But the Tswana roared, and Temeraire roared with them, and suddenly Maila Yupanqui, who had climbed aloft, gave a loud bugling cry—and broke.

Temeraire stared in astonishment. It was not just him, either. All the Incan dragons were turning to follow him as he fled, snarling up all the other French dragons in their passage. The proud ranks of the Imperial Guard’s aerial forces scattered. There were only thirty dragons left together, in the center, and Temeraire heard Laurence shout; his wings were already beating, launching him forward even as Lien flung herself into the sky.

LAURENCE ENDURED WITH SOME impatience another two dozen congratulatory messages as he returned to Temeraire’s clearing from the headquarters, the morning’s dispatch still crumpled in his hand. It was a slow progress: officers he had never met stopped him to make him their bows, and as he passed he overheard himself pointed out by his aviator’s coat, over and over again.

He would have been honored by the acclaim and grateful for the warm feeling, if bestowed for his own labors. Indeed, half his irritation was for the sense of being robbed of his and Temeraire’s justly earned laurels, in exchange for a crown of fool’s gold. But the dispatches said nothing of the daring assault upon the center by the Chinese legions, which had lured Napoleon into exposing his Guard to the Tswana attack; indeed the Tswana themselves had been given only a grudging part in the victory at all, a brief mention of their strike into the French rear. And nothing whatsoever was mentioned of the collapse of the Incan ranks. Instead, so far as Laurence could see, the world was to believe that he and Temeraire had, in a fit of valor and what should have been the most extreme stupidity, flung themselves headlong through a hundred dragons, and defeated Lien in a single chivalric combat, presumably while those hundred dragons looked on and did nothing to interfere.

He had read the dispatch that morning himself, appalled, but no-one at the headquarters had listened to his protests long enough to promise any correction; they had been too busy to shake his hand, and even the Tsar himself, who had received him personally, had only clapped him on the shoulder, and interrupted to praise his modesty.

So he returned the bows shortly, and walked onwards without making much conversation except to return the compliments to his service. All through his slow progress a disquiet crept over him by degrees, and even when he at last passed beyond the reach of his well-wishers and reached the clearing where Temeraire stood vigilant over Lien’s silent and huddled form, Laurence could not take his ease, or settle to the large obligation of letters and reports which waited on his desk.

He came out of his tent again, restless, and put a hand on Temeraire’s side. “I do not see why they need so many guards upon him,” Temeraire said, a little disapprovingly: he referred to the cottage visible near-by which was now Napoleon’s prison, ringed by three companies of heavy infantry all standing to close attention. “It is not as though I would not see, if he tried to come out and rejoin Lien; they might trust me for that, I think.”

“Their presence must discourage any hope of a rescue, which his Marshals might yet entertain,” Laurence said. “Even you might be distracted briefly, if they managed to descend with a large force of dragons.” He stood looking at the small house, and then said abruptly, “I will return soon, if you will pardon me.”

He walked to the cottage slowly. He felt little compunction about the worry which his appearance caused the Prussian colonel in charge of overseeing the guards, who plainly did not like to deny entry to the hero of the hour; but Laurence did fear his presence might be felt as an insult. “Pray ask His Majesty if he will receive me,” Laurence said. “I would not wish to intrude.”

The colonel, relieved, sent to inquire; he plainly thought and hoped that the Emperor would refuse any visitor whom he could avoid, and was crestfallen when Laurence was invited to go inside. “I would scarcely try to take him out of his prison,” Laurence said to the man, taking pity, “when I put him in it, only yesterday.”

“Yes, sir,” the colonel said, dismally, and let him go in.

The cottage interior was dark, after the brilliance of the morning sun; Laurence stood blinking in the entryway, and then went down the hall to the one real chamber of the house. Napoleon was standing before the small window, looking down the hill towards Lien, with his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He turned round at Laurence’s step, and inclined his head: calm and composed, even amidst the wreck of his hopes. “Captain—or Admiral, I should say: I hope you are well? You took no injury in the battle?”

Laurence bowed. “I am, Your Majesty.” He hesitated, then; he did not know what to say. He did not fully know what had brought him, except a dislike of being given more credit than was his due, but that could hardly matter to Napoleon. Nor could Laurence make him any kind of apology: he could not be sorry to have captured the Emperor; still less to see peace finally within reach.

“You are a dull companion,” Napoleon said, breaking the silence. “What stifles your tongue? Have you been sent to offer me terms?”

“No,” Laurence said, with a private relief; he could imagine no task less to his taste. “No; I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, I only wished to—” Here he halted, struggling again, but the Emperor came to his rescue.

“Ah, come,” Napoleon said, crossing the room to him, and holding out his hands, clasped Laurence by the shoulders; he drew him close and kissed him on both cheeks, in the Gallic fashion, and then more familiarly patted him upon the cheek gently with a hand. “Do you suppose I would ever reproach you, of all my foes? I am sorry only to have faced you across the field, when you ought to have been by my side. Loss is the hazard of battle. One who cannot bear to taste it cannot be a soldier. Now come and sit with me, and tell me how the fighting unfolded, from your side. There is nothing like being dragon-back for observing, but I could not always be aloft, yesterday, myself.”

They sat together talking quietly of the battle and sketching maneuvers on the top of the one small table with the charred end of a stick from the fireplace. Laurence had never admired him so well in victory as in defeat: the Emperor’s resolution in the face of disaster, and his generosity to the man most directly responsible for his captivity, had true grace in it. No-one disturbed them for nearly an hour, and then a noise from the hall drew Napoleon’s head up suddenly alert, the attention of the hawk. Steps came along the hallway, softer than boot-heels, and Laurence rose as three men entered the room, attired formally: Hammond, who started to see him there, accompanied by Talleyrand and Count Metternich.