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Chapter Text

Laurence sat down to read to Temeraire in the evening but they continued far into the night assisted by the light of a lantern. The book was on mathematics, although not Temeraire’s beloved Principia Mathematica, and rather more complex than Laurence would have preferred. He found his tongue tripping increasingly over the latin as the hour became later, though Temeraire was polite enough not to mention. The words swam a little in front of his eyes and he leaned a little further back against Temeraire’s foreleg.

He abruptly awoke to find the moon had risen and that despite the warmth emanating from Temeraire he was quite chilled and beginning to shiver. It was late enough in the year that frosts were beginning to occur and the ground was still hard from a cold spell that had begun three days ago. Laurence rose slowly in an effort not to disturb Temeraire but evidently he failed when a single massive eye cracked open.

“Pray do not go, Laurence.” he said still half asleep. Laurence patted the soft skin on his nose gently.

“I’m afraid I must, my dear, or I shall catch a cold and none of us can afford to be ill with Napoleon ready to invade.” He said softly.

“Oh no!” Temeraire exclaimed somewhat loudly, as ever being overly concerned with Laurence’s wellbeing. “Well you simply must go then. I insist!” he nudged Laurence in the direction of the barracks hard enough to make him stagger.

“Good night, Temeraire.” Laurence said, a fond smile on his face. Temeraire settled himself once more, eyes sliding shut and wings rustling as his breath formed ghostly clouds of vapour.

The way to the barracks was dark and deserted – any man of sense had retired long before and so it felt like Laurence had the entire covert to himself. He walked across the frozen ground, listening to the rather satisfying sound of the soles of his Hessian boots striking the hard surface. They almost seemed to echo!

Now that he had left Temeraire’s immediate vicinity it was very dark, only a few distant lights from the barracks and other buildings in the covert and the light of the moon where it slipped between the trees surrounding the clearings. The ground was mostly level but there was the occasional tree root and it was upon one of these that Laurence tripped. He stumbled a little but recovered his balance well enough but the strange echo he had earlier heard in his steps became disordered and chaotic and he realised that someone had been following him, attempting to match their stride with his.

He turned “Who-” there was a swift darting movement and he felt a terrific impact in his abdomen. Laurence staggered backwards, legs folding under him as his lungs emptied and his question was entirely forgotten. He could feel hands upon him but he could not think at all clearly while winded so he merely lay limp and gasped.

It was likely some minutes before he had any measure of control over his breathing and he became aware that he was being dragged across the covert. One of his eyes seemed to be stuck shut somehow and his head hurt dreadfully. He drew in a breath to shout for Temeraire but he must have been too plain in his intentions for his abductor brought a blade to his throat in warning.

“Not a word, Laurence.” The man said lowly. He had a French accent and for a second Laurence thought confusedly that the Covert must be under attack but then he recognised Choiseul.

“Choiseul!” Laurence blurted stupidly as he attempted to push him away “What are you doing?”

“Enough! We are going now.” he shook Laurence roughly and quite banished the notion of struggling. He did not feel all there and was preoccupied with violently increasing nausea and a vanishing sense of balance. Laurence stumbled along in Choiseul’s grasp for the rest of the journey across the covert, the sword never far away from his neck.

There was not a soul to be seen save from the snoring forms of dragons and all too soon they had emerged in Praecursoris’ clearing. The French dragon was already in full harness and Choiseul’s baggage secured to his underside. This had clearly been planned in advance and the reality that he was about to be kidnapped and used as leverage against Temeraire finally registered. He caught sight of Choiseul’s face for the first time since his assault and noticed the Frenchman was pale, his features drawn with fear. Fear that likely showed on his own face as Choiseul looked at him with remorse.

“I am sorry, Laurence but I have no other choice. Now get on.” He shook Laurence again, which proved too much for him. He retched and brought up the half-digested contents of his stomach all over Choiseul’s finely polished Hessians.

Choiseul bore the indignity with impressive stoicism before dragging Laurence up onto Praecursoris’ back and fastening both of their carabiners when Laurence proved incapable of doing it himself.

“Were you always a traitor?” Laurence asked a touch bitterly, his voice now turned hoarse.

“Ever since it became clear that Bonaparte will be in London by Christmastime.” He retorts angrily but doesn’t elaborate. He said something to Praecursoris in French and the Chanson-de-Guerre leapt into the air, flying over the covert as low as was safe at night towards Temeraire’s clearing. They landed, though Praecursoris remained ready to take to the air again. Though the flight had been short it had been enough to upset Laurence’s stomach once more and he remained slumped upon Praecursoris’ shoulders miserably.

“Temeraire!” Choiseul called out, placing his sword once again at Laurence’s throat. “Your Captain requires your attention.”

Temeraire awoke swiftly and uncoiled to face them, his ruff rising up as he hissed “What have you done to Laurence? Give him back!” Laurence had never heard Temeraire sound so furious or uncontrolled. There was no sign of the gentle beast that had attempted to teach Laurence the finer points of mathematics just hours before.

Temeraire made to approach, but Choiseul pressed the blade into the tender skin at the base of Laurence’s neck, cutting into flesh the slightest amount. “No closer please.” Temeraire roared and tore at the ground frustratedly but did not approach. The roar shook the trees in its path and must have woken every man and dragon in the covert. Choiseul’s expression twisted with desperation. “Temeraire, you will follow us to France. Do not approach Praecursoris or I will hurt your Captain.”

Praecursoris then went aloft and after waiting a moment Temeraire followed. Below the covert was lighting up as men ran to their dragons in confusion. Temeraire had ensured that their departure did not go unnoticed but Laurence only hoped that Lenton would realise what had happened quick enough to stop them. The flight across the Channel would not take longer than an hour and if Laurence reached France then he would be beyond rescue.

Laurence looked back. Temeraire’s black hide was barely visible in the darkness and behind him the lights of the covert slowly shrunk and as they flew out over the moonlit waters of the channel he thought he could see the forms of dragons leaping into the air.

As Laurence understood it, usually the securing of hostages would be the responsibility of the more junior officers of a crew but Choiseul was clearly well practiced in keeping hold of unwilling passengers on dragon-back. Choiseul also faced backwards but on his part it was to watch Temeraire. He had a tight grip upon Laurence’s coat and the blade of his sword remained close enough to present a threat in case Temeraire attempted to get closer but not so close as to accidentally maim him.

The flight settled into a tense impasse and Laurence was overcome with exhaustion. He forced himself to remain awake for Temeraire’s sake. If he gave in to his injuries and exhaustion he would be unable to take advantage of any opportunities to escape and Temeraire might think he had been killed. Laurence slipped into an unpleasant trance where all the thought of was remaining conscious and he did not know how much time had passed when Praecursoris jolted beneath them. He looked up and saw that a few of the British courier-weights had caught up and were harrying the French heavyweight. A few of the couriers’ passes almost came close enough to snatch Laurence back but Choiseul held him tightly and once again held the sword close and they were forced to retreat.

Laurence realised that the shadow of England upon the horizon was only a dark smudge. He risked a quick glance forward. The fires of the French military shone brightly and distinctly. They could not be further than a few miles from the French coast.

A particularly daring Greyling darted close to nip Praecursoris and Laurence noticed with a distracted sort of horror that it was Volly. They came close enough that the terrified expression upon James’ face could be clearly seen, Laurence doubted they had ever seen combat before. The wind from Volly’s wings buffeted Laurence and Choiseul and Laurence took the chance to kick out behind him, making contact with what he thought could be an ankle. Choiseul fell in a tangle of harness straps with a shout of surprise and pain and Laurence wrested the sword from his lax grip to slash through his own straps.

He scrambled down Praecursoris’ back, ignoring Choiseul’s shouts to halt. If it had been raining Laurence would surely have fallen within seconds but as it was he remained aboard only by clinging to the scalloped ridge that followed the line of Praecursoris’ spine. He came to the Chanson-de-Guerre’s hindquarters where he intended to wait for one of the couriers to take him but when he looked out the couriers were retreating, pursued by a horde of French lightweights.

He looked to Temeraire. He was closer than before but couldn’t come any further without being struck by Praecursoris’ tail. Choiseul had recovered and was quickly approaching. Laurence could either remain clinging to this ridge and likely be taken prisoner once more or place his life in Temeraire’s hands. He did not want to think of the effect him dying like this would have on Temeraire but he could not in good conscience surrender to the French and remove one of Britain’s few Heavyweights from the war. Choiseul was only yards away now, he had to decide now!

He knew what his duty was. He threw the sword aside and drew in a fortifying breath.

Laurence jumped.

Temeraire dived immediately, he may have said something as he did so but it was lost to the wind. His forelegs were extended as far as they could be, wings tucked back and body flattening into an elegant arrow to best cut through the air. Laurence watched Temeraire dive above him with a strange calmness. Either he would be caught, or he wouldn’t. Laurence’s fate was no longer his own to decide.

It was an awfully long way down, he had always thought falling would be a quick death but he supposed he was far far above the crows nests that had once been the roof of his world. Laurence forced himself to ignore the awful siren call to look at the sea below. To watch its approach would only cause distress.

It felt as if he had been falling for much longer than the score of seconds it had likely been. Temeraire was still catching up to him but he feared not fast enough, he had been somewhat higher than Praecursoris in order to have a clear view of the struggle on his back and this now served them poorly.

Temeraire was now close enough Laurence would have been able to count some of his larger scales if the wind hadn’t forced his eyes to become teary. His face stung from the cold and his extremities had become quite numb. He reached out the best he could against the wind.

“Laurence!” Temeraire cried, alarmed, and then something hit him hard in the back. A moment of disorientation passed, where he thought he had hit the sea and was surely dying, but the wind was still rushing past. He was caged between two massive black, scaly, taloned hands and it looked very much like Temeraire had somehow caught him after all but then he heard the sounds of Temeraire’s distress and the closer triumphant shouts in French. His escape had been unsuccessful – he must be resting in the grip of a Fleur-de-Nuit.

One of his legs hung uncomfortably out of a gap between the talons and when he looked down to see about extricating it he sees that the sea is only a mere hundred feet or so below. If the Fleur-de-Nuit hadn’t caught him then he and Temeraire both would likely have crashed into the channel. The thought brings him a peculiar sort of reverse vertigo and he hurriedly looks away from the waves below.

He does not have such a good view of the remainder of the flight, only an awareness of the lights of fires reflecting off the Fleur-de-Nuit’s scales. The dragon comes descends to land and Laurence is deposited rather roughly in the midst of a group of waiting soldiers. He does not resist when they grab him, he feels battered and ill and must make a frightful sight as he sways but none of the men are inclined to treat him gently and once more a blade is brought close to his throat. Temeraire is directed to land some distance away and although he does not approach he is clearly miserable in his helplessness.

“Laurence are you well?” he calls worriedly.

“I’m fine, my dear.” He manages to call back in an imitation of confidence before he is escorted away.

Chapter Text

Laurence awakens in a cell. There is no window so he does not know how long he was unconscious for. He recalls with some difficulty that he had passed out once he was scarcely out of Temeraire’s sight. Laurence sits up slowly and while he no longer feels quite so wretched he still rather battered. He rubs off the now dried blood that was crusted on one side of his face and gummed up one eye, it appeared he hit his head at some point in the night’s chaos although he had no recollection of doing so! While his injuries had mostly been left untended his neckcloth was missing and his neck bandaged.

Once he had inspected the cell and the state of his health there was very little to do. Laurence was quite desperate for any distraction that would stop him fretting about Temeraire but there was scarce little else to occupy his thoughts. He tried to sleep but he was restless and the pile of prickly straw that made his bed did not offer much comfort.

Eventually he must have succeeded as he awoke again to the door opening. He was allowed a drink of water and a change of clothes, although he insisted upon wearing his uniform coat despite it being crumpled and dirty, before being marched out of his cell by a much-diminished number of soldiers. He was brought up to a much finer room with several windows that looked out over a crawling morass of men, dragons and construction work. It was hard to see exactly what was being built but there appeared to be a great many ship-like structures being assembled – although they were nothing like any seaworthy vessel Laurence had ever seen! He was interrupted then by the arrival of a short man dressed in the green of a French Colonel that he recognised with appalling lateness – after his guards snapped to attention – was Bonaparte himself! He felt awfully self-conscious of his state of dishevelment but there was little that could be done so he only straightened his posture and kept his expression carefully neutral. Why would Bonaparte be here to see him?

“We finally meet, Captain Laurence!” Bonaparte greeted him jovially in clear if heavily accented English to Laurence’s ever-increasing bafflement.

“Your Majesty?” he asked a little more incredulously than he had meant, though luckily Bonaparte didn’t care to notice his lack of respect.

“So, you are the man who not only captured the Amitie but also harnessed a Celestial! I must say ‘Temeraire’ is an unconventional name for a dragon but what can one expect from a naval man?” he paused just long enough for Laurence to nod in agreement before continuing the cheerful tirade “He has grown into it rather well too and I approve very much of it being French. Very appropriate.”

He continued to speak, although Laurence would very much have liked to interrupt “When I gave Choiseul his orders I expected Temeraire to still be in the egg. He may be a traitor twice over, but he has proven very resourceful.”

Laurence replied with some mystification “Celestial? I beg your pardon your majesty, but I have it on good authority that Temeraire is an Imperial.”

Bonaparte laughed “Well I can understand how confusion would arise – I have heard the breeds are very similar after all – but I have very strong reason to believe your so-called expert is mistaken.”

“But he does not have the divine wind” Laurence protested, thinking of what Sir Howe had told him about the breed “and besides aren’t the Chinese supposed to be very protective of their Celestials? I very much doubt they would allow anyone to go sailing halfway around the world with a Celestial egg.”

“I would agree with you but if the Amitie hadn’t had such a bad crossing Temeraire would have been my dragon.”

“What?” Laurence said stupidly.

“The Chinese believe that only the Emperor and his close relatives are worthy of a Celestial’s companionship. Temeraire’s egg was supposed to be their gift to me as a fellow Emperor.” Bonaparte elaborated looking rather bored by his reaction.

“Which brings us to what to do with you.” Bonaparte said and the joviality that had been present in his manner up until now evaporated. “I must admit your arrival here is somewhat problematic. Temeraire is rather more advanced in age than I was led to believe and I very much doubt he could be convinced to give you up so I cannot simply let you return to England. I don’t suppose I could convince you to become a French citizen? You would be richly rewarded.” He added hopefully.

“Your Majesty I’m afraid I must respectfully refuse.” He said flatly.

“Quite right. I expected you would say as much as soon as I heard that you threw yourself from dragon back during your journey here.” Bonaparte frowned “It is a pity. You seem like a good man and it is a tragedy to let such a rare breed waste away in a prison.”

Laurence was embarrassed to hear such foolish actions of his spoken of so plainly “I am bound by my duties to King and Country.” He said solemnly. And to Temeraire he wished to add but didn’t. If Laurence truly valued Temeraire’s happiness equal with England’s Safety he would have taken Bonaparte’s offer.

A week passed. Laurence was tiring thoroughly of the sight of his cell. There was scarce little to do while locked away except from straining to understand the snatches of conversation of those passing by his cell. If he had not been so dreadfully bored then he would have found this pastime most unseemly but he did not have any other distraction from the precarious nature of his captivity. Temeraire had endeavoured to teach him a little French ever since he had discovered Laurence knew no more than how to say hello back at the Loch Laggan Covert but he still could not have called his grasp of the language anything other than extremely basic. He was already showing a little improvement but there was only so much that could be learned from eavesdropping.

He was permitted out of the cell for an hour to visit Temeraire in the morning every day and on three occasions Bonaparte had wished to see him in the evenings. The meetings with Bonaparte continued to be a bemusing experience. The emperor was a restless man, prone to sudden changes of subject when their discussion bored him, though he remained relentlessly charming. Laurence was not sure why he warranted so much of his attention and felt rather like a prized hound.

Bonaparte had mostly refrained from further offers save from one evening involving supremely uncomfortable game of Whist. When Laurence had arrived at Bonaparte’s rooms his attention had been caught by an ornate Marshal’s uniform that had been draped conspicuously over the back of a chair. It was unlikely to belong to the Emperor – Laurence had never seen him in anything other than the comparatively subdued Green of a Colonel – and while he understood the implicit offer in its placement Laurence did not care to examine the prospect more closely.

He was not given long to dwell on it regardless as Bonaparte had enquired what games were favoured in England and Laurence had then been obliged to explain to him him the rules of Whist, which to his knowledge was a quintessentially English game. He had scarcely played the game since becoming an Aviator, but it had once been one of his favourite past times which only made this occasion the stranger. Where once he had played at parties with other gentlemen there he was playing alongside the Emperor of France and two bemused senior officers, present only to fill out the requisite number of players. The chair occupied by the uniform remained unacknowledged save from the occasional sly glance from the French officers. Laurence did his best to ignore the gold braid winking in his peripheral vision but he was a poor conversation partner that evening and played uncharacteristically poorly. Bonaparte’s mood had also soured as his offer remained ignored. It had almost been a relief to finally be sent back to his cell.

His time with Temeraire was both a relief and a torment. Due to the camp’s location being only a short flight from England Laurence was not permitted within ten feet of Temeraire and kept under a careful watch during his visits. Temeraire was taking confinement as well as could be hoped but became morose whenever Laurence left. Laurence was only glad Temeraire had not been chained down as he had feared would happen but he was near constantly supervised by at least three French heavyweights. To talk with so little privacy was not very pleasant but on their sixth morning in France Laurence finally passed on the news that Sir Howe had been mistaken and that Temeraire was actually a Celestial, which had been received with giddy enthusiasm. Laurence himself had been a little caught up in the pride associated with his dragon being of the most prized and intelligent breed in existence and it was on this that he blamed for the chaos that followed. Temeraire had exclaimed “But Laurence, if I am a Celestial then that must mean I have the divine wind! I wonder how I should learn such a skill…”

Laurence had smiled fondly and in a moment of plain stupidly suggested “It is likely a matter of practice my dear”

Temeraire was so keen to find out that he immediately took in a great lungful of air and roared. The roar was impressive, Laurence doubted he had ever heard louder, but the structures and men in its path were only buffeted by the rush of air. He did not think that this was the divine wind – any heavyweight could do as much and a regal copper with its even larger lung capacity would likely be even louder. The silence after the roar felt almost as deafening in the wake of such a magnitude of sound, only the continuous rhythm of the sea could be heard in the distance as every man and dragon in the camp had halted in their work and looked at Temeraire with alarm. One of Laurence’s guards gripped him by the arm and said something in rapid French. Laurence didn’t understand but it was not difficult to guess judging by the guns that the other guards had pointed at him.

“My dear, perhaps you should save such practice for another time.” He suggested as levelly as he could. Temeraire looked down at Laurence and his guards and went very still.

“Yes, of course.” He said quietly and sat down slowly, his head dropping down to rest upon his forelegs in clear dejection.

Laurence’s guards continue to tug on his arms and he realises he is to be taken away now.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Temeraire!” he shouts back to his dragon.

The next day he does not see Temeraire. The seventh day of captivity is spent miserably in his cell with no company. Morning begins and ends without interruption. At what he guesses is midday he stiffly eats the tasteless food he is brought. The afternoon is a second stretch of listless emptiness. Today Napoleon does not request his company.

Laurence lies awake in what he assumes is the night. He feels grey and hopeless, he has been deprived the only source of joy still accessible to him. This separation is almost certainly to punish Temeraire for acting in an aggressive manner but Laurence cannot restrain the irrational fear that they will keep Temeraire and him apart permanently. He can hardly bear to think of such a reality but cannot banish it from his thoughts either.

On the eighth day they let him see Temeraire again. They fetch him late in the morning, well after Laurence had begun to despair of spending another day isolated. He is so glad to see Temeraire that he almost forgets himself and runs to him. The guards jerk him to a halt an extra five feet further from Temeraire and despite the extra distance he is still thankful. Temeraire turns and spots him, almost making the same mistake before and instead curling his tail around his feet. Laurence has barely slept and has not yet eaten today and feels suddenly weak. He sits in the dirt abruptly but he is so relieved he scarcely cares.

“Laurence! Are you alright?” Temeraire asks worriedly.

He nods. Laurence wants nothing more then to go to Temeraire, to stroke the soft hide on his nose and reassure them both. Instead he asks Temeraire to teach him more French and observes the progress of the invasion preparations.

Some of the boat-like constructs have been finished and Laurence is realising that he is quite correct in his estimation that these structures are not meant for the sea. Teams of dragons have begun practicing carrying the transports about. By his estimate each could likely carry two thousand men and Laurence realised that Bonaparte intends to invade from the air.

At the time of his abduction the Navy and much of the Aerial Corps had been dispatched to meet Villeneuve of the Spanish coast, leaving the Channel only barely defended from both sea and air. They’d thought there was time for their forces to return but the Admiralty had been horribly, very likely disastrously, wrong. He only hoped they had reconsidered the information of the Grande Armée’s movements at their disposal as much of it had originated from Choiseul’s reports.

Even as Laurence realised the full ramifications of Bonaparte’s plan he knew what he needed to do. It was his duty to escape and do so in a timely enough fashion that this intelligence is still of use for the upcoming battle. Through how he was to achieve this eluded him.

Chapter Text

Laurence held back a sigh as Bonaparte introduced him to the Marshals Murat and Bessières. For some strange reason the Emperor appeared to be quite charmed by Laurence and now often requested his presence in the evenings. He was even going so far to introduce him to his close associates and Laurence had no idea what to make of it. Was this an extended attempt to seduce him from England’s service or was Bonaparte merely fond of him? Laurence supposed either was plausible – everything he knew of the Emperor suggested him to be just as eccentric as he was intelligent.

Marshal Murat – who had made sure to inform Laurence loftily was also an Admiral, though he suspected Murat had less knowledge of naval matters than the average scullery maid – appeared to derive great amusement questioning Laurence about his Naval career. Laurence obliged but could not help but feel that Murat was keen to place him at the wrong end of a cruel joke or some such and that the longer he obliged the man the more ammunition he gave him. However Bonaparte also joined the questioning so Laurence could hardly refuse, though he seemed to be more genuinely interested than Murat – even if he had just as little understanding of Naval strategy. Bessières had little to say but appeared to be enjoying himself well enough just observing and listened intently.

From his experience so far of France’s Marshalls it appeared that Bonaparte liked to surround himself with men of a similar disposition – charismatic in the extreme but also eccentric in ways that could bode poorly for those unprepared. He wondered whose idea exactly it had been to build the transports lying in the courtyard outside.

His head swum a little unpleasantly from the port he was sipping occasionally to be polite. Not that it was unpleasant – no it was a particularly fine vintage befitting of an emperor. The problem was that prisoners were only fed a meagre thin porridge once sometime around midday so while he had not drunk much Laurence’s stomach was very much empty now and the fortified wine was quickly addling his thoughts.

All pleasant fuzziness was dispelled by the scream of a dragon in extreme distress right outside. All conversation halted and Laurence rushed to the window and shoved the curtains open, spurred on by unspeakable half-formed imaginings of something awful befalling Temeraire. He felt the slightest bit foolish a second later when there wasn’t a heavyweight in sight. Of course, the cry he had heard had been too quiet to be from a heavyweight and besides Temeraire was likely the safest dragon in the camp!

There were soldiers clustered in the space outside the command building and a couple of middleweight dragons had landed. A grievously injured lightweight – a Winchester – was sprawled in the dirt. Laurence didn’t immediately spot the Winchester’s Captain as the Aviator’s green uniforms were drab in comparison to those of the Grande Armée but then he saw Rankin limping heavily in the hold of two infantrymen.

Of all the couriers that could be sent on a reconnaissance flight it would just have to be Rankin and Levitas.

“Is anything the matter, Captain Laurence?” Bonaparte asked pleasantly. Laurence uncurled his fingers from where they were tightly gripping the sill and returned to his seat. In his haste to get up he had knocked his glass of port and some had spilled so he placed his hands carefully to avoid the mess.

“It appears your patrols caught a Winchester and his Captain.” He answered levelly.

Bonaparte hummed thoughtfully and Murat asked a touch smugly “Anyone you are acquainted with?”

“Captain Rankin and Levitas.” He said irritatedly, not caring to explain the whole sorry situation to near strangers. Murat looked keen to hear more by the arrival of an officer who delivered a report that Laurence understood no more than a single sentence: “Le dragon de l’anglais est mort”. He could not remember his tenses well enough to determine if that meant Levitas was dead or dying but it ultimately made little difference. It was one of the realities of war that men – and dragons – would be lost but he couldn’t imagine a less deserving soul. Levitas had been such a gentle creature and had never been trained or expected to fight. It served as a reminder that while he was being invited to play cards and converse with his captors the reception his fellow Aviators received was rather different. He eyed the remaining contents of his glass and contemplated downing it.

The officer left and Bonaparte turned his attention back to Laurence. Whatever he saw caused him to sigh.

“Captain, you may be excused.” Bonaparte ordered. Laurence stood unsteadily. The walk back to his cell seemed interminably long. He lingered a moment at one of the windows and caught a glimpse of a cluster of horses and men around a heap of dull grey dragonhide. Then the men escorting him became impatient and he lost sight of the sorry scene.

Rankin died a full two days later. Murat told him in a faux-kindly manner while they were once again gathered in Bonaparte’s rooms. Apparently, the wound on his leg had mortified and he had not survived the subsequent amputation. Murat had clearly expected some kind of emotional response and had been quite put out when Laurence had merely accepted the unfortunate news. He was almost shocked by his own apathy, but it was difficult to care about a man whose actions he considered reprehensible when it followed such a sadder death. Laurence wished that they could have escaped if only so that the Admiralty knew of the soon to be imminent invasion by air.

Someone outside Laurence’s cell was speaking truly atrocious French. He may not know much himself, but Laurence could hear the man’s underlying English accent so clearly it was a wonder the guard had yet to question it.

The Englishman’s vocabulary appeared to be rather limited and as the conversation progressed he was increasingly speaking in English. Laurence almost hoped he wasn’t a spy if he was going to go about it in such a haphazard manner when there was the sound of an impact and a muffled protest. Then the door to the cell is being unlocked and when it swings open Granby is revealed, resplendent in a blue Grande Armée uniform.

Laurence is speechless for some seconds while Granby drags the semi-conscious guard inside the cell and strips him of his coat and gun before restraining the poor fellow with his own belt. Granby then turns to him with a grin “It’s good to see you again Sir!” he throws the guard’s coat to him and Laurence exchanges it with his dirty aviator coat.

“Granby? How did you get here?” he asks incredulously.

“I threatened some fisherman in Dover. They were going to sell their catch here anyway so they didn’t take much convincing.” Granby tells him smugly “I actually made the crossing yesterday night but you’ve been bloody hard to find.”

Laurence chose not to address whether Granby had sought permission for this scheme. Their time would currently be better spent finding Temeraire and escaping.

“Do you know if Rankin is here? He and Levitas were sent to do reconnaissance in this area several days ago and they never returned.” Granby asked as they left the cell.

Laurence frowned as he told him what had happened – and then how vitally important it was that they be successful in their escape due to Bonaparte’s the plot to invade England.

“Oh!” Granby exclaimed loudly and probably would have continued so if Laurence hadn’t shushed him “What a villain, trying to catch us off guard!” A short pause and then “We’d better get out of here then.”

As Granby had procured them uniforms escaping was a simple enough matter. The basement level of the building was mostly empty at night with only a couple other prisoners being guarded. They merely walked past the few soldiers there with little more than a nod and the odd “Bonsoir” of questionable authenticity.

They left the building without incident. It was night and seeing stars again briefly staggered Laurence. The camp was aglow with torches and bonfires but when he looked up at the heavens he could imagine he was back in the Dover covert. This almost pleasant moment was disturbed by the realisation that Laurence did not know how to find Temeraire. On his daily visits Temeraire had been brought to the open ground near Laurence’s prison but he was otherwise kept elsewhere. Laurence had no knowledge of where to start looking in the sizable camp and a black dragon is not trivial at all to find at night, even before the presence of other black dragons – the French fleur-de-Nuits – was taken into account.

“This way.” Granby murmured in his ear and began to lead him through the camp. Their way was convoluted and frustrating as they had to pass through where the transports were being built and often had to double back to avoid the wooden hulks. Men were working by torchlight even now, though it was less busy than in the daylight hours. There was no doubt a more efficient way through or even around the ‘ship’yard but they could not afford to show any confusion for fear of discovery.

Finally they left the labyrinth. On the left and the right lay the neat rows of tents housing much of the Grande Armée and before them was the makeshift covert. It was not difficult to slip past the tired French Aviator at the covert entrance. Granby began to saunter confidently with purpose across the covert, although their disguises marked them as infantry and were becoming increasingly flimsy. Laurence could not stop himself from anxiously glancing about at the dragons as they passed. There were Defendeur-Braves, Petit Chavaliers and Flamme-de-Gloires a plenty and even a startling number of Grand Chevaliers but no Celestial. There weren’t any Fleur-de-Nuits to be seen which meant they were likely to be patrolling the coast and would provide additional dangers in their escape.

“How much further?” he whispered to Granby but he did not hear his response as he then spotted Choiseul. Laurence had not seen the traitor since the night of his kidnapping and had not been sorry for it in the least. He began to look away but in a moment of awful luck Choiseul chose that moment to look in their direction and they made eye contact. Choiseul’s expression swiftly morphed from surprise and confusion to panic.

“Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Il s'échappe!” he shouted and the camp devolved into chaos.

“Run!” Granby yelled and began to sprint away from Choiseul, who was pointing at them and continuing to shout. Laurence fled after him, dodging hands reaching out to snag at his stolen uniform.

They darted down a narrow opening between two tents and out onto more open ground once more. Laurence tripped and was almost caught in the guy ropes but Granby steadied him. The commotion had disturbed the resting dragons which were roaring and calling to their captains. A nearby Flamme-de-Gloire shot flames up into the night sky that lit up the camp and in the burst of extra illumination he finally saw Temeraire. He ran faster, even overtaking Granby in his enthusiasm.

“Temeraire!” Laurence shouted as loud as he was able while running. He feared for an instant that Temeraire would not hear him in the din but his serpentine head snapped around and fixed on him. Temeraire’s night guard was only a single Grand Chevalier and while it had the advantage in size Temeraire would be the faster. It had barely gotten to its feet by the time Temeraire had leapt aloft.

His attention was then drawn by Granby, who made a pained “umph” noise and disappeared from his peripheral vision. Laurence turned to see Choiseul – blast him! – must have slammed into Granby from behind and had tackled him to the ground. He once again had a knife in his hand and Laurence was quite unwilling to see what he intended to do with it. He kicked Choiseul in the head hard enough that he rolled almost completely off of Granby and made no attempt to get up again.

The next of their pursuers caught up with them then. Laurence was unarmed, having thrown aside his rifle when the chase had begun lest it encumber him. Pain shot up his arm when he punched the first man to come at him square in the face. The second proved better prepared and dodged the first punch only for Laurence to trip him, sending him sprawling through the side of a nearby tent.

Granby regained his feet just on time to be swept into Laurence and lifted by a massive black-scaled hand. Temeraire set them down on his back as he fled the French camp. Temeraire still wore his harness but neither Laurence nor Granby had theirs so they were forced to wrap their limbs around whatever straps they could reach. It was not comfortable or even particularly safe but the flight wouldn’t be long and they had no other options.

Temeraire was flying as fast as he could – a pace that would leave most heavy- and middleweight dragons far behind but they were soon caught by some French lightweights. They snapped at the soft spots on Temeraire’s face and tried to claw apart his wings which Temeraire bore with admirable patience and flew on. He supposed they were fortunate that only the courier-weights were fast enough to pursue them otherwise they certainly would have been boarded by now.

Laurence remained pressed tightly to Temeraire’s back. His fingers were already going numb – the infantry uniform did not include gloves and was significantly less warm than what he was accustomed to. It was difficult to look about given his prone position and it was to this and the inky darkness that Laurence attributed the unexpectedness of the arrival of the Fleur-de-Nuits that had been patrolling the French coast. The first dove down from above to rake claws down Temeraire’s side as boarders leapt down. A second appeared in front of them. Temeraire bellowed at the unexpected assault and shook himself vigorously. A couple of the boarders were dislodged – and Granby would have gone with them if Laurence hadn’t reached out to grab a hold of him. Granby swore explosively as his hands fumbled for the straps.

There was scarcely time to think after that. Once Granby had a secure hold they had to turn their attention to the remaining boarders. There were three of them – not usually insurmountable odds but the Frenchmen had the advantage of harnesses so they would not go flying off at the slightest provocation and they were well armed.

Temeraire didn’t have any of the spikes or ridges common along the backs of European dragons which would have made an unharnessed traverse marginally less of an act of suicide but Laurence struggled to his feet regardless. He would be damned if he surrendered now when they were so close to escaping! Granby rose beside him and handed him a knife – Choiseul’s knife if he wasn’t mistaken.

The fight was rushed and confused – Temeraire’s hide felt alarmingly smooth beneath his feet as he rolled and twisted in flight but somehow Laurence managed to remain standing amongst the mass of pushing, shoving and slashing. He hacked at the boarders’ harness straps with his stolen knife. One man managed to slice open his cheek but Granby kicked him over the side before he could press Laurence further. The other two men were warier of attacking head on after that. Only one’s straps had survived the initial skirmish intact and he held tightly to his fellow.

“Would be wonderful if they just stayed over there.” Granby grumbled.

A great jolt ran through Temeraire then which Laurence dimly registered as originating from him ramming into one of the Fleur-de-Nuits. He was sent sliding down Temeraire’s back before catching himself on the harness, but he had been brought a good deal closer to the waiting Frenchmen and Granby was some yards away, having recovered with practiced swiftness.

The two remaining boarders seized this opportunity with pleasure. Laurence had no time to rise, he kicked out at one in desperation – the harnessed man so he only suffered a nasty jolt – while the other grabbed his arm and pulled the knife from his grip. He likely planned to then use the knife to threaten Temeraire into returning to France but had no opportunity as this time Laurence was not concussed and used his free hand to punch him in the jaw as hard as he was able. The Aviator fell over the side.

Granby then reached him and they retreated back to their initial position at the base of Temeraire’s neck. The remaining Frenchman didn’t rise and Laurence judged from the way he dangled from his straps that he must have been knocked unconscious.

He turned his attention back to Temeraire. They must have been at least halfway across the channel by now but Temeraire was still being harried by at least two Fleur-de-Nuits, at most four or possibly even five. The sky had clouded over and it was too dark to tell.

A dark blur dived down on top of them in a stoop. They barely had time to tighten their hold on Temeraire’s harness before he was twisting in the air and the Fleur-de-Nuit shot past with barely a scratch. The French dragons’ manoeuvre didn’t work so well when it was expected, though Temeraire appeared to be tiring and they were outnumbered against adversaries that could actually see where they were flying.

The dim light of the crescent moon was then extinguished by clouds and the darkness grew even thicker. Laurence’s eyes were useless and remained so after he would have expected them to adjust. He daren’t speak lest he break Temeraire’s concentration evading the Fleur-de-Nuits by hearing alone. All he had to mark the journey by was the twisting and shifting of the scales beneath them and the occasional knee jarring against his side when Granby moved.

“I think we must be close now.” Temeraire says “I can’t hear any other dragons.”

“Good-” Laurence said but was interrupted.

“Wait I hear wings.” Temeraire hissed.

There was a sudden roar from directly ahead, closely followed by another – too quiet to be from a heavyweight but not the sort of sound a Fleur-de-Nuit would make. Temeraire rolled in the air suddenly, presumably so the newcomers didn’t collide with them, and then threw himself the other way. Laurence and Granby somehow managed to keep their grip though he had no idea how.

“Stop!” Temeraire bellowed “Stop, we’re on your side!”

“Temeraire, is that you?” a dragon asked.

“I can’t see a thing.” Another dragon complained a tad grumpily.

“Messoria! Imortalis! We escaped!” Temeraire crowed. After the two Yellow Reapers had taken a closer ‘look’ to reassure themselves that it was indeed Temeraire they had all flown the remaining distance to the Dover covert.

Laurence slid down Temeraire’s side in an ungainly fashion, Granby following with scarcely better grace. The cold had sent his legs to sleep and he staggered to Temeraire’s head for a moment which he spent wrapping his arms round his nose in a clumsy embrace as he had been wanting to since their captivity had begun.

“Rest now, my dear. You’ve done your part admirably and I must go and tell Lenton of what we discovered.” Temeraire almost knocked him over with an affectionate nudge and Laurence reluctantly released him.

“Laurence, you’re hurt!” Temeraire exclaimed, much to Laurence’s confusion until he remembered the gash on his cheek. He reached up to touch it and found it mostly scabbed over. “I am fine, Temeraire. It is only a scratch and I’m not even bleeding anymore!” He showed Temeraire the dried blood that had flaked off onto his hand. Temeraire narrowed an eye at him and began to curl his tail round. If Laurence let him continue it was unlikely Lenton would be getting a report until after it was far too late.

“Please, my dear. It is quite urgent that I speak with the Admiral.” Temeraire sniffed at that but allowed him to step away regardless. Laurence then straightened his stolen uniform, mourning the absence of his neckcloth and Aviator’s coat, and headed for Admiral Lenton’s office.

Before entering the command building he glanced back. Temeraire was conversing with Maximus, who was in the next clearing over and had raised his head above the treetops while an irate Keynes clambered over the Celestial to inspect his wounds. Roland stood gloomily off to the side holding Keynes’ equipment while Granby supervised the arrest of the surviving French Aviator. Laurence deliberately did not smile – it was hardly an appropriate expression for the debriefing he was about to face – but it was a near thing.