Laurence did not immediately answer. “I am afraid so,” he said, at last, quietly. “The waste of your abilities is very nearly criminal, my dear, and Jane will do her best by us, of course; but with matters as they are amongst the unharnessed beasts in England, and such reports as Bligh is already likely to make of us, I must not counsel you to hope for a quick recall.”

Temeraire could not fail to see that Laurence was quite downcast by his own words. “Why, I am sure it will be perfectly pleasant to remain awhile,” Temeraire said, stoutly, making sure to tuck his wings to his sides in a complaisant sort of way. “Only if we are to remain,” he did not allow any disappointment to color his words, “then it seems to me that Caesar is right on this one point: we ought have better leadership, who can arrange it so we can have proper food, and everything nice—perhaps even a pavilion, with some shade and water, against all this heat. We might even build some roads as wide as in China, and put the pavilions directly in the town; just like a properly civilized country.”

“We cannot hope to promote such a project, however desirable, without the support of civil authority; you cannot force the change wholesale,” Laurence said; he paused and added, low, “We might make such a bargain with Bligh, I expect; he cannot be insensible of your much greater strength, and he knows he requires at least our complaisance, even if he has Rankin’s aid.”

“But Laurence, I do not like Bligh at all,” Temeraire said. “I have quite settled it that he is a bounder: he will say anything, and do anything, and be friendly to anyone, only to be back as governor; but I do not think it is because he wishes so much to do anything pleasant or nice for anyone.”

“No, he wishes only to be vindicated, I believe,” Laurence answered, “—and revenged. Not without cause,” he added, “but—” He stopped and shook his head. “There would be a species of tyranny in it, when they have ruled so long and without argument from the citizenry.”

Temeraire brooded on further afterwards, that afternoon, while Caesar discussed enthusiastically with Rankin plans for an elaborate cattle farm, quite exploding Temeraire’s hopes of napping. He was beginning to understand strongly the sentiment that beggars could not be choosers. No one would ever have chosen to be trapped here; but now he must make the best of it, for himself and for Laurence. Temeraire dismally recognized that he had solaced himself, by thinking that Iskierka was only a wretched pirate, really, and her excesses for Granby in poor taste, which Laurence would not have liked, anyway. But now here was Rankin, too, also wearing gold buttons, and he was a captain still, as Laurence ought have been. There was no thinking two ways about it: Temeraire had not taken proper care of him; he had quite mismanaged the situation.

“Demane,” Temeraire said, lifting his head, and speaking in the Xhosa language, so Rankin could not sneak and overhear, nor Caesar; Demane looked up from where he was figuring sums with Roland—or rather, giving his sums to Sipho to figure for him, while he instead cleaned yet another old flintlock; he had acquired another four in the town, lately. “Demane, do you remember that fellow who was here the other day, MacArthur? Will you go into town and find out where he lives; and take him a message?”

“I cannot but feel I have—I am—mismanaging the situation,” Laurence said somberly, tapping his hand restlessly upon the table until he noticed his own fidgeting, which even then required an effort to cease.

From wishing only to have the decision taken out of his own hands, Laurence now found he did not think he could be easy in his mind to watch the colony’s leaders deposed and, as he increasingly thought Bligh’s intention, executed without even awaiting word from England. “But if Rankin should move in his support, I cannot avoid the decision: either we must stand by or intervene. I hope,” he added ruefully, “that I am not so petty as to have more sympathy for Johnston and MacArthur, and the less for Bligh, only because Rankin has ranged himself alongside him.”

“You might have a worse reason,” Tharkay said. “At least you cannot call the decision self-interested; his restoration would be more to your advantage.”

“Not unless it is by my own doing,” Laurence said, “which I cannot reconcile with a sense of justice; and I doubt even that would serve,” he added, pessimism sharp in his mouth. “Even to act must rouse fresh suspicions; we are damned in either direction, when all they want of us is quiet obedience.”

“If you will pardon my saying so,” Tharkay said, “you will never satisfy them on that point: the last thing you or Temeraire will ever give anyone is quiet obedience. Have you considered it might be better not to try?”

Laurence would have liked to protest this remark: he believed in the discipline of the service, and still felt himself at heart a serving-officer; if he had been forced beyond the bounds of proper submission to authority, it had been most unwillingly. But denial froze in his throat; that excuse was worth precisely the value that their Lordships would have put upon it, which was none.

Tharkay left him to wrestle with it a moment, then added, “There are alternatives, if you wished to consider them.”

“To sit here on the far side of the world, seeing Temeraire wholly wasted on the business of breeding, and condemned to tedium and the absence of all society?” Laurence said, tiredly. “We might, I suppose, do some work for the colony: ferry goods, and assist with the construction of roads—”

“You might go to sea,” Tharkay said, and Laurence looked at him in surprise. “No, I am not speaking fancifully. You remember, perhaps, Avram Maden?”

Laurence nodded, a little surprised: he had not heard the merchant’s name from Tharkay since they had left Istanbul, nor that of Maden’s daughter; and Laurence had himself avoided any mention of either for fear of giving pain. “I must consider myself yet in his debt; I hope he does well—he did not come under any suspicion, after our escape?”

“No; I believe we made a sufficiently dramatic exit to satisfy the Turks without their seeking for conspirators.” Tharkay paused, and then his mouth twisted a little. “He has been lately presented with his first grandson,” he added.

“Ah,” Laurence said, and reached over to fill Tharkay’s glass.

Tharkay raised it to him silently and drank. A minute passed, then leaving the subject with nothing more said, he abruptly added, “I am engaged to perform a service for the directors of the East India Company, at his request; and as I understand it, several of those gentlemen are interested in outfitting privateers, to strike at the French trade in the Pacific.”

“Yes?” Laurence said politely, wondering how this should apply to his situation. What service those merchant lords might require, in this still-small port, Laurence could not understand, though it explained at least why Tharkay had come—and then he realized, startling back a little in his chair, that Tharkay meant this as a suggestion.

“I could scarcely fit Temeraire on a privateer,” he said, wondering a little that Tharkay could imagine it done: it was not as though he had not seen Temeraire.

“Without having broached the subject with the gentlemen in question,” Tharkay said, “I will nevertheless go so far as to assure you that the practicalities would be managed, if you were willing. Ships can be built to carry dragons, where interest exists; and a dragon who can sink any vessel afloat must command interest.”

He spoke with certainty; and Laurence could take his point. A dragon could never ordinarily be obtained for such a purpose; as yet they were the exclusive province of the state. They and the first-rates and transports which could bear a dragon were devoted to blockade-duty, and to naval warfare, not to the quick and stinging pursuit of the enemy’s shipping. Temeraire would be unopposed, and a privateer so armed would be virtually at liberty to take any ship which it encountered.