Empire of Ivory. Naomi Novik

secretaries: a tall, thin, officious fellow, stood before Laurence speaking impatiently, ‘Yes, yes, I have your numbers written in front of me; and you may be sure we have taken note of the higher requisitions of cattle. But have any of them recovered? You say nothing of that. How many can fly now that could not manage it before, and for how long can they sustain it?’

      Laurence resentfully felt as if he were inquiring about the improved performance of a ship, after changes of her cordage or sailcloth. ‘The surgeons are of the opinion, that with these measures we can certainly expect to retard the progress of the illness,’ he could not claim that any had recovered. ‘Which alone must be of benefit, and perhaps with the addition of these pavilions—’

      The secretary was shaking his head. ‘If they will not improve further, I cannot give you any encouragement on the matter: we must still build shore batteries along the coastline, and if you think dragons expensive, you cannot imagine the cost of the guns.’

      ‘All the more reason to spend a little more on the dragons we have, to safeguard their remaining strength,’ Laurence said. In frustration he added, ‘And especially, sir, because it is no more than their just deserts for their service; these are sentient creatures, not dumb cavalry horses.’

      ‘Oh, such romantic notions,’ the secretary said, dismissively. ‘Captain; I regret to inform you that his Lordship is occupied today. We have your report, and you may be sure he will respond to it, when he has time. I can make you an appointment for next week, perhaps.’

      Laurence restrained himself from replying to this incivility in a way he felt it deserved; and departed feeling that he had been a far worse messenger than Jane would have been. His spirits were not to be recovered even upon catching a glimpse of Lord Nelson in the courtyard: splendid in his dress uniform and row of peculiar misshapen medals. They had been partially melted to his skin at Trafalgar, when a pass by a Spanish fire-breather during the battle had caught his flagship, and his life had nearly despaired of from the dreadful burns he received. Laurence was glad to see him so recovered: a line of pink scarred skin was visible upon his jaw, running down his throat into the high collar of his coat; but this did not deter him from talking energetically with, or rather to, a small group of attentive officers, his one arm gesturing wildly.

      A crowd had collected at a respectful distance to overhear, and Laurence had to push his way into the street through them, making his muttered apologies as softly as he could; at any other time he might have stayed to listen with them. At present he had to make his way through the streets, thick dark slurry of half-frozen ice and muck chilling his boots, back to the London covert, where Temeraire waited anxiously to receive the news.

      ‘But surely there must be some means of persuading him,’ Temeraire said. ‘I cannot bear that our friends should be allowed to grow worse, when we have so easy a remedy at hand.’

      ‘We will have to manage on what we can afford, and stretch that little out,’ Laurence said. ‘Some effect may be produced by simply the searing of the meat, or by stewing it; let us not despair, my dear, but hope that Gong Su’s ingenuity may yet find some answer.”

      ‘I do not suppose Grenville eats raw beef every night, with the hide still on it, and with no salt added, or that he goes to sleep on the cold ground,’ Temeraire said, resentfully. ‘I should like to see him try it for a week and then try to refuse us.’ His tail lashed dangerously at the already denuded treetops around the edge of the clearing.

      Laurence agreed, and then it occurred to him that Grenville was likely to dine from home. He called Emily to fetch him some paper, and wrote several notes in quick succession. The season was not yet begun, but he had a dozen acquaintances besides his family that were likely to be in town for the opening of Parliament. ‘There is very little chance I will be able to catch him,’ he warned Temeraire, to forestall the raising of his hopes, ‘and even less that he will listen to me, if I do.’

      He could not wish whole-heartedly for success in locating the man, either; he did not think he could restrain his temper in his present mood, against the further onslaught of casual insults that he was likely to face wearing his aviator’s coat. Indeed, any social occasion promised to be rather a punishment than a pleasure, but an hour before dinner, he received a reply from an old shipmate from the Leander, who had long since made post and was now a member himself, and who expected to meet Grenville that night at Lady Wrightley’s ball: that lady being one of his mother’s intimates.

      There was a sad and absurd crush of carriages outside the great house, and a blind obstinacy on the part of two coach drivers who were not willing to give way to each other, narrowing the lane to an impasse so that no one else could move either. Laurence was glad to have resorted to an old fashioned sedan chair, even if he had done so simply due to the impossibility of hiring a horse-drawn carriage anywhere near the covert. He reached the steps unsplattered. Even if his coat were green, at least it was new and properly cut; his linen was beyond reproach and his knee breeches and stockings were a crisp white, so he felt he need not blush for his appearance.

      He offered his card and was presented to his hostess, a lady he had met only once before, at one of his mother’s dinners. ‘Pray, how does your mother? I suppose she has gone to the country?’ Lady Wrightley said, perfunctorily extending her hand. ‘Lord Wrightley, this is Captain William Laurence, Lord Allendale’s son.’

      A gentleman just lately entered stood beside Lord Wrightley, still speaking with him; he startled at the introduction, and insisted on being presented to Laurence as a Mr. Broughton, from the Foreign Office.

      Broughton seized Laurence’s hand with great enthusiasm. ‘Captain Laurence, you must permit me to congratulate you,’ he said. ‘Or should I say, Your Highness, as I suppose we must address you now, ha ha!’

      Laurence’s hurried, ‘I beg you will not—’ was thoroughly ignored as an astonished Lady Wrightley demanded an explanation.

      ‘Why, you have a prince of China attending your party, I will have you know, ma’am. The most complete stroke, Captain, the most complete stroke imaginable. We have had it all from Hammond: his letter has been worn to rags in our offices, and we go about wreathed in delight; we tell others of it just to have the pleasure of saying it over again. How Bonaparte must be gnashing his teeth!’

      ‘It was nothing to do with me, sir, I assure you,’ Laurence said with growing despair. ‘It was all Mr. Hammond’s doing – a mere formality—’ But he spoke too late, for Broughton was already regaling Lady Wrightley and half-a-dozen other interested parties with a account both colourful and highly inaccurate of Laurence’s adoption, which in truth had been nothing more than a means of saving-face. The Chinese had required the excuse in order to give Laurence their official imprimatur to serve as companion to a Celestial dragon, a privilege reserved solely for the Imperial family. He was quite sure that the Chinese had forgotten his existence the very moment he had departed: he had not entertained the least notion of trading upon the adoption at home.

      The brangle of carriages outside had stifled the flow of newcomers causing a lull in the party, still in its early hours, which made everyone more willing to hear the exotic story, although its success had already been guaranteed by the fairy-tale colouration that it had acquired. And so, Laurence found himself the subject of much attention. Lady Wrightley was by no means embarrassed to pronounce Laurence’s attendance a coup rather than a favour done for an old friend.

      He would have liked to go at once, but Grenville had not yet arrived, and so he clenched his teeth and bore the indignity of being presented around the room. ‘No, I am afraid I am not ranked in the line of succession,’ he said, over and over, privately thinking that he would like to see the reaction of the Chinese to such a suggestion; they had implied that he was an unlettered savage on more than occasion.

      He had not expected to dance; society was perennially uncertain on the subject of the aviators’ respectability, and he did not mean to blight some lady’s reputation, nor open himself to the unpleasant experience of being fended off by a chaperone. But just before the first dance commenced, his hostess presented him deliberately to one of her guests, as an eligible partner. Miss Lucas was perhaps in her second or third season;