by Naomi Novik
And there was no-one else to go. Iskierka had been the only one of their motley company with a proper crew, and all of them had been captured with her: lieutenants, midwingmen, even her ground crew all aboard. All that were left now were Laurence’s small handful of crew, and for senior officers only Dunne and Wickley, former midwingmen of Laurence’s crew who had acquired enough of the ferals’ language to be useful as translators. A handful of other officers had been similarly placed with the ferals for a gift with languages more than any other quality; most of them were young, very young: nearer fourteen than twenty, and not to be sent on an expedition little better than a dice-throw.
Tharkay shook his head at the lot of them, and said to Laurence, “Better if we go alone.”
Tharkay had taken a commission with the Corps, at least for the moment; but this was not something which any service could require. “You are not obliged—” Laurence began.
“No,” Tharkay agreed civilly, with one raised brow, and Laurence bowed and left it there.
Laurence exchanged his bottle-green coat for Blythe’s leather smock, with its pockets large enough to conceal a multitude of sins: two pistols and a good knife, and one of Blythe’s hammers. Tharkay gave him a handful of dirt to apply to his face, already rubbing more into his own hands and beneath his nails.
Dunne watched their preparations at a distance, sidelong and hesitating, with occasional glances at the other officers; but he did not say anything. It was not cowardice. He had made sufficient proof of his courage, in previous service, that Laurence did not doubt it now. Dunne’s reluctance had a source less palatable: plainly he did not wish to serve with Laurence again. There could be no harm to Dunne’s career from such cooperation here—some, indeed, might occur if he chose not to go and Laurence did not return—so the objection was one of principle.
Laurence bent his head over the fresh loading of his pistols, and did not see more of Dunne’s struggle than he had to; the sense of disapproval did not weigh upon him so greatly, now. He felt himself a righted ship, heaved off her beam-ends and into a course dangerous but for the immediate distance clear, even if there was a lee-shore off his bows and impenetrable murk ahead. He might be dashed on rocks, if the wind turned against him, but at least for the moment he knew what must needs be done, and he was free to do it.
They were ready in less than ten minutes, and would have gone at once, but Gong Su came and offered them a makeshift plate of bark with two small skewers upon it, tiny hearts and livers, still steaming from a makeshift butchering, and raw. Laurence regarded it with dismay. “A little of the divine wind inside,” Gong Su explained: they had come from the birds which Temeraire had inadvertently slain. “That makes good fortune.”
Laurence was not superstitious, but he ate; they could hardly refuse any advantage whatsoever. Tharkay took his own dose, pulled up the hood of his cloak over his face, and they went out to the road.
“THEY MAY ALREADY have sent Granby to France, of course,” Tharkay said to him, in Chinese, while they sat in the back of a drover’s cart.
“I hope not risk the Navy,” Laurence said, fumbling in his turn through the difficult language, which he knew he made nearly unintelligible, despite Temeraire’s many despairing attempts to correct his pronunciation. It at least gave them a privacy nearly impossible to breach, even by the hungry curiosity of the drover, who for a couple of quiet shillings had agreed to take them along to market with the cattle the man hoped to sell before they should be confiscated.
Tharkay nodded. If Napoleon were sure enough of his grip on London, or at least on enough of it to establish a prison, he might choose rather to be safe, and keep his valuable captive penned within it instead of risking Granby’s death in a crossing under fire, and the resulting frenzy of a Kazilik unleashed upon his forces. They could hope for at least a brief delay while the question was considered, during which Granby would be held nearby. They had to hope: otherwise there was no chance at all.
The last two crawling miles to the city were infuriating, when they had flown fifty this morning in what seemed less time, and the outskirts of London sounded already like a province of France. Tens of thousands of soldiers were busy making encampments, calling to one another and to the dragons who were helping them dig ditches and move stones and even widen roads, and those local shopboys more industrious than patriotic were running up and down the lanes of the camp, plying food and more commonly drink in high carrying voices and awkward, badly accented bits of French: “Une frank, monser” and “s’il voo plait,” but they were already improving.
“He is not shy of permanent alterations,” Tharkay said, indicating with a jerk of his chin the buildings which were being put up: large stones were being laid into the ground and pressed down by dragons, to make a raised platform once mortar had been poured over and between them, and logs sunk at the corners. There were no walls to the shelters, but as they came nearer the city Laurence saw one already finished and in use: dragons sleeping on three sides, and soldiers crammed into the sheltered space between them. They would sleep warm despite the coming winter; warmer than the British soldiers would. The work bore all the hallmarks of a long occupation; Napoleon was not planning any immediate campaign, Laurence realized grimly, but rather to entrench himself, and to let time and use dull the intolerable into the everyday.
The lowing cows plodded along after the cart, driven on by the drover’s boys, the sour grassy smell and the dust of the road rising up thick around them. Their shillings and tried patience did at least buy them an easy entry into the city: the French sergeant on duty on the Aldersgate road brightened at the sight of the cattle and waved them in with only a cursory question or two for the farmer and his companions, pointing them towards Smithfield and the slaughterhouses. Laurence and Tharkay stayed in the cart a little longer, until it had turned a corner towards the marketplace, the herd and the boys momentarily out of sight, then Tharkay touched Laurence’s elbow, and quick and unannounced they slipped from the back of the cart and into a narrow alleyway.
Newgate Prison was their target. A few coins at a pub bought Laurence a healthy dose of gossip and rumor, most of it worthless and irrelevant, but for the information that Bonaparte was staying in Kensington Palace, and “that unnatural white beast of his lying in Hyde Park like some overgrown eel, with those horrid red eyes,” and much shuddering all around.
Tharkay had better fortune, if so it could be called: some prisoners were indeed being kept at the prison, but there had been no new arrivals to-day: not that anyone had seen, and without prompting they had mentioned Iskierka’s appearance in particular. She had been seen in Hyde Park also, and eating two cows and setting the entire city ablaze, if some of the reports were to be believed; but one street-sweeper at least swore that no British aviators or crew had been brought to Newgate that day.
“In consolation,” Tharkay said, “neither have they been shipped to the coast. No large dragons have gone, since she came in, and certainly he has not been sending anyone by boat.”
“He might have Granby in Kensington Palace,” Laurence said after a moment.
“It would be very convenient for us, certainly,” Tharkay said, dryly.
“It sounds like folly, I know,” Laurence said, “but if I may be pardoned for forming an opinion on the grounds of one meeting, I would say that Bonaparte is unreasonably fond of seduction, to the point that he likes to believe he has a chance of persuasion where rationally anyone would see there is none. He will never miss a chance for a grand gesture, if he thinks he might coax Granby into service.”
Tharkay listened and shrugged. “We may as well take the chance; the trail is cold otherwise.”
It was dark by the time they reached the outskirts of Mayfair. Here and there the life of the city continued, at a muted tone, alehouses spilling warmth and the smell of fresh beer onto the dirty cobbles, and firelight gleamed from behind closed shutters, those who had not fled the city, whether from unwillingness or from inability. In t
he fashionable section, Laurence took the lead from Tharkay—these streets he knew well, going past his father’s house and those of his friends and political acquaintance, of men Laurence had known in the Navy, all of them shuttered and dark. Laurence did not hesitate: he had expected silence, abandoned houses, perhaps even wreckage and looting; he moved on steadily and did not look to see what damage might have been done, until he came into Dover Street, and was at last surprised: to find it crammed with carriages, ten linkmen standing at the door of one great town-house, fine young ladies and their chaperones, British gentlemen, French officers all going up the stairs and a great bustling noise of music and laughter and dish-clattering spilling down.
He stopped in the street, appalled, and had to be drawn back from the lights by Tharkay. “We will not get past that soon,” Tharkay said. Laurence did not immediately answer, too choked with anger. He had never been a visitor in the house, but thought it was let to a member from Liverpool, a man who might have voted with his father on occasion. Laurence mastered himself and drew Tharkay along the street a few doors to another house still occupied, but quietly so: a few subdued lights gleaming out from between shutters, not a party to welcome the conquerors. Waiting by the gate they might pass for footmen or grooms, and be dismissed from notice; with any luck the owner and his family were already abed.
They stood nearly an hour, stamping a little to warm their feet, and drawing back against the sides of the house now and then as another carriage reached the door to disgorge its passengers. Every minute brought a fresh cause for indignation: the smell of hot beef, a burst of singing in French, a lady waltzing with a French officer past the open balcony doors. The carriages thinned out only a little over the course of their wait: a sad crush, with the King fled to Scotland and thousands of British soldiers dead and prisoner.
And then a troop of horses came down the street: Old Guard, in their tall hats and pomp, shouting to clear the way and muscling the remaining carriage-horses aside with cool indifference to the protests of their drivers, making room for the great coach to come rolling along through the crush: an eagle painted in gold upon the door. It drew up before the house, and through the ranks of guards lined up the stairs, Laurence saw Napoleon emerge from the carriage and mount up to the house: in trousers and Hessian boots and a long leather coat more suited to mid-air than a drawing room, though splendid with gold braid and buttons, and dyed richly black. Another man was beside him, one of the Marshals: Murat, Laurence thought, the Emperor’s brother-in-law; they went up the stairs together, and applause welcomed them inside.
“Disgusting,” a man said, nearby, low, and Laurence started and looked around: while he had been watching the spectacle, two gentlemen had descended a carriage at the very door of the house where he stood. They were presently between him and Tharkay, who had drawn back a little into the shadow of the house. “Do you know, I heard Lady Hamilton was going to attend?”
“Her and half the other women of quality left in the city,” the second gentleman answered him, a voice vaguely familiar. “You there,” the man raised his voice to address Laurence, “what do you mean, loitering on the street gawking as though you were at a play? They don’t need any damned encouragement,” and Laurence in sinking sense of disaster recognized him: Bertram Woolvey, a distant acquaintance and the son of a friend of Lord Allendale’s.
Woolvey had married Edith Galman, if any better cause were needed for lack of love between him and Laurence, but they had never been friends even before that event. Woolvey was a gamester and a spendthrift, with the one saving grace that he could afford to be, and their circles had always been very different: Laurence knew nothing good of him besides his choice of a wife. And now Woolvey was stepping closer, frowning at the lack of an answer. Laurence was out of the street-light circle, and his face obscured by the smudged dirt he had applied. But in a moment he should be recognized, and all at an end: the slightest outcry would bring ten men from the guards outside the party, whether Woolvey meant to draw them down on him or not.
Laurence took two quick steps to Woolvey’s side and gripped him by the arm, covering his mouth with another hand. “Say nothing,” he said, hissed and low, to Woolvey’s staring eyes. “Do you understand? Say nothing; nod if you understand me.”
Woolvey’s companion said, “What are you—” and stopped: Tharkay had caught him from behind and clapped a hand over his mouth also.
Woolvey nodded, and when Laurence took away his hand said at once, “William Laurence? What the devil are you—” and had to have his mouth covered again.
The door of the house opened, a footman looking out, puzzled. “Into the house,” Laurence said. “Quickly, for God’s sake,” and half-pushed Woolvey up the stairs, before they should draw attention. The footman backed in at a loss before their awkward rush, Tharkay and Woolvey’s companion—a gentleman Laurence vaguely recognized, a Mr. Sutton-Leeds—directly on Laurence’s heels.
Tharkay let go Sutton-Leeds as soon as they were inside, and snatched the door away to shut it again. “What on earth,” the man said, “is it thieves?” more incredulous than alarmed.
“No, stay there, and for God’s sake do not stir up the house any further,” Laurence said sharply, to the footman who was edging towards the bell-pull. “Enough of a muddle as it—” and stopped; Edith was on the stairs, in a dressing-gown and cap, saying, “Bertram, may I beg you to be as quiet as you can? James is only just asleep—”
There was a moment of general uncomfortable silence, until Woolvey broke it, saying pompously, “I think you had better explain yourself, Laurence, and what you mean by this invasion of my house.”
“Nothing,” Laurence said, after a moment, “but to keep you from drawing attention from the French on the stoop: we may not be discovered.” His hand was closed and hard upon the pistol in his waist, for no good reason. The fool, the damned fool, keeping his wife and child in the middle of an occupying army. Laurence had no right and knew it, but he could not help but ask, “Why in God’s name have you not left the city?”
“Measles,” Edith said, from the stairs: she had come halfway down, from the landing. Her face was composed, but her hand gripped tightly on the railing. “The doctor said the baby might not be moved.” She paused and added quietly, “The French have not troubled us: one officer came to question us, but they have been perfectly civil.”
“Not that we are sympathizers, and if you mean to suggest as much—wait,” Woolvey said, “haven’t I heard—you were—” He stopped, and was plainly stuck for an explanation which Laurence had not the slightest desire to try and give him.
“You must pardon me, I do not know what you have heard,” Laurence said. “I am most heartily sorry to have troubled you, but we are on an urgent errand, and it is not of a nature to be discussed in your front hall.”
“Then come into the sitting room: discuss it there,” Sutton-Leeds said: he was more than a little drunk, if not to the point of slurring. “Secret mission, splendid: I have been aching to do something against these damned Frogs, prancing through the city as though they owned it.”
Neither was Woolvey sober, or perhaps it was belligerence, but he with more suspicion seconded this demand, and added, “And I tell you, Laurence, I expect some better answers. No, you shan’t go, unless you do want me to set up a shout. You cannot accost a man in the street in times like these and then claim it is all secret missions and go bounding away, you with this Chinaman in tow.”
“I beg your pardon,” Tharkay said, in his most frigidly aristocratic accents, and drew their stares. “I do not believe we have been introduced, gentlemen.”
“What the devil are you doing made up like a Chinaman, then,” Sutton-Leeds said, peering at Tharkay’s face, as if he expected to find some artifice responsible for his features.
In the brief distraction, Laurence caught Woolvey’s arm and said low and sharply, “Do not be a damned fool. If they take us in your house, they will take you up as a spy, do you understand,
and if they care to be suspicious your wife also. Forget we were ever here and pay your servants to do the same: every moment we stay here, we put you all in danger, to no purpose.”
Woolvey wrenched himself free and returned, as coldly, “That you take me for a fool, I very well know, but I am not so simple as to take the word of a convicted traitor—yes, I have heard—that you are skulking loose in the streets, the day after Bonaparte marches in, and all for the benefit of the King.”
“Then I am lying and a turncoat for the French,” Laurence said impatiently, “and if you interfere with me likely I could have you all arrested: either way you had better let me go.”
“I am not a coward,” Woolvey said, “and if you are on some black business for that Corsican, I will stop you if I have to blow a hole in you to do it, yes, and go to prison for it too, damn you.”
“Gentlemen,” Edith said, breaking in to this charged atmosphere, “I beg you go into the sitting room before you wake all the house,” and there was nothing to be done for it.
SUTTON-LEEDS WAS DISPOSED of by means of a substantial glass of brandy, which dose left him snoring in an armchair. The credit was Edith’s: they had scarcely gone into the room before she had come down again, hastily dressed, and taken the decanter around at once. But though Woolvey accepted his own glass automatically, he then looked at it and set it down, and said, “I will have coffee, my dear, if you please,” with determined mien, and waited for the cup with his arms folded across his chest.
Laurence looked at the clock: nearly eleven. While Bonaparte and so many of his entourage were engaged at the party, surely gave them their own best chance of success, and every minute was now doubly precious.
