The sky was brilliantly clear, and the sunlight though not warming was bright. Lien's red eyes and fragile white skin were vulnerable to such conditions, and it was most likely, Laurence suspected, that she would make no appearance, save in desperation. But if his suggestion was a deception, it had sufficient good effect to make its own excuse. Temeraire grew rather drooping as they flew back to the clearings, and he fell with ravenous hunger on the dead horse, which was laid out waiting for him still in its cavalry saddle.

He shut his eyes and was asleep at once, after. Laurence climbed down to stretch his legs, and to let Fellowes and Blythe make their survey of the abbreviated harness while he made his own, walking up and down Temeraire's sides to see what injuries had been made. Emily was carefully removing the two knives, slowly, as fresh blood trickled. The handful of stab wounds had crusted over, at least, but there were half a dozen musket-shot wounds, balls in the meat of Temeraire's flanks. Near one of them, Laurence was alarmed to notice, was a puckered mark he had not before noticed: a ball had gone in not long ago, and not yet been removed.

‘Sipho,’ Laurence said, ‘go and find Mr. Keynes; you know him? Good. Find him, or Dorset, and bring them at once, with their kit.’ He dragged over a barrel and climbed up to lay his hand on the old wound. It felt a little hot and swollen, but perhaps it might only be the heat of battle, radiating from all Temeraire's muscles as he lay.

‘Infection,’ Dorset pronounced with certainty, as soon as he had peered at it through his spectacles, and touched it with his fingertips. ‘My lancet, if you please, and have the tongs ready,’ he said to Sipho, and then he slashed deep through the pucker, past the layer of scales and fat. A gush of white and yellow pus came running out with a dreadful sour stench that made Laurence turn his head away. Dorset did not pause for an instant, but seized the tongs and drove them in deep. He pulled away and brought out the musket-ball, black and shining with fluid, as Temeraire roared awake with a bellow that shook the trees and knocked Dorset, Sipho and Laurence flat as he flinched.

‘It is all over,’ Dorset said in answer to his shocked protesting, ‘and now you know why we take them out at once. It would have been more unpleasant if you were awake.’

‘I do not see how,’ Temeraire said, rather bitterly, ‘and at least I would have been warned.’

‘And would have jerked twenty feet, before I could have the ball out,’ Dorset returned unrepentant. ‘Enough complaining; now I must have the others.’