by Naomi Novik
“Oh!” Temeraire burst out. “Do you wish me to stay in China, then, and let you go away from me, so you may be married, and have as many children as you like, and a house again?”
Laurence stared, astonished and bewildered. “What?” he said.
Temeraire was nearly trembling with resentment and indignation, which Laurence could scarcely understand. “Her,” Temeraire said. “Whyever are you always speaking with her, and going to her tent? And why has her tent been moved so close to your own?”
“Do you mean Mrs. Pemberton?” Laurence said, in no diminished confusion. “She is under my protection, and was lately abused by ruffians—” He stopped, helplessly: he had not expected to find jealousy in a dragon, and still less so much imagination. “Do you—I beg your pardon, have you any reason for supposing I mean to marry her?” he asked, in sudden alarm. “Had I—before my loss of memory, had I—had I made her any promises, or expressed to you any intentions, in that quarter—”
“Oh! None at all,” Temeraire said, “but what does that signify, when you are so dreadfully altered, and everyone thinks you should marry; even Mei does, even if she does not call it marriage. She thinks you ought take a concubine, and ten of them at that.”
“I may confidently promise you to do no such thing,” Laurence said, much relieved and beginning to be half-amused, “and I have not the least notion why anyone should concern themselves with my marriage, save myself and my nearest relations.”
Temeraire calmed a little; at least his tail settled slowly to the ground. “And you do not want to marry her?” he said.
Laurence looked round; it was an outrageous subject for conversation, and Temeraire’s voice could not be called discreet. “Pray let us go inside,” he said, “if you wish to speak any further on the subject,” and went as far to the back of the pavilion as he could, and seated himself on the cushions there. Temeraire sat before him coiled tightly, and curled his tail around his limbs, still radiating wary distress.
“I should begin,” Laurence said cautiously, unsure how to begin, “by asking you whether you object to the lady in particular, or to the—to the event, in a general way?”
“I do not see anything particularly remarkable about Mrs. Pemberton at all,” Temeraire answered, “which should make her in the least suitable for you. After all, you are a prince of China, and my captain, and you have been in a great many battles. Whatever has she done, to brag of? But I do not at all mean to be rude,” he said, in succession to this piece of outrageous rudeness. “I should not like it in the least if you were to marry anyone else, either.”
“Pray explain to me a little further,” Laurence said, wondering if it would console Temeraire to be assured of his own ineligibility; few gentlewomen would contemplate throwing themselves away upon an aviator. “I would by no means distress you, but I had not been aware of any objections you might have, nor that my marriage—not that I contemplate any such step at present—should be any bar to my continuing to serve. So far as I knew, while aviators make poor material for an eligible woman, we are not barred from establishing a home, and—and I beg your pardon, but Roland has given me to understand that providing you an heir is rather in the nature of my duty.”
“Well, I have never wanted an heir,” Temeraire said, snorting. “I should certainly never wish to replace you with another, no matter the circumstances. I understand Excidium feels differently about the matter, and I do not at all mean to criticize, but that is his business. For my part, I do not see why I ought to be expected to like it if you should be married, only because it means that someday, if you should die, there might be another person I might like. It is all very airy and unreasonable, it seems to me, and I do not care for it at all.”
“Well,” Laurence said, “if it will relieve your mind, I will promise you not to marry without seeking your consent: I must consider your feelings as engaged in the matter as those of my family, and I can conceive of few circumstances in which I would proceed over any objections you might express.”
He hesitated, then; he could conceive of one: namely, an obligation which could not be escaped. “Temeraire,” he said, “before I can make you such a promise, however, I must ask you whether I should be obliged by decency to—that is—” He drew a deep breath and bluntly asked, “Do I owe Admiral Roland an offer? Is she—is Miss Roland my daughter?”
“Why no, she is not, at all,” Temeraire said, in surprise. “Her father is some aviator in the North: we have never met him, and I do not think Emily has seen him over three times in her life. Whyever would you suppose she were your daughter?”
“You have relieved me greatly,” Laurence said, but the relief was short-lived. Temeraire went on, “After all, Admiral Roland has only been your lover since the year five, and Emily was nine when you met; how could the two of you have made her? But it doesn’t signify,” Temeraire added in tones of reproach, “for you have already asked her, and she wouldn’t have you, because she was your commander.”
So Laurence hardly knew whether to laugh or be mortified: it seemed his life the last eight years had been a succession of scandals and outrages, which he ought have blushed to think of. To have intrigued with an unmarried gentlewoman, and a fellow-officer no less—
But Temeraire, perceiving his distress, misread the cause; he said in a small voice, “Why, Laurence—do you wish so to be married? I knew that you were quite unhappy that Miss Galman would not have you, after—after I was hatched.”
“Did I offer for her, then?” Laurence said, glad that at least he had been decent enough to give her the opportunity to refuse him.
“—yes,” Temeraire said, with a hitch. “So—so I suppose you do wish to be married, whatever you have said.” He fell silent, and then with a very evident summoning of all his resources said in determined tones, “Well, then I suppose, if Mrs. Pemberton will be sensible and not wish you always to be leaving me to go and be with her, and will not expect you always to be having children, and if she will not mind coming back to live in our valley, in New South Wales, after we have won the war—”
“I beg your pardon!” Laurence said, raising his voice to stem this torrent of conditions. “Temeraire, I have not the least desire to be married to Mrs. Pemberton, I assure you. And when should we have been living in New South Wales? There can hardly be any call for dragons, there.”
“—when we were transported,” Temeraire said in surprise, “Oh,” he added, “I suppose you do not remember that, either? Laurence, it is very inconvenient you should recall nothing at all.”
LAURENCE COULD SEE GRANBY speaking softly with Harcourt and Berkley; they had trailed him to the edge of the escarpment and stood now at a distance together, all of them looking at him warily as though they imagined he might fling himself over, and as though they would have been sorry for it if he had. Even though he was a traitor—a convicted traitor. Even though he had carried aid and comfort to the French, deliberately, of his own free will, and undermined thereby a stroke which might have averted the invasion of Britain.
An appalling stroke, one which would have meant the slow and dreadful death of a thousand dragons or more, a deliberate plague-bearing—but notwithstanding this, a stroke which had been commanded by his officers, by his Government, and through them by his King. He had betrayed them all, and the invasion of his country might be laid at his door.
“Laurence,” Granby said, low, coming to his side, “—pray will you come back to my tent? Temeraire is frayed like a torn rag already, and he’ll be worse the longer you stand out here. He is watching you.”
Laurence did not answer; he could scarcely yet form thoughts in his own head. The worst of the matter was to be unable to recall what should have shaped his choice: he had committed no mere act of passion. He had acted with deliberation. He had also been pardoned, Temeraire had urgently told him, pardoned and even restored to the list of officers; but Laurence felt that he would have given up that pardon, given anything, only to feel again the sentimen
ts that had driven him to such an extremity.
But he did not; he did not remember, and only now understood that he did not know himself any longer. He did not know how he ought to feel. Temeraire had evidently driven him to the act; a court-martial had condemned him; the Government had pardoned him. But none of these facts could tell Laurence whether he had condemned himself, or ought to, and whether he should long since have separated himself from Temeraire as ought a sailor shut his ears to the Sirens.
Granby gently took his arm, and Laurence after a moment let himself be drawn away. They walked slowly back across the encampment, past the watchful, suspicious looks of the red dragons. Laurence did not look towards Temeraire’s pavilion, but ducked into Granby’s tent; there he took the glass of strong rice liquor Granby offered him and swallowed it straightaway.
“I’m damned sorry,” Granby said, sitting on a chest. “We ought have found some other way to break the news to you, whatever Pettiforth and Hammond said; we must have known you could not go forever, not learning of it. I suppose we have all been telling ourselves you would remember, surely, any day now.” He leaned over with the bottle, and filled Laurence’s glass again.
Laurence took another hot, too-bitter swallow. “I think I can scarcely blame myself,” he said, low, “if having forgotten, I did not wish to remember this.” He downed the rest of the glass and asked abruptly, “I beg your pardon: may I ask your opinion of the act; of the—” He stopped; he did not put a word to it. He did not know what name to give it; he did not know why Granby should consider his feelings, in the least, nor tolerate his company, in the face of it. But he desperately wished to know.
Granby hesitated a moment and then said, “I haven’t anything to say, Laurence. I was damned glad the French had the cure, and so was any aviator worth his salt, in my opinion. They asked me, you know, if I’d had a part in it; they asked all of us, and all I could tell them was you wouldn’t have taken any help, and I wouldn’t have thought of it. And that’s too paltry for words. Anyway,” he added, “you wouldn’t have, either; Temeraire came up with the notion.”
“Yes,” Laurence said.
“I don’t deny it was ugly,” Granby said, “and I dare say it has given you a sad turn now, but—but do recall, we have all come about. Boney would have got his hands on the cure sooner or later anyway, and he would have come over anyway. And he’d be in England still if Temeraire hadn’t brought half the dragons out of the breeding grounds and to the war with him. You’ve your pardon, now, and you’re restored to the list.”
“A pardon cannot restore a man’s reputation,” Laurence said, “and still less his honor, if lost.” He was silent, and then said, “I suppose I was pardoned for Temeraire—that the Corps should continue to have the use of him.”
“Well,” Granby said.
Laurence nodded. He wondered bleakly if such a motive had kept him by Temeraire’s side; if he had clung to his post to save himself from hanging. But even as he had the thought, some instinct rejected it. He finished the glass and put it aside. “I beg your pardon,” he said quietly, “I cannot suppose I concealed my feelings from Temeraire at all well, and he was distressed already. I must go and speak with him.”
Temeraire huddled in his pavilion, as wretched as ever he had been; it seemed to him disaster followed directly on disaster. First their shipwreck; Laurence’s peculiar brain-fever; the assassination attempts which so nearly had succeeded; then the discovery of the opium, which might ruin everything—might prevent an alliance and leave them at a standstill. Mei had been very stiff and withdrawn, since then. She said she had accepted Temeraire’s assurances that he had known nothing of the smuggling, and neither had Laurence, but she had not wanted to try again for the egg since then; and all the other dragons in the encampment kept a cold distance.
But all that paled before this. Temeraire could not conceive how Laurence had forgotten the treason—the treason, which had so deeply wounded him. It seemed wretchedly unfair. If only Temeraire had known, he would never, never have said a word; how gladly he would have joined Laurence in forgetting, and Laurence need never have known anything about it ever again.
And if Laurence had forgotten the treason, surely he had forgotten everything else, as well. He had forgotten about the loss of his fortune. Temeraire would have to confess that to him, all over again; he would have to explain to Laurence that he had lost him ten thousand pounds, and that loss Temeraire had not repaired. Laurence would have all the pain of it afresh, and Temeraire should have to face all his justified blame. Temeraire huddled his head beneath his wing and tried not to think of it.
Forthing had tried to speak with him, half-an-hour ago; Temeraire had paid him no attention. He returned now with Ferris, who came by Temeraire’s head and said quietly, “Come, Temeraire; it will come out all right, you will see. The captain will come round. Will you eat something, or would you like Sipho to read to you?” He turned his head and called out the pavilion’s side, “Sipho! Will you bring that book over here, of poesy?” and added, “What you need is some distraction—”
“How can you speak of distraction to me?” Temeraire said, lifting his head up. “If I had paid better attention—if I had properly understood—oh! I am distracted, far worse than I ought to be. Where is Laurence?” He reared up his head, and tried to see him. Laurence had walked away across the camp, and his eyes—his eyes had looked half-blind—
“He is with Captain Granby,” Forthing said. “He will be all right, Temeraire; it’s all that knock on the head he took—”
“It is not!” Temeraire said. “I dare say he wished to forget, and whyever would he not wish to? I have lost him his fortune, and his rank, and his ship, and his wife—”
“What?” Ferris said. “Whenever was the captain married?”
“Never!” Temeraire said. “That is what I mean; and everyone will have it that nothing could be more splendid than marriage, and he has put it aside for my sake—that, and everything else, and he regrets it so that he has forgotten all of it, so he needn’t think of it.”
“Lord, Temeraire!” Forthing said. “You can’t suppose he has chosen to drop a hand of years out of his head.”
Temeraire turned his narrowed gaze sharp on Ferris. “Would you not, if you could?” he demanded. “Ferris! Would you not rather be shot of me? If you had anywhere else to go? It was my fault you were dismissed the service—”
Ferris flushed and said shortly, “I shouldn’t reproach you or the captain for any of it, if only you had asked me to take a part. I should have been happier hanged for such a cause than dismissed for a cowardly liar.”
“Oh,” Temeraire said. “But—but I am very glad you are not hanged,” he added awkwardly, “and I dare say if you had helped, you should have been, so I cannot be sorry for that.” His ruff drooped against his neck.
They were all silent a moment; Forthing stared at the ground, and Ferris, his cheeks still hot, looked away from the pavilion. Sipho came trotting in with the large scroll of poetry, and paused to eye them all doubtfully.
“I do not want it,” Temeraire said. “Pray take it away. I must do something,” he added, and heaved himself to his feet. “I will go flying, over that burnt town—I will see if I cannot find some trace of the rebels—”
“Wait!” Forthing said. “There’s no call for you to go venture yourself like that, and not in this mood, if you please. Let me go and fetch the captain—”
“No,” Temeraire said, fiercely; he could not bear to speak with Laurence at the moment, not when so many dreadful things might possibly be said. Whatever Ferris might feel, whatever Laurence himself had felt, before he had lost his memory, too plainly he did not feel those same things any longer. Laurence did not remember anything, and would be happier not remembering. What if Laurence were to come back and indeed tell him they should part? “No. I am going straightaway.”
He walked out of the pavilion; Ferris caught with a desperate leap at his foreleg, and scrambling went
up the side to get hold of the breastplate chain, which Laurence ordinarily used to latch himself upon Temeraire’s back. “I am coming with you,” Ferris said. “Sipho, will you go and—”
“Oh!” Temeraire said, and caught Sipho and Forthing and put them up onto his back as well. “You will all come with me, and not run tattling; I do not see any reason that anyone ought go and tell Laurence. If we do not find anything, there is no reason at all.”
“A flight won’t hurt him,” Ferris said to Forthing in an undertone.
“I can’t like it in the least,” Forthing said, hissing back. “Half this camp is ready to leap on us and tear us to pieces for the least excuse, and if we did find some rebels, they’d like to do the same. We oughtn’t let him go anywhere away, and without a word to anyone.”
“These fellows are hunting the rebels, aren’t they?” Ferris said. “If there were anything to be found at that town, they would have found it by now. We’ll go for a flight there and back, and then likely enough he’ll come down and let Sipho read to him awhile.”
“I don’t think they have been looking very hard,” Sipho said unexpectedly, in his still-high voice, “when they think we are guilty, and want us to be,” which gave Forthing and Ferris both pause; Sipho added, “I don’t mind going to have a look, either, and seeing some more of this country. But I don’t think Demane will like it if I go off without him for a long while,” in rather cheerful tones: he did not have a very great distaste for upsetting his brother, who was somewhat given to a smothering and anxious degree of affection.
“Well, I am going, and so are you,” Temeraire said, “so latch on your carabiners,” and he delayed only a moment longer before he threw himself aloft. Privately, his thoughts were urgently turning, even as he beat up and turning flew away from the encampment. Surely it was not himself, but Laurence who required distraction; Laurence ought above all things be distracted from thinking of his losses. Perhaps General Fela’s men had missed something, some sign—perhaps he would find some trace of the rebels. If only Temeraire returned in some victorious accomplishment, perhaps having smashed a rebel army or at least discovered one, Laurence could hardly reply to it with chiding, with a desire to part from him.