And there was no one else to go, anyway. Iskierka had been the only one of their motley company to possess a proper crew, and they had been captured with her: lieutenants, midwingmen, even her ground-crew. All that were left were Laurence's small handful of crew; the only senior officers Dunne and Wickley, former midwingmen of Laurence's crew who had acquired enough of the ferals' language to become useful translators. A handful of other officers had been similarly placed with the ferals for their gift with languages more than any other quality. Most of them were young, nearer fourteen than twenty, and not to be sent on an expedition with odds little better than a throw of a dice.

Tharkay shook his head at the lot of them, and said to Laurence, ‘Better if we go alone.’

Tharkay had taken a commission with the Corps, at least for the moment; but this was not something which service could demand. ‘You are not obliged—’ Laurence began.

‘No,’ Tharkay agreed civilly, with one raised brow, and Laurence bowed and left it there.

Laurence exchanged his bottle-green coat for Blythe's leather smock, its pockets large enough to conceal a multitude of sins. He carried two pistols, a good knife and one of Blythe's hammers. Tharkay gave him a handful of mud for his face, and rubbed more onto his hands and beneath his nails.

Dunne watched their preparations at a distance, with occasional glances at the other officers; but he did not say anything. It was not cowardice. He had made sufficient proof of his courage, in previous service, that Laurence did not doubt it now. Dunne's reluctance had a source less palatable: it was plain that he did not wish to serve with Laurence again. There could be no harm to Dunne's career from such cooperation, though there might indeed be some if he chose not to go and Laurence did not return, so his objection was simply one of principle.

Laurence bent his head over the fresh loading of his pistols, and did not witness more of Dunne's struggle; the sense of disapproval did not weigh upon him so greatly, now. He felt himself a righted ship, heaved off her beam-ends and into a dangerous course, which was at least for the immediate distance, clear, even if there was a lee-shore off his bows and impenetrable murk ahead. He might be dashed on rocks, if the wind turned against him, but for the moment he knew what must be done, and he was free to do it.

They were ready in less than ten minutes, and would have gone at once, but Gong Su came and offered them a makeshift plate of bark with two small skewers upon it: tiny hearts and livers, still steaming from a makeshift butchering, and raw. Laurence regarded it with dismay. ‘A little of the divine wind inside,’ Gong Su explained: they had come from the birds, which Temeraire had slain. ‘That makes good fortune.’