Victory of Eagles by Naomi Novik
“I do not give a fig for the Sultan: I am Granby’s dragon, and Granby is British,” Iskierka said, “and anyway I have stolen thirty thousand pounds of your shipping, so of course we are enemies.”
“You may have another ten thousand, if you would like to come and fight for us, instead,” Lien said.
“Ha,” Iskierka said disdainfully, “I will have another thirty thousand instead, and take the prizes myself; and I think you are a spineless coward, too.”
The nearest troop of guard were staying back, prudently, and the couple of courier-beasts also, all of them with a nervous eye for whatever Iskierka might take it into her head to do, and so a clear path lay open from the house towards her. “If we can only get hold of him,” Laurence said quietly to Tharkay, creeping back to the stable door, “and get him out to the open, even an upper window might do, anywhere she might reach us—”
“As soon as we are seen by anyone, looking like ragpickers, they will set up a howl,” Woolvey said.
“Begging your pardon,” the seaman said, “but there is six of them cavalry-officers sleeping upstairs over the stable, in their clothes.”
The nervous stableboy they set to watch the door, and Woolvey to watch him. “Darby, sir, but Janus they call me,” the seaman said, “on account of a surgeon we shipped in the Sophie, a learned bloke, saying I saw both ways like some old Roman cut-up by that name; and there I would be still, but my girl in the city losing her mum, and taking sick, and her with three, four mouths to feed,” he added, his excuses with an air defensive and vague: likely it had been not one girl but several, and the general lack of them aboard, which had induced him to quietly abandon the sea.
“Very good, Janus,” Laurence said, and gave him a pistol. They put out the one lantern, swinging by the door, and at a nod from Tharkay the three of them went up the ladder into the loft one after another, swift on bare feet. The men lay breathing the regular sighs of exhausted sleep, half-sunk into broken-open bales of hay, with their sabers and pistols beside them: one after another Laurence woke them, a folded pad of leather over their mouths, Janus to pin their heels and Tharkay with a pistol steady in the man’s face, and they were turned over and trussed quickly with straps, heaved up onto the stack of bales.
The fourth man opened his eyes too soon, and managed to drum his heels as they reached for him; the other two roused sluggishly and groped for the missing swords and pistols, which Tharkay had already collected away, three of them thrust into his waistband in piratical fashion. It was a short but brutal struggle, even numbers and the necessity of silence driving them: Laurence went for his knife and grimly put it into the unarmed man’s throat as the Frenchman tried to wrestle himself up from the ground. The man sank back limply, staring up empty and blind at the ceiling, blood spilling from his neck to soak into the straw. Laurence took up a sword and killed another, quickly, while Janus held him. Tharkay dispatched the last.
The horses below were stamping again, whickering at the smell of blood. “Are you all right?” Woolvey whispered, putting his head up into the loft, and stopped with his mouth a little open.
“Yes,” Laurence said shortly, his heart still hammering. “Go below, and keep that fellow at the door.”
Whether because of some note in his voice, or the scene, Woolvey made no protest but obeyed in silence, vanishing again below. The trussed men fought and kicked as they were turned over and stripped of their coats and cuirasses, and one of them made a low moan behind the gag as his eyes fell on the dead men lying straight. Friends, or brothers, perhaps; Laurence closed his mind to the thought.
Or tried: Woolvey’s shocked expression lingered. The hard use, the necessary brutality of the service, were not of the same world as England, as home; and it was that division which might let a man be a gentleman and a practical soldier both. But now he was in the stables of Kensington Palace with his palms wet with blood, on a spy’s errand: yet as necessary as any military action. No-one could deny its necessity. Let it only take place in Paris, or Istanbul, or China, and Woolvey would read of it in the papers and applaud, though the act were the same, or bloodier. But it did not belong here, a black rotten canker taken root in the warm sour horse-smell of the stable attic, above the peaceful gardens.
They made shift out of the four scavenged uniforms not overly stained with blood, and Laurence threw a stable-blanket over the men now stripped and bound again, against the chill. The coat sat uneasily on his shoulders, warm from a dead man’s body, as he climbed down the ladder and gave the last coat to Woolvey.
“We will bind you also,” Laurence said to the boy, “unless you will come along, to the rescue and to the dragon—” but the boy shook his head vigorously, and preferred to be bound up and thrown into the loft also.
“Perhaps half-an-hour now,” Tharkay said, meaning how long they might hope for, before discovery: Laurence himself made it likelier a quarter.
“We go in quickly, then,” he said. “Not running, but with purpose: do you know where he is, Janus?”
“Well, sir,” Janus said, shrugging awkwardly inside his coat, and looking a poorer match for it than Tharkay, “the maids will sometimes take a fellow up to the better rooms to see, and I don’t say I haven’t had an invitation or two; but which his room will be, I am sure I can’t say.”
“There will be no difficulty there,” Laurence said. “It will be the door that is guarded.”
He went first, with Woolvey beside him: a quick glance would see their faces and perhaps miss the others behind them; Tharkay had a handkerchief up to his face as if to catch a sneeze, for some more concealment. They went up the back staircase, and at Janus’s whisper turned off the landing into the hallway.
Some eight or nine men stood in the hall talking near one of the doors, of a room facing onto the rear of the house. Undoubtedly there would be more guards within. Laurence did not pause, but kept walking steadily towards them: the men not stiff at their posts but talking and lounging freely, unalarmed: some sitting on the floor in a game of cards, others crouching by to observe, only a few standing. A maid was coming down the hall past them, loaded down with washing, and picking through the knot of them had a moment’s awkward struggle to win past one over-enthusiastic sergeant, who caught at her waist.
“Keep off your hands,” she said coldly, and jerked expertly free with a twist of her hips, while the other officers roared with laughter at their fellow’s expense. She won past them at last, cheeks angry with color and her eyes downcast; Laurence was nearly even with her now, and as they passed one another he seized one of the sheets from her pile and snapped it open over the entire company.
A confused babble of shouting arose at once: they all four rushed the swathed men, toppling the standing men over. The door to the room opened and another man looked out: Tharkay shot him, and kicked the door wide. Granby, warned by the commotion, took the opening at once and came rushing out of the room, with a bruised cheek and a bandaged arm. “Thank God, give me a pistol,” he said, and threw off the sling.
“The window,” Laurence said, and turning at the report of a shot, received Woolvey into his arms. There was a startled look on Woolvey’s face, and a great stain spreading already through his shirt, visible beneath the swallow-wing lapels of his coat. Another shot fired and another, bullets coming wild through the sheet, small fires catching in the linen in their wake. The maid, screaming, had fled down the hall.
“Iskierka!” Granby was shouting: he had dashed into the room across the way and was leaning out the window.
A look was enough to be sure: the light was already gone from Woolvey’s eyes; he was dead weight sliding to the floor. “Laurence,” Tharkay said, and shot the first French officer struggling out of the tangled sheet.
“Damn you,” Laurence said, not very certain if he meant Woolvey, or the man who had shot him, or indeed himself; he, stooping, worked the wedding-ring from Woolvey’s hand, and went after Tharkay into the bedroom. They shut the door and barricaded it with a
Chapter 11
IT WAS NOT at all pleasant to wait, and wait, and keep waiting: Temeraire paced, and then went aloft to look in case there should be any sign, and then came back down and paced a little more.
“There is no one coming, is there?” Perscitia asked, a little anxiously, worried in another direction entirely. “No French dragons? Perhaps you should stop going up so much: someone might see you, and,” she added quickly, “if we had to move, or had some fuss, it would make it hard for Laurence to find us again, on his way back.”
Temeraire tried to settle; he could not help but see the sense in this remark, but he shook his head at her offer of a haunch of cow: the smaller dragons had gone out quietly hunting for all of them, but he did not have much appetite.
“It was not very fair of those dragons,” Arkady said, “all coming on at us at once like that. If you ask me, they are all cowards. We should go fly in and get Iskierka out ourselves.” He had recovered his spirits and was eating a sheep, which Lester had gone and fetched for him, with great cheer.
“We are not going to do any such thing,” Temeraire said. “There are four times as many of them as of us, with guns and soldiers, and they will only have us down. Anyway that would not help us get Granby back: they will shoot him,” and maybe Laurence, too, he added silently, anxiously. It was all the more unpleasant to have Arkady making such reckless suggestions, when it was all that Temeraire wished to do himself.
“What are we going to do, then,” Arkady returned, “if they do not come back?”
“If they do not come back,” Temeraire said, and paused, and lamely finished, “then we will think of something,” not liking to imagine the prospect. He had thought Laurence was dead, and it had been just as dreadful in every way as if Laurence really had been dead. It made one unsure of the distinction between the event imagined and real, and therefore, Temeraire felt, any sort of unnecessary speculation perhaps a little bit of a risk. Laurence thought such concerns foolishly superstitious, Temeraire knew, but it seemed to him a danger not worth courting.
“What is he saying, the scalawag?” Gentius asked, scowling at Arkady milkily, in great disapproval: he was not very happy with the extra flying, which he had to endure on Armatius’s back, or the uncomfortable state of their camp. “I hope he is properly ashamed of himself.”
“No,” Temeraire said, “he is not, at all, and he is making foolish suggestions, too.”
“Well, pay no attention to him,” Gentius said. “Now,” and he lowered his voice, “I don’t like to make you worry, Temeraire, but have you thought about what we will do, if they don’t come back right off?”
Temeraire flattened back his ruff and, unable to repress the desire, went aloft to look again. It was beginning to grow dark, out towards the eastern edge of the sky, when he went high: there was a vague watery sort of moon near the west horizon ready to set, and a few plumes of dust here and there, herds of cattle. Not a sign of Laurence though, or of Iskierka; and then he looked back the other way and saw a Winchester in harness flying towards them.
Elsie landed panting. “Oh, we thought we would never find you: what are you doing here? Scotland is not this way; you are going back towards London.”
“We are not lost!” Temeraire said, rather coldly: he did not much like Elsie. Hollin had been a very good ground-crew chief. Fellowes did his best, but he was perhaps not quite as attentive to the way the harness lay against one’s hide, or as prompt in getting it off, in the evenings—not that Temeraire had much harness anymore at present, but it was the principle of the thing—and Fellowes was a little dull, if one were alone in the evening, and wanted a little conversation; besides, Hollin had been first—in short, Temeraire had not ceased to regret the loss. “We have not gone the wrong way,” he repeated. “We are only waiting here for Laurence and Tharkay to rescue Granby: Iskierka has got herself captured.”
“Oh, Lord,” Hollin said, sliding down from Elsie’s back. He had a satchel over his shoulder. “When did they go?”
“Hours ago,” Temeraire said, despondently, “though Laurence said, they should likely need most the day to reach the city, on foot, and then if they could find where Granby was, they would not try and get him out, until it was dark, and nearly everyone asleep. So they are not late, at all; they are in good time,” and did not mention that he had so lately been aloft looking for them, despite these facts.
Hollin rubbed a hand over his mouth and said, “I have a dispatch—”
“How large is it?” Temeraire inquired, and Hollin took out a folded snippet of paper from his satchel, handsomely sealed with red wax, and not quite so small that Temeraire could not see it; but as for reading, no. “You will have to read it to me out loud,” Temeraire said.
“I am not sure I ought to,” Hollin said, apologetically. “It says it is for Captain Laurence, you see here.”
“I am sure Laurence would want us to know if it is anything important,” Temeraire said. “Anyway, if it is orders for us, then I suppose that is just a mistake in addressing it by someone who does not quite understand that I am colonel of the regiment, myself.”
Hollin hesitating looked around the clearing at the other men: none of them in rank higher than lieutenant, and that dubious.
“Stop looking at them,” Perscitia said irritably. “It stands to reason that it is orders for us, and we cannot carry them out without knowing what they are; so either you had better tell us, or go back and see what this Wellesley fellow wants you to do: but if you ask me, he would only be annoyed you had wasted so much time going back and forth.”
Hollin shrugged helplessly, but this argument carried the day: he broke the seal and read aloud, “‘You are requested and required, to proceed without the loss of a moment to Coventry, and resume your duties in guarding the withdrawal, instead of—’” He paused in his reading, and then clearing his throat finished, “‘—instead of whatever damned fool start you have gotten into your heads now. If you have forgotten the end of our last conversation, I haven’t, and if you want pay for your damned beasts, you will keep them at their work.’”
“I do not see why everyone assumes that we are just dashing off madly, without thinking where we are going,” Temeraire said, exasperated. “Of course we would be doing that, if Iskierka had not got herself captured, but she has, so Laurence has had to go rescue her; and we cannot go right away, because they are not back yet.”
“Some of us might go back and join them?” Perscitia suggested, rather hopefully.
“No, we are staying all together from now on,” Temeraire said, “and Arkady and Iskierka and all of the other ferals will fly out in front where all of us can see them, as they cannot be trusted to behave properly,” and he translated this for Arkady’s benefit.
“Bah,” Arkady said, with a dismissive sniff, “you would have done the same, if you were not trying to play at being a human, and flapping along as slow as if we had to creep on the ground like them. They have nothing to complain of, we did not leave them in any danger. We would have seen if this Napoleon’s army were chasing them as we came towards London, and there has not been any sign of them.”
“I would not have done any such thing,” Temeraire returned smartly, “because I would have had better sense than to go wandering off for no good reason and no particular notion of what to do, just to please myself—”
“We had very good reason,” Arkady said, “we went to bring food back for everyone, that the French were stealing—”
“You did no such thing!” Temeraire said outraged. “Wringe told us, you went to get prizes for yourselves, and you did not mean to share with anyone at all.”
Arkady had just enough grace to look momentarily uncomfortable, but no more than that. “Well, it was Iskierka’s idea,” he said, with a fli
“But anyway,” Temeraire said, turning back to Hollin, “that much is true: we have not seen Napoleon’s army on any of the roads at all to-day, and we would have, flying back this way, if they were in pursuit. So he needn’t worry…” He trailed off; Wellesley might not need to worry, but Temeraire realized he himself had every cause: Napoleon’s army must be somewhere, and if it were not on the road to London, most likely it was all in London: where Laurence was, and Granby.
Of course he still could do nothing but fret: even if they had set off right away, there was no chance of getting to London before it was quite dark, and he did not need Perscitia’s anxious whispered hints to know that it was mad to go trying to fly into a French camp at night when they had Fleur-de-Nuits about. “But in the morning—” he said, and then put down his head without finishing. There would still be guns, and thousands of men, and who knew how many dragons: it would still be quite useless.
“Perhaps he will be back before morning,” Perscitia said in a tone so gloomy it left no doubt of her skepticism on that point.
“Well,” Temeraire said to Hollin, “you had better go back and tell Wellesley that we will come as soon as I have got Laurence back, and he should not worry about the men, unless of course Napoleon has flown all his soldiers ahead to attack him,” he added, hopefully: perhaps that was what had happened.
“We should have seen them going by, if that is what they were doing,” Perscitia pointed out depressingly.
After Hollin left, the hours dragged. Temeraire slept fitfully and uneasily, rousing at every rustle or whisper to peer into the darkness, seeing nothing, and before dawn he was awake for good and uncomfortable, an unpleasant sharp ache in the underside of his jaw and all along his neck to his breastbone, where the knotted scar bothered him. He tried to crane his head down to rub his nose against it, but could not quite manage it: his neck felt very strange when he tried, and crackled as he stretched. He could not make his foreleg bend to it either, inward, and at last he sighed and laid himself back down upon the cold ground, thinking wistfully of the warm stone at Loch Laggan, or the pavilions in China.