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It was nearly second nature for Laurence and Granby— instinctive, easy as breathing. They never seemed to notice it, though Tharkay did: the way they orbited one another, moved around each other like an elaborate dance. When one faltered, the other was not far behind, ready to raise a sword or lend a supporting shoulder or act as a shield against wounds both physical and otherwise.
The first time Tharkay really noticed the phenomenon was also the most violent, and thus the easiest to dismiss as just one more example of the exigencies of battle. He had bedded down in his own little corner of the camp with none but his eagle for friendly company and woken to chaos.
The raiders he had gone to track earlier in the day— a move which had earned him no small amount of ill-will— had returned and were now running rampant throughout the camp. Laurence was the sole beacon of order in the storm of panicked camels, shouting men, and the ringing of gunfire.
Tharkay snatched a pistol away from one of the drunken watchmen before he could shoot out the brains of one of his own fellows and fired at one of the raiders, knocking him to the ground. Another appeared in an instant to take his place, and Tharkay gutted the horse as it stampeded by, sending man and beast alike crashing into the sand.
A shout rang out from across the battle: Laurence's surly, distrustful lieutenant, who had sent more than his own fair share of black looks at Tharkay, called out a warning. He was doing battle with another raider and already bloodied— red spilled from a rend in his sleeve, and even from a distance Tharkay could tell that he favored his left leg. Granby was holding his own, despite his injuries, his sword clanging unmusically as it clashed with the raider's. But then the man dealt him an underhanded blow, knocking Granby's sword aside and jabbing his fingers hard into the wound on his arm.
Granby's face twisted with pain. If he made a noise, Tharkay could not hear it. "Laurence!" he shouted again as he ducked his assailant's wild sword-swing, and at first Tharkay thought it was a call for help, but then: "Laurence, damn you, behind you!"
Tharkay dodged out of the way of a horse running wild without its rider and whirled in place, seeking out Laurence in the melee. He saw at once the source of Granby's alarm: while Laurence was engaged with handing an injured crewman off to the dragon surgeon, a man had broken through the camp's makeshift defenses and was running straight for Laurence, saber drawn. Perhaps he hoped to gain Temeraire's surrender by capturing his captain, or perhaps simply thought against all sense that Laurence might be a good target— it hardly mattered.
His fee and his reputation, Tharkay told himself as he waded through the chaos of battle toward Laurence. His fee, and his good name with the East India Company— that was all he cared about.
There! A pistol in the sand, English make— dropped by an aviator. The pistol's owner would likely be cursing his carelessness just now, but his loss was Tharkay's gain. He snatched the pistol up. What luck— unfired! He raised the pistol and took aim, a second too slow: gunfire rang out, and Laurence turned in time to see the man fall dead at his feet. Laurence did not look in the direction of his lieutenant, only drew his sword and dashed off into the fray.
Granby was too far to hear Tharkay's warning cry. His attacker had taken advantage of his momentary distraction, and he whirled in place only to meet with the barrel of a gun pointed at his forehead. Tharkay watched through a haze as Granby went for his sword— as though that would do him any good!
It was some distance, but Tharkay's pilfered pistol was of quality make, and he was a decent shot. The bullet took the man in the chest, and he toppled over, blood staining the sand. Granby stood frozen for a moment and then turned to look at Tharkay. His eyes were wide enough to show the whites all the way around.
-
Granby did not seem to have any fondness to spare for Tharkay. His suspicious glares and unfriendly glances only increased after the attack. Yutien, it turned out, was his breaking point— not terribly patient, that one. The lieutenant pulled him aside that evening, after Tharkay had successfully negotiated the sale of their camels, and gotten a good price for them too, he noted sourly. It would have been insulting, if Tharkay cared any longer to let himself be insulted by men such as Granby.
Tharkay's head ached from lack of water and from the sun shining off the sand. He wanted a drink of water; he wanted to lay down in the shade; he wanted to find a gin-house and forget these blasted aviators and their idiotic mission, whatever it might be. He leaned against the wall of the little inn where the company's officers were quartered and folded his arms as he stared at Granby, waiting for him to speak. From this close, he could count the freckles on Granby's cheeks.
"I do not know what you have said to the captain," Granby began, his voice a furious whisper and his expression thunderous, "but I still do not trust you."
"Neither does the captain," Tharkay pointed out.
Granby blinked, wrong-footed, but recovered quickly. "Sir, I would caution you against any further nighttime ramblings."
"I will take your suggestion in as much good faith as you mean it," said Tharkay. And then, before he could stop himself: "Why did you do it?"
"Do what?" Granby looked genuinely baffled.
"When the raiders attacked, you gave up your chance to kill the man who was the greatest threat to you, and you shot the man attacking the captain instead. Why?" A foolish question— Tharkay already had the measure of these men.
"What else ought I have done?" asked Granby. His brow was furrowed; he looked surprised, as though he were unaccustomed to being questioned about his apparent willingness to throw away his own life. "I take care of the threats that the captain doesn't see. I will protect him at all costs. At any cost. It is my duty."
As he'd thought: a foolish question. There was nothing more to Granby than met the eye. A British officer, through and through, and cut from the same cloth as all the rest. Duty, loyalty, honor— and the belief that the British had the monopoly on it, with none left for the rest of the world.
He slid sideways, eel-like, escaping the threat of Granby's looming frame. "And where are you going?" the lieutenant snarled.
"The stars are lovely, do you not agree?" Tharkay said mildly. "Perhaps I shall go for a nighttime ramble."
He left Granby fuming behind him and did not turn back.
The clearing was very prettily managed, Tharkay had to admit— not at all the usual setting for a dinner party, but a usual dinner party would not include a heavyweight dragon. The lanterns burned golden-bright, setting the silken tapestries gleaming, and the coal stoves gave off enough warmth to keep the temperature comfortable, though not so much that lords and ladies expecting to show off their fine furs would be disappointed.
Lords and ladies filed in slowly from the lantern-lit path; Tharkay had no desire for his name to be announced, nor did he, strictly speaking, have an invitation to be at this particular party. Even the most varied and extensive guest-list for a fundraising party did not typically include poor, half-Nepali wanderers. He took a circuituous path through the woods, scanning the clumps of people, until he spotted a familiar face.
Granby looked desperately uncomfortable. Well, Tharkay supposed he might— he had proven his courage time and again on a battlefield, but this was another matter entirely. He had looked far calmer facing down a line of French heavyweights than he looked now, dressed in his best coat and nodding vaguely as his conversation-partner, a man of middle years in a dark suit and an unusual silver pin the shape of a rose in his neck-cloth, seemingly spoke to him without pause.
Tharkay glanced around to make sure no one else was looking too closely in his direction, and then carefully stepped out of the shadows of the trees. Granby's eyes passed over him, a fixed smile on his face, and then his expression melted comically into shock. He turned back to his conversation-partner and seemingly made some excuse, then left the man looking rather affronted as he hurried across the clearing toward Tharkay.
Tharkay grabbed a pair of champagne glasses from a nearby table and handed one to Granby as he approached. "Surely you have faced more formidabe foes in your time," he murmured.
"I would not be so certain," said Granby darkly. "I do not like the look of those two ladies over there— are we quite certain they are not French spies?"
The two ladies in question— one blonde and wearing a dress of spring green, and one with fiery red locks and wearing a gauzy lavender gown— looked innocent enough to Tharkay. "I shall keep an eye on them," he said gravely. Granby shot him an irritated look, and he had to stifle his laughter.
"Not that I am ungrateful," said Granby, "but I must say, this is a surprise. I did not know you would be here tonight."
"In all fairness, neither did I." Tharkay took a long, fortifying drink of champagne. "I found myself back in Istanbul, against my better judgement."
"Hah! Has the Sultan forgiven us, then?"
"I would not go quite so far," Tharkay said dryly. "Mr Maden always has work for me, though. His cousin is considering a business venture with one of the men here, a Mr Greene."
Granby made a noise of understanding. "And so he has asked you to find out if the fellow is dreadful."
"He has asked me to find out if the fellow can manage his money," Tharkay corrected. "He may be as dreadful as he likes, so long as he is a good investment."
Granby shook his head at that. "I don't like it. Haven't you heard of what is going on in the north? People are growing unhappy."
Tharkay had not, as a matter of fact, heard of what was going on in the north, having only very recently returned to the country, and most of his time taken up with tracking down Mr Greene. He had not had the chance to open a newspaper. Granby did not need to know that, however. "Let us hope their unhappiness is not related in any way to Mr Greene or his business," he said.
"We should be so lucky," said Granby, his voice dark. He took a mouthful of his champagne. "In all truth, I do not know what I am doing here. What have I to say to these men?"
"I am surprised Iskierka let you leave her for a full evening."
"Oh, she is fast asleep, poor girl. I had to wear her out with flying this afternoon, otherwise she would never have let me go. The last party went well enough without me, though both Wilberforce and Nelson were there, you know. Apparently it caused a bit of a stir. But Laurence asked me to be here, so here I am, though I have no idea what good he expects me to do." Granby finished off his glass in one last swallow. "Well, I suppose I had better go smile and make a polite noise," he said, grudging, and he reached for another glass of champagne.
Tharkay made an unhurried lap of the clearing, scanning the crowd for his quarry. Glancing up at Laurence some time later, he was struck by the soft smile, the warm expression; he followed Laurence's gaze to see Granby, his face lit up by one of the brass lamps and his eyes shining in the golden light.
The dinner proceeded smoothly enough from there. Temeraire was quite pleased to be an object of spectacle for the guests, though it left Laurence largely in the company of a man perhaps twenty years his senior with enough of a resemblance that Tharkay could easily guess at some kind of relation. Tharkay did not approach Laurence himself, though Laurence was certainly aware of his presence; he kept himself mostly to the background, to the shadows, where he would not attract too much attention.
He found Mr Greene easily enough, and it was no great difficulty to put himself just within earshot of the man. A young woman with an earnest expression, an emerald necklace, and an armful of pamphlets approached Tharkay, and he was happy enough to scan the pamphlet she thrust into his hands and ask a few questions about her cause. She chattered away happily about abolition and Wilberforce and men in Parliament whom Tharkay did not particularly care to know, and needed only an encouraging nod or the occasional question to keep going.
Thus, Tharkay was able to learn from the snatches of conversation he overheard from his quarry and the men he spoke with that Mr Greene owned half a dozen textile mills in Yorkshire and Lancashire, recently invested in several new looms powered by steam, and was hoping to secure a contract to supply uniforms for militias throughout the country. He thanked the young woman during a break in her chatter and ducked away to make his notes for Mr Maden. He and his cousin could decide what to do with the information; Tharkay's job was nearly done.
It had been strange— he had not thought to return to Istanbul, but once he was there, he had not thought to return to England. He felt dragged about, carried on a current or buffeted by a gust of wind, his heart pulled in two directions. Another few days would be no harm, he decided— he wanted to speak with Laurence properly before he left.
"—wonderful that you should have made captain," came a carrying voice, startling Tharkay out of his reverie. "Where are you from?"
"Newcastle," said Granby. Tharkay glanced in his direction; he looked distinctly uncomfortable, though he kept a smile plastered on his face. A woman of middle years wearing strands of pearls around her neck and in her hair had cornered him by one of the tables. "Though I was raised in the life— most of us are, of course. Loch Laggan is as much my home as anywhere."
"Newcastle?" repeated the woman. "Well, you cannot be the duke's son!"
Granby's smile grew strained. "No, madam, certainly not. My father was—"
"Not Sir James? Though you do have the look of him, rather!"
"My father was a merchant, madam," said Granby through gritted teeth. "He dealt in coal, and my eldest brother has taken over his business and turned it into a going concern."
The lady paused, looked him up and down. "Wonderful indeed," she said again, more slowly. "Your father a coal merchant, and you a captain? Why, I remember the days when a ship's captain was not obliged to be a gentleman. It made one terrified to set foot on any sort of vessel— one never quite knew what to expect! You do have some strange practices in the Aerial Corps, I must say."
Tharkay was just wondering if he should intervene, or if his intervention would even be of use, when Laurence stepped in. "Captain Granby was invaluable to me when I first arrived at Loch Laggan," he said. "I hardly knew which way was up, some days, but John soon had me in shape."
Tharkay caught just the edge of Granby's grateful smile. "You got on well enough, as I remember it." Laurence was looking at him with raised eyebrows, and he blushed and cleared his throat. "Ah. Yes. Captain Laurence, may I present Lady Ashby."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," said Laurence, bowing low.
Tharkay watched Lady Ashby's expression change as she took in Laurence's accent. "Ah, so there are gentlemen in the Corps." A shocking bit of rudeness— Granby's cheeks took on an angry bloom of color, and Laurence's face settled in hard lines.
Tharkay had heard enough. He started forward, schooling his tongue into the drawing-room accent ingrained in him in his youth. "Captain Laurence, Captain Granby," he called out, "how delighted I am to see you both, and please accept my congratulations for such a successful fête."
"Tharkay," Granby said, relieved, echoed by Laurence a moment later, slightly reproving: "Mr Tharkay, you are most welcome."
"I am terribly sorry to interrupt," said Tharkay, keeping his tone as bored as possible, "but Temeraire was asking for you, and I thought it best to come and fetch you before he tried to find you himself. We would not want the guests running about in a panic!"
"Certainly not. Thank you, Mr Tharkay. Lady Ashby— your servant." Laurence bowed to her once more and strode away toward the head of the clearing where Temeraire sat, his forelegs tucked neatly under him, deep in conversation with a gaggle of sober-looking men and women.
Granby made no effort to conceal his relief as he hurried along after him. "What does Temeraire want?" he asked.
"Oh— nothing, I expect," said Tharkay. "He seems to be getting along perfectly well. I think he is explaining Pythagoras again."
Laurence stopped in his tracks and turned to face Tharkay. After a moment, he let out a bright bark of laughter. It was the first real expression of mirth that Tharkay had heard from him— or any aviator, for that matter— in quite some time. "No doubt I shall have to make my apologies to Lady Ashby before the night is up."
"You may do so without me," said Granby severely. "Will, I don't belong here."
Laurence considered him for a long moment. "Yes, you do," he said, his voice gentle. "You are a captain, a hero of many battles, and you have nothing to be ashamed of. I would not be here without you."
"Oh," said Granby softly. He gazed at Laurence, seemingly unable to look away.
Tharkay wanted to shake him. Too obvious! he ought to warn him. Granby's regard for Laurence was radiating out of him; there was no way Laurence could fail to notice.
But it seemed as though he could, somehow. "Let me introuce you to Lord and Lady Pelham," Laurence said. He reached out to touch Granby's shoulder. "They have a nephew in the Corps and have a fondness for tales of adventure. I am sure between the three of us, we can keep them entertained for a time."
Tharkay could only follow the strange urging of his heart, dragging him forward after Laurence as he steered them through the crowd.
Not always, but sometimes— and, as the days wore on and the wind carried them forth across the seas toward New South Wales, frequently— Laurence neglected to eat. Oh, he was hardly wasting away, and he always had some excuse: he would eat later at supper, or he would break his fast with Temeraire, or, most often, he simply was not hungry. Tharkay watched Laurence toy with his food at mealtimes, and he watched Granby watching Laurence as well.
After nearly two full days in which Laurence had refused all sustenance but the merest nibbles of ship's biscuit, Tharkay was nearly ready to intervene. He would force the horrid stuff down Laurence's throat if he must, but he would not watch Laurence starve himself before they even reached New South Wales. There would be little enough food there after a hard day of labor, he was sure, and Laurence ought to keep up his strength while he still could.
Tharkay idled on the dragon-deck that morning, sharpening his knife as he turned the problem over in his mind. How best to approach Laurence? Too subtle and Laurence could feign ignorance with that pig-headed stubbornness that fascinated and vexed Tharkay in equal measure; too obvious and Laurence might wall himself up like a fortress, keeping Tharkay outside and unable to reach him.
Tharkay's little perch atop a coil of rope was far enough away to be unobtrusive but still close enough to observe Laurence as he read quietly to Temeraire, and so Granby's voice carried to him perfectly as the captain emerged from belowdecks with a small bundle of cloth under one arm.
"Here," said Granby, thrusting the bundle toward Laurence. "Eat."
So much for subtlety.
"What is this, John?" Laurence sounded weary, as though he had been toiling for hours already.
"Food, of course," Granby said. "I begged it off the cook— told him it was for Roland. He has a soft spot for the young'uns and didn't put up too much of a fuss."
Laurence hesitated, then took the bundle. "I cannot accept this. It ought to go to Mr Roland, as you told the cook it would."
"Emily has not been refusing to eat for the past two days," Granby snapped. "I will not sit idly by while you neglect yourself."
"Have you not been eating, Laurence?" came Temeraire's booming voice. "Whyever not?"
"I have not quite felt up to it, my dear," said Laurence. Tharkay was just close enough to catch a glimpse of the glare he shot Granby, and Tharkay had to quickly revise his earlier assessment— perhaps Granby could plan a stratagem, if needed.
Temeraire made a noise of distress at that, and he bent his neck to nose at Laurence. "Oh, but Laurence, you must eat! I do not like to think of you going hungry, and you must keep up your strength. Will you not eat something, even if it is very terrible?"
"I see I am outmatched," Laurence said dryly. "Very well: if it will make you happy, my dear, then I suppose I can have a few bites, at least."
"Thank you so much, Temeraire," said Granby. "I am so very glad we are in agreement. And enjoy the eggs, Will— they are fresh from the hens this morning, and were meant for the officers' supper."
Tharkay had to duck his head to hide his smile as Laurence looked down at the bundle of cloth and then up at Temeraire in dismay.
-
"That was well-done," Tharkay said that evening as he passed Granby a cup of wine. They were in Tharkay's little cabin, which was larger and more comfortably furnished than the one that had been hastily found for Granby, and the wine was from his own store, an indifferent vintage that would cause no great tragedy if it should be spoiled during the voyage. Laurence was meant to be there as well, though he had turned down Tharkay's invitation earlier in the afternoon with a glance over his shoulder at where Temeraire sat coiled on the dragon-deck, his tail twitching occasionally and his vast blue eyes fixed on Laurence.
"Oh, hardly." Granby raised his glass in a half-hearted toast and took a sip of his wine. "He may not have a care for his own well-being, but he cannot disappoint Temeraire. You have been around aviators long enough— you ought to know by now how to apply pressure."
Tharkay watched Granby swallow another mouthful of wine, his lips pink in the candlelight, the long lines of his throat visible beneath his carelessly-undone neckcloth, and had a sudden vision of Granby with his back against the wall, his hair wild about his face and his head tilted to the side to expose his neck, those pink lips open on a gasp. Pressure indeed.
"Being on a ship with nothing to do is hard for him, I think," Granby was saying. "At least when we were sailing to China, we had a goal: a purpose. Now, all we can do is twiddle our thumbs and bide our time until we reach New South Wales."
"I have set out on many a journey with no true purpose in mind," said Tharkay quietly, surprising himself. Perhaps the wine was going to his head— but that could not be right, because he had not even tasted it yet. He remedied that oversight at once. "Sometimes a man needs a change of scenery, or a new opportunity, or simply to leave. Sometimes a man cannot stay in one place for too long."
Granby studied him for a moment. "You do not wish to settle in one place? You have no hopes for a family or a home, in the future?"
Tharkay felt the corner of his mouth twitch in an involuntary smile. "That is not quite what I said."
"Mm." Granby squinted at him for a moment as though he contained all the secrets of the universe. A moment later, his face broke out in a wide smile. "Me, I'm happy with Iskierka. I am at home wherever the service may send me, as long as I am with her."
"To Iskierka, then," Tharkay said, raising his glass. "And to us weary wanderers, at home wherever in the world we may be." Together they drained their glasses, and Tharkay poured them each another measure.
"She's turned me into a deserter, you know, or as good as," said Granby quietly, some minutes later. "In a long line of mistakes and poor behavior, I think it is the worst thing she has ever done."
Tharkay sighed. Very well— if the evening were turning maudlin, so be it. "You are on a Navy vessel carrying prisoners of the state to one of England's colonies," he pointed out. "It is hardly some unknown ship bound for the wildnerness, or a pirate island out of a tale that old wives tell their grandchildren to spook them."
The corner of Granby's mouth twitched in an unwilling smile. "It is not as though we had orders to accompany this specific vessel or these specific prisoners."
"Would you really have stayed in England while Will Laurence sailed away across the world, never to be seen again?" Too much, too obvious— Granby's eyes darted to his and away, hunted.
"No, of course I could not stay while he goes," said Granby to his wine. "My fate is bound with his, now."
"And it was not before?" Tharkay could not resist pointing out.
Granby's lip curled in a wry little half-smile. "So is yours," he said gently. "You cannot leave him behind any more than I can."
Tharkay's heart thudded in his chest. For so long he had been wary of discovery, always careful to not reveal too much of himself, and somehow Granby had seen past all his defenses to the vulnerable, tender core of him. God, he had been wrong, so wrong, about this man. "Then perhaps we ought to drink to Will Laurence," he heard himself say, "and to all us weary wanderers who must make our home wherever he may drag us."
"To Will, and whatever peace we can hope he will find," Granby echoed, and they drank.
It ocurred to Tharkay, as he stood to refresh their glasses once more, that in that moment, he knew the precise taste of John's mouth.
The days in the desert of Terra Australis blended together, a blur of red sand and unrelenting sun. For all their flying, they seemed to make very little forward progress; thus they were constantly behind where Tharkay's internal compass told him they ought to be. The men suffered greatly. They were not proper aviators, so drills were of little use in instilling discipline; they whiled away their days, restless and bored, growing more surly by the mile.
It did not take long for Laurence to fall back into old habits. He made excuses for it, but Tharkay noticed, and so did Granby. It was Granby who shouldered the burden this time, and gladly, for it was not truly a burden to make sure Laurence was cared for when he would neglect himself. For every measure of water Laurence gave from his own waterskin to a sweating, red-faced convict, Granby gave back to Laurence from his own supply. And when Laurence stayed up late one night, watching the stars and thinking unknowable thoughts, Granby was there the next night to chivvy him to bed an hour early with promises to oversee the camp as they settled in to sleep.
It was one such night— a quiet camp after a long, fruitless day of searching— when Tharkay could no longer stand it. His skin itched with dried sweat and desert dust; it was in his hair, his teeth. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He wished for something stronger than grog to send him off to sleep, and damn the consequences in the morning. The gleam of Laurence's pale hair was nowhere to be seen, and a moment later he spotted Granby returning from the direction of the dragons, and Laurence's tent. He tilted his head, a rough, irritated motion, and Granby raised an eye and made his way over.
"Do you know what you are doing?" Tharkay asked as Granby settled down next to him. The firelight caught in his blue eyes and threw shadows across his face, dancing across his cheekbones like falling leaves.
Granby blew out a gust of breath. "Do any of us? — Does Laurence?"
"That is not what I meant." Granby watched him, and he tried not to drown in those eyes. "With him. Do you know what you are doing, with him?"
A clumsy question, and nonsensical to anyone else. Granby understood immediately. "Yes, I do," he said. He turned away, gazing at the fire, and it was only with the greatest effort of will that Tharkay stopped himself from reaching out and putting a hand on Granby's cheek to turn him back. "Of course I do. I have never been good at lying to myself."
Silence stretched out between them for a long moment. Tharkay found himself listening to the crackling of the fire, the humming of the desert insects. He wondered if Laurence was laying awake in his tent, listening to the same melody.
"It is no more than you would do, I think," said Granby. "You have done so much more for him than I ever can." He turned back at Tharkay, a soft, sad smile on his face. It looked wrong on him; Granby's face, with his wide mouth and upturned nose and constellation of freckles far more familiar than the southern stars above them, was made for joy. "You brought him back when I could not."
Tharkay's mouth was dry (always, these days). He had to clear his throat before he spoke. "You gave him a reason to stay."
A moment passed, and Tharkay felt a soft pressure against his shoulder— Granby leaning against him. He pressed into the touch, weary. He was always weary these days, too.
Another quiet moment passed as they held each other up. Tharkay thought of Laurence, rigid and upright, unable even to see when he was falling. He wondered what Granby was thinking about, then laughed to himself. He did not have to wonder; he knew: Laurence, Laurence, always Laurence. Tharkay kicked at the sand. Damn the man, and damn his bloody honor, and whatever it was about him that made Tharkay and Granby follow him across oceans.
"You ought to sleep," Tharkay said, instead of any of the multitude of other words and thoughts that swirled within him like stormclouds.
"I could say the same of you," countered Granby. The lightest pressure against Tharkay's wrist, a brush of warm fingers, and Granby heaved himself to his feet. "Come now. Two weary wanderers are we, and we have further still to fly tomorrow. We ought to be abed."
Tharkay looked at his proffered hand and back to his face. The sadness that marred his features was softened now with mirth. It was not quite the expression Tharkay would see him wear, but it was better than exhaustion, better than hopelessness.
He reached up and took Granby's hand and allowed Granby to loop their arms together as they steered one another through the night.
-
The next day was one of the worst. The hot sun beat upon them relentlessly, and the sky was a wide, hard shell of blue. Tharkay felt as though he were caught between two mirrors, the sand and the sky, reflecting heat and light between them unto infinity. His eyes ached by mid-day; his neck burned, and his tongue was thick and gritty in his mouth. He cursed thieves, dragonkind, and William Laurence alike.
If possible, Granby fared even worse. He was tomato-red by the time Laurence called a halt just before noon, and he could do little more than stumble toward the meager shade offered by the little oasis and collapse on his back, his chest heaving as though he had just run a footrace.
The stream was hardly more than a trickle. The crews could have only a few mouthfuls at a time, and it was the better part of an hour for every man to fill his waterskin. Granby roused himself after a few minutes to take his turn at the side of the little creek. He hissed as he splashed water across the angry red of his neck and ears, and Tharkay winced in sympathy.
The afternoon was no better, despite their rest. Temeraire seemed to sag in the air, limp with the heat and exhausted from flying back and forth. It was only when Tharkay spotted a shard of pottery that Temeraire seemed enlivened, and they descended to allow for a closer look.
Iskierka landed heavily, and her small crew dismounted at once— all save Granby. He sat there motionless, a toy soldier in green against the hard blue sky. Tharkay glanced around, but no one else seemed to have noticed. He started toward Granby but only made it a few steps before Granby swayed heavily, listing sideways, and began to topple.
Granby's lieutenant, Richers, shouted in alarm and started running from where he was organizing the men refilling their waterskins, but Laurence was faster still. He covered the short distance to Granby in a handful of strides and scaled Iskierka's harness as easily as if it were the rigging of a ship.
Iskierka as well had noticed that something was wrong. "Granby?" she asked, sounding alarmed. "Granby, is anything amiss? What are you doing?" She twisted and turned herself in a circle, coiling and uncoiling, flailing about fair to throw Laurence off.
"Pray hold still, Iskierka, if you please," Tharkay called to her, for all the good it might do.
"I do not please," she replied crossly. "Granby, cease being foolish at once and come down here where I can see you."
"He has fainted," Laurence said. "Tharkay, can you help? We need to get him into the shade and cool him down."
Iskierka, blessedly, stilled at his words, though she still trembled with tension. Tharkay was not far behind Laurence, climbing up the harness without carabiners. Within moments they were even with Granby.
He was a pathetic sight, dangling limply from his harness-straps, hardly stirring even as Laurence tapped him on the cheek. Tharkay eyed him with dismay: however were they to lower him to the ground? But Laurence was not dissuaded. He hooked himself on to Iskierka's harness and held Granby tightly to himself with one arm.
"You will need to move our carabiners," said Laurence tightly.
Tharkay saw at once what he meant, and he set about lengthening the straps. Laurence kept one arm around Granby's torso and clung to the harness with his other hand, and when Tharkay had finished moving the carabiners he gingerly lowered himself and Granby both. Thus, foot by careful foot, they made their way slowly to the ground.
Granby sagged at once when set upon his feet. Even with Laurence's and Tharkay's shoulders under his arms, he could not stand upright and was in perpetual danger of toppling over. After a few fruitless attempts to spare Granby some dignity by at least keeping him upright, Laurence swore under his breath and simply swept Granby up in his arms, bearing him swiftly to the shade of a few gnarled trees like a new husband might bear his bride into their home.
Tharkay stared, then laughed to himself. It really was a shame that Granby was not fully conscious: he would surely be enjoying himself thoroughly, otherwise.
Laurence set Granby down in the shade of a few trees and stripped off Granby's neckcloth, and then his own. Tharkay, seeing at once what he was about, took both cloths and hurried to dampen them in the stream. One was laid across the back of Granby's neck, and one over his forehead, which seemed to help. Granby roused eventually and was able to drink some water, which helped more.
"No, I am perfectly well," he said after a few minutes. "There is no need to cause such a fuss. Really, Will, as though we can afford this kind of delay!"
Laurence put a hand on his shoulder as he tried to stand, and with the other hand sought out the pulse-point in Granby's neck. Granby's eyes went wide, staring up at Laurence crouching next to him.
"Your pulse is fast but weak," said Laurence. "It is a sign of illness brought on by the heat. We will rest here for an hour, and you will not move from this spot until I am certain you are quite recovered. We can make up the time, but we cannot afford to lose you, John."
They did not seem to be able to look away from each other, and Tharkay had to bite down on his laughter. He was quite certain that the speed of Granby's pulse was not entirely due to the heat. "Laurence has the right of it, I am afraid," he said, and Granby's eyes snapped to him. "I do not know what we would do without you."
"Oh, you would get on perfectly well, I am sure," Granby demurred.
Tharkay was sure of no such thing. He was struck by the sudden urge to knock Laurence's hands aside, to put his fingers on John's pulse-point, to feel the beat of his heart and assure himself of John's continued vitality.
"Drink some more water," said Laurence, bringing the waterskin to Granby's lips, "and I hope we shall not have to find out."
Thud.
This was not helping.
Thud.
The walls of Tharkay's cell seemed to shrink in on him every time he opened his eyes, so he kept them shut.
Thud.
No plans shook themselves loose in his mind. He was all out of schemes. Trapped, and no way out.
Thud.
Closing his eyes did not help. Neither did knocking his head against the wall, really, but it gave him something to do. Cold seeped into his bones but he was too exhausted even to shiver.
Thud.
It did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Iskierka's egg, Temeraire, Granby, Laurence— Tharkay closed his teeth around a scream, strangled it in his chest.
Thud.
They would just have to get on without him. He hoped they did. He hoped they found their way to each other, and maybe they would remember him, sometimes.
Thud.
Thud thud thud.
That was different. Tharkay paused, though he kept his eyes shut. Faint voices speaking in French drifted to him down the hallway.
"—orders from His Majesty," said an unfamiliar, masculine voice.
"—do you mean by this?" That was one of the guards. "I did not receive any new orders."
"That is because I am giving them to you now. Where is the spy?"
Thud thud thud.
Boots marched down the hall and stopped in front of Tharkay's cell. He opened his eyes. Peering down at him was a tall man wearing the colors of the Emperor's personal guard and an impressive mustache.
"You are monsieur Tharkay?" the guard asked.
It took Tharkay several tries to speak. "I am."
"Stand up."
"Already?" The night had seemed so long, enclosed as he was in his little stone tomb. And now that it was over, he wanted more of it.
The guard regarded him with some amusement. "What do you think I am here for, monsieur Tharkay?"
"I am aware of how spies are dealt with," Tharkay said through his teeth. He was about to die, and still he was being mocked.
"Most spies," said the guard, "do not have a friend who may beg a favor from His Majesty the Emperor."
Tharkay blinked. His breath caught as one of the guards stepped forward and unlocked the door of his cell. It swung open with a creak, and just like that, in between one breath and the next, Tharkay's life was restored to him. He was free.
Well, not quite free. The Imperial guard produced a set of manacles and clamped them around Tharkay's wrists, then took him firmly by the upper arm.
"Best not keep His Majesty waiting," the man advised, and he dragged Tharkay up the stairs and out of the dank little dungeon, his boots thudding against the stone floor.
-
The sight of William Laurence had never been more dear to Tharkay. He stood in profile at the window, his hair illuminated by the morning light and gleaming like fine-spun gold. Tharkay followed his gaze to Granby, dark and melancholy in an armchair in the corner of the room, and just as dear a sight. Neither of them seemed to have registered his presence yet.
He took another step into the room and cleared his throat. Two sets of eyes in subtle differences of blue snapped to him.
"Tenzing," Laurence sighed.
"Tenzing!" Granby shouted.
He leaped from his chair and threw himself across the room, while Laurence followed at a more moderate pace.
"A favor from the Emperor," said Tharkay. Laurence stilled, looking stricken. "That was the price of my life."
"He owed me, in his mind," Laurence said quietly. "There was nothing else I could have asked of him to discharge the debt, except perhaps Temeraire's life, or yours, John."
Tharkay's heart pounded almost painfully in his chest. "Why?"
Granby punched his arm lightly, more a gesture of relief than an outpouring of anger, then pulled him into a tight hug. "What d'ye mean, why," he said, his voice rough. "You know why."
And he did. Of course he did. He wrapped one arm around Granby and reached out to Laurence with the other. The three of them stood together for a long moment, their arms around one another. Nothing needed to be said.
How many times had Laurence and Granby danced around each other, saved each other, pulled one another back from the brink? How many times had Tharkay done the same? And now here he was, caught in between them. He closed his eyes, let himself be held, supported. There was a word for it, what he felt for them both, but he could not think it just yet— he was too afraid, even now. No matter: he would build them a home where they would have no need of fear. The three of them had met by chance, but their fates remained tangled together by choice. It was the easiest thing in the world for Tharkay to join in the dance.