“All aboard and latched on, sir,” Granby said, taking up his own launch position on Temeraire’s right shoulder.

“Very well. Temeraire, we will begin with the standard clear-weather patrol pattern twice, then shift to the modified version on my signal,” Laurence said.

Temeraire nodded, his eyes bright, and launched himself into the air. It was the simplest of their new maneuvers, and Temeraire had little difficulty following it; the greater problem, Laurence saw at once, as Temeraire pulled out of the last corkscrewing turn and back into his standard position, would be in accustoming the crew. The riflemen had missed at least half their targets, and Temeraire’s sides were stained where the lightly weighted sacks full of ash that stood for bombs in practice had hit him instead of falling below.

“Well, Mr. Granby, we have some work ahead of us before we can make a creditable showing of it,” Laurence said, and Granby nodded ruefully.

“Indeed, sir; perhaps if he flew a little slower at first?” Granby said.

“I think perhaps we must adjust our thinking as well,” Laurence said, studying the pattern of ash marks. “We cannot be hurling bombs during these quick turns he makes, there is no way we can be sure of missing him. So we cannot work steadily: we must wait and release the equivalent of a full broadside in the moments when he is level. We will be at greater risk of missing a target entirely, but that risk can be borne; the other cannot.”

Temeraire flew in an easy circuit while the topmen and bellmen hastily adjusted their bombing gear; this time, when they attempted the maneuver again, Laurence saw the sacks falling away, and there were no fresh marks to be seen on Temeraire’s sides. The riflemen, also waiting for the level parts of the run, improved their record as well, and after half a dozen repetitions, Laurence was well-satisfied with the results.

“When we can deliver our full allotment of bombs and achieve perhaps an eighty percent success rate in our gunnery, on this and the other four new maneuvers, I will consider our work worth bringing to Celeritas’s attention,” Laurence said, when they had all dismounted and the ground crew were stripping Temeraire and polishing the dust and grime off his hide. “And I think it eminently achievable: I commend all of you, gentlemen, on a most creditable performance.”

Laurence had previously been sparing with his praise, not wishing to seem as though he was courting the crew’s affections, but now he felt he could scarcely be overly enthusiastic, and he was pleased to see the heartfelt response of his officers to the approval. They were uniformly eager to continue, and after another four weeks of practice, Laurence was indeed beginning to think them ready to perform for a wider audience when the decision was taken from his hands.

“That was an interesting variation you were flying last evening, Captain,” Celeritas said to him at the end of the morning session, as the dragons of the formation landed and the crews disembarked. “Let us see you fly it tomorrow in formation.” With that he nodded and dismissed them, and Laurence was left to call together his crew and Temeraire for a hasty final practice.

Temeraire was inclined to be anxious, late that evening, after the others had gone back inside and he and Laurence were sitting quietly together in the dark, too tired to do more than rest in each other’s company.

“Come, do not let yourself fret,” Laurence said. “You will do very well tomorrow; you have mastered all of the maneuvers from beginning to end. We have been holding back only to give the crew better mastery.”

“I am not very worried about the flying, but what if Celeritas does not approve of the maneuvers?” Temeraire said. “We would have wasted all our time to no purpose.”

“If he thought the maneuvers wholly unwise, he would never have solicited us,” Laurence said. “And in any case our time has not been wasted in the least; the crew have all learned their work a good deal better for having to give more attention and thought to their tasks, and even if Celeritas disapproved entirely I would still count all these evenings of ours profitably spent.”

He at last soothed Temeraire to sleep and himself dozed off by the dragon’s side; though it was early September, the summer’s warmth was lingering, and he took no chill. Despite all his reassurances to Temeraire, Laurence himself was up and alert by first light, and he could not wholly repress a degree of anxiety in his own breast. Most of his crew were at the breakfast table as early as he was, so he made a point of speaking with several of them, and eating heartily; he would rather have not taken anything but coffee.

When he came out into the training courtyard he found Temeraire there already in his gear and looking over the valley; his tail was lashing the air uneasily. Celeritas was not yet there; fifteen minutes passed before any of the other dragons of the formation arrived, and by then Laurence had taken Temeraire and his crew out to fly a few circuits of the area. The younger ensigns and midwingmen were particularly inclined to be shrill, and he had the hands go through exchanging places to settle their nerves.

Dulcia landed, and Maximus after her; the full formation was now assembled, and Laurence brought Temeraire back in to the courtyard. Celeritas had still not yet arrived. Lily was yawning widely; Praecursoris was quietly speaking with Nitidus, the Pascal’s Blue, who also spoke French, his egg having been purchased from a French hatchery many years before the start of the war, when relations had been amicable enough to permit such exchanges. Temeraire still looked at Praecursoris with a brooding eye, but for once Laurence did not mind, if it would provide some distraction.

A bright flurry of wings caught his eye; looking up, he saw Celeritas coming in to land, and beyond him the rapidly dwindling forms of several Winchesters and Greylings, going away in various directions. Lower in the sky, two Yellow Reapers were heading south in company with Victoriatus, though the wounded Parnassian’s convalescence was not properly over. All the dragons came alert, sitting up; the captains’ voices died away; the crews fell into a heavy and expectant silence, all before Celeritas even reached the ground.

“Villeneuve and his fleet have been caught,” Celeritas said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. “They have been penned up in the port of Cadiz, with the Spanish navy also.” Even as he spoke, the servants were running out of the hall, carrying hastily packed bags and boxes; even the maids and cooks had been pressed into duty. Without being ordered, Temeraire rose to all four legs, just as did the other dragons; the ground crews were already unrolling the belly-netting and climbing up to rig the tents.

“Mortiferus has been sent to Cadiz; Lily’s formation must go to the Channel at once to take the place of his wing. Captain Harcourt,” Celeritas said, turning to her, “Excidium remains at the Channel, and he has eighty years’ experience; you and Lily must train with him in every free moment you have. I am giving Captain Sutton command of the formation for the moment; this is no reflection upon your work, but with this abbreviation of your training, we must have more experience in the role.”

It was more usual for the captain of the lead dragon of a formation to be the commander, largely because that dragon had to lead off every maneuver, but she nodded without any sign of offense. “Yes, certainly,” she said; her voice came out a little high, and Laurence glanced at her with quick sympathy: Lily had hatched unexpectedly early, and Harcourt had become a captain barely out of her own training; this might well be her first action, or very nearly so.

Celeritas gave her an approving nod. “Captain Sutton, you will naturally consult with Captain Harcourt as far as possible.”