Hammond had followed Laurence and now caught at his sleeve. “For God’s sake, kneel,” he whispered. “This must be Prince Mianning, the crown prince.” He himself went down to both knees, and pressed his forehead to the ground just as Sun Kai was doing.
Laurence stared a little stupidly down at them both, looked at the young man, and hesitated; then he bowed deeply instead, from the waist: he was mortally certain he could not bend a single knee without falling down to both, or more ignominiously upon his face, and he was not yet willing to perform the kowtow to the Emperor, much less the prince.
The prince did not seem offended, but spoke in Chinese to Sun Kai; he rose, and Hammond also, very slowly. “He says we can rest here safely,” Hammond said to Laurence. “I beg you to believe him, sir; he can have no need to deceive us.”
Laurence said, “Will you ask him about Temeraire?” Hammond looked at the other dragon blankly. “That is not him,” Laurence added. “It is some other Celestial, it is not Temeraire.”
Sun Kai said, “Lung Tien Xiang is in seclusion in the Pavilion of Endless Spring. A messenger is waiting to bring him word, as soon as he emerges.”
“He is well?” Laurence asked, not bothering to try and make sense of this; the most urgent concern was to understand what might have kept Temeraire away.
“There is no reason to think otherwise,” Sun Kai said, which seemed evasive. Laurence did not know how to press him further; he was too thick with fatigue. But Sun Kai took pity on his confusion and added more gently, “He is well. We cannot interrupt his seclusion, but he will come out sometime today, and we will bring him to you then.”
Laurence still did not understand, but he could not think of anything else to do at the moment. “Thank you,” he managed. “Pray thank His Highness for his hospitality, for us; pray convey our very deep thanks. I beg he will excuse any inadequacy in our address.”
The prince nodded and dismissed them with a wave. Sun Kai herded them back over the balcony into their rooms, and stood watching over them until they had collapsed upon the hard wooden bed platforms; perhaps he did not trust them not to leap up and go wandering again. Laurence almost laughed at the improbability of it, and fell asleep mid-thought.
“Laurence, Laurence,” Temeraire said, very anxiously; Laurence opened his eyes and found Temeraire’s head poked in through the balcony doors, and a darkening sky beyond. “Laurence, you are not hurt?”
“Oh!” Hammond had woken, and fallen off his bed in startlement at finding himself cheek-to-jowl with Temeraire’s muzzle. “Good God,” he said, painfully climbing to his feet and sitting back down upon the bed. “I feel like a man of eighty with gout in both legs.”
Laurence sat up with only a little less effort; every muscle had stiffened up during his rest. “No, I am quite well,” he said, reaching out gratefully to put a hand on Temeraire’s muzzle and feel the reassurance of his solid presence. “You have not been ill?”
He did not mean it to sound accusing, but he could hardly imagine any other excuse for Temeraire’s apparent desertion, and perhaps some of his feeling was clear in his tone. Temeraire’s ruff drooped. “No,” he said, miserably. “No, I am not sick at all.”
He volunteered nothing more, and Laurence did not press him, conscious of Hammond’s presence: Temeraire’s shy behavior did not bode a very good explanation for his absence, and as little as Laurence might relish the prospect of confronting him, he liked the notion of doing so in front of Hammond even less. Temeraire withdrew his head to let them come out into the garden. No acrobatic leaping this time: Laurence levered himself out of bed and stepped slowly and carefully over the balcony rail. Hammond, following, was almost unable to lift his foot high enough to clear the rail, though it was scarcely two feet off the ground.
The prince had left, but the dragon, whom Temeraire introduced to them as Lung Tien Chuan, was still there. He nodded to them politely, without much interest, then went straight back to working upon a large tray of wet sand in which he was scratching symbols with a talon: writing poetry, Temeraire explained.
Having made his bow to Chuan, Hammond groaned again as he lowered himself onto a stool, muttering under his breath with a degree of profanity more appropriate to the seamen from whom he had likely first heard the oaths. It was not a very graceful performance, but Laurence was perfectly willing to forgive him that and more after the previous day’s work. He had never expected Hammond to do as much, untrained, untried, and in disagreement with the whole enterprise.
“If I may be so bold, sir, allow me to recommend you take a turn around the garden instead of sitting,” Laurence said. “I have often found it answer well.”
“I suppose I had better,” Hammond said, and after a few deep breaths heaved himself back up to his feet, not disdaining the offer of Laurence’s hand, and walking very slowly at first. But Hammond was a young man: he was already walking more easily after they had gone halfway round. With the worst of his pain relieved, Hammond’s curiosity revived: as they continued walking around the garden he studied the two dragons closely, his steps slowing as he turned first from one to the other and back. The courtyard was longer than it was wide. Stands of tall bamboo and a few smaller pine trees clustered at the ends, leaving the middle mostly open, so the two dragons lay opposite each other, head-to-head, making the comparison easier.
They were indeed as like as mirror images, except for the difference in their jewels: Chuan wore a net of gold draped from his ruff down the length of his neck, studded with pearls: very splendid, but it looked likely to be inconvenient in any sort of violent activity. Temeraire had also battle-scars, of which Chuan had none: the round knot of scales on his breast from the spiked ball, now several months old, and the smaller scratches from other battles. But these were difficult to see, and aside from these the only difference was a certain undefinable quality in their posture and expression, which Laurence could not have adequately described for another’s interpretation.
“Can it be chance?” Hammond said. “All Celestials may be related, but such a degree of similarity? I cannot tell them apart.”
“We are hatched from twin eggs,” Temeraire said, lifting up his head as he overheard this. “Chuan’s egg was first, and then mine.”
“Oh, I have been unutterably slow,” Hammond said, and sat down limply on the bench. “Laurence—Laurence—” His face was almost shining from within, and he reached out groping towards Laurence, and seized his hand and shook it. “Of course, of course: they did not want to set up another prince as a rival for the throne, that is why they sent away the egg. My God, how relieved I am!”
“Sir, I hardly dispute your conclusions, but I cannot see what difference it makes to our present situation,” Laurence said, rather taken aback by this enthusiasm.
“Do you not see?” Hammond said. “Napoleon was only an excuse, because he is an emperor on the other side of the world, as far away as they could manage from their own court. And all this time I have been wondering how the devil De Guignes ever managed to approach them, when they would scarcely let me put my nose out of doors. Ha! The French have no alliance, no real understanding with them at all.”
“That is certainly cause for relief,” Laurence said, “but their lack of success does not seem to me to directly improve our position; plainly the Chinese have now changed their minds, and desire Temeraire’s return.”
“No, do you not see? Prince Mianning still has every reason to want Temeraire gone, if he could render another claimant eligible for the throne,” Hammond said. “Oh, this makes all the difference in the world. I have been groping in the dark; now I have some sense of their motives, a great deal more comes clear. How much longer will it be until the Allegiance arrives?” he asked suddenly, looking up at Laurence.