And the absurdity, to talk of the Admiralty hanging him—or perhaps not, if one treated the loss of a dragon like a captain’s loss of his ship; Laurence supposed that he might be court-martialed over it, and yet he could not envision any reasonable jury finding against him in such a case. A ship had not her own mind, and could not decide to run herself onto rocks, or be captured and go over to the enemy, or be sunk in battle or by incompetence. A dragon, possessing its own will, who chose to remain behind, could scarcely be compelled by any man.
He sat down upon the bed, troubled suddenly: and yet that seemed untrue. Temeraire’s anger and their misunderstanding had this real and understandable root: where Laurence had not contemplated remaining, Temeraire had for his part not contemplated separation; he had viewed their connection as indissoluble. In such a case, Laurence realized, he indeed did have the power to compel—he had the power to say, I will go, whether you will or no; and it seemed perforce would Temeraire go as well.
That was a strange and even disturbing power to possess over so great a creature: one which demanded a respect that Laurence was unhappily conscious he had not shown, just now. When in an hour’s time he heard wingbeats returning, and Temeraire settled himself into the courtyard again, Laurence went out to him, ignoring the head curled pointedly beneath its wing. “I hope you will forgive me,” he said, to the dark grey translucence of the membrane, which hid the great blue eye from his view.
“I hope you will forgive me,” he said, “and accept my assurances that I would not for the world have wounded you: I see I have not understood how matters stood between us, and that we may only be stationed together, as it were. I can only beg your pardon and assure you that I stand ready to be persuaded, on the subject.”
Temeraire made him no answer, but there was a shift of the wing-joint, and beneath the membrane as it spread out, Laurence could dimly make out a large narrow-slitted eye watching him.
“I cannot—I cannot pretend,” he added, “that I feel I ought easily be swayed to see it our joint duty to remain here, taken all in all, in the present circumstances. I do not doubt you in the least that, on a prior occasion, I should have been willing to remain; I can only suppose that the circumstances of the war must have been considerably different, at the time. But I will do my best to consider the matter, if you wish to—”
The wing lifted away. “No,” Temeraire said, shortly, “no; I do not see any sense in it. Pray forget I mentioned it,” and he thrust his head back beneath the wing, and was silent again.
Laurence hesitated, torn, and at last gave way and went inside the house again. He did not immediately attempt to sleep: his mind was in an excess of disorder. The guilt of having caused pain to one deserving only consideration at his hands mingled with unanswered disquiet. He wondered if he had been wrong now; or if he had been wrong before: had he spoilt Temeraire? Temeraire was a high-spirited creature, with a remarkable intellect; Laurence could not deny that he took great pleasure in his company, and in the camaraderie that had endured even his loss of memory. Had he indulged that pleasure, and Temeraire’s spirits, at the cost of discipline—at the cost, perhaps, of character?
A dreadful notion, and yet—Temeraire was so certain they should not be missed by the Admiralty; Granby also. It seemed a settled matter with them, scarcely to be questioned. If that were simply a matter of old men preferring more docile breeds, the sort of political caution that saw dull and predictable officers advanced over brilliant ones, Laurence might not have cause to blame himself: God knew he did not find the Admiralty faultless. But if there were something else—
Laurence looked out at Temeraire, who had not stirred out from under his wing. He could not think how he might question Temeraire on the subject, not after this unhappy misunderstanding; he could not make Temeraire feel still more wretched, perhaps without just cause. So he said nothing, while he thought what he might say; and he had still said nothing when a knock upon the door of his chamber interrupted his considerations, and Hammond without invitation thrust his head within, most anxiously. “Captain, I beg your pardon, we must intrude,” he said, and opened the door for a messenger in pale green livery who followed him into the courtyard, and prostrating himself with a quick efficiency presented a letter bearing elaborate seals. Laurence took it up and opened it, and found therein a brief missive from the Emperor himself—a piece of enormous condescension which he supposed had been merited by the assassination attempt.
It contained wishes for his good health, an expression of outrage at the recent events, and concluded with a mild hope of seeing him, at some time. “His Majesty is most generous,” Laurence said to the still-prostrate and waiting messenger, who seemed to be waiting for some immediate answer; but this did not satisfy him: or, at least, it did not make him rise. “Hammond, will you pray tell me how I am to answer this?” He held out the note.
Hammond read the letter through more swiftly than Laurence had managed to puzzle it out, and paled. “Good Heavens,” he said, “we must go at once: and I suppose we have not the first thing for you to wear.”