by Naomi Novik
Temeraire bridled at this, snorting, but Laurence was in no mood to quarrel, full of relief. “You are more than generous, sir; and you may well believe me grateful for it,” he said. “It is paltry in me to be asking your hospitality, having so abused it already—”
“Ah, no!” Mustafa said, dismissing this as of no moment. “Of course you are very welcome, Captain; you have come a long way. You will follow us to the city: the Sultan, peace be upon him, has already commanded from his generosity that you shall be housed in the palace. We have made quarters ready for you, and a cool garden for your dragon; you will rest and refresh yourselves after your journey, and we will think no more of this unhappy misunderstanding.”
“I confess your suggestion is by far more appealing than the demands of my duty,” Laurence said. “We would indeed be thankful for some little refreshment, whatever you can provide, but we cannot linger in port, as it were, and must soonest be on our way again: we have come to collect the dragon eggs, as has been arranged, and we must straightaway get them to England.”
Mustafa’s smile wavered, for a moment, and his hands still clasping Laurence’s between them tightened. “Why, Captain, surely you have not come so far for nothing?” he cried. “You must know we cannot give you the eggs.”
II
Chapter 6
THE SMALL IVORY fountain, many-jetted, flung off a fine cooling mist that gathered upon the orange-tree leaves and fruit hanging low over the pool, ripe and fragrant and trembling. In the vast palatial gardens below the terrace railing, Temeraire lay sun-dappled and drowsy after his substantial meal, and the little runners, having cleaned him off, were sleeping tucked against his side. The chamber itself was fairytale-lovely, tiles of lapis-blue and white laid upon the walls from floor to gilt-painted ceiling, shutters inlaid with mother-of-pearl, velvet-cushioned window seats, thick carpets in a thousand shades of red heaped over the floors, and in the center of the room a tall painted vase half the height of a man stood upon a low table, full of a profusion of flowers and vines. Laurence could gladly have hurled it across the room.
“It is the outside of enough,” Granby said, blazing away as he paced. “Fobbing us off with a pack of excuses, and then to heap on such vile insinuations, and as good as call this poor wretch Yarmouth a thief—”
Mustafa had been full of apology, of regret: the agreements had never been signed, he explained, fresh concerns having arisen to delay the matter; and as a consequence the payment had not yet been delivered when the ambassador had met with his accident. When Laurence had received these excuses with all the suspicion the circumstances commanded, and demanded at once to be taken to the ambassador’s residence and to speak with his staff, Mustafa had with an air of faint discomfort confided that upon the ambassador’s death, his servants had departed post-haste for Vienna, and one, his secretary James Yarmouth, had vanished entirely.
“I will not say I know any evil of him, but gold is the great tempter,” Mustafa had said, spreading his hands wide, his implications plain. “I am sorry, Captain, but you must understand we cannot bear the responsibility.”
“I do not believe a word of it; not a word,” Granby went on, furiously, “the notion they would send to us, in China, to come here with an agreement only half-made—”
“No, it is absurd,” Laurence agreed. “Lenton would have spoken quite differently in his orders, had the arrangement been uncertain in the least; they can only want to renege upon it, with as little embarrassment to themselves as possible.”
Mustafa had smiled and smiled relentlessly in the face of all Laurence’s objections, and repeated his apologies, and offered hospitality once again; with all the crewmen weary and thick with dust, and no alternative to hand, Laurence had accepted, supposing besides that they would only find it easier to work out the truth of the affair, and exert some influence to see matters set right, once ensconced in the city.
He and his crew had been settled into two elaborate kiosques upon the inner grounds, the buildings nestled amidst rich lawns vast enough for Temeraire to sleep in. The palace crowned the narrow spur of land where the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn together met the sea, and endless prospects showed in every direction during their descent: horizons full of ocean, and a great crowd of shipping on the water. Laurence only too late recognized that they had stepped into a gilded cage: the matchless views were so because the palace hill was encircled all around with high windowless walls that barred all communication with the outside world, and their quarters looked upon the sea through windows barred with iron.
From the air, the kiosques had seemed joined with the sprawling palace complex, but the connection proved only a roofed cloister, open to the air: all the doors and windows which might have led into the palace proper were locked and forbidding, black and shuttered against even the entry of their gaze. More of the black slaves stood guard at the foot of the terrace stairs, and in the gardens the Kazilik dragons lay in sinuously knotted heaps, their glittering yellow eyes slitted open and resting watchfully on Temeraire.
For all his genial welcome, Mustafa had vanished away as soon as he had seen them neatly locked up, with vague promises to return very soon. But the call to prayer had come thrice since then; they had explored the limits of their handsome prison twice over, and still there was no sign of his returning. The guards made no objections if any of them came down to speak with Temeraire, in the gardens just beneath the kiosques, but they shook their heads genially when Laurence pointed over their shoulders to the paved walkway that led towards the rest of the grounds.
Held at this remove, from the terraces and windows they could watch the life of the palace as much as they wished, a curious kind of frustration: other men walking about the grounds, busy and preoccupied; officials in high turbans, servants carrying trays, young pages darting back and forth with baskets and letters; once even a gentleman who looked like a medical man, long-bearded and in plain black clothing, who disappeared into a small kiosque of his own some distance away. Many looked over curiously at Laurence and his crew, the boys slowing in their progress to stare at the dragons sitting in the garden, but they made no answer if called-to, only hurrying on prudently.
“Look; do you suppose that is a woman, over there?” Dunne and Hackley and Portis were jostling one another for the glass, hanging nearly halfway over the terrace railing with twenty feet down to solid stone pavement, trying recklessly to peer across the garden: an official was speaking with a woman—or a man, or an orang-utang, so far as could be told from externals. She was wearing a veil not of heavy silk but dark, which was wrapped around her head and shoulders and left only her eyes uncovered; and despite the heat of the day her gown was covered with a long coat, reaching to her jewel-slippered feet, and a deep-slashed pocket in the front concealed even her hands from view.
“Mr. Portis,” Laurence said sharply; the older midshipman was actually putting fingers to his lips to whistle, “as you have nothing better to do, you will go below and see to digging Temeraire a fresh necessary; and when he has done with it you may fill it in again; at once, if you please.” Dunne and Hackley hastily lowered the glass as Portis slunk off abashed, attempting without much success an air of innocence; Tharkay silently relieved them of it, while Laurence added, “And you two gentlemen—”
He paused in mingled outrage and dismay to see Tharkay himself peering through the glass at the veiled woman; “Sir,” Laurence said, against his teeth, “I will thank you not to ogle the palace women either.”
“She is not a woman of the harem,” Tharkay said. “The harem quarters are to the south, beyond those high walls, and the women are not permitted outside; I assure you, Captain, we would not be seeing nearly so much of her, were she an odalisque.” He straightened away from the glass: the woman had turned to look at them, a pale narrow strip of skin all that the robes did not cover, only just large enough to leave her dark eyes exposed.
Thankfully she made no outcry, and in a moment she and the official had walked
out of sight again. Tharkay shut up the glass and gave it to Laurence, and walked away, insouciant; Laurence closed his fist around the barrel. “You will go and ask Mr. Bell to find you some way to assist him with the newest leather he has to hand,” he said to Dunne and Hackley, restraining himself from giving them a sharper punishment duty; he would not make them scapegoat for Tharkay.
They made their grateful escape, and Laurence paced the terrace length again, stopping at the far end to look out over the city and the Golden Horn; dusk was descending: Mustafa would surely not come today.
“And there is the day wasted,” Granby said, joining him as the last call to prayer came: the raw straining voices of the muezzin mingled from distant minarets and near, one so close it might have been only on the other side of the high brick wall that divided their courtyard from the harem.
The call woke Laurence again at dawn: he had left the shutters all open for the breeze, and so that he might lift his head during the night and see Temeraire safe and asleep in the faint eldritch glow of the scattered lanterns hung on the palace walls. And once again they heard it five times over with still no communication: not a visit nor a word nor any sign that their existence was even acknowledged, beyond the meals which were brought them by a quick and silent handful of servants, there and gone before any questions could be asked them.
At Laurence’s request, Tharkay tried to bespeak the guards in Turkish, but they only shrugged inarticulate and opened their mouths to show where their tongues had been cut out, a piece of barbarity. When asked to take a letter, they shook their heads firmly, whether from unwillingness to leave their posts for such a purpose, or perhaps under instructions to keep them incommunicado.
“Do you suppose we could bribe them?” Granby said, when night began to come on, and still no word had come. “If only we could get out, a few of us: someone in this damned city must know what has happened to the ambassador’s staff; not all of them can have gone away.”
“We might; if we had anything to bribe them with,” Laurence said. “We are wretchedly short, John; I dare say they would sniff at what I can afford. I doubt it would see us out of the palace, when it would mean their positions if not their heads.”
“Then we might have Temeraire knock down a wall to let us out; at least that might draw some notice,” Granby said, not entirely joking, and flung himself down onto the nearest couch.
“Mr. Tharkay, do you translate for me again,” Laurence said, and went to address the guards once more; though at first they had tolerated their guest-prisoners with good humor, they were now grown visibly annoyed, this being the sixth time Laurence had accosted them over the course of the day. “Pray tell them we require some more oil for the lamps, and candles,” Laurence said to Tharkay, “also perhaps some soap, and other toilet articles,” improvising some small requests.
These presently, as he had hoped, brought one of the young pages they had seen from afar, to fetch and carry for them; the boy was sufficiently impressed at the offer of a silver coin to agree to convey a message to Mustafa. Having first sent him off to bring the candles and sundry, to forestall any suspicion on the part of the guards, Laurence sat down with pen and paper to compose as severe a formal letter as he could manage, which he hoped would convey to that smiling gentleman that he did not mean to sit quietly in this bower.
“I am not sure what you mean by the beginning of the third paragraph,” Temeraire said doubtfully, when Laurence read over the letter, written in French, to him.
“‘Whatever your design may be, in leaving unanswered all the questions which—’” Laurence began.
“Oh,” Temeraire said, “I think you want conception instead of dessin. Also, Laurence, I do not think you want to say you are his obedient domestique.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Laurence said, correcting the words, and guessing at the spelling of heuroo, before he folded up the missive and handed it over to the boy, who had now returned with a basket of candles and of small cakes of soap, heavily perfumed.
“I only hope he will not throw it in the fire,” Granby said, after the boy had trotted away, coin clutched in one fist, not very discreetly. “Or I suppose Mustafa might hurl it in himself.”
“We will not hear anything tonight, regardless,” Laurence said. “We had better sleep while we can. If we get no answer, we will have to think of making a dash for Malta tomorrow. They do not have much of a shore battery here, and I dare say they will answer us very differently if we come back with a first-rate and a couple of frigates behind us.”
“Laurence,” Temeraire called from outside, rousing him from a thick, too-real dream of sailing; Laurence sat up and rubbed his wet face: a change in the wind had carried the fountain-spray onto him during the night.
“Yes,” he answered, and went to wash in the fountain, still half-asleep; he went down into the gardens, nodding civilly to the yawning guards, and Temeraire nudged at him with interest.
“That is a nice smell,” he said, diverted, and Laurence realized he had washed with the perfumed soap.
“I will have to scrub it off later,” he said, dismayed. “Are you hungry?”
“I would not mind something to eat,” Temeraire said, “but I must tell you something: I have been talking to Bezaid and Sherazde, and they say their egg will hatch very soon.”
“Who?” Laurence said, puzzled, then stared at the pair of Kazilik dragons, who blinked their glossy eyes at him in return, with mild interest. “Temeraire,” he said, slowly, “do you mean that we are to have their egg?”
“Yes, and two others, but those have not started to harden,” Temeraire said. “I think,” he added. “They only know a little French, and a little of the dragon-language, but they have been telling me words in Turkish.”
Laurence paid this no attention, too staggered by the news; very nearly since any organized sort of dragon-breeding had begun, Britain had been trying to acquire a line of fire-breathers. A few of the Flamme-de-Gloire had been brought over after Agincourt, but the last had died out scarcely a century later, and since then there had been only failure after failure: France and Spain had naturally denied them, too-close neighbors to wish to yield so great an advantage, and for a long while the Turks had been no more eager to deal with infidels than the British with heathen.
“And we were in negotiations with the Inca, not twelve years ago,” Granby said, his face flushed bright with passionate excitement, “but it all came to nothing, in the end; we offered them a kingdom’s ransom, and they seemed pleased, then overnight they returned us all the silk and tea and guns we had brought them, and ran us out of the place.”
“How much did we offer to them, do you recall?” Laurence asked, and Granby named a sum which made him sit abruptly down. Sherazde, with an air of smugness, informed them in her broken French that her egg had commanded a higher price still, almost impossible to believe.
“Good God; how half such a sum was raised, I am at a loss to imagine,” Laurence said. “They might build half-a-dozen first-rates for the same price, and a pair of dragon transports besides.”
Temeraire was sitting up and very still, his tail wound tight around his body and his ruff bristling. “We are buying the eggs?” he said.
“Why—” Laurence was surprised; he had not before realized Temeraire did not understand the eggs were to be acquired for money. “We are, yes, but you see yourself that your acquaintances do not object to giving over their egg,” he said, glancing anxiously at the Kazilik pair, who indeed seemed unconcerned at being parted from their offspring.
But Temeraire dismissed this with an impatient flick of his tail. “Of course they do not mind that, they know we will take care of the egg,” he said. “But as you have told me yourself, if you buy a thing, then you own it, and may do as you like with it. If I buy a cow I may eat it, and if you buy an estate then we may live upon it, and if you buy me a jewel I may wear it. If eggs are property, then the dragons that hatch out of them are also, and it is no wonder that peopl
e treat us as though we are slaves.”
There was very little way to answer this; raised in an abolitionist household, Laurence understood without question that men ought not be bought and sold, and when put on terms of principle he could hardly disagree; however, there was plainly a vast difference in the condition of dragons and the unfortunate wretches who lived in bondage.
“It’s not as though we can make the dragonets do as we want, once they hatch,” Granby offered, a useful inspiration. “You could say that we are only buying the chance to persuade them to go into harness with us.”
But Temeraire said, with a militant gleam, “And if instead when hatched they wished to fly away, and come back here?”
“Oh, well,” Granby said, lamely, and looked awkward; naturally in such a case, the feral dragonet would be taken to the breeding-grounds instead.
“At least consider that in this case, we are taking them away to England, where you will have the opportunity of improving their condition,” Laurence tried as consolation, but Temeraire was not so easily mollified, and curled brooding in the garden to consider the problem.
“Well, he has taken the bit in his teeth and no mistake,” Granby said to Laurence, with a worried querying note in his voice, as they went back inside.
“Yes,” Laurence said dismally. He did have some expectation of winning real improvement in the comforts of the dragons, once back home; he was sure Admiral Lenton and the other senior admirals of the Corps would be quite willing to adopt all such measures which their authority should allow. Laurence had with him plans for a pavilion in the Chinese style, with the heating-stones beneath and the pipe-fed running fountains, which had been so much to Temeraire’s liking; Gong Su might easily train others in the art of dragon cookery, and the Allegiance was carrying home besides the reading frames and sand writing tables, which surely could be adapted to Western usage. Privately Laurence doubted whether most dragons would have any interest; Temeraire was unique not only in his gift for language but his passion for books. But whatsoever interest there was could be satisfied easily and without great cost, and could hardly provoke any objections.
