up, he could hear a faint noise, strange and high.
Even as they listened, the sound stopped. “Laurence, that was Lily, I think,” Temeraire said, his ruff standing up stiffly.
Laurence slid down at once. “Stay here; I will return as quickly as I may,” he said, and Temeraire nodded without ever looking away.
The paths through the covert were largely deserted and unlit: Excidium’s formation gone, all the light dragons out on scouting duty, and the night cold enough to send even the most dedicated crews into the barracks buildings. The ground had frozen three days before; it was packed and hard enough for his heels to drum hollowly upon it as he walked.
Lily’s clearing was empty; a faint murmur of noise from the barracks, whose lit windows he could see distantly, through the trees, and no one about the buildings. Lily herself was crouched motionless, her yellow eyes red-rimmed and staring, and she was clawing the ground silently. Low voices, and the sound of crying; Laurence wondered if he was intruding untimely, but Lily’s evident distress decided him: he walked into the clearing, calling in a strong voice, “Harcourt? Are you there?”
“No further” came Choiseul’s voice, low and sharp: Laurence came around Lily’s head and halted in dreadful surprise: Choiseul was holding Harcourt by the arm, and there was an expression of complete despair on his face. “Make no sound, Laurence,” he said; there was a sword in his hand, and behind him on the ground Laurence could see a young midwingman stretched out, dark bloodstains spreading over the back of his coat. “No sound at all.”
“For God’s sake, what do you think you are about?” Laurence said. “Harcourt, is it well with you?”
“He has killed Wilpoys,” she said thickly; she was wavering where she stood, and as the torchlight came on her face he could see a bruise already darkening across half her forehead. “Laurence, never mind about me, you must go and fetch help; he means to do Lily a mischief.”
“No, never, never,” Choiseul said. “I mean no harm to her or you, Catherine, I swear it. But I will not be answerable if you interfere, Laurence; do nothing.” He raised the sword; blood gleamed on its edge, not far from Harcourt’s neck, and Lily made the thin eerie noise again, a high-pitched whining that grated against the ear. Choiseul was pale, his face taking on a greenish cast in the light, and he looked desperate enough to do anything; Laurence kept his position, hoping for a better moment.
Choiseul stood staring at him a moment longer, until satisfied Laurence did not mean to go, and then said, “We will go all of us together to Praecursoris; Lily, you will stay here, and follow when you see us go aloft: I promise you no harm will come to Catherine so long as you obey.”
“Oh, you miserable, cowhearted traitor dog,” Harcourt said, “do you think I am going to go to France with you, and lick Bonaparte’s boots? How long have you been planning this?” She struggled to pull away from him, even staggering as she was, but Choiseul shook her and she nearly fell.
Lily snarled, half-rising, her wings mantling: Laurence could see the black acid glistening at the edges of her bone spurs. “Catherine!” she hissed, the sound distorted through her clenched teeth.
“Silence, enough,” Choiseul said, pulling Harcourt up and close to his body, pinning her arms: the sword still held steady in his other hand, Laurence’s eyes always upon it, waiting for a chance. “You will follow, Lily; you will do as I have said. We are going now; march, at once, monsieur, there.” He gestured with the sword. Laurence did not turn around, but stepped backwards, and once beneath the shadow of the trees he moved more slowly still, so that Choiseul came unknowingly closer than he meant to do.
A moment of wild grappling: then they all three went to the ground in a heap, the sword flying and Harcourt caught between them. They struck the ground heavily, but Choiseul was beneath, and for a moment Laurence had the advantage; he was forced to sacrifice it to roll Harcourt free and out of harm’s way, and Choiseul struck him across the face as soon as she was clear, throwing him off.
They rolled about on the ground, battering at each other awkwardly, both trying to reach for the sword even as they struggled. Choiseul was powerfully built and taller, and though Laurence had a far greater experience of close