by Naomi Novik
Opposite them sat half-a-dozen ministers, in nothing like the same state, all of them marked with the long and hasty retreat from London, and the discomfort they must have felt at being, effectively, in a military camp: Perceval, the Prime Minister, looked especially drawn and unhappy. His Ministry was a shaky and doubtful matter to begin with, a collection of lesser evils and men he had cajoled into their posts: his predecessor Lord Portland’s government had collapsed under the weight of the disaster in Africa, and the old man had refused to try and build another. Canning, the last Foreign Secretary, had tried for the post himself and, failing, had both refused to join the new Ministry himself, and blocked the Secretary of War Lord Castlereagh’s joining it: leaving Perceval to make do with Lord Bathurst and Lord Liverpool; good men, but now more than any other time he needed the most gifted there might be, and though Lord Bathurst had been sympathetic to the cause of abolition, Laurence could not but acknowledge he was not the man anyone would choose to have sitting across from Talleyrand at the negotiating table.
Lord Mulgrave, the First Lord of the Admiralty, had preserved his post; Dalrymple sat with him, an old fat soldier, and neither of them looking a match for the Marshal. The weight of power and energy and composure was all on one side of the table: all the refinement and sophistication of the Ancien Régime married to the brutal strength of the Empire. Wellesley only, sitting at the other end beside Lord Liverpool, did not look half-defeated; and he instead was in a glittering temper: his jaw set coldly.
Rowley bent to whisper in his ear; Wellesley looked at Laurence and then leaned forward and interrupted the conversation going on in French to say, “What the devil is this? You come here under cover of a flag of truce, and meanwhile your dragon is in the courtyard trying to bribe our beasts with trinkets?”
Murat exclaimed at the accusation, and said, “I am sure there has been some misunderstanding. Liberté has much enthusiasm, but he would never mean to so offend—”
“I am sure General Wellesley does not mean any insult.” Lord Eldon jumped in with apologies. “Surely Your Highness”—Bonaparte was fond of making his family princes—“must be familiar with the frank address of soldiers—”
Talleyrand watched all the discussion with half-lidded eyes, which flicked to Laurence a moment. He leaned back to one of his aides with a quick curled finger for a whispered consultation; then when the first exchange had died down, intervened to say, “Perhaps Marshal Murat and I will go and have words with Liberté, to ensure there is no more confusion: we have been speaking long, and a little rest, a little time, would do well for all of us.” He pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, bringing the rest out of their chairs, and leaning a little towards Perceval said, “I hope we will have an opportunity to speak again; this evening?”
Bowing precedence to Murat, he let the Marshal leave the room, and limping out after him paused at the door to turn to Laurence and say, in a clear carrying voice, “Allow me to express again the thanks of His Imperial Majesty’s government, Monsieur Laurence; and to assure you that you have a claim on the gratitude of France which the Emperor has not forgotten.”
The graceful words cut him worse than knives. It was a pain dealt incidentally, Laurence was bitterly sure: Talleyrand had aimed rather at the ministers at the table, to discredit any report which Laurence might be bringing them. “Your government, monsieur,” Laurence said, “owes me nothing; I did not act for their sake.”
Talleyrand only smiled gently, and half-bowed again before he left the room.
“By God, the impudence,” Wellesley said savagely, scarcely waiting until the door had shut, and in no low voice. “That arrogant pig—son of an innkeeper and a whore, and married to another; that, to be King of Britain—”
“They have made no such suggestion,” Lord Eldon began; he was Lord Chancellor, having risen to the peerage as a notable lawyer, and thence to the Tory government for his steadfast opposition to Catholic emancipation.
“Do you imagine any of that upstart parvenu’s circle mean to be content with something as mealy-mouthed as governorship?” Wellesley said. “Give him six months, and it will be King Murat, as soon as he has taken the Army and the Navy to pieces.”
“No, the terms are unacceptable,” Perceval said, without great conviction. “But these are a beginning position—”
“They are an insult from first to last,” Wellesley said, “and ought to be rejected out of hand.”
“One of his proposals, at least,” another minister interjected, “gentlemen, I beg we consider, on its own merits, apart from any other: may I urge that a swift decision indeed be taken to send Their Majesties to Halifax, with all haste and all necessary considerations for their security?”
“Defeatist nonsense,” Wellesley snapped. “Bonaparte is not coming anywhere near Scotland before spring, no matter what we do.”
“All our scouts report his soldiers are all over the north of England already.”
“Foraging,” Wellesley said, “in small parties. We have two dozen outposts and garrisoned castles between London and Edinburgh, and he cannot march his army past them.”
“Surely the least risk ought not be run. Bonaparte went from Berlin to Warsaw on the eve of winter—”
“Because half the garrison commanders threw up their arms and surrendered at nothing more than a fanfare at their gates. I have more faith in our officers than that.”
“The King is not a young man,” Perceval said, breaking into the increasing heat of Wellesley’s exchange with the minister, “nor in the best of health—”
“No-one proposes he should expose himself upon the battlefield,” Wellesley said, “but he can still address the troops.”
Perceval paused, and heavily, quietly said, “The King is not in the best of health.”
No-one spoke a moment; then someone said to Wellesley, in a conciliating tone, “If the Prince of Wales stays; or Prince William, and the King goes—”
Wellesley shrugged it away, a tight angry motion. “If you are determined to send him away, send him; and if you mean to give away his throne, too, make a parcel of it with whatever else these snakes are asking for, and let them preach sedition to the troops direct; why not?”
“Come, General Wellesley, this is surely overreaction—”
“If you believe for an instant they did not know perfectly well what the beast was about—”
“I hope we are not going to be distracted by some notion that Talleyrand, if not Bonaparte himself, seriously concocted a plan of subterfuge to be carried out by one dragon among others,” Eldon said. “I have heard the idle chatter of the beasts; let us not read into it conscious and deliberate intent—”
“Sir,” Laurence said, and bore the looks which he received for having the temerity to interject, “perhaps you are not aware that dragons learn their tongue in the shell, and do not ordinarily acquire another; it cannot be by coincidence that they brought a beast which could speak English, and easily communicate anything to our own.”
“So let them be fed a second time, and it will drive any seditious thoughts out of their heads, if any managed to get in,” Eldon said. “What else could Bonaparte possibly offer the creatures anyway?”
“Respect, if nothing else,” Laurence said. “If you cannot see the neglect and disdain with which they have been treated has left them open to the meanest approach, the least offer of courtesy and reward—”
“That is enough from you, Laurence,” Lord Mulgrave said icily. “You have done more good for Bonaparte than Talleyrand and Murat and any ten yammering dragons could achieve here, if we gave them every opportunity in the world.”
Laurence flinched, and hoped he did not show it. Mulgrave had approved the fatal plan to send the sick dragon to France, in the first place; he had led the inquiry where Laurence had learned of it by accident; he had chosen the men for the court-martial, and personally overseen it, with deep venom.
“A man may be a wild enthusiast even without being a traitor,”
Mulgrave said, “and you are both; if you have been allowed to live a little longer, by counsel other than mine, you are certainly the last man on whom anyone of sense would rely.”
Wellesley said sharply, “This is the distraction; and I dare say if Talleyrand could listen in he would congratulate himself on its success. Sir,” he said to Perceval, “throw him out, I beg of you, and Murat with him. Every minute that flag of parley sits before the eyes of the army, you cut a little more of the heart out of my men. We ought to be speaking of the counterattack, not debating terms of surrender: that is what these are, however you like to dress them up.”
“General Wellesley, you and General Dalrymple will forgive my bluntness,” Lord Liverpool said, breaking in, “but unpleasant as these terms are, we may find them preferable to the ones he offers us in March.—I hope my remarks are taken as no reflection upon the Army. It is a plain fact that Bonaparte has beaten every army that ever took the field against him, the Russians, the Austrians, the Prussians, the Turks, and we ourselves. It seems to me we might well agree to whatever he wants, so long as the Army and the Navy are preserved a little while, and the King is safe; anything that will get him out of London and back to Paris. Then we can manage Murat—”
“Are you—” Wellesley cut himself off, and in a flat tone said, “While Bonaparte is in England, we can end this with a single victory—not only the invasion, but the war, this whole ten years and more of conflict. The last we want is to see him go; the only damned thing to be thankful for is he has put himself in our reach. In a month we will have fifty thousand men here; at Edinburgh another sixty, and a hundred and fifty fighting beasts, on our own ground; in a month—”
“Half the Grande Armée is sitting on the coast of France waiting their turn to come over for a share,” Eldon said. “In a month, Bonaparte will have two hundred thousand men, or more.”
“No, he shan’t.” The door banged, and Jane Roland came in, stripping off her bloody gauntlets: more blood streaked her face and hair, and stained her coat. “What?” she said to their startled questions, and looked at herself in the glass on the wall. “Oh, I look a fright. No, it isn’t any of mine, I suppose it is that poor damned Frenchman’s: I broke a sword on the fellow.”
She took the glass of brandy anxiously offered her anyway, and drank it off straight. “Thank you, sir,” she said, setting it down, “that puts life in one’s breast. I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for coming in my dirt: I am fresh from the coast. He tried another landing at Folkestone: but he did not have as much luck as he would have liked, I imagine. We have settled his trick of harpooning: our smiths have give us some sharp wire, and by twos the courier-captains can cut up the ropes in a trice. Here are dispatches,” she added, as Frette, trotting in behind her, laid packets down on the table in front of Mr. Perceval, “from Admiral Collingwood: taken six, sunk four, burnt two, of ships-of-the-line; and not a thousand men landed of sixty.”
The noise her intelligence produced was extraordinary both in volume and in the change of tone, out of proportion perhaps to a victory that only left them no worse off, than they had been before. But even a small taste was sweet to those who had been so long deprived; Eldon was silenced, and Wellesley sprang up to shake her hand, before he had quite realized what he did.
“So he cannot bring over any more—how many men does he have, now?” Perceval said, urgently.
“He can still bring them by air, at night,” Jane put in. “We can patrol, and so can the Navy, but we won’t catch every Fleur-de-Nuit that slips over the Channel: they can carry as many as two hundred at a shot.”
“He may send ten of them every night for me,” Wellesley said. “He cannot make up more than our forces, before we are ready to meet him. Sir—gentlemen,” he said, turning to sweep his eye over all the table, “no war was won at the conference table, but many have there been lost. Let me not see this a room of cowards, but of Britons. Give me your confidence and a hundred thousand men, and I do not fear Bonaparte. Will you?”
There was a pause; several men looked at Dalrymple. “Perhaps, a joint command—” one man started.
“No,” Wellesley said, cutting him off short. “If you have not faith in me, choose another man.”
The silence fell again, a moment’s hesitation, but Wellesley had chosen his moment well; the glow of victory, of success, yet lingered, and carried the day: Perceval stood and put his hands flat on the table. “So be it. Lord Bathurst, you will inform our guests the parley is at an end. General Wellesley, you have the command, and may God be with you.”
Not a minute later, Wellesley was halfway down the corridor outside, saying, “A wretched waste of time and spirit, but at least it is over, and no irreparable harm done. Roland, I need a hundred dragons, for transport—”
“I can’t hand you off a hundred beasts when I have five hundred miles of coastline to watch,” Jane said, matching his stride.
“I have another thirty thousand men to get here, and forty to Edinburgh,” Wellesley snapped.
“Tell me where the men are to be found and where you want them landed, and I will contrive,” she said, “with what dragons are on patrol, in flying distance.”
“Well enough.” He gave her a curt nod. “Rowley, get her the list of garrisons,” he said, over his shoulder. “Tell me, what sort of supply do you imagine Bonaparte needs?”
“For the beasts? A hundred bullocks a day,” Jane said. “More if he is heavy on fighting-weight beasts, and they are working for their supper. He is managing it, though: has foragers out, of course; and we have fewer dragons south of the mountains to eat up the supply.”
He nodded. “Very good. I must get to Edinburgh, and get the rest of this army into order—”
“Wellesley,” Jane said, “before you go, you will pardon me for saying: I can put the men wherever you need them; but I can’t make Bonaparte come and meet you there. He is pretty well dug in at London, now, and come spring we are going to begin to have some trouble with supply ourselves. Scotland’s herds can’t support this number of dragons forever: we will be eating into the breeding stock.”
He shot her a hard look. “You will oblige me,” he said, “by not mentioning that particular difficulty in front of their Lordships. Damn, but I miss Castlereagh!”
She snorted. “I don’t need a lecture on managing politicos who don’t know a damned thing about my business.”
“No, I imagine not,” Wellesley said, grudgingly. “Well, bring me the army, and let me worry how to get the Corsican out of London.”
Returning to the courtyard, Laurence found Temeraire in glad convocation with Maximus and Lily, also freshly returned from the coast: the two had unceremoniously displaced several disgruntled Yellow Reapers and a much-offended Ballista to claim places on the warm stones beside him.
“Yes, the egg is hatched,” Lily was saying, “but it is not much use to anyone: only lies there and squalls all day, and I do not like the way it smells, not,” she added loyally, “that any of that is Catherine’s fault: I am sure that awful sailor is to blame. I ought never have let him marry her, and now she cannot even make him divorce her.”
Harcourt was standing by them, with Berkley, but Laurence did not hesitate to approach, even inwardly: too weary and too soiled to dread anymore yet another awkward meeting. Catherine did not say anything at all, however, but gave him a handshake which he thought she would have liked to make heartier than her strength could presently manage. She looked fragile as an eggshell and nearly as white, so her pale red hair stood luridly against her skin, and the blued rings beneath her eyes. She had still the little thickness at the middle she had gained in her pregnancy, but her arms were thin of muscle and of strength: she ought to have been resting.
She caught his eye, and said sharply, “Pray let me not hear lectures; Lily cannot be spared at a time like this. He tried to land another sixty thousand men, did you hear?”
“I did, and I congratulate you on the victory,” Laurence said: he did not have a
right to speak, in any case, as Riley might. “And on your son,” he added.
“Oh; yes,” she said, despondently. “Thank you.”
The French embassy was leaving: a small sheltering tent in domed shape was put up on the Papillon Noir’s back, and Talleyrand was handed into it, clambering cautiously and slowly into his place; but Murat went up like an aviator to the life born, and latched himself on at the neck. The Papillon made a great show of shaking out his dappled iridescent wings and showing off a small but flashy medallion on his breast to the other dragons, as he was boarded, and he called cheerfully, “Good-bye! I hope you come and visit me, any time you like, in London or in Paris,” before he leapt aloft.
Arkady made a rude noise, after him, and nosed his own dinner-plate medal, which Jane had awarded him a year ago by way of incentive for patrolling. “Yes, and good riddance,” Temeraire said, looking after the vanishing French dragon with a cold eye. “I am sure it is all a hum, and he hasn’t any rubies or gold chains at all.”
Laurence was as glad to see them gone, but they left behind a long shadow, which would not be lifted save by a victory that seemed at the moment distant and unlikely. The terms Bonaparte had offered now would be generous by comparison, if he managed to maintain his occupation until the spring. One by one the outposts throughout England would be starved out, or pounded into surrender; then he would turn the besieging troops upon the port cities, and begin to cut off supply for the Navy. Meanwhile his dragons would be eating up British cattle, while their own beasts began to go hungry, and the melting snows would open up all the mountain passes to easy avenue of attack by his infantry. He had only to stay easy, enjoying the comforts of London, and wait.
