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Entry tags:
November [OTP23]
Title: Banding Together
Fandom: Temeraire
Characters/Ship: Laurence/Tharkay, OCs
Word count: ~2k words
Summary: Post-canon crack treated seriously. Laurence searches for meaning in his postwar life. He decides to start a band (he's really ahead of his time).
Notes: The prompts for November: life changes | de-aging | secret relationship (reveal) | "be careful what you wish for" | grow | music/band au. Most of those are only implied.
When Laurence was a boy, he wished for adventure. When Laurence was a man, he wished for peace.
On reflection, it really is incredible that he should be so fortunate. Who else can claim to be so lucky that their deepest wishes are granted not once, but twice?
Who else can be so selfish as to wish for a third time?
It’s cold in Scotland. It’s not the kind of cold that builds and sinks in deep. No, this cold feels like a solid wall: a harsh, biting pressure against every speck of his exposed skin. The cold burns, but he continues forward even so. Every step he takes breaks the sharp silence with a crunch as his boot breaks through the shell of the top layer of snow and sinks into the powdery filling beneath.
This isn’t the kind of weather for a promenade. When people go out in this cold, it’s for a purpose—heading toward one thing or away from another. Laurence has nowhere he needs to go, and nowhere he wants to escape from. He’s not sure why he’s wandering out here now, risking his health and the sight of Tharkay’s worried frown.
He raises his head, looking up at the grey sky and the reaching branches of the trees, all limned in snow.
It occurs to him, perhaps belatedly, that he may need a hobby.
And yet, the thought of taking up hunting or fishing or racing or some other gentlemanly sport makes him uneasy, given his place in the household. He can think of a number of examples of second and third sons like him living life’s pleasures at their friends’ expense, and despite Tharkay’s frequent reassurances, the topic is a sensitive one for him. Though in truth, he fulfils more of the lady of the house’s roles than he does the extended guest’s. He imagines painting chairs or embroidering bonnets, like he’s seen his sisters-in-law do to occupy their time. Perhaps he could learn to play Tharkay’s old family piano.
All of these ideas seem lacking to him, and after a moment, he realises why. Whether in war or peace, adventure or rest, Laurence has always searched for meaning in his work. He wants to serve his ship, his country, his friends. He wants to protect them and provide for them. Whatever hobby he picks up, he’ll need it to be something meaningful.
He stops when he reaches Temeraire’s pavilion, which feels sad and abandoned in its closed off state, as it always does when Temeraire has left on some extended stay for his work in the ministry.
As he stares at it, the image of Tharkay’s old, worn upright rises again and floats like a mirage in the frigid air.
Well, that’s an idea.
He smiles on his next exhale and turns to make his way back to the manor house.
It shouldn’t be that surprising, really. If wishes come in threes, then so do epiphanies.
Tharkay meets him at the door, his face artificially blank to hide his disapproval. “Did you find what you were looking for?” asks Tharkay, reaching out to take his coat. Tharkay always asks this question when Laurence returns home from his walks.
“I believe so,” Laurence muses, marvelling at the novelty of having an answer. Tharkay’s fingers freeze where they were brushing the snow from Laurence’s shoulders.
When Tharkay’s movements begin again, there is a forced casualness to them. “Do I get any hints? If we’ll be travelling, I’m certainly the better packer.”
Laurence notices that Tharkay has stressed the word ‘we’ and can’t help but smile. Of course, a trip across the globe is an onerous undertaking for anyone, but shepherding the captain of a dragon along the way does come with some special travel considerations.
“No,” Laurence reassures him. “No doubt we’ll want to travel again in the future, but there’s no need to upset yours and Temeraire’s work.”
Rather than seeming calmed, Tharkay’s frown deepens. “If it’s what you want—”
Laurence finally bats Tharkay’s hands away and deals with the coat himself. “No, not now. Not outside of Britain.” He contemplates to himself for a moment, then adds, “Though I believe I will need to write a number of letters.”
“You already write too many letters,” says Tharkay irritably. His hands have found their way back to Laurence’s shoulders.
“I have decided,” says Laurence, ignoring this, “to start a band.”
For all the advances dragons have made in civil rights, and there have certainly been many since Temeraire and Perscitia took their places in parliament, British society continues to struggle in recognising the intelligence of their many-tonned, many-toothed fellow citizens.
“It’s true that they speak, and as a whole they seem very good at maths,” say the opinion columns, “but I’ve yet to see any evidence of real, human intelligence.”
Something of a specious argument, given its foundational premise that humans have intelligence, but it is true, isn’t it? What chance have British dragons had to display themselves as anything other than war machines or beasts of burden? Laurence thinks back to his own shock on going to China and seeing dragons who were celebrated scholars—he who had the opportunity to speak to Temeraire every day, to read with him and debate with him and to steep himself in the genius of his companion, and still he was shocked.
No, British dragons need an opportunity to show human society just what they’re capable of, and music, which turns maths into an art that can be appreciated by a wide audience, is the perfect tool for this task.
Laurence may be no musician himself, and certainly he is no dragon, but between his childhood lessons in the one and his close relationships with the other, he can bridge the gap between the two.
Tharkay stares at Laurence blankly as Laurence explains all of this, his hands now having slid down to grip Laurence’s biceps.
Tharkay’s quiet inspires the first moment of doubt in Laurence. If Tharkay, who is at once so practical and so daring, who knows firsthand the brilliance of dragons, can’t be convinced of Laurence’s plan, then there really isn’t any hope of it.
But when Tharkay finally speaks, it isn’t to offer caution or to gently steer Laurence in a different direction. Instead, he says in an absent, ponderous tone, “I wonder how large we can make a cello.”
Laurence’s letters of inquiry find their way across the world, and slowly, responses start coming in, occasionally even from unlikely sources. He receives diagrams of massive Incan clay flutes, sheet music of hunting songs from the Pamirs (transcribed by the aviator Arkady has most recently taken a liking to), and even a human-sized model of a mbira from the Tswana Kingdom, which Mrs Era—that is, which Lethabo assures him can be scaled up to dragon proportions.
Despite this wealth of encouraging information, Laurence is disappointed to hear nothing from Sun Tzu, upon whom he had placed substantial hopes for inspiration and expertise. Nevertheless, he moves forward with his plans, now forearmed with considerably more information as to what kinds of instruments can be successfully played by clawed hands and narrow snouts, and what changes in sound and construction must necessarily occur when the instruments are scaled up in size.
He has begun construction on several models and even recruited several curious winchesters to his cause when he receives notice from a wide-eyed courier that his delivery has reached Dover and is now winding its way up the coast.
He stares blankly at the courier, who adds meaningfully, “Perhaps you should prepare Temeraire’s pavilion for guests,” before fluttering off.
Laurence looks at Tharkay, who shrugs. Of course, if a dragon decides to stay with them, uninvited or not, there’s little to be done other than shake out the rugs.
Thankfully, there’s no need to invade Temeraire’s private space while he’s away. As an MP, Temeraire hosts often enough that he has felt it necessary to have a guest pavilion constructed, and it is simple enough to have the pavilion cleaned and restocked with amenities.
While they wait for their guest to arrive, Laurence runs through the list of potential candidates, but in the end, all he can assume is that a pair of his old formation have decided to drop by for a visit, or perhaps Demane and Kulingile. Tharkay entertains Laurence’s speculation, but he offers no suggestions himself, which Laurence takes to mean that he thinks all of Laurence’s ideas are nonsense.
The guest is still not present the following morning when Laurence’s band—currently a trio—arrives for their first practice. In the months since he first conceived the idea of a band, the weather has warmed considerably, so Laurence feels quite comfortable meeting his new colleagues outside in a large, flat area of the lawn. None of the instruments are finished, yet, but Laurence is excited to share his current plans and progress with them. He shows them the current work on the instruments and tenuously attempts to sing through several verses of Arkady’s sheet music while the dragons Indefessus, Ferocitas, and Gratia stare at him silently.
Finally, he asks, “What do you think?”
Indefessus tilts his head to the side. “Hm? Oh, the music. Terribly sorry, I was a bit distracted by that bother down the road.”
Laurence blinks at him, then turns around. After their tour to the workshops housing the instruments, they’d settled on a pleasant little hill near the edge of Tharkay’s land which coincidentally has a perfect view of the road.
There is not typically a great deal of traffic on this part of the road, which perhaps makes the long procession currently occupying it all the more startling.
They stare as the procession comes closer and Laurence is slowly able to make out the details that his sharper-eyed companions had no doubt already observed, including evidence that his letters to Sun Tzu had likely been received after all.
“Take care with my qin!” comes a bellowing voice from above, and some dozens of the procession duck their heads as they very carefully carry an immense, rectangular object wrapped in cloth up the path to the front gates.
“Pardon me,” Laurence tells Indefessus and the others. “I forgot to mention that we might be expecting guests.”
“What language was that?” asks Indefessus curiously. “Was that Durzagh as well?”
“No,” says Ferocitas decisively. He had learned Durzagh as well as English in the shell. “It must have been French.”
“In fact, our guest spoke Chinese,” Laurence replies, smiling. “I hope my own skill with the language is up to playing translator for you.”
“No need,” says a quiet voice behind him. One member of the procession, unburdened by luggage, had already reached them. “If it pleases you, I will serve to translate.”
“Are these my students?” The airborne dragon finally descends in a rush of wind and walks elegantly around Laurence’s recruits, black scales glistening in the late morning sun. Without waiting for a response, she calls behind her, “Bring my qin here! The rest can go to the pavilion.”
Looking at the massive collection of luggage, Laurence is grateful that Temeraire’s guest pavilion was meant to house 3 heavyweights comfortably.
Tharkay and Mrs. McKenzie, the housekeeper, have come out to greet the procession, so Laurence ignores Tharkay’s raised eyebrows and smirk and instead directs his attention to the dragon—an imperial, by all appearances—and her translator.
“I apologise for the confused welcome,” he says to them in his best Chinese, bowing. “We weren’t sure when to expect you. I am William Laurence, and here are Indefessus, Ferocitas, and Gratia.”
The imperial ignores him to continue to inspect the three winchesters, who stare back at her in fascination.
The translator says in English, “Greetings, William Laurence. I am honoured to present to you Lung Qin Yuan, celebrated musician. She was very taken by your cause when my cousin presented it to her, and she has agreed to settle in England indefinitely.”
“We are grateful for her attention,” says Laurence faintly. “Pardon me, sir—your cousin?”
“Prince Mianning,” says the translator. When Laurence only stares at him, wide-eyed, the translator adds with considerably more hesitation, “Forgive me if my lack of formalities has offended you, William Laurence. I had been told that you prefer casual discourse…?”
No one has ever accused Laurence of dodging formalities before, but when he considers the titles he is due in China, he quickly agrees, “Yes, certainly, I prefer a more relaxed tone. I was simply surprised that such trifling news had reached Prince Mianning.”
“Your esteemed brother was displeased to have not been consulted, I think,” says the translator, smiling slightly as Laurence blanches.
Meanwhile, the dragons seem to be getting by with no translation at all, as Lung Qin Yuan demonstrates simple tunes on her massive zither for her audience.
Most of the procession has vanished by the time Laurence returns to the main house for dinner. Tharkay shakes his head when Laurence asks after them, explaining, “I did offer for them to stay here, though I’ve no idea where we’d put all of them, but they went straight for the pavilion.”
“The translator,” says Laurence, still shell-shocked, “is some kind of royalty, I think.”
“Well, he’s in good company, then,” says Tharkay easily. “Someone we know of? What’s his name?”
“I’ve no idea. He didn’t offer it, and I couldn’t figure out a way to ask.”
Tharkay laughs at him.
“Tenzing, I understand that they brought craftsmen to build instruments, support staff to care for the instruments once they’re made, and several composers and conductors.” Laurence lets his hands fall into his face.
“Goodness,” says Tharkay. “It sounds as though they’re here to do your job for you, and to do it better than you can. Don’t think I didn’t hear your sorry attempt at singing in Durzagh earlier.”
Laurence raises his head to scowl at him balefully.
Tharkay pats his arm consolingly. “I know,” he says. “Your true goal of taking another step toward improving conditions for British dragons will be realised, but your old great enemy of boredom looms once again.”
Laurence sighs.
“Don’t fret, my dear,” says Tharkay. “You got to write a lot of letters, didn’t you? And I foresee even more letter-writing in your future.”
It’s true that the band will still require a great deal of networking on British soil. Laurence’s role hasn’t been completely stripped from him, at least.
“Have you considered that you might show me a little sympathy?” asks Laurence rhetorically.
“I have considered it,” says Tharkay, “and found it counterproductive.”
-Epilogue-
Lady Allendale is extremely hesitant when Laurence volunteers the services of the Whistling Winchesters for her midsummer tea party, but the entertainment ends up being a smashing success—thankfully not literally—and is an excellent debut for Britain’s first draconic band.
“What an interesting instrument,” says Mrs Bertram, excitement pulling her from her usual nearly rude shyness as she peers at Gratia’s new qin from a safe distance. “It almost seems like a horizontal harp until it’s played. I do love the harp, you know.”
“Fanny, my dear, the carriage is here,” says Mr Bertram, gently tugging on her arm.
“Edmund loves the harp, too,” continues Mrs Bertram, ignoring him. “How does someone go about commissioning your services? Do you have a card?”
The Bertrams were not among Lady Allendale’s intimates, being of a rather different political alignment. Their approbation would go a long way toward spreading more positive opinions of dragons.
“You must write to Laurence for that,” says Gratia, gesturing toward Laurence grandly. “He schedules our performances and such. But I believe we are booked solid for the rest of the summer.”
They were not, in fact, booked at all, but Laurence had overheard Lung Qin Yuan instructing his students to always profess to a full schedule. He claimed that implying demand would increase it, though the truth of that remained to be seen.
“Oh dear,” sighs Mrs Bertram, deflating slightly.
“I’ll see what I can do, madam,” says Laurence politely, handing her his own card. “You never know when a cancellation might appear.”
“Fanny” her husband urges, and the two disappear off into the night.
“Ah, good,” says Tharkay from behind him. “More letters.”
Fandom: Temeraire
Characters/Ship: Laurence/Tharkay, OCs
Word count: ~2k words
Summary: Post-canon crack treated seriously. Laurence searches for meaning in his postwar life. He decides to start a band (he's really ahead of his time).
Notes: The prompts for November: life changes | de-aging | secret relationship (reveal) | "be careful what you wish for" | grow | music/band au. Most of those are only implied.
When Laurence was a boy, he wished for adventure. When Laurence was a man, he wished for peace.
On reflection, it really is incredible that he should be so fortunate. Who else can claim to be so lucky that their deepest wishes are granted not once, but twice?
Who else can be so selfish as to wish for a third time?
It’s cold in Scotland. It’s not the kind of cold that builds and sinks in deep. No, this cold feels like a solid wall: a harsh, biting pressure against every speck of his exposed skin. The cold burns, but he continues forward even so. Every step he takes breaks the sharp silence with a crunch as his boot breaks through the shell of the top layer of snow and sinks into the powdery filling beneath.
This isn’t the kind of weather for a promenade. When people go out in this cold, it’s for a purpose—heading toward one thing or away from another. Laurence has nowhere he needs to go, and nowhere he wants to escape from. He’s not sure why he’s wandering out here now, risking his health and the sight of Tharkay’s worried frown.
He raises his head, looking up at the grey sky and the reaching branches of the trees, all limned in snow.
It occurs to him, perhaps belatedly, that he may need a hobby.
And yet, the thought of taking up hunting or fishing or racing or some other gentlemanly sport makes him uneasy, given his place in the household. He can think of a number of examples of second and third sons like him living life’s pleasures at their friends’ expense, and despite Tharkay’s frequent reassurances, the topic is a sensitive one for him. Though in truth, he fulfils more of the lady of the house’s roles than he does the extended guest’s. He imagines painting chairs or embroidering bonnets, like he’s seen his sisters-in-law do to occupy their time. Perhaps he could learn to play Tharkay’s old family piano.
All of these ideas seem lacking to him, and after a moment, he realises why. Whether in war or peace, adventure or rest, Laurence has always searched for meaning in his work. He wants to serve his ship, his country, his friends. He wants to protect them and provide for them. Whatever hobby he picks up, he’ll need it to be something meaningful.
He stops when he reaches Temeraire’s pavilion, which feels sad and abandoned in its closed off state, as it always does when Temeraire has left on some extended stay for his work in the ministry.
As he stares at it, the image of Tharkay’s old, worn upright rises again and floats like a mirage in the frigid air.
Well, that’s an idea.
He smiles on his next exhale and turns to make his way back to the manor house.
It shouldn’t be that surprising, really. If wishes come in threes, then so do epiphanies.
Tharkay meets him at the door, his face artificially blank to hide his disapproval. “Did you find what you were looking for?” asks Tharkay, reaching out to take his coat. Tharkay always asks this question when Laurence returns home from his walks.
“I believe so,” Laurence muses, marvelling at the novelty of having an answer. Tharkay’s fingers freeze where they were brushing the snow from Laurence’s shoulders.
When Tharkay’s movements begin again, there is a forced casualness to them. “Do I get any hints? If we’ll be travelling, I’m certainly the better packer.”
Laurence notices that Tharkay has stressed the word ‘we’ and can’t help but smile. Of course, a trip across the globe is an onerous undertaking for anyone, but shepherding the captain of a dragon along the way does come with some special travel considerations.
“No,” Laurence reassures him. “No doubt we’ll want to travel again in the future, but there’s no need to upset yours and Temeraire’s work.”
Rather than seeming calmed, Tharkay’s frown deepens. “If it’s what you want—”
Laurence finally bats Tharkay’s hands away and deals with the coat himself. “No, not now. Not outside of Britain.” He contemplates to himself for a moment, then adds, “Though I believe I will need to write a number of letters.”
“You already write too many letters,” says Tharkay irritably. His hands have found their way back to Laurence’s shoulders.
“I have decided,” says Laurence, ignoring this, “to start a band.”
For all the advances dragons have made in civil rights, and there have certainly been many since Temeraire and Perscitia took their places in parliament, British society continues to struggle in recognising the intelligence of their many-tonned, many-toothed fellow citizens.
“It’s true that they speak, and as a whole they seem very good at maths,” say the opinion columns, “but I’ve yet to see any evidence of real, human intelligence.”
Something of a specious argument, given its foundational premise that humans have intelligence, but it is true, isn’t it? What chance have British dragons had to display themselves as anything other than war machines or beasts of burden? Laurence thinks back to his own shock on going to China and seeing dragons who were celebrated scholars—he who had the opportunity to speak to Temeraire every day, to read with him and debate with him and to steep himself in the genius of his companion, and still he was shocked.
No, British dragons need an opportunity to show human society just what they’re capable of, and music, which turns maths into an art that can be appreciated by a wide audience, is the perfect tool for this task.
Laurence may be no musician himself, and certainly he is no dragon, but between his childhood lessons in the one and his close relationships with the other, he can bridge the gap between the two.
Tharkay stares at Laurence blankly as Laurence explains all of this, his hands now having slid down to grip Laurence’s biceps.
Tharkay’s quiet inspires the first moment of doubt in Laurence. If Tharkay, who is at once so practical and so daring, who knows firsthand the brilliance of dragons, can’t be convinced of Laurence’s plan, then there really isn’t any hope of it.
But when Tharkay finally speaks, it isn’t to offer caution or to gently steer Laurence in a different direction. Instead, he says in an absent, ponderous tone, “I wonder how large we can make a cello.”
Laurence’s letters of inquiry find their way across the world, and slowly, responses start coming in, occasionally even from unlikely sources. He receives diagrams of massive Incan clay flutes, sheet music of hunting songs from the Pamirs (transcribed by the aviator Arkady has most recently taken a liking to), and even a human-sized model of a mbira from the Tswana Kingdom, which Mrs Era—that is, which Lethabo assures him can be scaled up to dragon proportions.
Despite this wealth of encouraging information, Laurence is disappointed to hear nothing from Sun Tzu, upon whom he had placed substantial hopes for inspiration and expertise. Nevertheless, he moves forward with his plans, now forearmed with considerably more information as to what kinds of instruments can be successfully played by clawed hands and narrow snouts, and what changes in sound and construction must necessarily occur when the instruments are scaled up in size.
He has begun construction on several models and even recruited several curious winchesters to his cause when he receives notice from a wide-eyed courier that his delivery has reached Dover and is now winding its way up the coast.
He stares blankly at the courier, who adds meaningfully, “Perhaps you should prepare Temeraire’s pavilion for guests,” before fluttering off.
Laurence looks at Tharkay, who shrugs. Of course, if a dragon decides to stay with them, uninvited or not, there’s little to be done other than shake out the rugs.
Thankfully, there’s no need to invade Temeraire’s private space while he’s away. As an MP, Temeraire hosts often enough that he has felt it necessary to have a guest pavilion constructed, and it is simple enough to have the pavilion cleaned and restocked with amenities.
While they wait for their guest to arrive, Laurence runs through the list of potential candidates, but in the end, all he can assume is that a pair of his old formation have decided to drop by for a visit, or perhaps Demane and Kulingile. Tharkay entertains Laurence’s speculation, but he offers no suggestions himself, which Laurence takes to mean that he thinks all of Laurence’s ideas are nonsense.
The guest is still not present the following morning when Laurence’s band—currently a trio—arrives for their first practice. In the months since he first conceived the idea of a band, the weather has warmed considerably, so Laurence feels quite comfortable meeting his new colleagues outside in a large, flat area of the lawn. None of the instruments are finished, yet, but Laurence is excited to share his current plans and progress with them. He shows them the current work on the instruments and tenuously attempts to sing through several verses of Arkady’s sheet music while the dragons Indefessus, Ferocitas, and Gratia stare at him silently.
Finally, he asks, “What do you think?”
Indefessus tilts his head to the side. “Hm? Oh, the music. Terribly sorry, I was a bit distracted by that bother down the road.”
Laurence blinks at him, then turns around. After their tour to the workshops housing the instruments, they’d settled on a pleasant little hill near the edge of Tharkay’s land which coincidentally has a perfect view of the road.
There is not typically a great deal of traffic on this part of the road, which perhaps makes the long procession currently occupying it all the more startling.
They stare as the procession comes closer and Laurence is slowly able to make out the details that his sharper-eyed companions had no doubt already observed, including evidence that his letters to Sun Tzu had likely been received after all.
“Take care with my qin!” comes a bellowing voice from above, and some dozens of the procession duck their heads as they very carefully carry an immense, rectangular object wrapped in cloth up the path to the front gates.
“Pardon me,” Laurence tells Indefessus and the others. “I forgot to mention that we might be expecting guests.”
“What language was that?” asks Indefessus curiously. “Was that Durzagh as well?”
“No,” says Ferocitas decisively. He had learned Durzagh as well as English in the shell. “It must have been French.”
“In fact, our guest spoke Chinese,” Laurence replies, smiling. “I hope my own skill with the language is up to playing translator for you.”
“No need,” says a quiet voice behind him. One member of the procession, unburdened by luggage, had already reached them. “If it pleases you, I will serve to translate.”
“Are these my students?” The airborne dragon finally descends in a rush of wind and walks elegantly around Laurence’s recruits, black scales glistening in the late morning sun. Without waiting for a response, she calls behind her, “Bring my qin here! The rest can go to the pavilion.”
Looking at the massive collection of luggage, Laurence is grateful that Temeraire’s guest pavilion was meant to house 3 heavyweights comfortably.
Tharkay and Mrs. McKenzie, the housekeeper, have come out to greet the procession, so Laurence ignores Tharkay’s raised eyebrows and smirk and instead directs his attention to the dragon—an imperial, by all appearances—and her translator.
“I apologise for the confused welcome,” he says to them in his best Chinese, bowing. “We weren’t sure when to expect you. I am William Laurence, and here are Indefessus, Ferocitas, and Gratia.”
The imperial ignores him to continue to inspect the three winchesters, who stare back at her in fascination.
The translator says in English, “Greetings, William Laurence. I am honoured to present to you Lung Qin Yuan, celebrated musician. She was very taken by your cause when my cousin presented it to her, and she has agreed to settle in England indefinitely.”
“We are grateful for her attention,” says Laurence faintly. “Pardon me, sir—your cousin?”
“Prince Mianning,” says the translator. When Laurence only stares at him, wide-eyed, the translator adds with considerably more hesitation, “Forgive me if my lack of formalities has offended you, William Laurence. I had been told that you prefer casual discourse…?”
No one has ever accused Laurence of dodging formalities before, but when he considers the titles he is due in China, he quickly agrees, “Yes, certainly, I prefer a more relaxed tone. I was simply surprised that such trifling news had reached Prince Mianning.”
“Your esteemed brother was displeased to have not been consulted, I think,” says the translator, smiling slightly as Laurence blanches.
Meanwhile, the dragons seem to be getting by with no translation at all, as Lung Qin Yuan demonstrates simple tunes on her massive zither for her audience.
Most of the procession has vanished by the time Laurence returns to the main house for dinner. Tharkay shakes his head when Laurence asks after them, explaining, “I did offer for them to stay here, though I’ve no idea where we’d put all of them, but they went straight for the pavilion.”
“The translator,” says Laurence, still shell-shocked, “is some kind of royalty, I think.”
“Well, he’s in good company, then,” says Tharkay easily. “Someone we know of? What’s his name?”
“I’ve no idea. He didn’t offer it, and I couldn’t figure out a way to ask.”
Tharkay laughs at him.
“Tenzing, I understand that they brought craftsmen to build instruments, support staff to care for the instruments once they’re made, and several composers and conductors.” Laurence lets his hands fall into his face.
“Goodness,” says Tharkay. “It sounds as though they’re here to do your job for you, and to do it better than you can. Don’t think I didn’t hear your sorry attempt at singing in Durzagh earlier.”
Laurence raises his head to scowl at him balefully.
Tharkay pats his arm consolingly. “I know,” he says. “Your true goal of taking another step toward improving conditions for British dragons will be realised, but your old great enemy of boredom looms once again.”
Laurence sighs.
“Don’t fret, my dear,” says Tharkay. “You got to write a lot of letters, didn’t you? And I foresee even more letter-writing in your future.”
It’s true that the band will still require a great deal of networking on British soil. Laurence’s role hasn’t been completely stripped from him, at least.
“Have you considered that you might show me a little sympathy?” asks Laurence rhetorically.
“I have considered it,” says Tharkay, “and found it counterproductive.”
Lady Allendale is extremely hesitant when Laurence volunteers the services of the Whistling Winchesters for her midsummer tea party, but the entertainment ends up being a smashing success—thankfully not literally—and is an excellent debut for Britain’s first draconic band.
“What an interesting instrument,” says Mrs Bertram, excitement pulling her from her usual nearly rude shyness as she peers at Gratia’s new qin from a safe distance. “It almost seems like a horizontal harp until it’s played. I do love the harp, you know.”
“Fanny, my dear, the carriage is here,” says Mr Bertram, gently tugging on her arm.
“Edmund loves the harp, too,” continues Mrs Bertram, ignoring him. “How does someone go about commissioning your services? Do you have a card?”
The Bertrams were not among Lady Allendale’s intimates, being of a rather different political alignment. Their approbation would go a long way toward spreading more positive opinions of dragons.
“You must write to Laurence for that,” says Gratia, gesturing toward Laurence grandly. “He schedules our performances and such. But I believe we are booked solid for the rest of the summer.”
They were not, in fact, booked at all, but Laurence had overheard Lung Qin Yuan instructing his students to always profess to a full schedule. He claimed that implying demand would increase it, though the truth of that remained to be seen.
“Oh dear,” sighs Mrs Bertram, deflating slightly.
“I’ll see what I can do, madam,” says Laurence politely, handing her his own card. “You never know when a cancellation might appear.”
“Fanny” her husband urges, and the two disappear off into the night.
“Ah, good,” says Tharkay from behind him. “More letters.”