His Majesty's Dragon t-1

by Naomi Novik

  Laurence stopped in a coffeehouse and wrote Sir Edward a quick note with his direction, briefly explaining his circumstances and asking for permission to call. This he addressed to Porto Moniz, then sent off with the establishment’s post-boy, adding a half-crown to speed it along. He could have flown across the island much more quickly, of course, but he did not feel he could simply descend upon someone with no warning with a dragon in tow. He could wait; he still had at least a week of liberty left to him before a reply would come from Gibraltar with instructions on how to report for duty.

  But the dispatch-rider was due tomorrow, and the thought recalled him to an omitted duty: he had not yet written to his father. He could not let his parents learn of his altered circumstances from some secondhand account, or in the Gazette notice which should surely be printed, and with a sense of reluctant obligation he settled himself back down with a fresh pot of coffee to write the necessary letter.

  It was difficult to think what to say. Lord Allendale was not a particularly fond parent and was punctilious in his manners. The Army and Navy he thought barely acceptable alternatives to the Church for an impoverished younger son; he would no more have considered sending a son to the Corps than to a trade, and he would certainly neither sympathize nor approve. Laurence was well aware that he and his father disagreed on the score of duty; his father would certainly tell him it had been his duty to his name to stay well away from the dragon, and to leave some misguided idea of service out of the matter.

  His mother’s reaction he dreaded more; for she had real affection for him, and the news would make her unhappy for his sake. Then, also, she was friendly with Lady Galman, and what he wrote would certainly reach Edith’s ears. But he could not write in such terms as might reassure either of them without provoking his father extremely; and so he contented himself with a stilted, formal note that laid out the facts without embellishment, and avoided all appearance of complaint. It would have to do; still he sealed it with a sense of dissatisfaction before carrying it to the dispatch post by hand.

  This unpleasant task completed, he turned back for the hotel in which he had taken a room; he had invited Riley and Gibbs along with several other acquaintances to join him for dinner, in recompense of earlier hospitality from them. It was not yet two o’clock, and the shops were still open; he looked in the windows as he walked to distract himself from brooding upon the likely reaction of his family and nearest friends, and paused outside a small pawnbroker’s.

  The golden chain was absurdly heavy, the sort of thing no woman could wear and too gaudy for a man: thick square links with flat disks and small pearl drops hanging from them, alternated. But for the metal and gems alone he imagined it must be expensive; most likely far more than he should spend, for he was being cautious with his funds now that he had no future prospect of prize-money. He stepped inside anyway and inquired; it was indeed too dear.

  “However, sir, perhaps this one would do?” the proprietor suggested, offering a different chain: it looked very much the same, only with no disks, and perhaps slightly thinner links. It was nearly half the price of the first; still expensive, but he took it, and then felt a little silly for it.

  He gave it to Temeraire that night anyway, and was a little surprised at the happiness with which it was received. Temeraire clutched the chain and would not put it aside; he brooded over it in the candlelight while Laurence read to him, and turned it this way and that to admire the light upon the gold and the pearls. When he slept at last, it remained entwined with his talons, and the next day Laurence was obliged to attach it securely to the harness before Temeraire would consent to fly.

  The curious reaction made him even more glad to find an enthusiastic invitation from Sir Edward awaiting him when they returned from their morning flight. Fernao brought the note out to him in the field when they landed, and Laurence read it aloud to Temeraire: the gentleman would receive them whenever they liked to come, and he could be found at the seashore near the bathing pools.

  “I am not tired,” Temeraire said; he was as curious to know his breed as Laurence. “We may go at once, if you like.”

  He had indeed been developing more and more endurance; Laurence decided they could easily stop and rest if needed, and climbed back aboard without even having shifted his clothing. Temeraire put out an unusual effort and the island whipped by in great sweeps of his wings, Laurence crouching low to his neck and squinting against the wind.

  They spiraled down to the shore less than an hour after lifting away, scattering bathers and seashore vendors as they landed upon the rocky shore. Laurence gazed after them in dismay for a moment, then frowned; if they were foolish enough to imagine that a properly harnessed dragon would hurt them, it was hardly his fault, and he patted Temeraire’s neck as he unstrapped himself and slid down. “I will go and see if I can find Sir Edward; stay here.”

  “I will,” said Temeraire absently; he was already peering with interest into the deep rocky pools about the shore, which had odd stone outcroppings and very clear water.

  Sir Edward did not prove very difficult to find; he had noticed the fleeing crowd and was already approaching, the only person in view, by the time Laurence had gone a quarter of a mile. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, but both of them were impatient to come to the real matter at hand, and Sir Edward assented eagerly as soon as Laurence ventured to suggest they should walk back to Temeraire.

  “A most unusual and charming name,” Sir Edward said, as they walked, unconsciously making Laurence’s heart sink. “Most often they are given Roman names, extravagant ones; but then most aviators go into harness a great deal younger than you, and have a tendency to puff themselves up. There is something quite absurd about a two-ton Winchester called Imperatorius. Why, Laurence, however did you teach him to swim?”

  Startled, Laurence looked, then stared: in his absence, Temeraire had gone into the water and was now paddling himself about. “Lord, no; I have never seen him do it before,” he said. “How can he not be sinking? Temeraire! Do come out of the water,” he called, a little anxious.

  Sir Edward watched with interest as Temeraire swam towards them and climbed back up onto shore. “How extraordinary. The internal air-sacs which permit them to fly would, I imagine, make a dragon naturally buoyant, and having grown up on the ocean as he has, perhaps he would have no natural fear of the element.”

  This mention of air-sacs was a piece of new information to Laurence, but the dragon was joining them, so he saved the further questions that immediately sprang to mind. “Temeraire, this is Sir Edward Howe,” Laurence said.

  “Hello,” said Temeraire, peering down with interest equal to that with which he was observed. “I am very pleased to meet you. Can you tell me what breed I am?”

  Sir Edward did not seem nonplussed by this direct approach, and he made a bow in reply. “I hope I will be able to give you some information, indeed; may I ask you to be so kind as to move some distance up the shore, perhaps by that tree which you see over there, and spread your wings, so we may better see your full conformation?”

  Temeraire went willingly, and Sir Edward observed his motion. “Hm, very odd, not characteristic at all, the way he holds his tail. Laurence, you say his egg was found in Brazil?”

  “As to that, I cannot properly tell you, I am afraid,” Laurence said, studying Temeraire’s tail; he could see nothing unusual, but of course he had no real basis for comparison. Temeraire carried his tail off the ground, and it lashed the air gently as he walked. “We took him from a French prize, and she was most recently come from Rio, judging by the markings on some of her water casks, but more than that I cannot say. The logs were thrown overboard as we took her, and the captain very naturally refused to give us any information about where the egg was discovered. But I assume it could not have come from much further, due to the length of the journey.”

  “Oh, that is by no means certain,” Sir Edward said. “There are some subspecies which mature in the shell for up
wards of ten years, and twenty months is a common average. Good Lord.”

  Temeraire had just spread out his wings; they were still dripping water. “Yes?” Laurence asked hopefully.

  “Laurence, my God, those wings,” Sir Edward cried, and literally ran across the shore towards Temeraire. Laurence blinked and went after him, and caught up to him only by the dragon’s side. Sir Edward was gently stroking one of the six spines that divided the sections of Temeraire’s wings, gazing at it with greedy passion. Temeraire had craned his head about to watch, but was keeping otherwise still, and did not seem to mind having his wing handled.

  “Do you recognize him, then?” Laurence asked Sir Edward tentatively; the man looked quite overwhelmed.

  “Recognize? Not, I assure you, in the sense of ever having seen his kind before; there can scarcely be three living men in Europe who have, and on the strength of this one glance I am already furnished with enough material for an address to the Royal Society,” Sir Edward answered. “But the wings are irrefutable, and the number of talons: he is a Chinese Imperial, although of which line I certainly cannot tell you. Oh, Laurence, what a prize!”

  Laurence gazed at the wings, bemused; it had not occurred to him before that the fan-like divisions were unusual, nor the five talons which Temeraire had upon each foot. “An Imperial?” he said, with an uncertain smile; he wondered for a moment if Sir Edward was practicing a joke on him. The Chinese had been breeding dragons for thousands of years before the Romans had ever domesticated the wild breeds of Europe; they were violently jealous of their work, and rarely permitted even grown specimens of minor breeds to leave the country. It was absurd to think that the French had been trundling an Imperial egg across the Atlantic in a thirty-six-gun frigate.

  “Is that a good breed?” Temeraire asked. “Will I be able to breathe fire?”

  “Dear creature, the very best of all possible breeds; only the Celestials are more rare or valuable, and were you one of those, I suppose the Chinese would go to war over our having put you into harness, so we must be glad you are not,” Sir Edward said. “But though I will not rule it out entirely, I think it unlikely you will be able to breathe fire. The Chinese breed first for intelligence and grace; they have such overwhelming air superiority they do not need to seek such abilities in their lines. Japanese dragons are far more likely among the Oriental breeds to have any special offensive capabilities.”

  “Oh,” said Temeraire glumly.

  “Temeraire, do not be absurd, it is the most famous news anyone could imagine,” Laurence said, beginning to believe at last; this was too far to carry a joke. “You are quite certain, sir?” he could not help asking.

  “Oh yes,” Sir Edward said, returning to his examination of the wings. “Only look at the delicacy of the membrane; the consistency of the color throughout the body, and the coordination between the color of the eyes and the markings. I should have seen he was a Chinese breed at once; it is quite impossible that he should have come from the wild, and no European or Incan breeder is capable of such work. And,” he added, “this explains the swimming as well: Chinese beasts often have an affinity for water, if I recall correctly.”

  “An Imperial,” Laurence murmured, stroking Temeraire’s side in wonder. “It is incredible; they ought to have convoyed him with half their fleet, or sent a handler to him rather than the reverse.”

  “Perhaps they did not know what they had,” Sir Edward said. “Chinese eggs are notoriously difficult to categorize by appearance, other than having the texture of fine porcelain. I do not suppose, by the by, that you have any of the eggshell preserved?” he asked wistfully.

  “Not I, but perhaps some of the hands may have saved a bit,” Laurence said. “I would be happy to make inquiry for you; I am deeply indebted to you.”

  “Not at all; the debt is entirely on my side. To think that I have seen an Imperial—and spoken with one!” He bowed to Temeraire. “In that, I may be unique among Englishmen, although le Comte de la Pérouse wrote in his journals of having spoken with one in Korea, in the palace of their king.”

  “I would like to read that,” Temeraire said. “Laurence, can you get a copy?”

  “I will certainly try,” Laurence said. “And sir, I would be very grateful if you could recommend some texts to my attention; I would be glad of any knowledge of the habits and behaviors of the breed.”

  “Well, there are precious few resources, I am afraid; you will shortly be more of an expert than any other European, I imagine,” Sir Edward said. “But I will certainly give you a list, and I have several texts I would be happy to lend you, including the journals of La Pérouse. If Temeraire does not mind waiting here, perhaps we can walk back to my hotel and retrieve them; I am afraid he would not fit very comfortably in the village.”

  “I do not mind at all; I will go swimming again,” Temeraire said.

  Having taken tea with Sir Edward and collected a number of books from him, Laurence found a shepherd in the village willing to take his money, so he could feed Temeraire before their return journey. He was forced to drag the sheep down to the shore himself, however, with the animal bleating wildly and trying to get away long before Temeraire even came into view. Laurence ended up having to carry it bodily, and it took its final revenge by defecating upon him just before he flung it down at last in front of the eager dragon.

  While Temeraire feasted, he stripped to the skin and scrubbed his clothing as best he could in the water, then left the wet things on a sunny rock to dry while the two of them bathed together. Laurence was not a particularly good swimmer himself, but with Temeraire to hold on to, he could risk the deeper water where the dragon could swim. Temeraire’s delight in the water was infectious, and in the end Laurence too succumbed to playfulness, splashing the dragon and plunging under the water to come up on his other side.

  The water was beautifully warm, and there were many outcroppings of rock to crawl out upon for a rest, some large enough for both of them; when he at last led Temeraire back onto the shore, several hours had gone by, and the sun was sinking rapidly. He was guiltily glad the other bathers had stayed away; he would have been ashamed to be seen frolicking like a boy.

  The sun was warm on their backs as they winged across the island back to Funchal, both of them brimming with satisfaction, with the precious books wrapped in oilskin and strapped to the harness. “I will read to you from the journals tonight,” Laurence was saying, when he was interrupted by a loud, bugling call ahead of them.

  Temeraire was so startled he stopped in mid-air, hovering for a moment; then he roared back, a strangely tentative sound. He launched himself forwards again, and in a moment Laurence saw the source of the call: a pale grey dragon with mottled white markings upon its belly and white striations across its wings, almost invisible against the cloud cover; it was a great distance above them.

  It swooped down very quickly and drew alongside them; he could see that it was smaller than Temeraire, even at his present size, but it could glide along on a single beat of its wings for much longer. Its rider was wearing grey leather that matched its hide, and a heavy hood; he unhooked several clasps on this and pushed it to hang back off his head. “Captain James, on Volatilus, dispatch service,” he said, staring at Laurence in open curiosity.

  Laurence hesitated; a response was obviously called for, but he was not quite sure how to style himself, for he had not yet been formally discharged from the Navy, nor formally inducted into the Corps. “Captain Laurence of His Majesty’s Navy,” he said finally, “on Temeraire; I am at present unassigned. Are you headed for Funchal?”

  “Navy—? Yes, I am, and I expect you had better be as well, after that introduction,” James said; he had a pleasant-looking long face, but Laurence’s reply had marred it by a deep frown. “How old is that dragonet, and where did you get him?”

  “I am three weeks and five days out of the shell, and Laurence won me in a battle,” Temeraire said, before Laurence could reply. “How did you meet James
?” he asked, addressing the other dragon.

  Volatilus blinked large milky blue eyes and said, in a bright voice, “I was hatched! From an egg!”

  “Oh?” said Temeraire, uncertainly, and turned his head around to Laurence with a startled look. Laurence shook his head quickly, to keep him silent.

  “Sir, if you have questions, they can be best answered on the ground,” he said to James, a little coldly; there had been a peremptory quality he did not like in the other man’s tone. “Temeraire and I are staying just outside the town; do you care to accompany us, or shall we follow you to your landing grounds?”

  James had been looking with surprise at Temeraire, and he answered Laurence with a little more warmth, “Oh, let us go to yours; the moment I set down officially, I will be mobbed with people wanting to send parcels; we will not be able to talk.”

  “Very well; it is a field to the south-west of the city,” Laurence said. “Temeraire, pray take the lead.”

  The grey dragon had no difficulty keeping up, though Laurence thought Temeraire was secretly trying to pull away; Volatilus had clearly been bred, and bred successfully, for speed. English breeders were gifted at working with their limited stocks to achieve specific results, but evidently intelligence had been sacrificed in the process of achieving this particular one.

  They landed together, to the anxious lowing of the cattle that had been delivered for Temeraire’s dinner. “Temeraire, be gentle with him,” Laurence said quietly. “Some dragons do not have very good understanding, like some people; you remember Bill Swallow, on the Reliant.”

  “Oh, yes,” Temeraire said, equally low. “I understand now; I will be careful. Do you think he would like one of my cows?”

  “Would he care for something to eat?” Laurence asked James, as they both dismounted and met on the ground. “Temeraire has already eaten this afternoon; he can spare a cow.”

  “Why, that is very kind of you,” James said, thawing visibly. “I am sure he would like it very much, wouldn’t you, you bottomless pit,” he went on affectionately, patting Volatilus’s neck.