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The egg that Laurence recovered on the Amitie was stunningly beautiful, with its shining porcelain shell that seemed impossibly faultless even held in full daylight, and it was only scarcely big enough to be sure that it belonged to a dragon at all. Laurence had seen a preserved ostrich egg in a jar once, a keepsake from Africa that an admiral kept on his shelf, and that was perhaps slightly bigger than his two fists held together. This egg was larger than the ostrich egg, but not by all that much, still small enough to hold comfortably in two hands, around the size of a ripe watermelon.
The creature that hatched from it was, naturally, smaller still, and yet entirely perfect in the graceful black curve of its body, glistening in the sunlight with egg slime. It was no bigger than a housecat, and Laurence, for all his dread of the hatching, found himself quite unable to find the dragonette anything but captivating, as it delicately flicked the remains of the shell off of its body and shook itself to remove some of the slime, which did not decrease its resemblance to a domestic pet. Laurence was reminded, suddenly, of the first time he had seen an infant, at some ten years of age, and how all the adults in the room could not stop remarking on the baby’s tiny fingernails, and realized he felt much the same, seeing a dragon, that great and noble beast, in miniature. Were all dragonettes so small when they hatched? he wondered. It seemed unlikely.
The dragonette stopped in front of him, and said, in an improbably low voice for his diminutive size, “Why are you frowning?”
.
Temeraire, for that was what Laurence named him, grew at an astonishing speed. After only two days, he had increased from the size of a cat -- ten or so pounds at hatching, by Laurence’s estimate -- to the size of a large terrier, and after four he was big enough that when he laid on Laurence’s chest to sleep, which was what he had done very shortly after his first meal and continued to do for the next several days in between eating, Laurence found it rather difficult to breathe. Temeraire was only with difficulty persuaded to curl up beside him rather than in his arms, and by the end of ten days, was too large to fit in the bed at all.
“Do you not wish to grow large?” Laurence asked him. The ship’s doctor had not been able to identify the breed, and although he could say by now with some certainty that Temeraire would grow no larger than a middleweight, that still left him some dozen potential tons to grow.
“Oh, of course I do,” Temeraire said, yawning widely. In lieu of being allowed in the bed, he had settled for wrapping himself around Laurence on deck, with his head resting in his lap to be petted, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his black scales. “Only, it does not seem very fair that I should be allowed such a comfortable resting place, only to grow too large for it straight away. Are the beds bigger on land, Laurence?”
“Somewhat bigger,” Laurence allowed. His bed in the captain’s quarters was the largest he had ever been allowed on a ship, however, and even a much more generous accommodation would not have a bed that could fit a dragon, even a courier. “But by the time we reach land, you will be bigger too, my dear.”
“That is just as well,” Temeraire said complacently, “because soon I will be big enough to fly with you, will I not?” He tilted his head to look up at the great blue sky above them, endless over the waves.
“I expect you will, perhaps even this week if the weather continues in this vein,” Laurence said. Temeraire was by then the size of a pony, and Laurence could sit quite comfortably on his back without worrying he would crush him, but he was not yet entirely sure about allowing Temeraire to support both their weights in the air. He could not yet shake the image of the tiny creature he had been scarcely days ago, climbing into Laurence’s lap after licking the blood from his chops and looking at him with those clear, intelligent eyes and saying, “You are warm. Will you pick me up?” and Laurence had found himself obliging by instinct. Temeraire had nuzzled that smooth black head, then no bigger than an apple, into the crook of Laurence’s neck, and fallen promptly asleep.
“How big shall I get?” Temeraire asked sleepily. It was not the first time he had asked Laurence such a question, but Laurence understood it to be a matter of importance to dragons.
“We shall see as you grow,” he said, stroking Temeraire’s head. “Some dragons are even bigger than this ship, although I do not think you can possibly grow so large.” Temeraire had grown quickly, he thought, but not quickly enough to reach ten thousand times or more his hatching weight.
“But I will grow big enough to carry you, won’t I?” Temeraire asked.
“Of course, my dear,” Laurence said. “I have never seen a dragon so small it could not carry a person, not if it was fully grown.”
This seemed to pacify Temeraire; he nuzzled into Laurence’s touch, and slept some more.
.
Temeraire did grow big enough to carry him, although any hopes of him becoming a middleweight quickly dwindled as he reached the end of his first month. Laurence disgusted himself by being slightly disappointed when the ship’s doctor told him so, although he told himself it was only because Temeraire would likely wish to be bigger. He could not deny that it was convenient, since this ship could hardly accommodate a dragon of some of the sizes he had seen in battle, but he could not suppress a small dread at the idea of having lost his position in the navy to serve as no more than a courier. Laurence was grateful to couriers, indeed, for the regularity with which his mail reached him in port, but they were only captains in name, and respected even less than an ordinary aviator captain, which was to say: hardly at all.
Still, biased though he was, Laurence could not help but think Temeraire an uncommonly handsome dragon. It did not matter, he told himself stubbornly, that Temeraire might never grow bigger than two or three tons; it meant that feeding him would be that much easier, and Temeraire certainly displayed an astonishing quickness in the air, even with the weight of Laurence on his back. And there was something magnificent about flying, Laurence could not deny.
.
James, as he insisted Laurence call him, looked somewhat doubtfully at Temeraire. Although Laurence knew logically that Volly was rather a small dragon by British standards, Temeraire made him look large by comparison, half grown as he was. Nonetheless, the courier showed no signs of bullying Temeraire due to the difference in their sizes, which James assured Laurence was considered bad etiquette amongst dragons when a hatchling was still growing, unless it was acting particularly presumptuous and needed to be put in its place. Temeraire was not; Laurence could be nothing but proud of his manners.
“I’ve never seen his breed before,” James admitted, when Laurence inquired. “You said he’s around six weeks? And he’s been eating well?” He studied Temeraire’s form through the window, silhouetted in the dimming light of evening. “I’m no expert, but if I had to guess from the breeds I know, I would expect him to end up a little bigger than Volly, maybe one and a half of him. Maybe he could make double his size if he has a big growth spurt.” He shrugged and drank deeply from his coffee cup. “Growth rate varies from breed to breed, so I don’t expect anyone could make a very accurate guess unless they knew. Volly is nearly three tons, so if my guess is right, Temeraire might end up at the small end of the lightweight range.”
Laurence shamed himself by feeling somewhat relieved. A five or six ton dragon, he thought, could hardly be called anything but respectable, at least to his inexpert eye. He thought he should hardly know what to do, with a dragon as big as a house.
“To be completely honest,” James continued, “they’re even classing a lot of couriers as lightweights these days, if they’re willing to be put to battle. I’ve seen dragons even smaller than Volly on the field of late. We’re still on courier duty because that’s what he’s been trained up for, and it’s all he’s known for nearly ten years, but if your Temeraire wants to fight then they certainly shan’t stop him.”
As Temeraire had displayed a nearly alarming amount of fighting spirit when Laurence told him about the war, Laurence had little cause for doubt on that front.
.
The question of Temeraire’s breed was answered with great enthusiasm from Sir Edward Howe, who quickly overcame any shyness in favor of ducking beneath Temeraire’s wings to examine them against the light. “There can be no question of it,” he said, shining with delight. “He is a Chinese Imperial.”
“Is that a very good breed?” Temeraire asked, looking at Laurence, although it was Sir Edward Howe who answered.
“Why, the very best!” he exclaimed. “Imperials are bred to live within the walls of the emperor’s palace; that is why you are petite, so that you may fit into some of the most important chambers in the world. The only dragon more highly regarded amongst the Chinese is the Celestial, which is sometimes no bigger than a single ton, although I understand they do vary.”
“Oh,” Temeraire said, drooping. He darted a glance at Laurence, as if shy of his reaction. “So I will not grow much more after all?”
“You will still grow some,” Sir Edward answered, laughing. “I have never met an Imperial, as they are certainly too valuable to be flying around outside of China, but to my understanding you may grow up to four tons yet, if you continue eating well.”
“Laurence feeds me very well indeed,” Temeraire said stubbbornly. “And -- and I suppose Imperials do not breathe fire, do they?” he added hopefully.
“I am afraid not,” Sir Edward said consolingly. “But you must let no one tell you that you are not a rare specimen, just because you are not a heavyweight. Our breeders in the West like to make dragons as big as we can, but the Chinese have been doing it much longer, and with much more care. You are, without a doubt, the most extraordinary dragon I will ever lay eyes on,” he finished.
Temeraire did not seem entirely buoyed by this; he looked again at Laurence, who leaned up and wrapped his arms around Temeraire’s neck. “My dear,” he said, stroking his warm hide. “What an incredible revelation. A Chinese Imperial!”
Temeraire leaned down to curl around him. “Well, if you are happy,” he said, not quite concealing his relief. “I suppose it is not so very bad to be small, if Imperials have been made small on purpose, for important reasons. And after all, Laurence, I am already much bigger than you.” The thought seemed to cheer him, and Laurence could not hold back a huff of laughter.
“You have been bigger than me for three weeks now,” he reminded Temeraire as he pulled away. “Would you like another sheep, when we return to the cottage?”
“Yes, please,” Temeraire said, and added with an eagerness that made Laurence worry he would stuff himself uncomfortably full, “and then I shall be four tons, soon enough.”
.
The aviators who came to see Laurence at the admiral’s letter looked unimpressed with him, even as he stiffly relayed Sir Edward Howe’s intelligence about Temeraire’s breed and prospective weight class.
“I would put him around the size of a large draft horse as of today, sir,” he added.
“Yes, thank you,” said the aerial admiral, looking fairly disinterested. He looked to the lieutenant he had brought, who had an unreadable expression, then pulled him aside for a brief word. Laurence caught the words “thank you for the honor” and “but” and “trained on a heavyweight” before he forced himself to stop listening. After a long moment, the admiral turned back to him. “We are willing to take the beast off your hands, sir,” he said, although the lieutenant’s face betrayed a hint of displeasure.
Laurence could not help but track the difference in tone. That, he noted, was not an order. “I should prefer to remain with him,” he said firmly. He was not in the habit of presenting any uncertainty to a superior officer, and his doubts that he was the proper man to have harnessed Temeraire could only come second to the much more important matter of Temeraire staying with a captain who truly appreciated him for the exceptional creature he was.
He was aware, as any navy man might be, of the difference between serving on a sloop and a first-rate, but Temeraire was a thinking creature, and could not fairly be compared. He could forgive the lieutenant only because he did not know Temeraire, and could not love him yet, and only saw him as an opportunity. Unlike in the navy, a man might not consider a smaller dragon a step towards a larger one, not when he was its captain; if he tried his luck with Temeraire, whether he succeeded or failed, he would not be offered another. Better, then, to wait for another chance, if he thought he was likely to be offered one.
Still, he could not see the relief on the lieutenant’s face as anything other than an insult to Temeraire, and schooled his expression as the admiral’s tight jaw loosened a touch, and his hard gaze became, if Laurence was not imagining it, a touch less dismissive. “Very well,” he said. “Please take us to see this Temeraire.”
.
Temeraire’s eyes grew very wide as Laetificat landed. As he was now large enough that his head was the only part of him that could reasonably fit in Laurence’s lap, he could hardly be described as a small creature, and yet Laetificat’s enormous bulk was on an entirely different scale. Laurence had seen Regal Coppers before, but only from great distances, as they fought above the sea battle he had been engaged in, and he found himself resisting the urge to step back, although the heavyweight bore the scrambling of aviators on her back with the patient tolerance of a veteran.
Temeraire, however, overcame his nervousness very quickly. “She is not so very much larger than I am,” he said, which was a blatant untruth, and wrapped himself possessively around Laurence with a fervor that belied his casual tone.
“Yes, I am,” Laetificat said, although not unkindly.
It was another week before Temeraire would be able to make the journey back to Britain with Laurence on his back, particularly when they would need to stop for food every five or six hours. Laurence had been assured by the admiral that once Temeraire matured, he likely would be able to fly two full days on a single meal, just like Volly could, but Laurence could not quite believe it, when he could eat a goat at noon and ask for another by tea.
“Of course I am ready,” Temeraire said, when Laurence asked him. “It is true that I am not very big, but that is a great deal less mass to keep in the air, is it not? So even though my wings are smaller than hers, they are bigger in proportion, so I need not work as hard as a heavyweight.”
“That is entirely correct,” Laurence assured him, stroking the delicate membrane of his wing. “Not to mention, Laetificat needs to carry nearly fifty men aboard, and you must carry only me, at least for now.” If Temeraire grew more than they were expecting, he might yet be assigned a signal ensign, or even a midwingman, but Laurence did not wish to raise his hopes.
“Well, I do not need anyone more than you,” Temeraire said determinedly.
.
After an uncertain introduction, Laurence had been welcomed with cheer by the captains of the other lightweights in Lily’s formation; Chenery and Warren had been kind enough to take him out for drinks in Dover once he had settled in, for their three dragons small enough to land quite close to the town. Temeraire was yet smaller than Dulcia, but he was fast approaching Nitidus’s weight of two tons, as Pascal’s Blues were among the very littlest of fighting breeds.
“He will make it to a respectable combat weight, never fear,” Chenery told him. “It hardly hurts that he’s such a quick learner, either, and with you so experienced in combat, you would be wasted on courier duty. Not,” he added, “that we don’t need the couriers.”
“Of course,” Laurence agreed, hiding his relief at Chenery’s confidence. “Temeraire would be very bored, I think. But I fear my naval experience may not transfer to aerial maneuvers; Temeraire is much better at learning them than I.”
Warren sipped at his drink and shook his head. “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough,” he said, in his quiet, steady way. He and Berkley were the only captains in the formation older than Laurence himself, and Warren in particular reminded Laurence of some of the senior officers he had had in his youth, mild-mannered but steely beneath. “Any experience helps.”
“And between the two of you, you’ll be a force to be reckoned with!” Chenery declared. He had grown steadily drunker throughout the evening, and had worked himself up to a fine flush. “People underestimate the little beasts, you know, even other aviators. Even captains of lightweights themselves!” He gave Warren a significant look, which Warren evidently understood, and muttered, “Poor Levitas.”
Laurence sat up a little straighter. He had been sure that other aviators must notice the poor dragon’s mistreatment. “His captain not only ignores, but disdains him, then?” he asked grimly. He hated to speak ill of another officer, but he could not describe Levitas’s treatment as anything other than neglectful.
“Ha!” Chenery said. “Disdain is a mild word for it! When a fellow comes up thinking he’s entitled to a middleweight just because his father had one before him--”
Warren interrupted him, refilling Chenery’s cup. “Do not go too far,” he said, in a low voice. “Rankin may be unpopular among us, but this is a small town. No need to proclaim anything too loudly.”
It was as if a sudden freezing wave had crashed over the deck during a storm and doused Laurence’s good spirits entirely. “Rankin?” he said, unsure if he had misheard.
“Yes, of course, Levitas’s captain,” Chenery said, and then looked at him, surprised. “You did not know?”
Laurence shook his head. “I have never seen them together,” he said grimly.
Chenery snorted. “No, I expect not,” he said. “We may not be as bad as you Navy fellows -- no offense -- about promotion based solely on connections, but even the Corps can’t escape it entire. There’s plenty of men who would be grateful to have even a little dragon, me to start with; when they told me I was getting a chance for a Grey Copper I nearly wept.”
“I was promoted from second lieutenant,” Warren said, with all the fondness of a naval captain remembering the first ship he ever sailed as Master and Commander. “Nitidus’s sire was too anxious to fight, so the French were willing to part with his egg, between wars. I was assigned to a Yellow Reaper at the time, Pulcra, and her Captain Byrne said I was the right man for the job.” He put a fist to his breastbone in tender remembrance.
“I don’t mind telling you this now,” Chenery said to Laurence, leaning in, “but no one at all expected you to keep Temeraire, once you knew he would barely grow bigger than a Winchester. It’s one thing to leave the Navy for a heavyweight, but a pipsqueak like him?” He shook his head.
“Temeraire would prefer to be larger, I believe,” Laurence said. “I overheard him talking to an Anglewing yesterday, trying to figure out how much she ate when she was his age and if he might get up to ten tons.”
Chenery barked a laugh; even Warren smiled. “Ten, no,” he said warmly. “But five, maybe.”
.
Temeraire did not, however, make five tons, and he barely made four. In fact, Laurence very much suspected that Celeritas was rounding his estimate up, to avoid dampening Temeraire’s spirits. Laurence wrote to Sir Edward once it was clear Temeraire’s weight was not going to change too greatly, to tell him his prediction had been correct. But Temeraire did not seem so sanguine with his maturation; he came back from more than one mealtime sulking to wrap himself around Laurence as he had when he was no bigger than a horse.
“It does not seem fair,” he mumbled when Laurence pressed him for the reason behind his mood, “that I must be both small and odd-looking.”
“Odd?” Laurence said, astonished. “My dear, you are a lovely creature. There is a reason that black is said never to go out of fashion, and I am certain your proportions are more elegant than any dragon I have ever seen, and they have been so from the moment of your hatching.”
Temeraire hummed, and nudged his head under Laurence’s hand.
.
The battle seemed lost because all their heavyweights and even nearly all of the middleweights had gone down. Messoria remained, in close, grappling combat with two Pou-de-Ciels, and Dulcia zipped by them to harry a Petit Chevalier, but those were only skirmishes; the larger fight had already been given over to Napoleon.
Laurence had started the battle with two midwingmen behind him, but they had boarded a Pechaur-Raye some half-hour ago. One had been pushed before he could latch on; the other had been stabbed in the stomach by a French lieutenant and dangled, bleeding, from his straps as Laurence and Temeraire were forced to swoop away.
“Temeraire!” he cried over the wind, resting a hand on the base of Temeraire’s neck. “They are signaling for us to return to the shore, we must--” He was cut off by Temeraire dropping swiftly away from the swinging claw of a Chanson-de-Guerre who had been half blinded by Lily’s acid earlier and was still swiping wildly at the air. They spiraled away, the sea coming up sickeningly close beneath them before Temeraire opened his wings and doubled back towards the shore, upside down for a few moments before he flapped and righted himself. He was breathing heavily from the exertion, and from Laurence’s perch on his back, he could feel his lungs working with each gasp, the ribcage expanding between his knees, wider and wider with each breath.
“Temeraire--” he began, concerned, but Temeraire was shooting upwards, buoyed by his own furious flapping and the air inside him, and as he turned to face the transports, the breath came out of him all at once.
It was a roar, but not quite a roar. There was an odd two-tone quality to it, a low rumble that seemed as if it could not possibly be coming from Temeraire’s comparatively small body, and a clear, piercing note above it, agonizingly loud. Laurence found himself pressing his hands over his ears instinctively, and yet the roar seemed almost to penetrate through them as if they weren’t even there.
The roar could only have lasted seconds, but it felt like minutes as Laurence watched the transport beginning to crumble apart, wood splintering under the shattering force of the roar. The dragons beneath had flinched back from the sound and the transport was tipping dangerously as they fought to regain balance.
“Laurence,” Temeraire said, his voice tight with excitement but perfectly as it had always been, “I did not know I could do that at all!”
Laurence had so many things to say, so much praise to heap upon him; but this was a battle, so he only leaned forward and bellowed above the crashing of the sea and the wind and the creaking of the transport’s beams failing, “Can you do it again?”
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“There can be no doubt about it,” Sir Edward Howe said. “I would have known it as soon as I saw him in his fully mature form -- only look at that ruff! -- but the roar means there can be no question at all. He is not an Imperial, he is a Celestial. The very apex of Chinese dragons, and probably one of fewer than a dozen.”
Temeraire turned his head around. “A Celestial?” he echoed.
“A Celestial ?” said Laurence.
Sir Edward nodded. “If he were smaller, I imagine I would have guessed at once,” he said. “Dear creature, you are quite large for a Celestial!”
After he had gone, giddy with excitement still, Temeraire turned to Laurence, his eyes alight. “Laurence, can you believe it?” he said. “Not only am I the very best kind of dragon, but I am a big one!”
“I should not care if you were only one ton, or half,” Laurence said, rubbing his nose. “And my dear, I have been telling you that you are the very best kind of dragon since you hatched.”
“Oh Laurence,” Temeraire said, curling around him in the way that reminded Laurence of nothing more than a cat twining around a leg. “You are entirely right; I ought to have listened to you from the beginning. But,” he added, nuzzling under Laurence’s arm, “ I am very glad to be more than half a ton.”
.
(“You forget, perhaps,” Mr. Tharkay said, surveying Temeraire with less awe than Laurence thought he was due, but no disrespect, “that I do not have a dragon of my own, to guide you.”
Temeraire snorted. “Of course I can carry two passengers,” he said dismissively.
“Three,” Laurence corrected. “Roland is coming too. Do you think you can manage us, for so long a flight?” He would not like much to leave Roland behind on the ship. It was true that Fellowes might have made a more valuable third passenger, but he was nearly twice Laurence’s size and weighed Temeraire down even on short flights. Besides, he had promised Jane to ensure that Emily got good, practical experience, and she would not get much at all on a frigate, unless it was experience in fending off drunk sailors.
Temeraire flared out his ruff. “Roland hardly signifies,” he said, “as she does not make one-third of you. It will be no trouble at all.”
Mr. Tharkay eyed the ruff; Laurence thought he saw some private amusement twinkling in his dark eyes. “Very well,” he said mildly. “Who am I, to refuse a Celestial?”)