Temeraire. Naomi Novik

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. ‘But I think for the sake of the ship, I must put her in your hands at once; I will need to devote a great deal of my attention to Temeraire now, and I cannot divide it so.’

      ‘Oh, sir!’ Riley said, miserably, but not protesting; evidently the idea had occurred to him as well. But his regret was obviously sincere; he had sailed with Laurence for years, and had come up to lieutenant in his service from a mere midshipman; they were friends as well as comrades.

      ‘Let us not be complainers, Tom,’ Laurence said more quietly and less formally, giving a warning glance to where Temeraire was still glutting himself. Dragon intelligence was a mystery to men who made a study of the subject; he had no idea how much the dragon would hear or understand, but thought it better to avoid the risk of giving offence. Raising his voice a little more, he added, ‘I am sure you will manage her admirably, Captain.’

      Taking a deep breath, he removed his gold epaulettes; they were pinned on securely, but he had not been wealthy when he had first made captain, and he had not forgotten, from those days, how to shift them easily from one coat to another. Though perhaps it was not entirely proper to give Riley the symbol of rank without confirmation by the Admiralty, Laurence felt it necessary to mark the change of command in some visible manner. The left he slipped into his pocket, the right he fixed on Riley’s shoulder: even as a captain, Riley could wear only one until he had three years’ seniority. Riley’s fair, freckled skin showed every emotion plainly, and he could hardly fail to be happy at this unexpected promotion despite the circumstances; he flushed up with colour, and looked as though he wished to speak but could not find the words.

      ‘Mr. Wells,’ Laurence said, hinting; he meant to do it properly, having begun.

      The third lieutenant started, then said a little weakly, ‘Huzzah for Captain Riley.’ A cheer went up, ragged initially, but strong and clear by the third repetition: Riley was a highly competent