The true heart of the summer had struck the city now: the stones grew hot as worked anvils during the day, and the wind blew an endless stream of fine yellow dust from the enormous deserts of the Gobi to the west. Hammond was engaged in a slow elaborate dance of negotiations, which so far as Laurence could see proceeded only in circles: a sequence of wax-sealed letters coming back and forth from the house, some small trinkety gifts received and sent in return, vague promises and less action. In the meantime, they were all growing short-tempered and impatient, except for Temeraire, who was occupied still with his education and his courting. Mei now came to the residence to teach him daily, elegant in an elaborate collar of silver and pearls; her hide was a deep shade of blue, with dapplings of violet and yellow upon her wings, and she wore many golden rings upon her talons.
“Mei is a very charming dragon,” Laurence said to Temeraire after her first visit, feeling he might as well be properly martyred; it had not escaped his attention that Mei was very lovely, at least as far as he was a judge of draconic beauty.
“I am glad you think so also,” Temeraire said, brightening; the points of his ruff raised and quivered. “She was hatched only three years ago, and has just passed the first examinations with honor. She has been teaching me how to read and write, and has been very kind; she has not at all made fun of me, for not knowing.”
She could not have complained of her pupil’s progress, Laurence was sure. Already Temeraire had mastered the technique of writing in the sand tray-tables with his talons, and Mei praised his calligraphy done in clay; soon she promised to begin teaching him the more rigid strokes used for carving in soft wood. Laurence watched him scribbling industriously late into the afternoon, while the light lasted, and often played audience for him in Mei’s absence: the rich sonorous tones of Temeraire’s voice pleasant though the words of the Chinese poetry were meaningless, except when he stopped in a particularly nice passage to translate.
The rest of them had little to occupy their time: Mianning occasionally gave them a dinner, and once an entertainment consisting of a highly unmusical concert and the tumbling of some remarkable acrobats, nearly all young children and limber as mountain goats. Occasionally they drilled with their small-arms in the courtyard behind the residence, but it was not very pleasant in the heat, and they were glad to return to the cool walks and gardens of the palace after.
Some two weeks following their remove to the palace, Laurence sat reading in the balcony overlooking the courtyard, where Temeraire slept, while Hammond worked on papers at the writing-desk within the room. A servant came bearing them a letter: Hammond broke the seal and scanned the lines, telling Laurence, “It is from Liu Bao, he has invited us to dine at his home.”
“Hammond, do you suppose there is any chance he might be involved?” Laurence asked reluctantly, after a moment. “I do not like to suggest such a thing, but after all, we know he is not in Mianning’s service, like Sun Kai is; could he be in league with Yongxing?”
“It is true we cannot rule out his possible involvement,” Hammond said. “As a Tartar himself, Liu Bao would likely have been able to organize the attack upon us. Still, I have learned he is a relation of the Emperor’s mother, and an official in the Manchu White Banner; his support would be invaluable, and I find it hard to believe he would openly invite us if he meant anything underhanded.”
They went warily, but their plans for caution were thoroughly undermined as they arrived, met unexpectedly at the gates by the rich savory smell of roasted beef. Liu Bao had ordered his now well-traveled cooks to prepare a traditional British dinner for them, and if there was rather more curry than one would expect in the fried potatoes, and the currant-studded pudding inclined to be somewhat liquid, none of them found anything to complain of in the enormous crown roast, the upstanding ribs jeweled with whole onions, and the Yorkshire pudding was improbably successful.
Despite their very best efforts, the last plates were again carried away almost full, and there was some doubt whether a number of the guests would not have to be carted off in the same manner, including Temeraire. He had been served with plain, freshly butchered prey, in the British manner, but the cooks could not restrain themselves entirely and had served him not merely a cow or sheep, but two of each, as well as a pig, a goat, a chicken, and a lobster. Having done his duty by each course, he now crawled out into the garden uninvited with a little moan and collapsed into a stupor.
“That is all right, let him sleep!” Liu Bao said, waving away Laurence’s apology. “We can sit in the moon-viewing terrace and drink wine.”
Laurence girded himself, but for once Liu Bao did not press the wine on them them too enthusiastically. It was quite pleasant to sit, suffused with the steady genial warmth of inebriation, the sun going down behind the smoke-blue mountains and Temeraire drowsing in an aureate glow before them. Laurence had entirely if irrationally given up the idea of Liu Bao’s involvement: it was impossible to be suspicious of a man while sitting in his garden, full of his generous dinner; and even Hammond was half-unwillingly at his ease, blinking with the effort of keeping awake.
Liu Bao expressed some curiosity as to how they had come to take up residence with Prince Mianning. For further proofs of his innocence, he received the news of the gang attack with real surprise, and shook his head sympathetically. “Something has to be done about these hunhun, they are really getting out of hand. One of my nephews got involved with them a few years ago, and his poor mother worried herself almost to death. But then she made a big sacrifice to Guanyin and built her a special altar in the nicest place in their south garden, and now he has married and taken up studying.” He poked Laurence in the side. “You ought to try studying yourself! It will be embarrassing for you if your dragon passes the examinations and you don’t.”
“Good God, could that possibly make a difference in their minds, Hammond?” Laurence asked, sitting up appalled. For all his efforts, Chinese remained to him as impenetrable as if it were enciphered ten times over, and as for sitting examinations next to men who had been studying for them since the age of seven—
But, “I am only teasing you,” Liu Bao said good-humoredly, much to Laurence’s relief. “Don’t be afraid. I suppose if Lung Tien Xiang really wants to stay companion to an unlettered barbarian, no one can argue with him.”
“He is joking about calling you that, of course,” Hammond added to the translation, but a little doubtfully.
“I am an unlettered barbarian, by their standards of learning, and not stupid enough to make pretensions to be anything else,” Laurence said. “I only wish that the negotiators took your view of it, sir,” he added to Liu Bao. “But they are quite fixed that a Celestial may only be companion to the Emperor and his kin.”
“Well, if the dragon will not have anyone else, they will have to live with it,” Liu Bao said, unconcerned. “Why doesn’t the Emperor adopt you? That would save face for everyone.”
Laurence was disposed to think this a joke, but Hammond stared at Liu Bao with quite a different expression. “Sir, would such a suggestion be seriously entertained?”
Liu Bao shrugged and filled their cups again with wine. “Why not? The Emperor has three sons to perform the rites for him, he doesn’t need to adopt anyone; but another doesn’t hurt.”
“Do you mean to pursue the notion?” Laurence asked Hammond, rather incredulous, as they made their staggering way out to the sedan-chairs waiting to bear them back to the palace.