The aviators began loosely to form an opposing line. Laurence slid down from Temeraire’s neck and laid a hand on the soft muzzle, feeling Temeraire’s breath going in labored rasps: aggravated again, no doubt, by the excessive use of the divine wind. Whatever they had in the way of supply remained back in the camp, further along the curve of the bay and out of reach. “Roland,” Laurence said, low, “go and tell Demane; if it comes to fighting, you are to go back to the camp and fetch out powder and shot, and whatever guns might have been left.”
She nodded and ran to join Demane on Kulingile, who despite fatigue was perhaps among all the beasts the nearest to wide-awake, his eyes bright with hunger. Some of the Larrakia had come fresh from their hunting: a brace of small kangaroos were roasting on a spit behind their line, and this had all of Kulingile’s attention.
The sailors lay inert upon the sand, spent more even than the dragons and worn past exhaustion by the wreckage and the horror of what Laurence hardly knew how to call a battle: a struggle against some elemental force, invoked too unwarily, and as swiftly gone when its bloodthirst had been appeased. Out past the edge of the harbor, many of the serpents were at play again, heedless like children who had already forgotten a reproof.
The Larrakia men were speaking amongst themselves, spears held low and ready; the elders in convocation with and the younger men interjecting occasionally. There was a hesitation on both sides: no one was unshaken by the violence of the eruption.
Galandoo came forward out of the men, and beckoned to Tharunka to translate; and to Laurence he said simply, “It is time for you to go.”
Chapter 17
THEY AT NO TIME saw any of the natives during the long tedium of the return voyage, which even on dragon wing consumed half the autumn: the desert creeping by slow, and their passage wary and hunted. They found tracks and signs enough, in the mornings, to know that they were watched; at the water-holes they drank swiftly, and left what small offerings they could spare for the bunyips from their hunting with the country grown still more spare and ungenerous in the waning of the year, and four dragons, one of rapacious appetite, to be fed.
The beasts were all four of them thinner than Dorset liked before they reached at last the marker, the great monolith standing up out of the red desert with all its vegetation now burnt yellow by the sun; and began their turn for the coast. “At least there will be the lake, soon,” Temeraire said wearily lapping at another water-hole, too shallow to put his muzzle in to drink properly.
It was all their hope that long fortnight’s flying: though they were yet only halfway home, they were now moving at a pace wholly different than during their first journey, flying straight instead of in pursuit of an unknown foe, and the prospect of the lake’s refuge invited them onwards. When at last they sighted it in the distance as a faint brilliant gleam stretching over the curve of the horizon, catching the sunset, Temeraire’s wings quickened; all the dragons’ pace increased, and they came landing by the shore not an hour later: to the stench of rotting fish, and a shore crusted with a rim of pink-stained salt; the lake had receded to a long narrow stretch of water.
The water of the shrunken lake could not be drunk: it was become more salty than sea-water, pinkish in hue, and the dead fish floated half-eaten in clumped masses on its surface. The birds had deserted the shore.
They managed to find a small water-hole, sufficient to give the dragons a few swallows, although the requisite bribe drew down too much of their stores; in anticipation of the game at the lake, they had not paused so often for hunting. What little they had left, they ate in silence, huddled close around their small fires. It was not merely inconvenience; the disappointment felt something of a parting slap, contemptuous, from the wild back-country: a reminder they were not welcome.
And yet Laurence felt little more so as they limped finally back into Sydney, a ragged and thinner band, and set down upon the promontory already once more overgrown in their long absence: grass and weeds and small prickly shrubs beginning to re-establish a hold. They arrived late, the Allegiance riding at anchor in the harbor, a small flotilla of merchant ships clustered nearer-in to the shore; the sun hung low in the sky, throwing orange flame across the water, and at the mouth of the harbor, where it emptied out into the ocean, the light glittered on the hides of a dozen sea-serpents, rising and plunging from the water at their play.
“The question only remains how it is to be done, not whether,” Governor Macquarie said: Bligh’s replacement, finally arrived a little while after Granby’s second departure. In the intervening months of their journey, an elegant house had been raised on the spur of land overlooking the harbor, with a clear prospect from the office stretching all the way to the open ocean. Even a small rug lay upon the floor, and the furniture neatly joined; Laurence and Granby stood raggedly out of place, and Rankin for all his efforts was not much better arrayed.
They had not been afforded any opportunity to acquire new clothing; the summons had come last night before they had even sent a runner to formally announce their arrival, and called them at first light to the governor’s mansion, to find the new governor waiting urgently, pacing across the floor of his study.
“I can see no reason to have them here,” Bligh was saying scarcely under his breath, meaning MacArthur and Johnston, on the point of being shown in; MacArthur came across the room to shake Laurence’s hand.
“I find you have been a prodigiously long way, Captain,” he said, throwing a look at the dust-stained and faded maps which had been laid out across the broad desk. “I am glad to see you returned safely,” although there was perhaps some enthusiasm lacking: he and Johnston were ordered to England with Bligh, to stand trial for the rebellion; Granby’s return meant the Allegiance would sail at last, and she would make their natural transport.
“We must first however resolve what is to be done with these serpents: their presence was ominous enough before the report we have had from you, gentlemen,” Macquarie said, interrupting the private greetings, and waving a hand to the chairs at his table.
The serpents had not appeared alone: another of the wide-winged dragons, not Shen Li, had been sighted lately off the eastern coast, on one occasion not thirty miles distant; the serpents shortly thereafter had begun to make their sporadic appearances, evidently being trained upon some new harbor, near enough that in their frolics they from time to time came past Sydney. Shipping went still to and fro without incident; the serpents had not been incited against them, and seemed sufficiently well-fed that any natural inclination which might have led to attacks was suppressed; but this was scarcely much comfort to those who had seen the devastation they might easily wreak.
“They must be eradicated, at once,” Captain Willoughby said harshly, his wooden-leg stump stretched out awkwardly before his chair; he had insisted on accompanying them, though his injuries yet left his face grey and drawn with pain. “We must trace them to their harbor and put them to the sword; them and their masters.”
“Sir,” Laurence said, “we have already suffered a repulse from one attempt at taking a harbor so guarded, without sufficient preparation and, Captain Willoughby must pardon me, without sufficient provocation for the consequence we court. Surely there can be no justification for spurring on a war with China which, we now know, they have the means to carry against all our shipping. Even without the direction of intelligence, the serpents have been a constant peril to sailors before now; they need neither wind nor current in their favor to maneuver, and may strike wholly unexpected from below.”