fetch them
for ourselves, and come back.”
“That is no good at all,” Perscitia said severely. “The longer we must fly to get to the supply, the more
food we must eat only to reach there and come back, which is a waste, and also it means more time
flying back and forth, instead of fighting.”
“Supply-lines,” Gentius said, dolefully, shaking his head. “War is all about supply-lines; my third captain
told me.”
He had insisted on coming along, although he could not really see very well to fly anymore, and tired
easily; but he was grown light enough that he could be carried along by any of the heavy-weights, and it
was very satisfying to everyone to think they had a Longwing with them.
Aside from the difficulty about the food, Temeraire was pleased with their progress; he and Perscitia had
devised several maneuvers, which even Ballista had allowed to be clever; and Moncey and the others
had brought them a good deal of news about the French, although they could only sneak so close before
it became too likely they should be caught; Temeraire was trying to think how they might better find a
way to spy. They had worked out how to organize their camp so it did not take a great deal of room, by
letting the smaller dragons sleep atop the big, which was warmer anyway, and after the first awkward
day had learned to dig their necessary-pit far away from their water.
That had been very unpleasant, and five of the dragons had got quite sick, from being so thirsty they had
drunk anyway, despite the smell. A few others had grown bored and gone off on their own, all of them
ferals who had never served, but some of those had come back when they had not been able to find easy
food on their own, which brought them straight back to the question of supply.
“We can go and fetch a great many cattle here, if they are drugged with laudanum,” Temeraire said, “but
it seems to me, if the French are going about taking cows, we would do better to eat their food first,
instead of our own, and let them have the bother of gathering it; and that way we may fight and eat
together.”
It made a sensible strategy, they all agreed, and for Temeraire it was nearly more justification than cause:
he wanted badly to fight. The urge to violence, not particular but general, hunger for some explosive
action, was always stirring in him now, craving release, and Perscitia and Moncey often eyed him
anxiously. Sometimes Temeraire would even rouse up, not from sleep but from some halfway condition,
and find himself deserted: the others all flown away some distance, crouched down low and watching
him.
“It isn’t healthy, how he pens it up,” Gentius said loudly after their meeting, not seeing Temeraire close
enough to overhear. “You fellows don’t know what it is like, having a really fine captain and losing her: it
is worse than having all your treasure stolen. That is why he goes so queer, now and again. A proper
battle, that is what he needs, a bit of blood,” and Temeraire wanted it very much. He did not like the
sensation of being a passenger, it seemed to him, in his own life, unable not to feel as he chose, and if a
battle would repair it, he was almost tempted to go seek one out at once.
But he had brought everyone else along; he could not abandon them to their own devices now or drag
them into a mindless squabble, even if he would have liked one. Instead he brooded on strategy, and
when the urge grew more difficult to bear, he went away and curled himself tightly with his head against
Page 41
his flank, beneath the dark huddle of his wing, and murmured to himself from the Principia
Mathematica, which Laurence had read to him so often he had it all by heart, and if he spoke low, and
flattened his voice, he might almost imagine he heard Laurence instead, reading to him in the rain, safe
and sheltered beside him.
But he need not have struggled so hard to keep it in: the very next morning, Minnow and
for ourselves, and come back.”
“That is no good at all,” Perscitia said severely. “The longer we must fly to get to the supply, the more
food we must eat only to reach there and come back, which is a waste, and also it means more time
flying back and forth, instead of fighting.”
“Supply-lines,” Gentius said, dolefully, shaking his head. “War is all about supply-lines; my third captain
told me.”
He had insisted on coming along, although he could not really see very well to fly anymore, and tired
easily; but he was grown light enough that he could be carried along by any of the heavy-weights, and it
was very satisfying to everyone to think they had a Longwing with them.
Aside from the difficulty about the food, Temeraire was pleased with their progress; he and Perscitia had
devised several maneuvers, which even Ballista had allowed to be clever; and Moncey and the others
had brought them a good deal of news about the French, although they could only sneak so close before
it became too likely they should be caught; Temeraire was trying to think how they might better find a
way to spy. They had worked out how to organize their camp so it did not take a great deal of room, by
letting the smaller dragons sleep atop the big, which was warmer anyway, and after the first awkward
day had learned to dig their necessary-pit far away from their water.
That had been very unpleasant, and five of the dragons had got quite sick, from being so thirsty they had
drunk anyway, despite the smell. A few others had grown bored and gone off on their own, all of them
ferals who had never served, but some of those had come back when they had not been able to find easy
food on their own, which brought them straight back to the question of supply.
“We can go and fetch a great many cattle here, if they are drugged with laudanum,” Temeraire said, “but
it seems to me, if the French are going about taking cows, we would do better to eat their food first,
instead of our own, and let them have the bother of gathering it; and that way we may fight and eat
together.”
It made a sensible strategy, they all agreed, and for Temeraire it was nearly more justification than cause:
he wanted badly to fight. The urge to violence, not particular but general, hunger for some explosive
action, was always stirring in him now, craving release, and Perscitia and Moncey often eyed him
anxiously. Sometimes Temeraire would even rouse up, not from sleep but from some halfway condition,
and find himself deserted: the others all flown away some distance, crouched down low and watching
him.
“It isn’t healthy, how he pens it up,” Gentius said loudly after their meeting, not seeing Temeraire close
enough to overhear. “You fellows don’t know what it is like, having a really fine captain and losing her: it
is worse than having all your treasure stolen. That is why he goes so queer, now and again. A proper
battle, that is what he needs, a bit of blood,” and Temeraire wanted it very much. He did not like the
sensation of being a passenger, it seemed to him, in his own life, unable not to feel as he chose, and if a
battle would repair it, he was almost tempted to go seek one out at once.
But he had brought everyone else along; he could not abandon them to their own devices now or drag
them into a mindless squabble, even if he would have liked one. Instead he brooded on strategy, and
when the urge grew more difficult to bear, he went away and curled himself tightly with his head against
Page 41
his flank, beneath the dark huddle of his wing, and murmured to himself from the Principia
Mathematica, which Laurence had read to him so often he had it all by heart, and if he spoke low, and
flattened his voice, he might almost imagine he heard Laurence instead, reading to him in the rain, safe
and sheltered beside him.
But he need not have struggled so hard to keep it in: the very next morning, Minnow and
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