She had gracefully accepted Temeraire’s hints on the subject of the appearance he should like the crew to present, and acted upon them: there was not an officer who did not have a tidy black neckcloth and a freshly pressed coat; their boots were all blacked to an equal shine, and the ground crew, too, were all tidy and had clean shirts and clean leather vests. The whole clearing offered a handsome portrait of industry and order to Temeraire’s survey, and he could not help but regret that Forthing should very soon mar it again with his own disgraceful appearance, quite likely leading a good number of the crew astray with him.

He had tried to broach the subject with Laurence—“Surely we ought have a first lieutenant more—more suitable”—but Laurence had firmly put a period to the discussion.

“My dear, I must ask your pardon. I know you are not fond of Forthing, but you must see the injustice of having accepted his toil and service all this long and thankless way, only to push him aside at the first opportunity where that service might receive its just reward. He has served honorably and to the best of his abilities, and I cannot entertain the suggestion of replacement.”

Temeraire sighed again, but consoled himself: at least he had no reason to blush for his crew now, and battlefield conditions might excuse the lack of that formality and neatness of uniform which were under better circumstances considered appropriate.

Half their company was leaving under Granby’s command from Edinburgh, but even the two formations which would back them made an enthusiastic noise full of consequence. Temeraire only wished he could think better than he did of the dragons behind him. Obituria, the senior heavy-weight among them, was impressive in the physical sense: she was a large Chequered Nettle, with a fourteen-barbed club of a tail which she could lay about as skillfully as if it were another leg, but she was a stolid, dull creature who flew her formation-patterns without the least spirit of inquiry. She would never say, Why are we turning left and upwards here? Would that not expose our flanks to those little French harriers? No, she did as her captain told her, and Captain Windle was as dull as his beast: seemed to only speak in words of one syllable, or two if he were much pressed.

Then there was Fidelitas, their Anglewing, who had the very peculiar habit of being almost interesting. If they were ever near each other, breakfasting at the pen perhaps, and Temeraire struck up a conversation with him, very soon he would be talking animatedly and getting quite excited—and then abruptly he would stop as though someone had clapped his mouth shut for him, and go wooden. There was no accounting for it, and anyway Temeraire nursed a private irritation against his captain, Poole, who often forgot entirely to call Laurence “sir” and never touched his hat.

But they certainly made a good enough outward show, with their formations assembled behind them, to make Temeraire pleased to lead them. It was not as glorious of course as flying at the head of the massed legions of China, but one could not have everything, all the time. And their complete equipage was perhaps even more impressive—if not attractive; Temeraire did not see why the Corps could not spare a thought, when laying out their gear, to provide them with banners, perhaps, or streamers—narrow streamers of thin cotton, attached to the front wing-edges, would have produced quite a remarkable effect, he thought.

At least Requiescat added admirably to their color. The formation-dragons were more than a little startled when he landed as they were forming up; he had been outfitted with mail, and Perscitia had further sent him along a new leather-and-steel head covering of her own devising, which only made him look more impressive. “I would have ordered one made for you,” she had told Temeraire apologetically, “but it requires a great many measurements, to ensure it does not obstruct vision, and in any case I am not confident it would do for you, what with the divine wind—like being inside a bell when it has been rung, very likely.”

“So, we are off to give the French another good drubbing, are we?” Requiescat said genially, as Ning leapt aboard his back and settled herself, with a rather preening stretch of her neck, between his wings. “Where is everybody?” he asked, looking around.

“The other formation is leaving from Edinburgh,” Temeraire said, feeling this an unjustified aspersion on the size of their force: they had two formations, and besides that another dozen unharnessed beasts had been persuaded to join up.

“I don’t mean formations,” Requiescat said, “but there they are coming, I guess,” and Temeraire looked round to see a cloud—no, a flock of birds—no, it was dragons; at least fifty smallish light-weights, all coming towards them—

It turned out to be Ricarlee, with a crowd of the Scots ferals. They produced a near-riot on their arrival—they had no notion of order, and directly they had landed they were scrambling into everyone’s clearings, rousing up the Channel dragons from their sleep, poking their noses into the feeding pen, until finally Temeraire roared loud enough to secure their attention, and also to knock over one old oak, which crashed down into a barracks cabin and brought out a dozen ground crewmen shouting and cursing.

This noise quelled the better part of the horde. “Requiescat, go and round up those fellows away from the officers’ mess there,” Temeraire said, more than a little exasperated, “and Fidelitas, pray chase those others out of the pen. It is quite intolerable your fellows should be making such a mess of all our arrangements,” he added severely to Ricarlee, who had landed with a handful of lieutenants—small dragons in dark shades with bright blue streaks painted upon their hides. “If you are here to steal, we will serve you out as that deserves straightaway; if not, you had better come to order and explain yourselves and this behavior at once.”

“No call to be unfriendly,” Ricarlee said. “You can’t blame anyone for wanting a bite to sup. We are for France, isn’t it? A long way to go on an empty belly. Now then,” he sidled in peculiarly close, and put his head near Temeraire’s. “It’ll be share and share alike, I trust?”

“Share and share alike of what?” Temeraire said suspiciously.

“Ha ha,” Ricarlee said, winking one eye in a strange fashion, “very good, I understand you. So long as we’re agreed.”

“I do not understand you,” Temeraire said. “You cannot expect to eat as much as we heavy-weights.”

“Hmmrph,” Ricarlee said. “Oh, aye, fair enough,” in a tone of one yielding on an important point at a bargaining-table.