He rested his hands on Temeraire’s snout and for a moment laid his cheek against the soft muzzle; Temeraire made a low wordless murmur of unhappiness. “Laurence, Laurence, do not leave me again.”

Laurence swallowed. “My dear,” he said, and stopped; no answer was possible.

They stood with their heads together in silence, the rest of the world shut out: but only for a moment. “Laurence,” Roland called from beyond the encircling coils: she sounded out of breath, and her voice was urgent. “Temeraire, do move aside, there is a good fellow.” Temeraire lifted up his head and reluctantly uncurled himself a little so they could speak; but all the while he kept himself between Laurence and Barham’s party.

Roland ducked under Temeraire’s foreleg and joined Laurence. “You had to go to Temeraire, of course, but it will look very bad to someone who does not understand dragons. For pity’s sake do not let Barham push you into anything further: answer him as meek as mother-may-I, do anything he tells you.” She shook her head. “By God, Laurence; I hate to leave you in such straits, but the dispatches have come, and minutes may make the difference here.”

“Of course you cannot stay,” he said. “They are likely waiting for you at Dover even now to launch the attack; we will manage, never fear.”

“An attack? There is to be a battle?” Temeraire said, overhearing; he flexed his talons and looked away to the east, as if he might see the formations rising into the air even from here.

“Go at once, and pray take care,” Laurence said hastily to Roland. “Give my apologies to Hollin.”

She nodded. “Try and stay easy in your mind. I will speak with Lenton even before we launch. The Corps will not sit still for this; bad enough to separate you, but now this outrageous pressure, stirring up all the dragons like this: it cannot be allowed to continue, and no one can possibly hold you to blame.”

“Do not worry or wait another instant: the attack is more important,” he said, very heartily: counterfeit, as much as her assurances; they both knew that the situation was black. Laurence could not for a moment regret having gone to Temeraire’s side, but he had openly disobeyed orders. No court-martial could find him innocent; there was Barham himself to lay the charges, and if questioned Laurence could hardly deny the act. He did not think they would hang him: this was not a battlefield offense, and the circumstances offered some excuse, but he would certainly have been dismissed the service if he had still been in the Navy. There was nothing to be done but face the consequences; he forced a smile, Roland gave his arm a quick squeeze, and she was gone.

The Chinese had risen and collected themselves, making a better show of it than the ragged Marines, who looked ready to bolt at any moment’s notice. They all together were now picking their way over the fallen oak. The younger official, Sun Kai, more deftly scrambled over, and with one of the attendants offered a hand to the prince to help him down. Yongxing was hampered by his heavy embroidered gown, leaving trailers of bright silk like gaily colored cobwebs upon the broken branches, but if he felt any of the same terror writ large on the faces of the British soldiers, he did not show it: he seemed unshaken.

Temeraire kept a savage, brooding eye upon them all. “I am not going to sit here while everyone else goes and fights, no matter what those people want.”

Laurence stroked Temeraire’s neck comfortingly. “Do not let them upset you. Pray stay quite calm, my dear; losing our tempers will not improve matters.” Temeraire only snorted, and his eye remained fixed and glittering, the ruff still standing upright with all the points very stiff: in no mood to be soothed.

Himself quite ashen, Barham made no haste to approach any closer to Temeraire, but Yongxing addressed him sharply, repeating demands both urgent and angry, judging by his gestures towards Temeraire; Sun Kai, however, stood apart, and regarded Laurence and Temeraire more thoughtfully. At last Barham came towards them scowling, evidently taking refuge from fear in anger; Laurence had seen it often enough in men on the eve of battle.

“This is the discipline of the Corps, I gather,” Barham began: petty and spiteful, since his life had very likely been saved by the disobedience. He himself seemed to perceive as much; he grew even angrier. “Well, it will not stand with me, Laurence, not for an instant; I will see you broken for this. Sergeant, take him under arrest—”

The end of the sentence was inaudible; Barham was sinking, growing small, his shouting red mouth flashing open and shut like a gasping fish, the words becoming indistinct as the ground fell away beneath Laurence’s feet. Temeraire’s talons were carefully cupped around him and the great black wings were beating in broad sweeps, up up up through the dingy London air, soot dulling Temeraire’s hide and speckling Laurence’s hands.

Laurence settled himself in the cupped claws and rode in silence; the damage was done, and Laurence knew better than to ask Temeraire to return to the ground at once: there was a sense of true violence in the force behind his wing-strokes, rage barely checked. They were going very fast. He peered downward in some anxiety as they sped over the city walls: Temeraire was flying without harness or signals, and Laurence feared the guns might be turned on them. But the guns stayed silent: Temeraire was distinctive, with his hide and wings of unbroken black, save for the deep blue and pearlescent grey markings along the edges, and he had been recognized.

Or perhaps their passage was simply too swift for a response: they left the city behind them fifteen minutes after leaving the ground, and were soon beyond the range even of the long-barreled pepper-guns. Roads branched away through the countryside beneath them, dusted with snow, the smell of the air already much cleaner. Temeraire paused and hovered for a moment, shook his head free of dust, and sneezed loudly, jouncing Laurence about a little; but afterwards he flew on at a less frantic pace, and after another minute or two he curled his head down to speak. “Are you well, Laurence? You are not uncomfortable?”

He sounded more anxious than the subject deserved. Laurence patted his foreleg where he could reach it. “No, I am very well.”

“I am very sorry to have snatched you away so,” Temeraire said, some tension gone at the warmth in Laurence’s voice. “Pray do not be angry; I could not let that man take you.”

“No, I am not angry,” Laurence said; indeed, so far as his heart was concerned there was only a great, swelling joy to be once again aloft, to feel the living current of power running through Temeraire’s body, even if his more rational part knew this state could not last. “And I do not blame you for going, not in the least, but I am afraid we must turn back now.”

“No; I am not taking you back to that man,” Temeraire said obstinately, and Laurence understood with a sinking feeling that he had run up against Temeraire’s protective instincts. “He lied to me, and kept you away, and then he wanted to arrest you: he may count himself lucky I did not squash him.”

“My dear, we cannot just run wild,” Laurence said. “We would be truly beyond the pale if we did such a thing; how do you imagine we would eat, except by theft? And we would be abandoning all our friends.”

“I am no more use to them in London, sitting in a covert,” Temeraire said, with perfect truth, and left Laurence at a loss for how to answer him. “But I do not mean to run wild; although,” a little wistfully, “to be sure, it would be pleasant to do as we liked, and I do not think anyone would miss a few sheep here and there. But not while there is a battle to be fought.”

“Oh dear,” Laurence said, as he squinted towards the sun and realized their course was southeast, directly for their former covert at Dover. “Temeraire, they cannot let us fight; Lenton will have to order me back, and if I disobey he will arrest me just as quick as Barham, I assure you.”