“The consequence of so much strife and unrest, we thought,” a Prussian general said slowly, but at last a full understanding was taking hold among them, which Laurence had despaired of in the past months, when his every attempt at raising the specter of the Concord had been met with dismissal—ferals were of small numbers, of no account; Napoleon’s offer could not even reach them, for the lack of language and letters; they would not believe in it, if it did.

“If he has truly gained the allegiance of the feral beasts, the unharnessed beasts, we must root them all out. How can it be done? Poison—” one officer began.

“He has gained it,” Laurence snapped, “because this is the answer you would make them. When you offer them slaughter or even the mere slow dwindling starvation which has been their lot, these last few centuries, and Napoleon holds out the promise of liberty, and the enjoyment of rights in the territory which they consider their own, there can be hardly any wonder that they should flock to his banner. Do you imagine the harnessed dragons now in our service will long remain loyal, when they know you mean to destroy their fellows?”

Wittgenstein held up a hand, and with an effort, Laurence silenced himself; he felt as though his heart beat with a palpable force against his ribs. He saw Hammond glancing at him sidelong, worried, and Yu Li, despite being unable to follow his words, had understood his passion; she had sidled over to take up a position flanking him to the left with her forelegs held high—apparently at rest, but the muscles of her legs were gathered as though to launch her with all their considerable force, if necessary. He felt entirely capable of violence himself.

“The Tsar has summoned me to Bautzen,” Wittgenstein said to the silent room—the Tsar undoubtedly meant to name him commander, in Kutuzov’s place. He was nearly the only choice, and could scarcely refuse, but the position he would inherit could not have been less enviable. “I must inform him of this intelligence, and learn his will. We will convene tomorrow morning. For now, gentlemen, go to your rest. Mr. Hammond, if I may ask you for a word—”

Hammond went away with him, not without an anxious backwards look, and Laurence turning walked from the house and returned to the field-covert still in that settled mood of wrath. “Come, you will sleep warmer with Temeraire,” Laurence told Yu Li, when they had landed. She tucked herself beneath Temeraire’s wing, which he raised murmuring without even opening an eye, but Laurence could not rest. He paced his fury out the length of Temeraire’s body—aware as he did that his officers and crew watched him out of their tents, and whispered. He could not care.

The reply would come by morning. He did not know what the Tsar would decide. In Russia, Alexander had ordered the release of his own feral dragons from the hobbles that kept them imprisoned in the breeding grounds. But he had done so only from expediency—he had hoped to persuade those dragons to take carrying-harnesses, and transport his infantry, in exchange for their liberty and their bread, and to keep Napoleon from recruiting them instead. That same expediency might now induce him to attempt the wholesale destruction of the feral dragons, if he thought it easier to achieve.

Laurence knew with perfect clarity that he would not obey such an order, nor even stand by and see it done—and he did not have to wonder what Temeraire would think of it. They had met a like choice, once before. His steps slowed at last, and he halted by Temeraire’s sleeping head, the calm of resolution settling upon him. He had determined not to regret his choice; if he were now to be taken at his word, and that determination tried, he could not complain. Their course would be clear enough, if as wrenching as he could imagine. He had refused Napoleon his service, twice over, when he could have served his own interest. But for this, they would go to him.

At least the distance would not be long, Laurence thought, with a black humor, and almost might have laughed. He breathed deeply once instead, and mastered himself. Six bells had lately rung—there were a few hours yet until morning. He was still wearing his flying-coat; he climbed up to the crook of Temeraire’s foreleg, wrapped the leather skirts close around himself, and shut his eyes; sleep came easily and all at once, as though he lay in his cot, twenty years ago, without a care but the direction of the wind.

—

Temeraire felt really exasperated, the next morning, when everyone was very quiet all over again—his crew, this time, and once more for no reason which anyone would tell him. It was all shrugs, and “I don’t know anything, I’m sure,” except for O’Dea, who would only make dark hints of some mysterious terrible event which was certain to occur, and then say, “Ah, but I don’t know anything, I’m sure,” which was not to be preferred.

Laurence had gone to meet with the generals again—he had looked so very fine this morning, Temeraire had noted approvingly. He had woken to find all the runners scrambling, for once summoned away from their schoolwork, and Laurence shaving while they sponged his best coat and ironed his best shirt, ordinarily kept in the chest with Temeraire’s talon-sheaths. Temeraire had seized the chance of offering a few suggestions—and Laurence had very obligingly put on his medal of the Nile, and freshly polished the hilt of his sword, and taken his dress hat with its handsome cockade, much to Temeraire’s satisfaction; but then the hour had grown late and Laurence had gone in a rush, and only then had Temeraire realized, from the behavior of the crew, that he ought to have asked what cause merited the display.

“Very well,” he said, in some irritation, “then I am going to the porridge-pits to see if anyone else does know anything, as you are all quite useless.”

Most of the ferals liked to gather there, and have a smell of the food even if it was not ready for eating yet; and at least one of the big dragons had to sleep near-by to keep them off it: it had been Iskierka’s turn last night, so she was lying beside them, but she had nothing to offer. “I don’t see there is anything to know,” Iskierka said, yawning. “Granby, is there?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Granby said—Temeraire looked at him with a strong sense of betrayal, but at least Granby had the grace to look troubled. “I did hear Laurence was in a taking, last night, but you know what he is: if anyone tells you he gabbed about what set him off, you can be sure it comes straight from Banbury. Perhaps it is only old Kutuzov dying like that; no-one can like the commander popping off in the night with Napoleon on our heels. They say it is going to be Wittgenstein next, I hear,” which was interesting at least, but did not answer Temeraire’s immediate concern.