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“Laurence, I do not believe you are listening to me at all,” Temeraire said, finishing a very long sentence which Laurence thought might have had something to do with the Incan dragons.
He was forced to admit that this was true; he had had difficulties with concentrating for much of the day, perhaps distracted by their impending voyage, and had sadly neglected the conversation with Temeraire. “I beg your pardon, my dear.”
“Oh, it was only about Churki, anyway: nothing of importance.” Temeraire peered at him with one great blue eye. “Laurence, you do not look well.”
“I am perfectly sound,” Laurence replied, untruthfully: he had in fact been feeling distinctly ill for some hours, and the flight to the cliff upon which he and Temeraire now stood, while ordinary in the course of an aviator’s duties, had not particularly helped.
“Was it the flight?” Temeraire asked, dismissing Laurence’s fiction immediately. “Only, I have never seen you ill from that.”
“I am not—” Laurence started, in direct defiance of the various discomforts his head and belly were attempting to communicate to him, but Temeraire interrupted him:
“And do not say you are not ill: you look quite like Iskierka after she drank from that nasty river.”
Laurence was not sure how he could be said to bear any resemblance to that dragon, ill or otherwise; but the dizziness he had been feeling for some time had suddenly increased, and he was forced to stagger against Temeraire’s foreleg to avoid falling: they were quite near to the edge of the cliff.
“Oh!” Temeraire said in surprise. “Laurence, please do not faint: we are very high up.” He sounded as though he was regretting his choice of location, although he had talked excitedly of the view from this specific promontory several times.
Laurence attempted to assure Temeraire that he would not be doing any such thing; but bile rose in his throat and he found himself struggling not to be sick.
“Oh, that is not good: we ought return to Rio,” Temeraire said, and without further consultation grasped Laurence gently in one talon and winged away from the outcrop. This did not in the least help Laurence’s stomach: he only had time to turn his head to the side before he vomited. His head throbbed in time with the wingbeats, and his stomach ached; he caught jumbled views of the green hills below through dizzy eyes.
The rest of the flight became a confused blur, and the next clear memory Laurence had was of Temeraire alighting near their camp and setting him softly down.
“Laurence is ill,” Temeraire announced.
But only silence greeted them: the camp was empty, all the aviators being down at the Potentate, which was indeed meant to sail on the morrow; Laurence realized grimly that his illness would likely delay their leaving still further.
At this moment, as he tried to stagger to his feet, a familiar red dragon came winging into the camp, free of all of her crew but one.
“What is the matter with Laurence?” Iskierka asked as the captain in question choked on her steam and coughed, which led to another round of gagging.
“He is ill,” Temeraire repeated; “he is vomiting, and I do not think people are meant to be this warm.”
Granby dismounted from Iskierka’s back, and Laurence felt a twinge of discomfiture at Granby’s seeing him in this state, although he knew it was foolish: Granby had seen him ill and injured before, as he had Granby.
“Temeraire is overstating the matter,” he said, though this was somewhat undermined by his continued difficulties with standing.
“It don’t look that way to me,” Granby said, kneeling and putting a hand to Laurence’s brow. “You’re warmer than Iskierka.”
“I do wish the comparisons to her would cease,” Laurence muttered.
“On your feet now, Will,” Granby said, slinging Laurence’s arm over his shoulders; Laurence felt his face flush at his own weakness.
“Shall I fetch the surgeon?” Temeraire said anxiously. “I do not wish to leave Laurence; but if it will help him, then I am not opposed.”
“Very good,” Granby said, still supporting Laurence. “You needn’t worry, Temeraire: I won’t let anything happen to him.”
“Nothing will happen to me,” Laurence managed; and Temeraire seemed to steel himself.
“Well, if you are certain,” he said, and made to take off.
“Don’t be silly!” Iskierka broke in. “If you are so afraid something will happen if you leave, I can go;” and without waiting for a response launched herself into the air.
Laurence slumped against Granby, his eyes closing of their own accord. Then he was being laid down on a cot, and a moment later a cool cloth was placed on his brow. A while after that he became aware of a cup being held to his lips. He found himself desperately thirsty, and tried to gulp; but Granby’s unexpectedly gentle voice said:
“Slowly, Will; that’s it.”
It was some manner of herbal tea, which calmed Laurence’s stomach a great deal; and the dizziness had decreased enough for him to open his eyes. They were in a tent, with Temeraire’s dark scales visible at the entrance. He tried to ask a barely-formed question, but Granby anticipated him.
“I picked up some nursing over the years. You ought to pull through, if you’re lucky.” Granby chuckled. “And you are, in spite of what you think.”
“The surgeon is on his way, I believe,” Temeraire said; “if Iskierka has not forgotten him. Oh, perhaps I ought to have gone instead.”
Laurence shook his head, and then regretted it. “I am all right, Temeraire; all I need now is some rest.”
“And I will make sure that he gets it, even if we must delay leaving,” Granby said.
“I suppose you are right,” Temeraire said.
Now that some of his aches were soothed, Laurence felt himself slipping into slumber. He caught one last glimpse of Granby, and of Temeraire’s eyes; and then he was asleep.