Laurence put O’Dea to the work experimentally, as the man at least could write a decent hand now that the rum had been sweated out of him; which did produce somewhat more successful accounts, if Laurence would have preferred to do without such descriptions as the Blighted Crimson of the earth here, which surely has drunk the Blood of the Heathen and unwary Traveler, and yearns to taste still more, and the wholly unnecessary dramatization of—

… the loathesome Creature gazed upon us long and meditatively, as if considering which to single out as its lawful Prey, tho the Carcase of the Offering lay before it limp and bloodstain’d from the Slaughter, ere it chuse the easier Course and withdrew beneath the Sands to devour the Flesh of the Kanga-roo and only dream instead of the Satisfaction to be found in a Repast accompanied by the piteous Cries of a more sensible Victim.

They had come now more than five hundred miles from the strange monolith through the endless desert landscape, shifting only a little to be yet more parched; they were drawing nearer the equator, and the heat scarcely to be believed: strange clouds racing overhead, and the sunsets vast and spectacular. They saw once in the distance two more plumes of fire, and endured half-a-dozen thunderstorms which sent water sheeting in violent cascades over the hard-baked ground, so the dragons had to leap aloft out of the torrents.

They could not be sure of their position: one single survey could not necessarily be relied upon; there were no landmarks known, or any way to be sure of their approach. Their progress upon the map showed them steadily nearing the coast, however, and one morning they came upon a broad band of verdant green, stretching away in either direction along the banks of a riverbed, flowing vigorously.

They cut its course again, some two days later, and after this each day the countryside grew less dry: the red earth slowly vanishing from sight as the trees grew closer to one another, and water now more plentiful. They were flying through the night, the cool wind rushing in their faces familiar and pleasant against Laurence’s eyes, half-closing, and then Temeraire was descending, suddenly, to land upon the top of a low hill.

Laurence roused: the air was salt, and below them the moonlight was running silver across the water, a thin shimmering road stretched out vanishing to the dark horizon, far away. The sound of the ocean came lapping clear and liquid up the slope towards them. There were some lights down below—an encampment perhaps, but there were many of them; and Laurence thought perhaps even one or two out on the water, from the bobbing motion—night fishermen in canoes, most likely.

“We had better camp over here, and have a look in the morning, before we go blundering in,” Granby said, his voice kept low not to carry, and Laurence nodded; there was not much chance of hiding Temeraire or Iskierka, but they found a heap of rock which the dragons might curl themselves around, and so have at least a little camouflage against a quick glance in the dark. They put up the small tents around them.

“It is something to think we have crossed the whole continent,” Granby said thoughtfully, while they drank their tea, “but Lord! What a waste of time it will have been, if the egg has already hatched.”

“If it has not hatched,” Rankin said, “I wonder what you propose to do to find it and extract it; you seem to imagine that only because we have found some native village, we have found the end of our search.” He stalked away to Caesar’s side.

“Whether we have found the egg or not,” Laurence said, “I think we have found the end of our road: it must be hatched, or very soon, and when we have reached so clear a terminus I hope they will not demand further pursuit, so vainly.” He looked where Temeraire lay sleeping, silent but for the rasp of his breathing.

He slept by Temeraire’s side; in the morning roused and said tiredly, “Yes?” before he realized he was being looked over by a native man: tall, with a curly beard gone a little to grey; he was otherwise built like a much younger man than his face would have had him, sinewy and muscled, with a spear held casually in hand; he wore a braided belt, from which was slung a loincloth, and nothing else. Two younger men, rather more wary, hung back a little way behind him.

“Laurence, perhaps he has seen the egg, or the other dragon?” Temeraire said, peering interestedly down, which despite the proximity of his teeth did not seem to disconcert their visitor. “Have you?” he asked, and began to repeat his question over in French and in Chinese.

“We will have to try and manage it with pantomime, and whatever O’Dea and Shipley can work out of their language, if anything,” Laurence said, pulling himself up to Temeraire’s back to see where the men had got to. “Mr. O’Dea,” he called, and that gentleman turned and came down from the ridge, where he had been standing with several other of the convicts, looking down at the sea.

“Sir,” O’Dea said as he scrambled down, “we should like to know if we have got to China properly at last.”

“Certainly not; we have only reached the coast,” Laurence said. “I had not thought to find you turned credulous, O’Dea; you can read a map.”

“Well, Captain,” O’Dea said, “I can; but I have seen Chinamen, too, and there are four of them down the hill there.”

“What?” Laurence said, as the native man answered Temeraire, in fragmentary but recognizable Chinese.

“Galandoo says there are two dragons here,” Temeraire said, turning his head around.

Laurence caught hold of the harness and scrambled down from Temeraire’s back, and went to the top of the hill. Below in the harbor, a small, narrow-hulled junk was floating at anchor with lanterns at her stern and bow, still lit in the early-morning light. A small open pavilion of wood and stone stood some distance up the shore, all the corners of the roof upturning towards the sky, with small dragons carved and crouching on every one.

Chapter 14

LAURENCE COULD NOT HAVE IMAGINED any more awkward and inconvenient period to their journey than to be kowtowed to in his plain and travel-stained gear by a dozen men better dressed, on the damp sand of the shore, when Temeraire had said, “I am Lung Tien Xiang, and this is the Emperor’s adopted son, William Laurence,” in Chinese, before Laurence could forestall any such introduction.

The adoption had made a useful and face-saving diplomatic fiction at the time of its promotion, on both British and Chinese sides; to use it for personal gain in the present circumstances felt to Laurence at once dishonest and wretchedly embarrassing. Now these men could not fail to perform any of the formal obeisance which their court etiquette demanded—however visibly, however plainly inappropriate when directed at Laurence—without showing disrespect to their own Emperor, a crime punishable by death.

The ritual had for audience Galandoo and several other of the native men, who looked on with interest. What structures of a permanent sort stood upon the shore all looked to be of the Chinese style, amongst which however the peripatetic natives seemed to be entirely comfortable: there were several younger men, hunters, bringing in game to cooking-pits; and women could be seen working in the enormous courtyard of the pavilion, and also peering down with interest at the ceremony.

If the Chinese gentlemen found the act objectionable, they concealed their feelings, and having risen from the sand invited them into the pavilion, where Laurence halted on the threshold, dismayed: a Yellow Reaper, perhaps a week old, was sleeping comfortably on the stone beside a small fountain, and there were several native women sitting beside it and working with some rocks.

“Oh, here you are,” the dragonet said, lifting its head, and turning said something to one of the women in what sounded like their tongue. “I am Tharunka,” the dragonet added, and a little critically, “you have been quite a long time coming after me.”