“Laurence, whatever do you suppose he is talking about?” Temeraire asked, in an undertone, while the covert’s harried quartermaster began a scurrying effort to put out some hot mash with leftover beef bones for the blue-streaked ferals, mostly to keep them from hanging about the pen peering wistfully through the stakes and terrifying all the cattle within.

“I suppose that word has got about that there are heaps of treasure to be had, in fighting Napoleon,” Laurence said, “undoubtedly aided by legends of your recently acquired gold.” He was conferring with Challoner and his own supply-officer, a Lieutenant Doone. “We will have them, if they will come: I had not expected so many to answer your lure, but I think we can manage it, even if our commons must be a little short.”

“Do I understand correctly, sir,” Captain Windle said—he had walked over from Obituria—“that you propose to saddle us with this unruly gaggle for baggage, and feed them out of our supply? The winter is a hard time for feral beasts, I am sure, and as a form of charity this must recommend itself; I would be glad to know what military purpose you intend they should serve.”

More than you, Temeraire would have liked to say, his ruff going back at Windle’s tone, which he felt thoroughly disrespectful, but Laurence answered as though he had asked the question without rudeness.

“I propose, Captain, that they should be a screen for our formations, and a constant threat to the enemy’s supply and cavalry—what he has left of it, after Moscow. If we cannot contrive to feed them, they must supply their wants somewhere, and better in French territory than in Scotland. We will not, however, delay our departure any further for their sake. Temeraire, they must be ready to go now, or not at all. Pray pass the word to check harness.”

Temeraire called out with a pleasant sensation of significance, “Let everyone see to their harness, if you please,” and himself spread his wings and rose onto his haunches to give himself a thorough shaking, politely ignoring the young rifleman Dubrough who lost his footing and mortified had to haul himself back up along his carabiner straps.

“Ha ha, like geese,” Ricarlee said, too audibly, but from every side the dragons were calling back, “All lies well,” and Captain Windle scowling retreated to Obituria as Laurence stepped into Temeraire’s ready claw to be put up.

“Temeraire, your heading is east by north,” Laurence said, clasping his own carabiners onto the harness.

“East by north,” Temeraire called. Fidelitas and Obituria returned, “East by north,” correctly, and then—a leap, a beating of wings, and they were all aloft, the formations taking their arrow-head shapes behind him to either point of wing as they climbed. Temeraire would have liked to pause hovering to look over the display, or at least to crane his head around for a good look, but it would have spoilt the picture they made and reduced his dignity; he restrained the impulse. Distantly he heard Ricarlee and his fellows coming along after them in a clamoring mass.

When his ear could catch no more of the beating sounds of dragons in their first climb, he wheeled away from the coastline and over the open water. A rush of bracing air met him coming in from the Channel, and he let the warmer air beneath his wings carry him up above it. It was a fine clear day, and the harbor speckled with white sails and rowboats, faint cries of people seeing them streaming past—only for a moment; then they were already whipping past and out to sea.

Temeraire settled into a comfortable pace, flicking out his wing-tips on the upper crest to make sure everyone behind him saw the beat. A quick glance to starboard made sure he had not exceeded Obituria’s pace—she would be their limit. She was certainly making an effort, but not unduly so, Temeraire judged. He would have to slow a little in an hour, perhaps, to give her a rest, but it was so lovely to fly swift at the start of a journey, after so long in covert; he was sure everyone must be glad of the chance to stretch themselves.

The cliffs had fallen away behind them; the Continent was a faint smudge on the horizon. One of the large ships of the blockade—a first-rate, or a second-rate? He should have to ask Laurence—was beating up the Channel on patrol, working against the wind that was diving beneath them. Only mizzen and mainsails spread, but she was still impressive, and to Temeraire’s surprised delight she fired a salute as their shadows came streaming over the waves and ran up her sails.

“Laurence, what is that ship?” he asked.

Laurence trained his glass upon her and after a moment said, “My dear, that is the Temeraire, herself.”

ISKIERKA’S FLAME SCORCHED THE air just short of Temeraire’s leading wing—“I beg your pardon,” Temeraire said indignantly. He wheeled round, and then discovered half the ferals had abandoned their positions, wreaking merry havoc among a handful of French supply-carts on the road to the south, quite away from any fighting.

“Temeraire, we must try and establish control over the left flank,” Laurence called, his glass trained upon the field below, where all the infantry of both sides were tangled in what Temeraire found an indistinguishable mass, clouded by stinking wafts of black powder smoke. “I think we are near to breaking them. A run of incendiaries, united with Wittgenstein’s advance, would have a material effect, if it can be done—a quarter of an hour from now, I think, or a little more.”

“But Laurence, look what the ferals are doing,” Temeraire protested. “If I do not go and chivvy them back into line—”

“We knew not to expect better from them, my dear,” Laurence said. “This is not the moment to concern ourselves with their correction.”

Temeraire without pleasure resigned himself to ignoring the ferals’ pillaging; he recalled with pain the behavior of the Russian beasts, over the Berezina—and those dragons had not been under his command; it had not reflected on him. Now here they were with nearly the entire city of Berlin observing, and all their allies—General Wittgenstein himself was at that very moment taking a courier on an arc to the east, watching the battle through his glass—and everyone could see that nearly half his troops were behaving in this scaly and disorderly fashion. He writhed inwardly with mortification and threw a glance towards their right flank, where Dyhern and Eroica were maneuvering with their fellows. Perhaps they would not notice?

He turned his attention back to the battle and called to Iskierka, “Can you take that blue-green fellow over there, or will you need some help?”