Laurence put the thought aside. The evil deed which had occasioned his present circumstances had been finished long ago, and he had since then—not without severe difficulty—reconciled himself to the necessity of its commission. He would not now learn to regret that he had been the instrument of saving so many lives from a hideous and tormented end—that so many of the dragons here present should only have survived, even to become the enemies of his nation, because of his actions. Victory by such a method must have been hateful to any man of honor, and if some claiming that title justified themselves by willfully refusing to acknowledge the sentience of dragons, Laurence was not of their number; he could not so deceive himself.

“I am satisfied,” Tharkay said, with a narrow, steady look, “except on one point. I know how greatly you have enjoyed Napoleon’s generous attentions,” this dryly, “but you must know I would never have desired, or still less urged you to invite them, for my sake.”

“I hope,” Laurence said, “that I would not require urging, to undertake any service on your behalf. In any case, we have had too much evidence of Napoleon’s desire to make a parade of me to suppose that his attentions would have been long delayed, and he can have wanted neither excuse nor consent to set about them, since I have given him neither.”

Tharkay shook his head a little, dissatisfied. “I would prefer you not to permit any such consideration to weigh with you again. I undertook the hazards of my, shall we say, occupation, freely and with full knowledge of the consequences were I ever identified to the enemy.”

“That cannot make me less inclined to avert those consequences,” Laurence said. “But you may be easy. If I have given Napoleon the power of making me appear his friend, I now mean to make him as well as his guests the best proofs to the contrary that I can, and I know you will not speak to stop me.”

“Indeed not,” Tharkay said. “I am only sorry to have been unveiled so inconveniently.”

There was a hard look in his eyes, which made Laurence dare to ask, “Do you know how it may have come about?”

“A reward for success, I imagine,” Tharkay said. “My latest report on the political situation in the Porte may have been excessively useful: the Sultan remains Napoleon’s ally, and is unlikely to shift his position so long as we are aligned with Russia, but I discovered that a significant vezir was susceptible to persuasion. The Chinese legions we hope for will not encounter any direct opposition, if they come overland.”

“That is an excellent piece of news indeed,” Laurence said, low, “but how should it have exposed you?”

“I imagine the report has circulated a little too widely for my health,” Tharkay said. “It so happens that one of my beloved cousins has a minor sinecure, somewhere or other under the Navy Board.”

“Good God,” Laurence said. “And you suppose him to have turned traitor?”

“Oh, I am sure he would call it no such thing,” Tharkay said. “I doubt that the report was sold along with my name—which explains M. Fouché’s eagerness to discuss the operation with me. No, I am sure dear Ambrose merely found it an irresistible opportunity to be rid of me and my inconvenient attempts to assert my right to my patrimony, and at a profit no less.”

He spoke lightly, but Laurence knew to measure the depth of Tharkay’s feelings less by what he said, than by what he did not say, and Tharkay had not mentioned his paternal family over a dozen times in all the years of their acquaintance. It was to a mere offhand mention that Laurence owed the knowledge of their existence; and to the accident of a shipboard communication that those relations, who had taken pains to furnish Tharkay with every apparent proof of family affection until his father’s death, had since that event done everything in their power to steal his inheritance and deny his legitimacy.

They had succeeded so far to render him friendless and penniless in Britain, dependent on the kindness of an old acquaintance of his father’s in the East India Company for even the little and dangerous foreign employment he had been able to obtain, as a go-between and a guide. Only the prize-money paid him, for having recruited some twenty feral beasts out of the Pamirs to Britain’s service, had finally enabled him to press a law-suit to recover his rights; but this had dragged ever since.

“I am sorry to lose the power of disappointing your cousin’s designs,” Laurence said quietly. “I hope, Tenzing, you know that I wish I hazarded my safety equally with yours.”

“Oh, permit me to comfort you on that score,” Tharkay said. “Napoleon does not seem to me to care much for being balked. When you have gone romping around his carefully assembled guests, and done your best to overturn his remarkable conclave, I have every hope of your provoking him to all the outward displays of wrath that you might wish. You are as likely to be executed as I am.”

—

The request had been made of Aurigny, and permission came the next morning swiftly and enthusiastically: they were to have the full run of the grounds, although the Emperor regretted they must not go near the northern edge of the gardens where Temeraire and Iskierka were housed. But their escort would gently guide them away if they should accidentally stray too far in that direction, and they would dine with the Emperor and the Empress tomorrow night, an honor Laurence received unwillingly, and Granby with outright dismay.

“There is not a moment to lose: let us do our best to put him in a towering rage at once,” he said. “It won’t be too late for him to withdraw the invitation, and for my part, I had rather be in the stocks than at another such dinner table.”

Tharkay’s memory of the plan of the grounds was good enough to bring them near the Tswana, not without a little circumnavigation that Laurence could not regret, as serving to deceive their escort of six excellent and determined Grognards. He spoke with Aurigny and his companions a little as they walked the paths; they spoke of their emperor with an extreme familiarity, and cheerfully cursed the vagaries of his will that had put them on “sheepdog-duty,” as one fellow put it, and away from the front lines. “Ah, but he must let us have a little fighting sometime,” one of them named Brouilly said, a little indiscreetly, “now that the Prussians are lining up for another drubbing—I was at Austerlitz,” he added, with pardonable pride, and touching the medal in his lapel with a caressing finger.