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“Temeraire,” Laurence calls. He shakes the edge of his gold-edged robe impatiently when he walks. Even after four years he has not reconciled himself to robes. “Temeraire, wherever have you been - “
The Celestial looks down at him.
“Temeraire is not here,” he says.
“Lung Tien Zhi,” Laurence says, surprised. He stops by the dark dragon and bows his head in apology. “Forgive my mistake; do you know where I might find Temeraire?”
Zhi looks at him a long moment. Then, with surprising care, he nudges Laurence with one claw. “You should go to the western garden,” he suggests.
“Thank you.”
Temeraire is indeed in the garden. His huge body is curled around one of the smallest ponds, one more fit for human viewing than a draconic eye. Tiny turtles trundle blithely under his scrutiny. “Hello, Laurence,” he says without looking up. “The cooks are making turtle soup tonight; I wonder how they get the meat?”
His nose is getting dangerously close to the water. “Pray leave them alone another day, dear; I am sure there are better ways to find out than investigating the matter yourself.”
Temeraire turns. “Were you looking for me, Laurence?”
“Yes – you said you wanted to work on your poem, or have you forgotten?”
“Oh, yes,” Temeraire exclaims. “I am getting much better, though still I think the forms are a little restrictive - “
“Laurence?”
Laurence startles. Prince Mianning waits patiently several feet away, two nervous servants trailing behind. Doubtless he has come from yet another meeting; the Emperor is not so young anymore. “If you have a moment,” Mianning suggests, “would you walk with me?”
Laurence glances apologetically at Temeraire, but the dragon only says, “I suppose it must wait,” quite cheerfully.
So he nods, and Mianning tells the servants to leave them. But before they do Laurence asks. “Could you have a sand-box brought for Temeraire?” Temeraire loves those clever inventions of the Chinese, which if they do not let him write in ink will let him spell out his thoughts independently for someone else to record after.
The servant looks at him. Looks at Prince Mianning. At a nod from the other prince the servant agrees hesitantly and skitters away.
“He is new,” says Mianning by way of explanation. They start to walk.
Mianning is not someone to be prodded into speech. After several minutes of contemplation he says, “You know my position at court is still tenuous.”
This is more blunt than is typical for the prince. Laurence is unsure how to respond. “The nobles respect you,” he says at last. “The people respect you.”
“And I do not have the blessings of Heaven, so that means nothing,” Mianning says. “Without a Celestial's blessing my reign is forfeit.”
“Chu - “
“My father's dragon is old. He will not take another companion.” Mianning is silent for a moment. “ - There is talk that I might visit our cousins in the North soon. For trade purposes.”
“Of course.”
“Miankai is fond of you,” Mianning says. “He is also young, and you are from the West - “
“I understand,” Laurence says. “And I will act, if necessary. But I do hope, for more than one reason, that a new egg is hatched.” He thinks their familiarity is enough, after so many years, to risk saying, “You should have a companion again.”
Mianning lifts his chin. “Chuan would not have liked that,” he says, a simple fact. “But he would understand. I am less certain I can replace him.”
“It must be difficult to remember him.”
“We took our lessons together, and our meals, and read the books of the library at dawn in the Garden of Eternal Spring. For years I could trust no one, but I trusted him, always - his death was a tragedy,” says Mianning simply.
“I cannot imagine anything worse,” says Laurence softly.
“No,” Mianning responds. “No, I am sure you cannot.”
“I have brought you something from the city,” says Lihwa eagerly. “Look, open it!”
Smiling at her enthusiasm, Laurence opens the carefully wrapped package, wondering idly if such trappings are indicative of yet another service offered to dragons which he still has yet to discover in China. He is able, after these years, to offer an almost sincere response: “It is lovely, Lihwa – and a generous gift.”
The blue Imperial dances on her feet. Willing to indulge her, Laurence picks up the delicate model of a ship – no Western vessel, none that he recognizes, but the squat hull and waving lines are characteristic of Chinese crafts. Perhaps he will, actually, find it of interest to study. “Though you do not need to always be offering gifts,” he chides. If Temeraire would not get jealous he would feel obliged to offer something in return.
“Oh, my prince, I am so happy to give you anything – and when I saw it I could not but think of you.”
“I do not recall telling you of my time at sea.”
Lihwa preens. “But you are known, my prince, and the servants talk!” Laurence does not really need a reminder to know that he is a subject of much gossip in Peking. “Besides,” she continues, “it is very nice for anyone; and perhaps now, you would like to talk about your time with the British navy?”
Laurence smiles slightly. “What have you heard of the navy?”
“I have heard that it is a thing of war, and all the ships are tiny and barbaric and full of guns; and, the men have no loyalty, and jump off the ships when they can! I have heard that men must be chained when the ship nears land – oh, were you ever chained?”
“No, sweet Lihwa,” says Laurence fondly. “You see, I was an officer, and even a captain...”
Servants bustle to and fro under the Celestial's keen eye. Her raised ruff, practically translucent in the afternoon sun, is spread around a delicate net of pearls and diamonds that somehow accentuate her wrinkles. But Lung Tien Qian will never look anything but regal, and even in his red silk robe Laurence feels, as he so often does, every bit the British imposter.
Qing finishes her vat of tea with one last, delicate lick. “You have not always been the companion I wished for Lung Tien Xiang. But you are now a prince I can respect, William Laurence. You saved the life of Prince Mianning; you helped uncover a conspiracy in this very court. It grieves me when you are distressed.”
“I have no cause for sorrow, Lady Qing,” says Laurence. The words sound a bit hollow to his own ears; certainly he has wondered, more than once, if he should have joined his fellow captains on that long-ago expedition to Russia. But it had not seemed possible at the time, and the allure of China, the generous offer of the court, which Temeraire loved so dearly, had won. “I wish only that I could be of some use in this place.”
“You are a good human,” she says, and ignores the offer. “But you never leave the palace. My dear Laurence, you must know the guards would escort you throughout Peking - “
“I want for nothing, Lady Qing.”
“Perhaps you should,” she says, a little perplexingly.
Laurence sips his tea.
After a moment Qing adds, “There is a saying we have in this country, said by Confucius – I do not know if you have heard it – 'Tell me and I will forget. Show me and I may remember. Involve me, and I will understand.'” She pauses. “Such little pieces of knowledge may prove themselves wrong, but we must have hope.”
“I do not understand.”
And Qing just says, “I enjoy our talks, Prince Laurence. Do return next week.”
“Dream of the Red Chamber, again?” Laurence asks doubtfully. “My dear, I understand it is a classic, but perhaps I do not enjoy good literature so much as you - “
“Oh, Laurence, you only do not appreciate it! Pray read, and I will explain all the parts you do not enjoy until you do.”
So Laurence reads. Whatever his opinion of the book, it is not an unpleasant day to be reading. Cherry-blossoms litter the ground, reflecting until even Temeraire's scales seem to shimmer with pink. Overhead the sky looms blue and sweetly clear. Laurence reads until his voice gets hoarse, and at some point, Lihwa sidles up and sits on his other side.
He feels warm and content, and Temeraire, looking down to peer at the thick text, says, “This is my favorite part, Laurence.”
“A British delegation is coming in two weeks,” says Prince Mianning. “I believe you will know some of the men aboard, brother.”
Laurence feels an unpleasant jolt in his stomach.
He doesn't often speak of the war. Letters have come from England, occasionally. Though he has always been a diligent writer Laurence has let them sit unanswered. He wonders who will be among the visitors.
Laurence finds Lihwa dozing in her Pavilion later that day. She is, as always, happy to see him. “A delegation?” she asks, intrigued. Lihwa is only three years old. “Oh, how exciting! Prince, I have never met anyone British before!”
Laurence must laugh. “I am British, sweet Lihwa; English, that is.”
“Oh, but you are a Son of Heaven,” she dismisses. “And you saved Prince Mianning's life,” an act which somehow seems to have forgiven all his sins and his race both.
“Tell me about the British,” Lihwa pleads.
So Laurence does. There is a still a war, to his knowledge. The fighting with Napoleon has run long and bloody, and recently, just a year ago, Russia was brought to the point of making another treaty – this one rather less friendly to them then the Treaty of Tilsit due to their previous betrayal. He finds himself focusing on details of the war overmuch, until Lihwa, bright and cheery and entirely unfamiliar with the notion of fighting, begins to look a little bored. Laurence realizes that he does not know as much of England as he should like to think. He has been away and at combat, after all, since the age of twelve.
“Of course,” he summarizes at last, “I am sure you have seen Temeraire's scars; so you have some notion of how deadly the battles might be.”
“Oh,” Lihwa says, shifting uncomfortably.
Apologetic, Laurence adds, “Of course you are not interested in such things. But if any of my friends are among the delegation they will doubtlessly have been aviators. I should greatly like to introduce you.”
And Lihwa brightens again immediately.
After several more minutes of talking Laurence is startled when a dark shadow falls over the Pavilion entrance. Nothing could eclipse his surprise, though, when the Emperor's dragon – Chu, the giant, ancient Celestial who has sired most of the surviving breed – steps through.
“Laurence,” he says, giving Laurence that same quick, odd tap all the Celestial's use on him – like they are checking to be sure he lives, that he is real. “Lihwa.”
Chu looks at his Imperial cousin a little sternly; she shies away with a faint mumble.
“We wondered why you were not in the garden,” Chu tells Laurence. “ - You are always in the gardens.”
Laurence wonders if 'we' also refers to the Emperor; he rather hopes not. “I have been enjoying Lihwa's company,” he says. “And she was gracious enough to indulge me.”
Chu looks again at Lihwa. “He is here rather often.”
“He was telling me about the war,” she defends.
“I see.”
“And he wants to be here.”
“I see.”
Lihwa ducks her head, wraps her wings about her body. A little concerned, Laurence steps forward and places a hand on her wing. They flicker kingfisher-blue in the lantern light. “Is everything well?” he asks anxiously.
Chu sighs. “Go back to the garden, Laurence,” he says kindly. But when he leaves Lihwa unfolds, very carefully, and will only ask if he can tell another story.
“You damn bastard,” Granby says.
Laurence huffs with surprise John embraces him bodily. The guest area is not so well-staffed as the more secluded gardens, but even so there are a few servants around to twitch at the action. “I thought you were dead,” the man says, then curses a little under his breath. Recovering some composure, he adds, “Or feared it anyway; would a letter have killed you, Laurence?”
“We wrote,” Iskierka sniffs. “And we were actually in a war, not just sitting around a palace, getting fat.”
Laurence is rather thinner than he was four years ago, actually, but he only smiles. “I am glad to see you as well, Iskierka. And you, John.”
“We will have to tell you all the news – and I did mean that, about the letters,” Granby says. “I am damn sorry to be away, but of course someone could not obey orders - “ he glares at Iskierka, who is utterly unrepentant, “ - and everyone has been demanding that you write. I have a few messages right here.”
“I will read them with Temeraire later,” Laurence promises.
Granby jerks and looks at him queerly. It is Iskierka who answers, loud and demanding, “Whatever do you mean?”
Laurence is puzzled. “He shall want the news as well, of course.”
The look on Granby's face changes from stiff to vaguely alarmed. He opens his mouth, but one of the servants darts forward suddenly and tugs on his sleeve. Hisses something behind his ear.
“What,” Granby answers, appalled. “That's ridiculous - “
“What?” Laurence asks.
Granby stares at him. Looks at the wide-eyed servant. Then, ignoring the poor man's terror, he steps up and grabs Laurence by the sleeve.
“We're making a trip,” he says. “ - I need to show you something.”
The western garden is familiar, of course. Laurence can hardly imagine what Granby might think to show him here. But the man leads him on an odd path, past a sober walkway and toward a series of marked pillars. At last they stop in front of the colossal wall at the garden's end. The space in front is large enough for even dragons to sit in contemplation, and indeed two small Imperials flee the spot as they come forward. This close Laurence can see, to some surprise, that there is writing on the wall.
“The Chinese bury or cremate their dead,” Granby says. “Usually. But remember Temeraire was burnt so badly by the fire... He wanted a water burial. It was a bit fitting, that, when he was born at sea.”
The words on the wall are blurs. Indecipherable.
“There's his name,” Granby says. “It shows all the dead Celestials. Lung Tien Xiang, right there - “
“I think you have made a mistake,” says Laurence quietly.
“I haven't,” says Granby. “Good god, Laurence, you cannot shut out the truth forever. Read it. Go on.”
Static flickers in the air; Laurence tastes iron and copper on his tongue. He inhales carefully and steps back. “I think I am meant to be somewhere else today,” he says. “I am sorry.”
“Will - “
Laurence stumbles out of the garden. Past the cherry-blossoms. Past the turtle pond.
Half-way to the palace he falls to his knees and vomits.
When he arrives at his rooms, he sleeps a long and troubled sleep; and when he wakes he walks outside, and sits, and reads again to Temeraire.
The British are gone as quickly as they came. The days and nights pass in the same quiet, easy rhythm as before. Temeraire tells Laurence that he wishes he could have spoken with Iskierka, “Even if she would have been quite insufferable, I am certain, after fighting in yet more battles.”
As fall turns to a frigid winter Lihwa summons Laurence to the eastern garden – Temeraire's new preference – and asks to speak with him.
“You are such a good friend to me,” she says. “The best I have ever known, my prince, and I wish - “
Laurence waits, but the dragon seems to be struggling. “I hope you know you may tell me anything,” he says gently. “Anything at all.”
“I am going away to the North,” says Lihwa after a moment. “To Mongolia. I have spoken to Qing and Zhi and Xian, and – they think it is best.”
This is an odd choice; but it is not Laurence's right to say so. “You will enjoy traveling,” he says instead.
Lihwa puts down her head and nudges him, very carefully, with her great blue snout. “I wish you only the best happiness,” she says softly
“Thank you,” he answers, surprised.
“And I hope,” she says, “That you will always find comfort with... Temeraire.”
“We are both content here,” says Laurence.
Lihwa shuts her eyes. “I know, prince.”
And she rises and walks away without looking back.