Victory of Eagles Read Free Page A

Pythagoras was a Greek, and Yang Hui was from China.”
    “Then how do you know they invented it?” she demanded, suspiciously.
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    “Laurence read it me,” Temeraire said. “Where did you learn any of it, if not out of books?”
    “I worked it out myself,” the dragon said. “There is nothing much else to do, here.”
    Her name was Perscitia. She was an experimental cross-breed of a Malachite Reaper and a light-weight
    Pascal’s Blue, who had come out rather larger, slower, and more nervous than the breeders had hoped;
    and her coloring was not ideal for any sort of camouflage: the body and wings mostly bright blue and
    streaked with shades of pale green, with widely scattered spines along her back. She was not very old,
    either, unlike most of the once-harnessed dragons in the breeding grounds: she had given up her captain.
    “Well,” Perscitia said, “I did not mind my captain, he showed me how to do equations, when I was small,
    but I do not see any use in going to war, and getting oneself shot at or clawed up, for no reason which
    anyone could explain to me. And, when I would not fight, he did not much want me anymore,” a
    statement airily delivered, but Perscitia avoided Temeraire’s eyes, making it.
    “If you mean formation-fighting, I do not blame you; it is very tiresome,” Temeraire said. “They do not
    approve of me in China,” he added, to be sympathetic, “because I do fight: Celestials are not supposed
    to.”
    “China must be a very fine place,” Perscitia said, wistfully, and Temeraire was by no means inclined to
    disagree; he thought sadly that if only Laurence had been willing, they might now be together in Peking,
    perhaps strolling in the gardens of the Summer Palace again; he had not had the chance to see it in
    autumn.
    And then he paused, and abruptly raising his head he said, “You say you made inquiries: what do you
    mean by that? You cannot have gone out.”
    “Of course not,” Perscitia said. “I gave Moncey half my dinner, and he went to Brecon for me and put
    the question out on the courier circuit; this morning he went again, and the word was in no-one had ever
    heard of anybody by those names.”
    “Oh—” Temeraire said, his ruff rising, “oh, pray; who is Moncey? I will give him anything he likes, if only
    he can find out where Laurence is; he may have all my dinner, for a week.”
    Moncey was a Winchester, who had slipped the leash and eeled right out the door of the barn where he
    had hatched, past a candidate he did not care for, and so made his escape from the Corps. He had been
    coaxed eventually into the breeding grounds, more by the promise of company than anything else, being a
    gregarious creature. Small and dark purplish, he looked like any other Winchester at a distance, and
    excited no comment if either seen abroad or absent from the daily feeding; and as long as his missed
    meals were properly compensated for, he was very willing to oblige.
    “Hm, how about you give me one of those cows, the nice fat sort they save for you special, when you
    are mating,” Moncey said. “I would like to give Laculla a proper treat,” he added, exultingly.
    “Highway robbery,” Perscitia said indignantly, but Temeraire did not care at all; he was learning in any
    case to hate the taste of the cows, when it meant yet another miserably awkward evening session, and
    nodded on the bargain.
    “But no promises, mind,” Moncey cautioned. “I’ll put it about, no fears, but it’ll be as many as a few
    weeks to hear back, if you want it sorted out proper to all the coverts, and to Ireland, and even so
    maybe no-one will have heard anything.”
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    “There is sure to have been word,” Temeraire said, low, “if he is dead.”

    THE BALL CAMEin down through the ship’s bows and crashed recklessly the length of the lower
    deck, the drumroll of its passage preceding it with castanets of splinters raining against the walls for
    accompaniment. The young Marine