opened, and he went in stiffly, straight-shouldered; his face had set into

disapproving lines, cold and rigid. “Sir,” he said, eyes fixed at a point upon the wall; and only then

glanced down, and said, surprised, “Admiral Lenton?”

“Yes, Laurence; sit, sit down.” Lenton dismissed the guard, and the door closed upon them and the

musty, book-lined room; the Admiral’s desk was nearly clear, but for a single small map and a handful of

papers. Lenton sat for a moment silently. “It is damned good to see you,” he said at last. “Very good to

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AcknowledgmentsINWORKINGOUTtherevisedhistoryofthecampaignof1806,IhavereliedespeciallyonTheCampaignsofNapoleon,byDavidG.Chandler,andAMilitaryHistoryandAtlasoftheNapoleonicWars,byBrigadierGeneralVincentJ.EspositoandColonelJohnR.Elting,bothofwhichsharethevirtueofenablingevenanamateurtograspatunderstan...

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