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Emily Roland had taken Digby's place as rear lookout, nearly at the end of Granby's solemn circuit of Temeraire's crew. She was watching over the right wing with determination despite the tear tracks that stood pale on her round face. He stood with her for a moment, both of them counting wingbeats until she sniffed once, wetly, and gave him her estimation of their speed, the speed and distance of the Kaziliks that pursued them, and marked out the fiery points on the horizon. He nodded, satisfied. "Send up word at once should you notice any change," he said, and she nodded mutely and drew her flying coat more closely around herself.
It took Granby some time to find the last person he sought. Tharkay did not turn to look at him when Granby at last found him in an inconspicuous spot at the base of Temeraire's tail, out of the lookouts’ line of sight. It was a good distance away from where the rest of the crew huddled in the belly rigging or the nape of Temeraire’s neck, and the cost he had spent to make his way out this far was clear. His bad leg was stretched out before him, his other drawn up tight to his chest.
"No, I do tolerably," he said thickly, when Granby crouched next to him. His face was sheened with sweat, his dark skin very nearly gray in the moonlight. One hand tapped steadily against his good leg. He paused as he spoke and Granby saw a fine tremor in his hand before he took up the rhythm again. “It is only an inconvenient piece of good luck; a deeper burn would not hurt this much."
"Oh, wish you joy in it, then," Granby said and Tharkay pressed a thin smile at him. Granby braced himself against Temeraire's hide, lengthened his straps, and held out his hand to Tharkay. "Come on, chap. Keynes will not be able to do anything to it until we are on the ground again, but you will do better out of the wind and with a little laudanum.”
"No," Tharkay said at once, to Granby's surprise, and ignored Granby’s outstretched hand. He was watching the horizon grimly, eyes fixed on the distant glow of dragon flame. "I thank you, but no. We are not truly well and away yet. If Temeraire cannot keep this pace you will need all hands."
"They are flying blind, unless a scout should be lucky enough to fly into us and raise the alarm,” Granby waved his hand dismissively. "Even so, they cannot be making above–"
His further explanation was cut off as Temeraire abruptly snapped his wings shut and dropped altitude.There were several hastily muffled shouts from the belly rigging as Temeraire banked sharply. Granby, already half crouched, put out a hand to brace himself against Temeraire's hide. Tharkay, caught less aware and brought up only by the harness straps, pitched hard against Granby with a hoarse noise that he stifled against his hands.
Leathery wings, fast and fluttering, beat through the air high above Temeraire. Everything else was silent as Temeraire held a long glide, not daring to make a sound with his wings. Granby heard only the faint creaking of the harness and Tharkay's deliberate breathing. They drifted down almost low enough to view the points of individual trees when at last the fast flapping of the scout dragon receded.
The all clear came from Temeraire himself, a little shiver of muscles as he shook out his wings and began to beat back up. Tharkay let out a long slow breath through his nose. "Yes, you will be very useful in a fight," Granby said, not unkindly, as Tharkay steeled himself and set his harness to rights again with a grunt. “You would not see me making myself into such a martyr.”
Tharkay twisted to look at him, frowning. Pain had cast the spare angles of his face into sharp relief. Granby found himself taken aback by the unexpected fury in his drawn brows. “And if our positions were reversed?” Tharkay demanded roughly. "And I had bade you lay yourself down stupefied amongst the horsemen we met at the sardoba, you would have been so obliging still?”
"Ah." Granby found himself at once abashed. No large wonder, of course, that Tharkay, who never more than touched a cup of grog to his lips around the crew, would bear what must be borne rather than choose insensibility amongst a crew already stirred by grief and danger. "No, I suppose not.”
He would have said more in the way of apology, but before he could, Tharkay nodded curtly and resumed his study of the horizon. His hand once again took up the beat against his good knee, meditative in its rhythm. “See to your crew, Mister Granby.” It was not the plummy tone he used to torture Laurence, but there was a note of something calculated to barb under his skin.
“Very well,” Granby said shortly, and hauled himself to his feet, irritated despite himself at Tharkay's blithe ability to rankle. Tharkay did not turn as he wrenched his carabiners free and began his methodical trek up the line of Temeraire's spine.
Tharkay's words harried him all the way to the first lookout position. Roland flashed him a hand signal of acknowledgement and all-clear as Granby paused to catch his breath and blow a little warmth into stiff fingers. He stuffed his hands into his armpits and scowled back at the spot he had climbed from, the solitary figure now hidden behind the curve of Temeraire's broad back. “See to your crew.” He snorted and stooped to unlatch his carabiners once again.
Roland’s hesitation before she signed back acknowledgement of his message –Lieutenant holding position– belied her confusion, but she signaled nothing further, only gave a little wave as he clambered back down the way he had come, back down towards the injured man.
Tharkay did not deign to greet him as Granby latched his carabiners and settled himself once again. Granby ignored him in turn, setting his attention instead to the shoulder strap above his right arm. The modification he sought took some adjustment, obliging him to twist first one way, then the other. Tharkay watched him sidelong, first curious, then vexed, as Granby held determinedly silent. "I am sure you have more pressing duties, Lieutenant,” Tharkay said, breaking at last.
“Mmm,” Granby said noncommittally, focused on threading the strap back through the buckle again to leave an extra loop of leather. “Will your glove fit through that?” Tharkay stared at him. Granby craned his own neck to inspect the working. “Probably.” He turned back to Tharkay. “Pray, lift your left arm?”
To his credit, Tharkay did not protest, but raised his arm, holding perfectly still as Granby ducked under it and took up the leather of Tharkay's harness belt. This went more quickly, not having to work by feel, and in a moment Granby was able to straighten upright again. “There. If one of those little Alamans comes crashing down on our backsides, we will be ready,” Granby said with satisfaction, stretching out his legs in front of him and pulling on his gloves again.
Tharkay ran a hand over the piece of harness Granby had adjusted, feeling the extra loop of doubled over strap at his side. His eyes went to the second loop above Granby's shoulder. With a handhold for Tharkay to grasp there, Granby’s own hand would be free for locking and unlocking the carabiners. With Granby’s other hand at the loop at Tharkay's waist for support they might go along quite quickly.
“Did you think of this yourself?” Tharkay asked at last.
“What?” Granby was preoccupied in tucking his coat about him to block the worst of the wind and turning up his collar, settling himself comfortably for the rest of the long flight. “Of course not. Everyone learns it for anyone who might need it. Here, lean your back to mine and I at least may be comfortable until morning.”
Tharkay did not, but twisted to look at him instead. He peered into Granby's face for a long moment. Granby waited, eyebrows raised but otherwise still under his scrutiny until at last Tharkay nodded, satisfied with whatever he had seen, and pressed his lips together in a decisive line. "Fetch a half dose then," he said, then added more politely. "If you would be so kind."
“At once,” Granby said.
Keynes was happy enough to shove the bottle in his hands, too busy packing warm bricks about the eggs to do more than grunt in acknowledgement. Tharkay was already watching the ridge of spine when Granby clambered over it and into view again, although he made a pretense of scanning the rest of the dragonback as though he had not been waiting. Granby thought the better of remarking on it, only held his gloves between his teeth and carefully measured out a dose of laudanum into the little tin cup Keynes had sent up with him.
Tharkay was quick enough to take the cup from him with a vague thanks, but hesitated before raising it to his lips. Granby looked away quickly when he saw Tharkay surreptitiously tilt the little cup to gauge the amount of liquid inside it. Tharkay was regarding him when he looked back, with the frank expression that suggested he knew he'd been caught. "I thought perhaps you might be too accustomed to dosing pigs," said Tharkay, though the joke fell flat.
"I'm not known for shaky hands on a bottle," Granby said, relieved he'd scrupled to pour to the etched line exactly, no more, no less, despite the dim light. "That would be my da," although this joke too, fell flat. Tharkay said nothing, but tipped the bitter liquid back with a grimace.
Granby accepted the little cup back from him and tucked it away in a coat pocket. Tharkay had already turned away again, back to whatever private contemplation had occupied him thus far. Granby set his own heels against a ridge of Temeraire’s scales and settled in to endure the familiar itch of waiting. After a moment, Tharkay leaned back against Granby's spine, so they might comfortably bear each other's weight.
"I am sorry about the boy," Tharkay said abruptly, rousing Granby out of reverie. While he might not have expected the words from Tharkay, the sentiment was real enough. Tharkay had not been near him, having already been lifted high into the rigging, but there had not been a man aboard who had not instinctively flung out an arm, however useless, and he had seen Tharkay among them.
"I check the ensigns," Granby said. He swallowed. “We all do. They’re always latched. I’ve never caught one undone. They pound it into us from the first day until we do it in our sleep. If it had been anything besides an egg…” he trailed off with a sigh to scrub his hand across his face. “A fucking waste.”
Tharkay made a quiet hum of agreement. Granby felt his weight shift slightly as his fingers rose to brush absently against his carabiners. Many arms had pulled him aboard, many hands had set his own carabiners into anchor. “A waste,” Tharkay agreed quietly.
He had been very carefully not thinking of it, directing his attention instead to seeing the other eggs stowed and the crew set to their posts. There would be no little white tomb in China to sketch and send to the boy’s mother. Not even a body to slip into the sea. Granby, at least, would not have to write the letter to the family as Laurence would. His hand went absently to the thin chain about his neck, the small St. Joseph's medal, only gold washed and silver peeking out at the ridges after years of wear.
“Do you pray?” Tharkay asked, a note of surprise in his voice. Granby started despite himself. He had been so within his thoughts he had not noticed Tharkay craning his head to see.
“It is nothing,” Granby dropped the little medallion immediately, but there had been no sneer of disdain, only mild curiosity. “I think he will be better off without intercession from the likes of me,” Granby said.
“I do not think it matters, much,” Tharkay said softly. He settled himself back again, still gingerly careful not to move too quickly. “Please, I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
They sat together silently for some time. Tharkay's face was turned into the cool wind, his hand still a meditative beat against his good thigh. Voices carried back to them: Laurence calling out soft and low to Temeraire and the dragon's keening reply. The air filled with the long, mournful note, winding and unearthly, and raising the hair on Granby's forearms.
"Bean-sidhe," Tharkay murmured in perfect Gaelic. Granby twisted to look over at him in some surprise, but he said nothing more, only closed his eyes again. The stiffness in the line of his shoulders had eased and his hand had stilled, only his fingers twitching lightly in time to the wingbeats. His head nodded further down towards his chest and then, as his breathing evened, tipped to rest against Granby’s shoulder.
Granby put a hand down to the scales beneath him, the sorrowful note still thrumming softly below them now and again as Temeraire beat on through the night. His other hand once again took up the little charm at his neck, the embossed ridges a comfort under his fingers. Granby's lips moved silently through the familiar words, some small entreaty for lost boy and dragon, and the remaining eggs, still so delicately waiting below in the belly rigging, and lastly, with a touch of irony, for the strange man now fallen dead asleep against Granby's back.