The Temeraire Series Books 1-3: Temeraire, Throne of Jade, Black Powder War. Naomi Novik

in examining itself and picking off bits of shell that had adhered to its hide, in a fastidious sort of way. Though it was barely the size of a large dog, the five talons upon each claw were still an inch long and impressive; Carver looked at them anxiously and stopped an arm’s length away. Here he stood waiting dumbly; the dragon continued to ignore him, and presently he cast an anxious look of appeal over his shoulder at where Laurence stood with Mr. Pollitt.

      ‘Perhaps if he were to speak to it again,’ Mr. Pollitt said, dubiously.

      ‘Pray do so, Mr. Carver,’ Laurence said.

      The boy nodded, but even as he turned back, the dragonet forestalled him by climbing down from its cushion and leaping onto the deck past him. Carver turned around with hand still out stretched and an almost comical look of surprise, and the other officers, who had drawn closer in the excitement of the hatching, backed away in alarm.

      ‘Hold your positions,’ Laurence snapped. ‘Mr. Riley, look to the hold.’ Riley nodded and took up position in front of the opening, to prevent the dragonet’s going down below.

      But the dragonet instead turned to exploring the deck; it flicked out a long, narrow forked tongue as it walked, lightly touching everything in its reach, and looked around itself with every evidence of curiosity and intelligence. Yet it continued to ignore Carver, despite the boy’s repeated attempts to catch its attention, and seemed equally un interested in the other officers. Though it did occasionally rear up onto its hind legs to peer at a face more closely, it did as much to examine a pulley, or the hanging hourglass, at which it batted curiously.

      Laurence felt his heart sinking; no one could blame him, precisely, if the dragonet did not show any inclination for an untrained sea-officer, but to have a truly rare dragonet caught in the shell go feral would certainly feel like a blow. They had arranged the matter from common knowledge, bits and pieces out of Pollitt’s books, and from Pollitt’s own imperfect recollection of a hatching which he had once observed; now Laurence feared there was some essential step they had missed. It had certainly seemed strange to him that the dragonet should be able to begin talking at once, freshly hatched. They had not found anything in the texts describing any specific invitation or trick to induce the dragonet to speak, but he should certainly be blamed, and blame himself, if it turned out there had been something omitted.

      A low buzz of conversation was spreading as the officers and hands felt the moment passing. Soon he would have to give it up and take thought to confining the beast, to keep it from flying off after they fed it. Still exploring, the dragon came past him; it sat up on its haunches to look at him inquisitively, and Laurence gazed down at it in unconcealed sorrow and dismay.

      It blinked at him; he noticed its eyes were a deep blue and slit-pupilled, and then it said, ‘Why are you frowning?’

      Silence fell at once, and it was only with difficulty that Laurence kept from gaping at the creature. Carver, who must have been thinking him self reprieved by now, was standing behind the dragon, mouth open; his eyes met Laurence’s with a desperate look, but he drew up his courage and stepped forward, ready to address the dragon once more.

      Laurence stared at the dragon, at the pale, frightened boy, and then took a deep breath and said to the creature, ‘I beg your pardon, I did not mean to. My name is Will Laurence; and yours?’

      No discipline could have prevented the murmur of shock which went around the deck. The dragonet did not seem to notice, but puzzled at the question for several moments, and finally said, with a dissatisfied air, ‘I do not have a name.’

      Laurence had read over Pollitt’s books enough to know how he should answer; he asked, formally, ‘May I give you one?’

      It – or rather he, for the voice was definitely masculine – looked him over again, paused to scratch at an apparently flawless spot on his back, then said with unconvincing indifference, ‘If you please.’

      And now Laurence found himself completely blank. He had not given any real thought to the process of harnessing at all, beyond doing his best to see that it occurred, and he had no idea what an appropriate name might be for a dragon. After an awful moment of panic, his mind somehow linked dragon and ship, and he blurted out, ‘Temeraire,’ thinking of the noble dreadnought which he had seen launched, many years before: that same elegant gliding motion.

      He cursed himself silently for having nothing thought-out, but it had been said, and at least it was an honourable name; after all, he was a Navy man, and it was only appropriate— But he paused here in his own thoughts, and stared at the dragonet in mounting horror: of course he was not a Navy man anymore; he could not be, with a dragon, and the moment it accepted the harness from his hands, he would be undone.

      The dragon, evidently perceiving nothing of his feelings, said, ‘Temeraire? Yes. My name is Temeraire.’ He nodded, an odd gesture with the head bobbing at the end of the long neck, and said more urgently, ‘I am hungry.’

      A newly hatched dragon would fly away immediately after being fed, if not restrained; only if the creature might be persuaded to accept the restraint willingly would he ever be controllable, or useful in battle. Rabson was standing by gaping and appalled, and had not come forward with the harness; Laurence had to beckon him over. His palms were sweating, and the metal and leather felt slippery as the man put the harness into his hands. He gripped it tightly and said, remembering at the last moment to use the new name, ‘Temeraire, would you be so good as to let me put this on you? Then we can make you fast to the deck here, and bring you something to eat.’

      Temeraire inspected the harness which Laurence held out to him, his flat tongue slipping out to taste it. ‘Very well,’ he said, and stood expectantly. Resolutely not thinking beyond the immediate task, Laurence knelt and fumbled with the straps and buckles, carefully passing them around the smooth, warm body, keeping well clear of the wings.

      The broadest band went around the dragon’s middle, just behind the forelegs, and buckled under the belly; this was stitched crosswise to two thick straps that ran along the dragon’s sides and across the deep barrel of its chest, then back behind the rear legs and underneath its tail. Various smaller loops had been threaded upon the straps, to buckle around the legs and the base of the neck and tail, to keep the harness in place, and several narrower and thinner bands strapped across its back.

      The complicated assemblage required some attention, for which Laurence was grateful; he was able to lose himself in the task. He noted as he worked that the scales were surprisingly soft to the touch, and it occurred to him that the metal edges might bruise. ‘Mr. Rabson, be so good as to bring me some extra sailcloth; we shall wrap these buckles,’ he said, over his shoulder.

      Shortly it was all done, although the harness and the white-wrapped buckles were ugly against the sleek black body, and did not fit very well. But Temeraire made no complaint, nor about having a chain made fast from the harness to a stanchion, and he stretched his neck out eagerly to the tub full of steaming red meat from the fresh-butchered goat, brought out at Laurence’s command.

      Temeraire was not a clean eater, tearing off large chunks of meat and gulping them down whole, scattering blood and bits of flesh across the deck; he also seemed to enjoy the intestines in particular. Laurence stood well clear of the carnage and, having observed in faintly queasy wonder for a few moments, was abruptly recalled to the situation by Riley’s uncertain, ‘Sir, shall I dismiss the officers?’

      He turned and looked at his lieutenant, then at the staring, dismayed midshipmen; no one had spoken or moved since the hatching, which, he realized abruptly, had been less than half an hour ago; the hourglass was just emptying now. It was difficult to believe; still more difficult to fully acknowledge that he was now in harness, but difficult or not, it had to be faced. Laurence supposed he could cling to his rank until they reached shore; there were no regulations for a situation such as this one. But if he did, a new captain would certainly be put into his place when they reached Madeira, and Riley would never get his step up. Laurence would never again be in a position to do him any good.

      ‘Mr. Riley, the circumstances are awkward, there is no doubt,’ he said, steeling himself; he was not going to ruin Riley’s career for a cowardly avoidance.