Victory of Eagles by Naomi Novik
“And so on, until they have carried everyone a little way, and given them all a rest,” Perscitia said, “and so the men can walk thirty miles instead of twenty, and the dragons fly everyone twenty miles on top of that, so the whole company has moved fifty miles, together.”
She finished triumphantly, and Requiescat said, “Well, it seems like a lot of bother to me, just for an extra twenty miles; even I can make that in an hour or two,” and she huffed in indignation.
Wellesley had a better appreciation of her explanation, however, and studied the diagram with a fierce, hawk-like intent. “So this is what Roland has been going on about, then?” He looked at Laurence and said sharply, “And can your beasts manage the same?”
“If the men would go aboard,” Laurence answered him.
“They will go aboard if I have to shoot them,” Wellesley said.
For all his harsh words, however, the next morning he took the Coldstream Guards apart, and addressed them personally; the seven Yellow Reapers and three Grey Coppers were lined up some distance behind him, facing away so their jaws and teeth could not be seen. They had been rigged out with rope and sackcloth, and his aides were all busily climbing over the dragons—to no purpose but the dramatic, as the rigging had already been thoroughly tried by the dragons themselves tugging on it.
“Men,” Wellesley said, “this is a damned sorry state of affairs we are in. That Corsican upstart sleeping in the King’s bed, and his bully-boys stealing cattle and wrecking the harvest: it is more than any red-blooded Englishman can bear, and we are not going to bear it, either, for much longer.”
“That’s right,” a couple of men called back; a “hear, hear” and scattered mutterings of agreement.
“Every one of you knows they cannot outfight you, and we have learned they are not outwalking you, either: it is all one of Boney’s tricks. Those damned lazy Frenchmen are being carted around half the day on dragon-back, that is how they have been getting the jump on us,” Wellesley said, jerking his head back towards the dragons. “It is time we put a stop to it, and your colonel has solicited the honor for your regiment to go first.
“It is no treat to go aloft, so I rely on you all to make an example for the rest of the corps to follow. When your sergeants give the word, you are to go aboard the dragons, one to a company, one column to a side, filling the rigging from front to back. The first company which is aboard in good order will have the honor of carrying the flag when we give Boney his well-deserved drubbing, and an extra ration of rum in camp to-night.
“And I hope there is no man here more faint of heart than a Frenchman,” he added, “but if there is anyone here who is too craven to go aloft for an hour, he may say so now, and be excused.” He nodded to the colonel of the regiment, and himself turned and walked over to the dragons, to make a show of speaking with Rowley. No-one spoke, and the men filed in perfect order—with something even of a hurry—aboard the beasts; the rest of the army had been roused up to see it happen, and the dragons lifting off with the soldiers all aboard: with only a little prodding from the sergeants, the men aboard all jeered cheerfully at the regiments marching below as the dragons sailed away.
The first few days were a confusion of trying to match the supply to the men, at the end of the day, and more than one set of rations went astray; they did not manage to go more than ten miles beyond the usual distance, and the brigades on the road became a wretched muddle, with some regiments on each others’ heels, and others separated by miles. The dragons were also not very pleased. “One of them poked at me with a bayonet,” Chalcedony complained, indignantly, “and when I turned around and told him to stop, he shrieked: he is lucky I did not toss him off.”
But a semblance of order was gradually imposed on the proceedings, and in the end, the march which ought to have taken a long slow month was completed in two weeks: the advantage of air transport told all the more as they came through the mountains, where the dragons carried the men over the worst stretches, anywhere snow and ice had made the road impassable. Winter was now upon them in earnest, and they flew deeper into it as they went north; until the Cairngorm range reared up startlingly close, one clear morning, and the frozen black waters of Loch Laggan, with the citadel looking down upon it from the heights.
“Oh, at last,” Temeraire said, with relief, looking down at the courtyard with its heated stones dark and bare of snow.
But Laurence was looking at something else: there was a dragon already in the courtyard, a Papillon Noir gorgeously ornamented with iridescent stripes of blue and green, curled comfortably upon the stones with a flag of parley and a tricolor upon its shoulders.
Chapter 12
IT WAS A VERY great relief to let off his last load of men and supply. Temeraire understood the necessity of moving as quickly as Napoleon, of course, and if he had been disposed to doubt it, Perscitia’s calculations showed plainly how quickly the difference of thirty miles a day, even if it seemed only a few hours’ flying, would add up day by day. But it was so very tedious to be going back and forth on these short hopping flights, an hour in the air, then letting men off, then flying directly back to have another load put on. It was impossible to fly quickly or freely with men clinging aboard to the makeshift rigging, and then there was all the unpleasantness of their dirt. His own crew were well able to handle such matters without getting him spattered, even little Roland, and since the passengers were only an hour or two at most aboard at a time, Temeraire felt it was not too much to ask that they show some restraint, even if they were crammed aboard. But some of them simply could not manage it, and if he only dived a little to catch a better air current, or twisted to keep on an updraft, he was sure to be soiled. All very well to say, he had scales; it would take a week of bathing before he felt at all clean again.
But the lake was frozen solid, so for the moment he had to content himself with rolling in the thick snow on one of the neighboring hills, until he was wet and cold all over. The encampment had been going up all day as they delivered men by air, and by now the officers were coming up the hill in irregular clusters to eat in the citadel, leaving their horses stabled away at the foot. Loch Laggan had an ample herd, and all of them having eaten, the unharnessed dragons began to circle down, negotiating with complex aerial maneuvers their respective landing places on the hill, whether within the desirable courtyard or near it, or in the clearings farther out.
“Do you suppose,” Temeraire said to Laurence in an undertone, as he settled himself gladly down onto the deliciously baking-hot stones, “do you suppose that Celeritas will have forgiven me, for lying?” He put his head up over the squirming of dragons: middle-weights trying to fit themselves between and around him and Requiescat and Ballista, and Armatius, who smugly had claimed a place, with the other heavy-weights, thanks to Gentius drowsing yet upon his back. The light-weights and couriers were perched up on the walls and battlements, waiting for the outmatched middle-weights to give up before they began their own squabble over who would have a place.
Majestatis had ignored all the struggle, and taken himself a place just on the other side of the courtyard wall, to the south; Temeraire could hear Perscitia arguing with him indignantly. “You ought to go take a place in the courtyard,” she said.
“I am very comfortable here,” Majestatis returned placidly.
“You would be more comfortable in the courtyard,” Perscitia said, “and you can have a place there if you only make a little push for one: you do not need this one.”
“But I like this one, and I did not have to push to have it,” he said. “The ground is warm.”
She gave a sulky hiss. “I dare say you do not even know why.”
“The hot water for the baths runs under this part of the hillside, too,” Majestatis said.
There was a brief silence. “Yes,” Perscitia said, “it must, because this is the lower side of the slope, and it must drain away somewhere, but how did you know that?”
“There is steam coming out of t
“Oh,” she muttered.
“I am going to sleep now,” Majestatis informed her. “I don’t mind if you want to share.”
“I do not want to share,” Perscitia said, but a low deep rumbling breath was the only reply, and after another fit of grumbling she evidently reconciled herself: both of them were audible in their snores before the rest of the quarreling had even resolved itself into a settled order for the courtyard.
But there was no sign of Celeritas. The old training master did not sleep in the courtyard himself, of course, but in a private mountain-side cave; but he might come out to see them all, Temeraire thought, with some anxiety. He was not easy about having lied to Celeritas, when they had come to steal the mushrooms, and he had never had the chance to apologize properly. He was quite sure Celeritas would have understood and approved of the mission—at least, he was as sure as he could be, because anyone could take an odd start; but Celeritas might still be angry over being lied to and tricked into having let them in, unchallenged.
“He is not here anymore,” a Winchester said: not anyone Temeraire knew, a small bright-eyed courier-beast, in harness; he was perched upon the wall behind them, out of the way of the confusion with all the new dragons coming in. “I think he has gone to the breeding grounds in Ireland.”
“But whyever would Celeritas go to the breeding grounds,” Temeraire protested; the little Winchester only fluttered out his wings in a shrug. “It is very boring in the breeding grounds,” Temeraire said to Laurence. “I do not understand why he should have left his post here.”
Laurence did not say anything for a moment, and then he said, oddly without conviction, “Perhaps he grew tired of the work.”
He said nothing else, nothing more reassuring, and Temeraire looked at him sidelong: Laurence was sitting upon one of the low benches by the wall, looking again at the gold ring which he had brought back from London. He had not said where it had come from, and Temeraire felt a little shy of pressing him. Laurence seemed so very unhappy, and Temeraire did not understand properly why: they were together, not pent up anywhere, and soon they would have a splendid battle to take back their territory; and then the Government would pay them money. So there was nothing to be sorry about, except perhaps that they had retreated in the first place; but the rest would make up for that.
Temeraire sighed, and informed the squabbling Reapers, “You had all better leave some room. Maximus must be here soon, and the rest of the Corps; and ought not Lily be here already?”
Laurence raised his head. “They all ought,” he said. “They were ahead of us.”
He went into the citadel to try and find out where the others were, from the other officers; and meanwhile Chalcedony and Gladius and Cantarella finally won out over the other Reapers and settled themselves down, so the Grey Coppers and the Winchesters and the ferals could now squeeze themselves in amongst the rest, and then they were all warm and snug on the heated stones. Moncey and Minnow had settled themselves on Temeraire’s back; he felt quite comfortable, ready for a proper drowse, and then the Papillon Noir raised his head and said, “How pleasant it is here! It is almost as nice as the pavilions the Emperor has built for us in Paris.”
He spoke in English, with a curious accent, and many of the other dragons pricked up in interest. “Those are much larger, of course,” the Papillon continued, “so no-one has to sleep outside if they do not want to; and there is a charming little stream which runs past them, so if one wants a drink, one only has to stretch out one’s neck. But these are just as warm; at least, if it is not raining, or snowing.” A little drifting snow was indeed coming down in that moment, and slicking the stone.
“I expect,” Temeraire said, rather coolly, “that he is imitating the pavilions from China, which are very splendid.”
“Yes, exactly,” the Papillon said enthusiastically, “although Madame Lien says, he has made them even nicer. And we each have a box at the pavilions, where we can put our treasure, and the palace guard keeps watch over it when we are not there.”
“Hum, and I suppose they don’t take it,” Gentius said, skeptically, cracking one luridly orange eye.
“No, never,” the Papillon said. “I have three gold chains and a ruby there, and they are always just as I have left them; the guards will even polish them for me, if I ask them.”
Everyone was very wide awake now, at “three gold chains and a ruby.” “I have earned them,” the Papillon said, seeing he had his audience, “by helping to build some roads, and for some fighting: and I have been promoted to captain for it, see,” and showed off a handsome badge pinned to his harness: a round disk of some shining metal. “So can anyone, who likes to serve the Emperor,” he added, significantly.
Temeraire laid back his ruff. “Certainly, if they do not mind helping someone who goes about stealing other people’s territory, when he already has plenty of his own, and kills heaps of men and dragons to do it,” he said coldly. “Anyway, we are getting pay, too; and I have been made colonel.”
“I congratulate you!” the Papillon said. “How much have you been paid so far?” When Temeraire had made an awkward, sputtering explanation, the Papillon went on, “Well, I am sure the Emperor would pay you right away, and give you even higher rank, then.”
There was a low thoughtful murmur going around. Temeraire put his head sidelong to nudge Roland, who was grudgingly doing lessons with Demane and Sipho—less of her own volition than at Sipho’s insistence: he was beginning to outstrip her as well as his older brother, as Roland had never been very interested in studying. “You had better go and tell Laurence, that the French dragon is making all sorts of promises, which I am sure are lies, if only we would agree to serve Napoleon; and pray let him come and put a stop to it,” he finished plaintively; he did not know how to answer the French dragon, who after all was offering just what he himself had asked for; except he did not want it from Napoleon, who had invaded England and made so much trouble for everyone, and who let Lien do as she liked.
“Oh, I will go at once,” Roland said, with relief, and left; Demane said, “I will go too,” and went after her.
“But who is going to check my work,” Sipho called after them unhappily.
LAURENCE HAD NOT GONE farther than the great hall of the citadel: many officers were standing in scattered clumps, talking in low voices that the great vaulted ceiling blended with echoes into hollow unintelligible murmur, and he hesitated in the entryway a moment: few faces he knew, and fewer he chose to impose himself upon; then he saw Riley, in a corner of the room.
Riley wore a look half-dazed with exhaustion, and he said wholly tactlessly, “Hello, Laurence, I thought you were in prison,” in a tone more puzzled than condemnatory. “I have a son,” he added.
“Give you joy,” Laurence said, and shook his hand, ignoring the rest of the remark: Riley gave it full willingly to be shaken, and gave no sign he noticed the omission. “Is Catherine well?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion,” Riley said. “The lot of them took off like a shot for the coast three days ago, and she insisted she could not be spared, if you will credit it: thank God we had already found a wet-nurse from the village, or I dare say she would have gone anyway, and let the child starve. Do you know, they must be fed every two hours?”
He did not know why the dragons had gone or where; what little attention he had to spare from the new child was devoted to the Allegiance: he had left her in dry-dock in Plymouth, recovering from their voyage to Africa, and with Bonaparte and his army now between him and the port, he fretted about her fate. “I am sure the Navy will keep him out of Plymouth,” he said, “I am sure of it; but if he should somehow get a hold on the whole south, then—”
“Sir,” Emily said, and Laurence looked down; she was panting at his elbow, and Demane beside her. “Sir, Temeraire sent me—very well, us—to tell you: that French dragon in the courtyard is preaching sedition, and trying to bribe everyone to go over to t
“Where is the envoy?” Laurence asked Riley. “Do you know who they have sent?”
“Talleyrand,” Riley said.
The conference was under way upstairs, in the little-used library chamber; Wellesley had gone to join the discussion, directly on their arrival, and he was, Laurence thought, the best hope of finding a senior officer who would appreciate the threat. But the room was barred off by guards and aides, among them ten Frenchmen in uniform like cavalry officers but altered for flying with long coats made of leather and heavy gloves in their belts. Laurence did not know how he might get word inside, until he caught sight of Rowley and called to him.
Rowley’s personal disdain had not subsided, but he had just seen a month shortened to two weeks, on dragon-back, and though unsmiling he heard Laurence out, and said shortly, “Very well; come with me,” and took him into the room by the side door.
Talleyrand had not come alone: he sat along one side of a long table, laid on for the occasion, with a Marshal sitting beside him: Murat, Bonaparte’s brother-in-law. An odd pair: Talleyrand’s long aristocratic face under his thinning fair hair almost washed out and pale next to Murat, who had thick curly hair and bright blue eyes in a face ruddy with weather and work, above a powerful frame: in his person every inch the soldier. Murat’s clothing was of almost absurd splendor, seen close up: a coat of black leather with gold embroidery and gold buttons, over snowy stock and shirt, with gloves of black leather and gold on the table beside him; Talleyrand’s of an elegance more quiet and correct.
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.