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Chapter Text

Avram Maden stroked his beard and pondered his current problem: his old friend’s only child had turned up in the city, hungry, threadbare, and disinherited by his grasping cousins, his last coins spent on the passage to Istanbul. None of that was the problem, however. It was the young man’s pride. Few of his skills would translate to the kind of work Maden could offer, and he would take no charity.

Maden sipped his coffee. “Do you speak Turkish?” he asked hopefully. “I learn Turkish on boat three days, sir,” said the young man, who called himself Tenzing Tharkay. He either would not or could not claim his father’s name. Not bad for three days, thought Maden. But he could hardly send Tharkay with a caravan. He was trying to employ him, not get him killed.

Then he had an idea. Returning to the French they had spoken previously, he said, “My daughter tells me that she wishes to learn English. You need to learn Turkish to find employment here. You may stay at my home for three months. At the end of that time, we shall see what you, and she, have learned.”

It was not phrased as a question. Tharkay looked at him as though he thought three months of room and board was excessively generous for an exchange of language lessons, but he politely said nothing but “Thank you, sir.”

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The maid was always there for the lessons, of course. Tharkay thought she would pick up a fair amount of English as she sewed, ensuring the dictates of decorum were met between Maden’s daughter and a young man not of the family. Miss Maden seemed to be about his age. She was lovely and talented with languages, but she was formal and distant, never speaking to him outside their lessons.

Her long, black hair, dark eyes, and light olive skin spoke of her family’s Spanish ancestry. Tharkay knew the Jews had been expelled from Spain by royal decree some 300 years ago, leading many to the Ottoman Empire, where they had offered their skills in exchange for tolerance, as other refugees had done for centuries. Maden was a man of many parts, with contacts along the old Silk Road all the way to eastern China and to the West as far as London. Here in Istanbul, he served as liaison between the Rothschilds and the Sultan’s court. Miss Maden herself had recently become a business agent for one of the women of the Sultan’s harem. She steered her English lessons toward negotiation and international politics.

Mrs. Maden fed him as though she were one of the Nepalese aunties of his childhood. “Another boureka, dear?” He tried to demur, as he wanted to save room for the taralikos, which were delicious with coffee. Two more savory pastries appeared on his plate. But where Mrs. Maden was warm, her daughter was cold. She spoke only Ladino at meals. It sounded like Spanish, but some of the words were unfamiliar. Hebrew, perhaps, Tharkay thought, but it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be learning the language the family spoke at home.

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Tharkay sat in the square in front of the Hagia Sophia and watched the pigeons, dark gray against the light gray cobblestones. As his Turkish and his knowledge of the local culture had improved, he had begun to run errands and conduct simple business for Mr. Maden. Today he was due at the Grand Bazaar after the midday call to prayer. As if on cue, the powerful voice of the mu’azzin poured forth from one of the minarets. Tharkay stood and headed for the Bazaar.

He was close to the western end of the covered marketplace, almost finished speaking with a spice merchant, when the brawl began. Tharkay knew better than to linger when young men were throwing punches at the guards and at each other. He slipped toward the gate, his hand drifting toward the khukuri at his hip.

Tharkay exited the Bazaar without incident and headed for Maden’s house, where his host raised an eyebrow at his flustered look. “A fight in the Grand Bazaar,” he explained. Maden frowned, “Sara is out on business in that area. Would you . . .?” It was telling that he had scarcely heard Maden’s daughter’s name in three months. “Yes, sir,” he said, and turned toward the marketplace.

He met Sara within five minutes, walking calmly toward her home. “What do you want?” she said coolly.

“Your father was concerned for your safety, Miss Maden,” he replied, matching her tone.

“I am well, as you can see,” she said.

“Indeed.”

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Two days later, Maden sent him with a caravan to Isfahan. It was hot and dull during the day and cold and occasionally terrifying at night, when the bandits liked to attack. Tharkay knew how to fence; he learned how to kill with a knife. He knew how to care for a horse; he learned how to manage a string of camels. Some days he talked business with the caravan master; some nights he slept with one of the other guards. That was new too.

On the way back, three days out from Istanbul, they were attacked by a large and well-armed group of bandits. Tharkay killed one and crippled another, but a third got past his defenses and slashed his leg above the knee. He backed toward the other guards, dragging his leg but keeping his khukuri high. The bandit looked around, saw that his comrades were now outnumbered, and fled. Tharkay tore his shirt into strips to bind his leg while his fellow guards slit the wounded bandits’ throats.

He was limping and feeling feverish when they crawled into the city. The caravan master told him in no uncertain terms to go straight to Mr. Maden’s house. Tharkay was a few feet from the door when he collapsed.

He awoke sweating with a dry mouth. His leg ached. A woman leaned over him. Sara. She held a glass while he drank. “Thank you,” his voice hoarse. She wiped his forehead with a cool cloth and left the room.

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When Tharkay’s leg was all but healed, Mr. Maden asked to see him in his study. He thought perhaps his benefactor had another assignment for him.

“Please, sit,” said Mr. Maden. There was a short silence and then he spoke slowly.

“You are familiar, I suppose, with that species of English novel in which a disinherited young man regains his patrimony and can finally make an offer for the hand of the woman he loves?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Tharkay. He had no idea how this might be relevant. How could he want to marry Sara when she didn’t even like him? Defeating his cousins in the British courts seemed much more likely.

“This is not that sort of novel,” said Mr. Maden firmly. “The only way my people can survive is never to marry outside our faith. Otherwise, we would be swallowed up by the nations among whom we live.”

“Sir, why are we having this conversation?” said Tharkay bluntly. “Your daughter and I have hardly exchanged ten words outside of the language lessons. She has no interest in me whatsoever, and I have none in her.”

“She knows better than to consider a dangerous path,” said Mr. Maden.

“Dangerous?”

“You have heard the term dhimmi? Here, the Jews are protected, yet we are not free in all matters. Yes, we can work without restriction. We can worship our God openly. In these ways, the Sultans have far surpassed the Christian rulers of Europe. But we can neither seek nor admit converts. That would be an insult to the Sultan’s faith. And such things are . . . unwise.”

“You have done well here,” continued Mr. Maden. “I know that some have treated as a second-class citizen because of your parentage. In my home and with my business partners, you will be respected. Now, I have need of a trusted courier to the East India Company in Kolkata.”

Yes, sir,” said Tharkay. “I will go.”

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He passed Miss Maden Sara in the hall as he went to gather his belongings and nodded to her. She inclined her head slightly.

Chapter Text

Once he knew Sara’s coldness wasn’t indifference or disdain, the trouble began. Tharkay had known that she was smart and beautiful since the earliest days of their acquaintance four years before, when he taught her English, she taught him Turkish, and they barely exchanged two words outside of the lessons. At that time, he was both unsurprised by prejudice and furious every time it happened. On a good day in this cosmopolitan city, he could be scorned by a British diplomat for his Asian features and mocked by Gorkhalis for his English manners. As a result, he assumed that Sara’s distant manner sprang from the same prejudices held by so many others Tharkay encountered.

Alas, she was not hateful. Instead, she was dedicated to her people and her faith, and fully aware of the political and emotional consequences—inside and outside the Sephardic Jewish community in Istanbul—of anything so unfortunate as feelings for Tharkay. After Mr. Maden had explained matters to Tharkay, he had relaxed a bit around Sara, enough at least to nod to her in the halls of the Madens’ house without fearing that she would cut him to the bone for presuming to make eye contact.

Not that he saw her too often. At 24, Sara was a rising star in the city, serving as business agent for several mid-ranking women of the Sultan’s harem. She had recently added to her portfolio one of the Sultan’s four favorites, the kadin Safiya. Tharkay was Mr. Maden’s agent to the east, regularly traveling as far afield as Damascus, Kolkata, and Peking. West was Britain, to which he did not wish to return. Sara was a not-unfriendly face seen a few times a year between Bedouin camps, canvaserai, and all the nameless hills where he pitched his tent. She was not yet married, but that would come.

As he rode back from Beirut in the spring of 1799, Tharkay sang softly with nonsense syllables. It was a song he had heard a few times at the Madens’ Shabbat dinner table. He often ate with the family when he was in Istanbul, and Friday nights were special, as they welcomed their day of rest with a fine meal, wine, and singing. He was not there often enough to learn the words, and he thought singing religious songs with the family would be overstepping, but Tharkay enjoyed the tunes, several of which were borrowed from the Turkish culture.

Once he had hummed along to this song and Sara had noticed, smiling at him. He had flushed, aware that he had no idea what the words meant and unused to Maden’s daughter paying much attention to him. After sundown the next day, Sara had asked him whether he could teach her a few self-defense tactics, though not in those exact words.

“I am sometimes concerned,” she had said, “that in the course of conducting business, I will encounter a gentleman who is somewhat less than deserving of that name. It would set my mind at ease if I knew how to evade such a person.”

Tharkay was happy to show her how to stomp a man’s foot and twist away, though it was difficult to demonstrate without being able to touch her. “Perhaps, Miss Maden, you can practice with your maid,” he said. “A theoretical knowledge of such matters is useful, but nothing can replace the practical experience.”

Sara smiled. “First the English lessons and now evasive maneuvers for ladies. Rafia has truly benefitted from your stay with us, Mr. Tharkay—as have I.” She dropped her eyes. “I must go now.”

“Miss Maden,” Tharkay said quietly. “If this ungentlemanly gentleman should happen to be . . . not theoretical, please . . . tell me. Tell someone. You are not alone.”

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"The righteous shall flourish like the palm tree and grow like the cedar in Lebanon" (Psalm 92:12).

Tharkay had found a small gift for the family in Beirut to mark four years since he had arrived in Istanbul. He would of course give the little gazelle carved from cedar to Mr. and Mrs. Maden, but when he first saw it, he had thought of Sara. He did not have the Psalmist’s faith in a God who rewards the good and punishes the wicked, but if events ever followed that course in his life, he would not complain. He wondered whether Sara believed such things, how she reconciled her intellect with her faith. Tharkay knew this sort of idle conjecture was not idle. Was not good. He no longer told himself to stop.

He had been gone ten weeks on this journey, and Tharkay supposed he had missed the week without bread that came in late March or early April. Pesach, the commemoration of the Exodus from Egypt, when the Israelites had fled from slavery with time to make only unleavened bread. Pesach, the Passover, when the Angel of Death had passed over the Israelite houses marked with the blood of a lamb and struck down the firstborn of the Egyptians. Tharkay remembered the first time he had seen Mrs. Maden, Sara, and every servant in the house picking through enormous trays of rice, looking for the smallest piece of wheat. It was a sight as odd as the Christmas pudding he had seen set alight his first winter in Britain as a boy.

It was mid-April by the time he arrived in Istanbul. He met with Mr. Maden in his study to debrief. The house was bustling. When they had finished, his benefactor smiled and said, “Pesach begins tomorrow evening. Will you join the family for our festive meal?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Tharkay. “I thought that I had missed the holiday this year. It is later than usual?”

“Pesach is right on time,” said Mr. Maden with a wry smile. “But yes, there was an extra month this spring to correct the calendar. Otherwise we would find ourselves celebrating a spring holiday in the fall, the way that Ramadan moves through the year for our Muslim friends. Our calendar corrects because our holidays are mainly seasonal; theirs does not. But I am being pedantic when you have not even been to the baths. Go, we will see you when you are rested and refreshed.”

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Sara’s older brothers and their families arrived around noon the next day, wearing their finest clothes. Tharkay had purchased a new shirt for the occasion, but he felt awkward and nervous as the afternoon passed, and he paced in the gardens.

“Mr. Tharkay,” said Sara from behind him. He spun around, not expecting her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. But you seemed preoccupied. Have you previously attended a seder?”

“No, no, I have not, Miss Maden. And I must admit I am afraid.”

“Afraid? Of what? That the rejoicing will last all night?”

“Well, yes, and in a tongue I neither speak nor comprehend.”

“Ah,” she said. “I understand. “Father plans to lead the seder mostly in Turkish this evening, with the prayers in Hebrew. And one purpose of the seder is to teach the children about the holiday. You will see that many strange things are explained in the course of our meal. And I do not think it will go on much past midnight.”

Tharkay was pretty sure Sarah had just winked at him.

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It was a good thing that there were small children present: Sara’s smallest nieces and nephews asked most of the questions that arose in Tharkay’s mind during the Seder. Why is grandfather wearing white? Why does he have a cushion on his chair? What is that book called? Why is there an egg on this plate? The adults welcomed their questions and helped the older children answer them. There was a lot to explain. The large plate set before Mr. Maden featured several things besides the egg: there were celery leaves, two kinds of greens, a shank bone, and a dollop of what looked like chopped dates, nuts, and oranges.

A sizeable portion of the Seder involved a retelling of the Exodus from Egypt. Mr. Maden lifted a plate of unleavened bread and recited, “This is the bread of affliction, which our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. Let all who are hungry come and eat. . . This year we are slaves; next year we shall be free.”

The ancient tale of slavery and liberation had multiple meanings in modern times as well, Tharkay realized. Slavery still existed in much of the world, and where men and women were physically free, they might suffer a bondage of the mind, enslaved by hatred or envy, by bad marriages or cruel families, by opium or alcohol. Freedom had multiple meanings, such that one could be free and not-free at the same time. There was much to think about.

The festive meal was delicious: roasted lamb, fish, stuffed eggplant, perfumed rice, wine, and sweets. Tharkay especially liked the leek and beef meatballs. The fruit and nut mixture from the seder plate was called charoset, and the family passed a large bowl of it around the table. He tasted dates and figs, oranges and pine nuts, combined with brandy and honey. It symbolized the mortar that held together the bricks made by the Hebrew slaves when they built cities for the Egyptians. He was glad that it tasted much better than mortar.

The evening ended in song, but there was a part before that which surprised Tharkay. Mr. Maden filled a goblet with wine and strode to the door. He opened it and spoke into the night: “Pour out Your wrath upon the nations that know You not . . . for they have devoured Jacob. . . . Pour out Thy rage upon them . . . pursue them in wrath and destroy them under the heavens of the Lord.” He closed the door and returned to his seat.

Surprised but not shocked. Tharkay knew what it was like to rage internally when external expressions of his feelings were unwise. How those feelings could erupt when he felt safe, when he slammed his fist into anything softer than a stone wall. He knew that the Jews had been expelled from numerous countries in the past, starting with England in the late 13th century. They had unofficially been allowed to return to England by Cromwell but were still unwelcome in Spain 300 years after the Alhambra Decree. As Mr. Maden had explained the one time they discussed such matters four years ago, the Ottoman Empire tolerated the Jews, allowed them to practice their faith discreetly. It was much better than forced conversion, the tender mercies of the Inquisition, and burning at the stake, but it was not equality.

The seder concluded with the words, “Next year in a rebuilt Jerusalem.” Tharkay raised his eyes and met Sara’s. While he was welcome in the Madens’ home, he was not one of them. For him, Jerusalem would not be rebuilt. He wished Mr. Maden had never given him that talk, wished he could have been left to assume that Sara looked down on him, could never care for him.

She held his gaze. He could not look away.

Chapter Text

“My beloved is mine, and I am his.

He grazes among the roses.”

Song of Solomon (Shir HaShirim) 2:16

Whenever he was in Istanbul, Tharkay enjoyed wandering the gardens at the Madens’ home. Sara, trailed at a discreet distance by her maidservant Rafia, often walked there in the evening. Sometimes Rafia slowed her pace to take in the scent of the roses. On one such occasion, Sara turned to Tharkay.

“Mr. Tharkay,” she said quietly. “These lovely roses call to mind a ring that my father gave to my mother many years ago.”

“How so, Miss Maden?”

“The ring is silver, inscribed on the inside with the words of King Solomon: ‘Dodi li va’ani lo,’ ‘My beloved is mine, and I am his.’ Of course, after that in the scripture come the words ‘He grazes among the roses.’ Sometimes it is translated as lilies.”

Her words made Tharkay shiver. “Of course,” he said. “And after that, ‘Until the day breathes, and the shadows flee.’”

Sara glanced at him. “Yes. I especially like this part, which speaks to the permanence of the bond between God and Israel: ‘Many waters cannot quench love; neither can rivers flood it.’ The parallel structure of the lines is typical of Hebrew scripture.”

“Fascinating,” said Tharkay. “The story of your mother’s ring calls to mind the name that my parents gave their only child. In Tibetan, Tenzing means “upholder of teachings.”

“Lovely,” said Sara.

Tharkay was about to make some inane comment about the pleasure he derived from discussing religious texts with such an educated person when Rafia came closer.

“Miss Maden,” she said. “Your father requests your presence in his study.”

“Good evening, Mr. Tharkay,” said Sara, turning toward the house.

“Princess,” he whispered, when she was gone.

“Night falls slowly

and a wind of roses blows.

Let me whisper a song for you,

a song of love.”

"Erev Shel Shoshanim" (Evening of Roses), Israeli love song, 1957

Chapter Text

Everything made him think of Sara, especially the Song of Solomon. Tharkay had whispered the words to himself in a tent pitched in the sands of the Taklamakan, wrapped in saddle blankets near the bank of the Tigris, in every lonely corner of the Eastern world.

"Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field;
Let us see whether the vine hath budded,
Whether the vine-blossom be opened,
And the pomegranates be in flower;
There will I give thee my love."

The ministers of his youth had interpreted the sensuous words as an allegory for the love between God and the Church. Tharkay heard them differently.

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When she read Shir HaShirim, Sara thought of Tharkay. Of course, the rabbi praised the text as a love song between God and Israel when it was read in the synagogue each spring. How else could it have become part of Ketuvim, the Writings?

"Who is this that cometh up out of the wilderness
Like pillars of smoke,
Perfumed with myrrh and frankincense?

I am black, but comely,
O ye daughters of Jerusalem."

Sara thought King Solomon was very wise indeed. Once she had thought herself if not wise, then at least sensible, practical. Now she knew herself to be as vulnerable as anyone to flights of fancy, to fond emotion. To love.

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Within a day of his return from Kolkata, Tharkay received a summons from Avram Maden. His benefactor’s beard was more gray than black now, but the same stern smile flashed across his face when he saw his favorite courier. Eleven years on the road had refined Tharkay to lean muscle and features the sun and wind had caressed ungently. What the elements had spared had been marked by knife and claw.

“I’m sorry to send you back out on the road so soon, and across the desert no less, but Admiral Lenton of the British Aerial Corps has an urgent dispatch for a Captain William Laurence in Macao.”

Tharkay raised an eyebrow. Had the dragon riders no faster way to send their letter to China?

Maden nodded. “One wonders,” he said, “why they do not send one of their flying beasts. Perhaps there is a factor of which we are unaware.”

“I will take the dispatch to Macao,” said Tharkay, “But as you well know, it is a journey of some four months.”

“Thank you,” said Maden. “The dispatch will keep. Or not. Our concern is only to deliver it as soon as possible. There is one more thing you should know, however. My daughter will be married this fall, after the holidays.”

Tharkay stiffened, but he said only, “You have my congratulations. I will leave for Macao at first light.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “It may be some time before I return.”

He did not, of course, seek out Miss Maden before he left.

"I opened to my beloved;
But my beloved had turned away and was gone."

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Five thousand miles from Istanbul to Macao. Tharkay travelled by horse, by camel, by boat, and on foot when there was no alternative. He arrived in Macao, exhausted, in late July. The British, as usual, were arrogant, though Captain Laurence was polite, if taken aback by the eagle perched on Tharkay’s shoulder who screeched and flapped her wings as he accepted the dispatch in the middle of a dinner party with the commissioners of the East India Company.

Tharkay slept soundly that night. In the morning, he clawed his way out of a disturbing dream about Sara’s wedding and sought out a butcher’s shop to purchase some meat for his eagle. While she was eating, taking the strips of pork from his hand without regard for the integrity of his skin, he heard the landlord’s shuffling step and the sound of two other men with him. It was the British dragon captain and one of his officers.

In an act of remarkably awkward timing, they wished to hire his services as a guide to Istanbul for the dragon—a Celestial, intriguing—and his entire crew. Tharkay imagined how an honest conversation might go, even as he spoke politely to them and accepted their offer.

“No, good sirs, I do not wish to return to Istanbul, regardless of the generosity of your offer. The woman I have loved without hope for years is marrying another in two months’ time. I would rather die of thirst in the desert than bear witness to that.”

Of course, if he didn’t lead them to Istanbul, the fools would likely die of thirst in the Taklamakan themselves.

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Tharkay sat near the base of Temeraire’s neck, close to Captain Laurence. He rarely spoke, preferring to point to the map or compass when giving directions. Laurence didn’t seem to mind the silence. The journey was faster than any Tharkay had experienced: they reached the old capital of Xian in about a week, a distance of nearly 900 miles from Macao. Two days out from Xian, as they sped through the narrow mountain passes, Temeraire overcompensated for an odd gust of wind and nearly crashed into the canyon wall.

Captain Laurence calmed the dragon enough to land safely and ordered the aviators to set up camp, though there were several hours of daylight left. Temeraire was still quite young, Tharkay realized. Inexperience and recklessness had been the downfall of many a man or dragon. Or the beginning of wisdom, if one survived. Temeraire curled up with a wing over his head and took refuge in sleep. Perhaps he would like a treat when he woke, Tharkay thought. He could take the eagle out of her cage to stretch her wings and hunt rabbits, and if she did well, there would be some for Temeraire when he woke. He slipped into the brush while the others were setting up camp.

When he returned with a satisfied eagle and a dozen plump rabbits for the dragon, Laurence looked equally pleased and annoyed. Temeraire just looked pleased.

“Do let me know if you plan to hunt or scout ahead,” the captain said finally.

“Certainly,” said Tharkay, with no real intention of doing so. “Can’t have me just haring off, now can you?” he said with a straight face.

Laurence stared at him for a minute as though he hadn’t expected Tharkay to have a sense of humor, or to speak English well enough to play on words, or to be quite so irreverent with his employer—one or all of these, who knew? Then the captain flushed and turned away.

This could be enjoyable, thought Tharkay. Provoking the captain to see how far down the man’s good manners went. In most Britons he encountered, they didn’t go past the surface. Not at all.

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Whatever depths Captain Laurence’s character may have had, a sandstorm in the Taklamakan scoured it to the bone. During the storm, Tharkay passed the hours in an intense political discussion with Laurence and Temeraire, in which he cheerfully goaded the captain by playing the radical to his liberal. Tharkay escaped when his opponent's face started to turn red, saying he would check on the camels, as there was a lull in the sandstorm. Two large tents sheltered the beasts, with eight camels in each. Temeraire was meant to drink the water they carried and eat one camel a day, which should allow them to cross Asia’s most fearsome desert without joining the skeletons that surely lay beneath the shifting sands.

The camels were fine, if uneasy: the tents were holding up well. Tharkay slipped back into the main tent with the dragon and the men. Well, the dragon, a score of men, a handful of teenage ensigns, and the runners, a ten year old boy and girl. Tharkay hadn’t known that the British recruited girls as well as boys for the Aerial Corps. Apparently one breed of dragon, a fearsome acid spitter, wouldn’t serve without a female captain. Sara would have made a good officer, Tharkay thought, then winced. He was reminded of his loss often enough during the long nights. It wouldn’t do to extend the angst to his waking hours. Winding up Captain Laurence with alternating cheekiness and obsequiousness had thus far been a pleasant distraction.

When the storm finally ended, they peered outside into a different world. The sand dunes had been torn apart and remade—Tharkay knew to expect that much. But the total absence of one tent and all eight camels that had sheltered within it—that was an unpleasant surprise. For thirty miles, they saw no trace of the camels or the water they had carried. Then they came across the lid to one of the water barrels lying forlornly in the sand. Nothing more. By that point, Captain Laurence had a permanent frown on his face that sank into a scowl whenever he caught sight of Tharkay. What, thought Tharkay, does he think me fool enough to sabotage the journey at its most dangerous part? I have been playing games with him, not planning his murder. Does he imagine a man with Maden‘s reputation would entrust such a difficult mission to one who would not scruple at banditry? Or, he chuckled to himself, is the good captain not thinking at all and merely reacting as prejudice directs him?

Tharkay had urged Laurence not to turn back to the last town they had passed. The captain had seemed torn between his duty to make haste to Istanbul, where Admiral Lenton’s letter had directed them as quickly as possible, and his fear that Temeraire and his crew would die of thirst. Laurence had spent an hour talking quietly with Lieutenant Granby, his second in command, before reluctantly agreeing to continue across the Taklamakan. Granby seemed less cautious than Laurence and more comfortable with Tharkay as their guide.

As they approached the oasis that lay a day’s travel from Yutien, Tharkay rode ahead to check for bandits, fellow travelers, and those who could be either, depending on their fortunes in any given week. A reliable source of water was an excellent place to make camp—or to lie in wait for those who did. Sure enough, a large group of horsemen out of Yutien was hanging around the sardoba that protected the well. Tharkay spoke with them briefly, long enough for his instincts to tell him not to trust them. Before they had concluded their chat, however, the British rode into view, Temeraire stalking ahead of the camels like a duck trailed by its offspring. If one could imagine a twenty-ton duck with enormous teeth and talons, that is. The horsemen dispersed.

“I asked you not to ride off without informing me,” Laurence ground out. Tharkay looked at him expressionlessly, then turned his camel toward the domed structure. After a minute he dismounted and waited for the captain to come up to him. As Laurence opened his mouth, Tharkay said, “This is the sardoba. It shelters the water supply. Let the men fill their canteens and then we shall enlarge the opening so that Temeraire may drink his fill.” Laurence’s parched mouth snapped shut.

The horsemen attacked in the dark hours of the night. Tharkay had pitched his tent a bit further away than usual, driven off by Laurence’s hostile silence, though he said only that he would watch the perimeter. The British and the horsemen were roughly even in numbers, but the locals had the advantage of surprise and familiarity with the terrain, while the foreigners had a dragon. Tharkay was on his feet and slashing in seconds, shouting to raise the camp. Temeraire woke more slowly, but once he got moving, he smashed two men and a horse flat inside of a minute. Tharkay forced his way toward Laurence’s tent, where the fighting was fiercest. One of the ensigns was trying to aim his pistol, still befuddled by sleep. Tharkay snatched it from his hand and shot a bandit in the chest, then tossed it back to the boy, snapping “Reload!” He didn’t miss the expression on Laurence’s face when he grabbed the pistol—the bastard looked like he wasn’t sure whether Tharkay would turn the weapon on his own employer. Ensign Salyer, who seemed finally awake, had the pistol reloaded in a minute and shot a man who was closing in on Captain Laurence from behind. Tharkay got into position to fight back to back with Laurence, which Tharkay figured would both protect him and make him wonder whether he was about to be stabbed in the back. Within a few minutes, the horsemen had had enough and the survivors melted away into the desert.

Laurence was still frowning when they rode into Yutien the next afternoon, having completed the crossing of the Taklamakan. While the rest of the Britons gawked at the market stalls, the captain pulled Tharkay aside.

“My granny used to say my face would get stuck like that,” Tharkay smirked, before Laurence could start chastising him for, oh, everything. Amazingly, that piece of wisdom didn’t improve Laurence’s thunderous facial expression one bit.

“Staunton told me you were unreliable!” he burst out finally.

“Oh,” said Tharkay, “so you listen to Staunton rather than judging for yourself?”

“Your behavior has scarcely disproven a word he said!” Laurence hissed.

Tharkay tilted his head. “If you say so. Do you wish to part ways here? I suspect that at any moment Lieutenant Granby will return bearing a tea towel with I Survived the Taklamakan stitched into it. And so you have. Only the Pamirs remain between you and your destination. Well, the Pamirs, the feral dragons who inhabit them, and the Sultan’s army on the other side. But I am certain that some of their officers speak French.”

Laurence stared at him. “No, he said. “We cannot risk the journey without a guide, even one as irritating as you. I wonder . . .” he said, then stopped mid-thought.

Tharkay waited to see if he would continue. The man wasn’t stupid. A fool perhaps, but not stupid. But he said nothing more. “As you wish,” said Tharkay.

%%%

Tharkay blamed himself for the deaths in the avalanche. He should have warned them more strongly about the dangers of shouting—or in this case, roaring—in the snowy Pamirs. Though they had camped in a green valley between mountain peaks, all it took was one roar from Temeraire for the snowdrifts to break free and rush toward them. Tharkay cursed himself for not anticipating that their passage would attract the attention of the Pamir ferals, which would, in turn, set off Temeraire. And now Lieutenant Baylesworth was dead, Granby injured, and Tharkay’s eagle dead as well.

At least he had been teaching Temeraire the rudiments of the dragon tongue, Durzagh, and they could both communicate adequately with the motley band of ferals in whose cavern they were currently sheltering, having offered to share their food supply. Temeraire was nattering on about all the wonders he had seen in his travels. The ferals listened, entranced. Only one of them had spent any time at all outside the mountains, a little blue and white dragon named Gherni whom Temeraire had dug out of the snow and convinced to help rescue the humans.

Tharkay stood up stiffly and walked toward Laurence. The captain was checking on Lieutenant Granby, who had just recently regained consciousness. Tharkay stood off to the side and waited for Laurence to finish. After a while, Laurence approached him.

“Did you wish to speak with me?” he asked, his tone neutral.

“Yes,” said Tharkay. “I’m sorry about the avalanche. It was my fault. I should have prepared you better.” He dropped his eyes to the cavern floor.

“But you did warn us not to make any sudden loud noises,” Laurence said. “I don’t hold you at fault. And you had us shielding our eyes from the sun’s glare on the snow, even Temeraire. We would never have thought of that. You cannot prevent every misfortune that might befall the unwary traveler, you know. I’m sorry about your eagle.”

Tharkay nodded. Then his attention was diverted by Arkady, the leader of the feral dragons. “We will accompany you to Istanbul and dine with the Sultan!” he announced grandly.

Laurence looked at Tharkay. “What was that?”

“More unpreventable misfortune,” he replied. “Temeraire has convinced them of the joys of travel, and they wish to expand their horizons—and bellies—by paying a visit to the Ottoman Empire.”

%%%

Laurence had seemed less irritated with Tharkay since he apologized for not warning him more clearly about the potential for avalanches in the Pamirs. Tharkay was glad that he hadn’t had a reason to disappear again right before it happened: Laurence might have suspected him of deliberately causing thousands of tons of snow to hit their campsite.

Of course, Laurence now had the rulers of the Ottoman Empire as the focus of his irritation. Arkady and his band of ferals had got them off on the wrong foot with the Sultan’s soldiers by raiding an expensive herd of cattle just over the border and then flying off with the spoils. The soldiers had reluctantly escorted them to Istanbul, where a high-ranking vezir, Hasan Mustafa Pasha, had given them what appeared to be rooms in the Sultan’s palace. It was a gilded cage, nothing more. The vezir informed them that the British ambassador was dead and his assistant was missing, along with half a million pounds in gold sovereigns that was to have been paid to the Sultan in exchange for three dragon eggs. They would not release the eggs without payment, particularly not to foreign cattle thieves.

Tharkay pondered his options. Avram Maden had been involved in the transport of the gold coins and the negotiations between the British and the Turkish government. He could sneak out of the palace and arrange a meeting between Maden and Laurence. But the latter looked to be holding on to his temper by a thread. It would be unwise to continue to bait the man. And unkind. Tharkay sighed. The fun was over. And by his estimate, Sara would be married in a month. He would not remain in the city anywhere near that long.

“Laurence, a word with you, if I may,” he said quietly.

“Go on,” said the captain, his jaw tense.

“I may be able to help you. The man who entrusted Admiral Lenton’s letter to me is a respected resident of this city, Avram Maden. He helped arrange the sale of the eggs, and he may have some useful information.”

“How would you contact him? Oh,” said Laurence, realizing that Tharkay meant to scale the palace walls. “Thank you for telling me beforehand. I suppose if you can set up a meeting, I can accompany you on a return trip.”

There was a commotion among the aviators: three of them were squabbling over the telescope, looking at what appeared to be a woman in the gardens below, talking to an official. Laurence called them to order and Tharkay snagged the glass. Only her eyes were visible, dark against olive skin, but he recognized her veil and long coat. It was Sara.

Laurence put a hand on his shoulder: “What are you doing? he hissed. “Is that a woman of the harem?”

Tharkay stiffened. “She is not,” he said. “I . . .” He handed Laurence the glass and walked away.

%%%

Throughout the dinner with Laurence and the Maden family, Tharkay kept his expression neutral by force of will—and likely at the cost of his sanity, he thought. But the last thing he wanted was for Laurence to learn of his love for Sara by way of her mother mentioning her impending wedding to another man—with Tharkay and Sara sitting right there at the table. Gah!

He didn’t think Mrs. Maden was trying to be cruel: as far as Tharkay knew, she was unaware of his feelings. And her daughter’s. But Mr. Maden knew. His eyes met Tharkay’s in a silent apology even as he gave Laurence the details on the dragon egg transaction, which had apparently involved one hundred wooden chests filled with heavy gold, hardly something the late ambassador or his missing (and possibly also late) assistant could have easily concealed. The sultan or the vezir would have had the resources to pull off such a theft, but the evening concluded with the damning fact that Laurence lacked the evidence to accuse anyone of the crime.

Tharkay felt Laurence’s eyes on him as they walked back toward the palace. He tried to ignore the intrusion.

“Tharkay,” said Laurence, a question in his voice.

“No,” said Tharkay.

“How do you know the answer is no?” said Laurence. “I didn’t even ask you anything yet.”

“No,” said Tharkay. “Whatever the question is, the answer is no. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about anything.”

“Very well,” said Laurence, who was supposedly too well-bred to pry, though Tharkay thought he was finding it a challenge at the moment.

They reached the palace walls in heavy silence. Laurence threw up his grapple and climbed first. He was atop the wall with Tharkay halfway up when two guards walked around the corner. Tharkay met Laurence’s eyes: would the man abandon him? Either way, his best bet was to drop to the ground and fight. As he closed with one of the Turks, he heard the soft thump of Laurence jumping from the wall to fight by his side. Within seconds both guards were down, but the noise had attracted unwelcome attention.

%%%

In the end, they escaped the swarm of palace guards only by ducking into the flooded catacombs beneath the city. Tharkay had to drag Laurence into the cellar of the abandoned house where an entrance lay. He didn’t blame the captain: the catacombs were more like sewers—close, dark, and fetid. The guards followed them in, but Tharkay knew the way well enough to give them the slip. At the other end, Laurence had the strength to wrench the iron grate open and jam it shut with a tree branch. They stumbled along the streets toward the palace, gulping the clean, cool air.

This time, Tharkay and Laurence made it over the wall without incident. They slumped to the ground and leaned back against the stones.

When he had caught his breath, Tharkay turned to Laurence. “I thought you might leave me hanging and make good your escape when the guards came along.”

Laurence reddened. “That would be ungentlemanly,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Tharkay, “but I have been abandoned more than once by gentlemen who felt it was expedient.”

“Not on my watch,” said Laurence. He was silent a minute. “You play the disreputable rascal, yet you contribute greatly toward our mission. Why would a man do that?”

“One who is treated as a man would not,” said Tharkay. “Such civilized behavior I have not often encountered, particularly among my father’s people. Your people.”

Tharkay paused, as if uncertain whether he should continue. “I think,” he said finally, “that you are not entirely like the other Englishmen I have known.”

“I would be your friend,” Laurence said quietly, “if you would have me. A man does better with some companionship, someone he can trust to have his back in a fight.” He offered his hand to Tharkay. “Let us pledge our loyalty to each other and have done with games, that real work may be done, in which we can take pride.”

Tharkay shook his hand. “Yes, to all of the above,” he said. “And to a bath. You smell like a sewer.”

“So do you. But come,” said Laurence, “the Sultan has given our company perfumed soap and thick towels. We shall make good use of them.”

%%%

Tharkay had thought that he would never see Sara again. But in the morning, there she was at the entrance to their quarters.

Sara reached into the pockets of her robe and produced a gold coin bearing the face of King George III, offering it to Laurence.

“A gold sovereign!” he exclaimed. “Where did you find this, Miss Maden?”

“In the Sultan’s treasury,” she said. “Most of the rest has been melted down.”

“Sa—Miss Maden, that was very dangerous!” said Tharkay.

“It is done,” she said softly. “You have the proof you needed.”

“I thank you, Miss Maden,” said Laurence. “This makes our course of action clearer.”

“I must go,” Sara said, glancing at Tharkay. “Farewell.”

Tharkay winced. “May the Lord be with you,” he said.

He did not believe in that sort of God, but Sara did, and that was enough.

Tharkay turned toward the wall as Sara departed. He screwed his eyes shut and thought only about breathing. He could feel Laurence’s sympathetic gaze, but he did not want it.

%%%

After that, Tharkay did not really want to live, but when the red-hot poker stabbed into his thigh, he realized he did not want to die. Not at the hands of the eunuchs who protected the women of the harem and their baths, near where the dragon eggs were kept warm. Laurence’s attempt to face down the Sultan with the evidence in hand had failed, and here they were, sneaking into the harem to steal what their government had paid for.

The scent of burning meat filled the humid air, and Tharkay clenched his jaw. He could think of no worse time to howl in pain. The aviators quickly secured the three eggs in their silk wrappings. Tharkay tested his leg. He could walk, after a fashion. There was no blood, his flesh cauterized by the poker that had stirred the coals that heated the bath. They moved out quickly, heading for Temeraire and the relative safety of the air. When they came to some stairs, Laurence and Granby helped Tharkay to the top. Finally they burst out into a courtyard and Granby signaled Temeraire and the remaining crew with a flare.

But one more tragedy awaited them in Istanbul. As Temeraire rose into the air, his great wings beating furiously, one of the eggs slipped out. One of the young ensigns made a grab for it, but he was not yet latched on to Temeraire’s harness. He fell with the egg and in an instant both lay broken and bloody on the courtyard stones. The Turkish dragons were already flying toward them. There was nothing to be done.

%%%

Thanks to a heroic effort by Temeraire, they made the Austrian border just as dawn broke over the countryside. Safely inside a fort, they fell into a deep sleep, Tharkay no less than the others, despite the burning in his leg and in his heart.

The next morning, Laurence came to speak with him. “I’m sorry for having dragged you several hundred miles with us. Your leg is healing well?”

“Yes,” Tharkay said. “We are not so very far from Vienna, where I have contacts. Pray do not concern yourself.”

“I would not cause you more distress,” said Laurence, “but I must tell you how much I admire Miss Maden’s efforts on our behalf. She is very clever and brave. And she did it for you, I think.”

Tharkay looked at him. For a moment he could not speak. He dropped his eyes to hide the tears that were threatening to spill over and drew a ragged breath.

Laurence moved forward and embraced Tharkay. “I am so sorry,” he said.

Tharkay let himself be held. It was the first time in years.

The End