Blood of Tyrants (24 page)

Lord Bayan did not even answer, or rise from his kowtow; Prince Mianning only said to him, “Your service will be rewarded as it deserves.” It was a small consolation to Temeraire that the crown prince himself was in no better state than Laurence: half-naked and smirched with a fine layer of black soot, except for the trickles of sweat and one pale smudged handprint across his back with the fingers stretched improbably long, as though someone had tried to grab hold of him and the grip had slid off.

Lord Bayan still kneeling said, “I would be honored to offer you escort and shelter—”

“Lung Tien Xiang will escort Prince Lao-ren-tse and myself,” Mianning said and turning away gestured to Temeraire slightly, asking for a leg up. Temeraire was more than glad to provide it: he wanted nothing more than to get Laurence, and Mianning, too, well away from here; there was certainly no reason to stay. Laurence hesitated oddly, looking at Bayan as the lord rose up again; then he turned and climbed aboard as well.

As glad as Temeraire was to leave, questions pressed in upon
him as soon as he was aloft again and Laurence securely with him; he turned his head to ask Laurence and only then received the full and appalling explanation. “What?” Temeraire cried, halting mid-air. “Whyever did you not say so! I should have torn him to pieces, at once; why did you not say he was a traitor and a murderer? I only thought he was a fool who had made a great mess of things.”

He felt truly indignant: indignant, and wounded, and all the more by hearing that Laurence had set the dreadful fire himself. Why had Laurence not relied upon him? Surely Laurence should have expected Temeraire to follow, to come to his rescue—or perhaps not. Temeraire was painfully conscious he had not saved Laurence in Japan; he had not found Laurence and brought him safe away.

But on this occasion, Temeraire thought, he might at least avenge Laurence’s ill-usage: he almost turned back at once, but Mianning said, “No: I can use Bayan’s life better than his death, at present.”

“Do you truly mean to allow a man who has failed once to slay you to get another chance at the prize?” Laurence said to Mianning, echoing Temeraire’s own feelings on the subject: Temeraire did not see that Bayan’s life was any use to anyone at all. “There can be no question of guilt, here—Bayan suborned your guard, abducted you, held you against your will. That the assassin came from him, at the first, can scarcely be in doubt.

“I beg you will forgive my frankness, Your Highness,” Laurence added, “but this matter affects our own mission as much as you yourself. We both know how Bayan would have chosen to use this: not merely to destroy us personally, but to destroy all hope of alliance between our nations.”

Laurence spoke very soberly; Temeraire knew Hammond had spared no efforts to impress upon him the urgent necessity of the alliance, and that Laurence felt very anxious for his part in achieving it, very doubtful of his own efforts. Temeraire had tried to assure Laurence that he would do splendidly, that there could be
nothing wanting in his performance, but of course, Temeraire had not suspected that there would be assassins throwing bombs at him, and treacherous dragons abducting him; he had not expected such things in China, of all places.

He did not see any reason not to kill Bayan at once, as the author of these calamities, but Mianning answered Laurence, “And so, too, must I use his failure: to ensure that alliance, and the future of my nation and my reign. I have had no certain evidence, no sword to hold above their heads, until now, but they have overreached at last.” He leaned forward. “Lung Tien Xiang, take us back to the Forbidden City: I will return to my own palace.”

“With so many of your nearest guard turned traitor?” Laurence said.

“Those were not my nearest guard,” Mianning said. “I did not have free choice of my attendants at our meeting, as I told you; I have others whom I can better trust. But in any case, there is no alternative. One who yields, always yields; I will not come to the throne in the minds of my enemies as one who may be moved by threats or danger. I have withstood worse than this, at their hands; far worse. Better if I die than permit them to hold my leash.”

Temeraire thought this an appalling choice of alternatives, and one he scarcely imagined Mianning’s own dragon Chuan would approve. “I cannot think my brother would permit you to go into such danger,” he said. “Why was he not there, to-day? If only he had been by your side, I am sure together we should not have allowed those treacherous lizards to snatch the two of you away: I would certainly have done no such thing,” he added, for Laurence’s benefit, trying not to let his tone convey too plainly his sense of injury, “if only I had had the least notion, before now, that someone should be trying to kill you. I do not think I can be blamed, when we have just arrived, and no-one told me: but Chuan should have known; he should have been on his guard.”

“Lung Tien Chuan is dead,” Mianning said.

M
IANNING EVIDENTLY DID NOT
care to discuss the matter further. It fell to Gong Su to convey the details: he seemed high in the councils of the crown prince, and spent nearly all the day closeted with his own associates within the government; later that evening he rejoined their small and wary party in Laurence’s chambers, and quietly told them, “Lung Tien Chuan was slain six months ago. He was served with poison in his tea.”

Laurence was appalled by the act: a dreadful waste, and it seemed to him pure cruelty, to punish the dragon for merely loving his master, and over a political quarrel with the latter, which the former should have had very little to say to, he imagined. “There are only eight Celestials in full, are there not?” Laurence said.

“Yes,” Gong Su said. “There is no other to be the prince’s companion.”

Laurence only belatedly took the deeper meaning of this intelligence that evening, when he was alone again: he had been quartered in another part of the Imperial palace grounds under Mianning’s control and surrounded by watchful guards loyal to him.

Laurence had closeted himself to write his report of the strange and convoluted events of the day, which yet he preferred to struggling through more of the letter he had not yet sent to his mother to acquaint her with his condition. But he set his pen down abruptly and, sitting up, looked out the window into the courtyard where
Temeraire slept, in arm’s reach—in a dragon’s arm’s reach at least—recovering from his exertions.

Hammond had conveyed to him from the other side the necessity of Laurence’s adoption: a Celestial might only be companion to a member of the Imperial family; and Temeraire’s egg had been sent away from China in the first place only to avoid setting up a rival to Mianning. Therefore—the heir to the throne required a Celestial? Perhaps
required
was too strong: many things might be bent at the will of the Emperor. But tradition had its own power. If Mianning had no Celestial companion—if he had lost his own dragon—

Shipboard, Temeraire had spoken censoriously to him of Hammond. “I do not say he is not clever, in his own way,” Temeraire had said, “but I am very sorry to say, Laurence, that he is not to be relied upon. When last we were here, he wished to insist upon your giving me back to the Chinese only so they would open another port to us.”

Surely that request would come again, now, Laurence realized, and was disturbed by his own reaction to the possibility—a reaction which owed more to the viscera than clear rational thinking. Sensibly considered, he ought to be grateful for such an excuse to be restored to his respectable Navy career and a ship of his own; and if he were not grateful, if he had not wished to do it, nevertheless it would be no less than his duty. And yet—and yet he discovered he had begun to think of Temeraire as his own man, as it were. Such persuasion, coming from one trusted as a friend, would only be honorable if meant sincerely, if given from the heart and in expectation of its advancing Temeraire’s real happiness.

Laurence did not think he could, even at the direct request of the King’s envoy, consent to deceive a friend. To lie in such a cause would be contemptible, a kind of personal treachery. But Laurence felt himself on unsteady ground. It was surely his duty as a captain in the Aerial Corps to use the bond between himself and Temeraire to be both a check and a goad upon the beast, and that bond was one which many another aviator would willingly have taken on in
his stead. Perhaps it was a kind of folly to think of a dragon as a friend, as a companion-in-arms; would he skate perilously close to treason to refuse such a demand?

Granby listened willingly enough as Laurence began to outline the situation for him, but Laurence did not reach the question: no sooner had he explained Mianning’s need than Granby broke in, snorting, and said, “Oh, Lord! Yes, Hammond will be after you straightaway, I am sure; I dare say their Lordships would give him a peerage if he managed anything so neat as giving them a treaty and being shot of Temeraire all at once.”

Laurence stared: shocked, silenced; Granby caught his eye, and a slow crimson flush overspread his cheeks. “Well—” Granby said after a moment. “Well—he is too independent by half; he’s thought too clever for his own good—a little troublesome, perhaps—but you see,” he added hurriedly, “you must see I’ve no room to criticize. Iskierka is a demon and a half, and it’s not as though Temeraire hadn’t any provocation, for that matter, you know—”

Laurence made him no reply; he could not conceive of any reply which should be fitting. He did not know: he did not know at all, that he was the captain of a troublesome beast; he did not know that the Admiralty should have been glad to see the back of his dragon, though Britain was desperately short on heavy-weight beasts, even ones of less remarkable capability.

Granby made a hasty and threadbare excuse of having to go see to Iskierka; Laurence mechanically said, “Of course,” and rising left Granby’s quarters. A fine thin rain was presently falling. Granby and the rest of the formation were quartered in one of the guest palaces to the south of Mianning’s personal quarters, where Laurence had been invited to stay; the dragon-wide pathway between the buildings was grey and misty, blurred, and deserted but for a handful of servants, errand-boys, dashing quickly through. Laurence stood beneath the eaves; across the path another great palace stood, with a dragon’s-head as gutterspout giving out a steady clear stream of water washing over the paving-stones.

The guards behind him, Mianning’s chosen escort, shifted their
weight behind him; he heard the creak of their armor, their boots on the stone, the nearly stifled sighs. The scene was wholly unfamiliar, wholly strange; in the distance was the great blue bulk of a dragon crossing the pathway, its wings half-furled to its back. It was something from a fairy-tale, nothing he would ever have imagined into his life. It gave his mind no purchase. He did
not
know, he did not remember, what could have made Granby ever say such things.

Laurence had never studied—to his recollection—to know much of aerial combat or of dragons, beyond learning the signals to bespeak them from his ship, but this much he remembered from the battle of the Nile: the formations wheeling, like flocks of birds, above them in the sky. In modern warfare, dragons fought in formation; and yet Temeraire did not seem to have a place in one. Laurence had not thought on it before: but a dragon so gifted, so powerful, so agile—he must have been placed in formation, if it could be done. If the dragon were not—were not a recalcitrant, mismanaged beast.

He had always prided himself on being a reliable captain, one who did his duty with honor, neither haring off after prizes or unreasonable glory nor guarding his ship too jealously from danger; he had prided himself on a well-run crew. It now bore in on him with sudden force that his crew was strangely depleted, and of a peculiar nature; he had paid little mind to that, struggling as he did merely to learn all the names of those men he did have, but by comparison to the complement Maximus bore, Temeraire had not half so many. His ground crew consisted entirely in a dozen men—several of them, Laurence now realized, former sailors. His officers were a motley and an awkward lot: Forthing, his first officer, was not a gentleman, nor of any particular brilliance which should excuse the same.

Laurence could scarcely imagine whom he might approach on the subject; Granby had certainly been most unwilling to speak. His subordinates he could hardly insult in such a manner, either, as to ask them whether they served on an inferior crew, and why.

Finally he strode out into the rain and returned to his own quarters, to speak with Temeraire himself: if he could not ask for a direct answer, he could ask where they stood with the Admiralty, together, he and the dragon. If Temeraire had some memory of chastisement, some punishment—

Temeraire was awake, in his courtyard, awake and spangled a little by the rain, which he shook off with a rippling shiver of the scales. “Laurence!” he exclaimed with relief. “I wish you had not gone away when there are assassins about: I was on the point of going to look for you. Wherever have you been? Surely you might have stayed here with me, and waited until I woke?”