Fortunately, Perscitia’s secretary Mrs. Elsinore was on hand to take notes. Her hand was excellent, although she had some difficulty in keeping up with the lengthening list of demands and requests: higher pay, more frequently and more honestly paid, and even for those dragons who did not choose to fight—“But then you ought to do some work for it,” Temeraire said, to which Ricarlee a little disgruntledly said, “Oh, aye, some work; if they give us aught we can do without breaking our backs,” but at least he and the ferals agreed to that much—and a host of improvements which Perscitia suggested, to make casting one’s vote easier.

“And we must have more seats in Parliament for dragons,” she added firmly. “We must ask for thirty, and allow ourselves to be bargained down to twenty; we must not accept less than twenty,” which provoked some protests on the part of other dragons, who said they were happy to sit on stone, and would rather have more money.

“I do not mean chairs!” Perscitia said. “I mean members: there must be more dragons who have a share in making the law. Oh! And we ought to insist that they make some dragons officers, too. It is nonsense, only having humans as officers in the Aerial Corps.”

“Yes, be sure and put that on the list,” Temeraire told Mrs. Elsinore, and so forth and so on, until they all finished and looked at the list with some satisfaction—everyone pleased, and agreeing that they would all pledge themselves to enforce it, and then Perscitia announced, “I will take it to Parliament on Monday, then, and read it to the other members—perhaps I can arrange for them to hear Bonaparte’s Concord, too,” she added thoughtfully, “so that they have the contrast before them—I think it will be highly instructive—”

Temeraire suddenly woke to the realization that he had averted one disaster only to produce another. For the Concord to come to the Admiralty’s attention would have been bad enough, but no-one would ever be persuaded that he had not had a hand in this new document—as indeed he had, but the point was that Laurence was sure to be blamed for it with even more violence. “You cannot read it!” he said hurriedly.

Perscitia scowled. “It is not my fault I was not taught early enough,” she said, injured. “Besides, Mrs. Elsinore will read it to me until I have it by heart. You may be sure I will not make any mistakes.”

“No, I meant,” Temeraire said, but fell silent; he could not say, Do not read it, for Laurence’s sake. That would be unfair, and worse than unfair; it was just what the Admiralty wanted of him and of every harnessed dragon, that they should betray their own interests and those of their fellow-dragons just to please their captains—and Laurence would not even be pleased; Laurence would never wish it of him.

“I only meant,” he said, struggling, “that we must proceed with more delicacy. After all, if you should spring it upon the Parliament without warning, I dare say they will all refuse to listen. Laurence has told me how often the question of the slave trade has been argued, and how much difficulty there has been in getting the ban through.”

“One cannot spring anything upon Parliament without warning,” Perscitia said, with a lecturing air. “I shall announce tomorrow that I will make a motion to read in a bill, so everyone will know that it is coming. Of course I must first marshal support for the measure, but I have already thought of that. There are several gentlemen of the Opposition who will be glad of a chance to embarrass the Government by putting a question to the Speaker about Napoleon’s Concord, which shall furnish me with an excellent opportunity of warning of all the dire consequences should it be adopted by England’s dragons, and be the best introduction for our bill—which, by the bye,” she added, “must be properly named—and I shall argue that the Government ought to adopt it, and thereby present an example of enlightened leadership to the nations of the Continent, and their dragons—”

—

“Laurence,” Temeraire said, feeling rather desperate, “I must have a word with you.”

“I am at your service,” Laurence said immediately, turning away from the pair of wide-eyed young runners who had been delivered by courier that morning from Kinloch Laggan, along with four ensigns, seven riflemen, three lieutenants, and a ground crew of twenty men, all of whom had already been pressed into varying forms of service to prepare for the party.

“Oh—to-night will do,” Temeraire said cravenly. “Or tomorrow; tomorrow will certainly be good enough, I am sure.” The pavilion looked so splendid—lanterns hung everywhere, and silk hangings, and even if braziers and hot bricks were the source of warmth, there were so many of them as to make a really comfortable glow. The smell of the roasting cows rose marvelously over the fresh sea-air crashing on the cliffs below, and the pavilion’s prospect could not be improved upon: the wide expanse of the Channel was already dark, as the sun sank westward, the boats with their lanterns bobbing jewel-like. The tables were laid with great magnificence: porcelain and crystal and silver all ablaze upon the inner, large platters of brass for the dragons set behind every captain’s place, and liveried footmen already arranging themselves at intervals around the table. “How grand everything looks!”

“Yes, I mean to dine in proper state,” Laurence said. “If only captains might be impressed so certainly by such things as their dragons, I would be content. But at least they will have no cause to feel I slight them, and I admit that I hope the formality of the table may encourage a like formality in the behavior of the guests; I can rely on no amiable feeling among them.”

—

Laurence knew this was a polite understatement, but he had no intention of letting Temeraire know that Captain Poole had five years ago loudly expressed to Laurence’s face the opinion that he ought to have been drawn, quartered, and thrown to dogs, in the good old fashion; nor that Captain Windle had on the same occasion struck him—in the midst of a general melee broken out in camp, where Laurence had been able to return the blow in kind rather than take insult—and still less that Windle’s first lieutenant had tried, drunken and ineffectual though the attempt had been, to stab him with a table knife.

Temeraire, if he knew, would certainly have objections of his own to express to all of these gentlemen; violent objections. But Laurence himself could not blame them for their feelings, nor the honesty of their open avowal. The Admiralty had been brutal indeed in spreading the blame of his treason across all aviators, then compounding that injustice by postponing their own sentence and keeping him alive. Since then they had transported him, restored him, and now, to crown all, promoted him. Their actions implied too plainly that better was not to be expected, from aviators; that they were to be regarded much as were their beasts, as unreliable, half-controlled, and lacking in all discipline—a bitter swallow for officers who loved the Corps, and aspired only to perform their loyal duty to the Crown. Laurence would have gladly counted himself among their number, once; only extremity had driven him out of their ranks. The men who objected to his pardon were guilty only of loving their service, and resenting the insult to its honor.