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Shouting and jeering erupt from the direction of Maximus’s clearing, startling Laurence as he walks back to his rooms after bidding Temeraire good-night. It doesn’t sound particularly dangerous, not the sound of alarm, nor of men brawling; rather, it is boisterous, friendly. Drunken.
He heads toward the noise, curious.
The antics of sailors are familiar to him, but he could not have expected the scene that awaits him when he enters the clearing.
The captains—and a few lieutenants as well, for Laurence notices Granby standing near Little, and Sutton’s first lieutenant nearby also—stand arrayed around Maximus’s side. In the center, Harcourt and Chenery stand face-to-face with their harnesses spread on the ground before them. Harcourt looks calm and focused, bouncing on her toes a little; Chenery’s brow is furrowed in concentration. The light of several torches nearby throws their expressions into stark relief, their shadows dancing on the ground.
The smell of drink is plain in the air, and many of the party are holding glasses and tin cups, jostling each other and laughing in the manner of the no longer sober.
Granby spots Laurence and beckons him over, into the circle of aviators. Berkley, on Laurence’s other side, shifts over to make space, remarking, “Excellent timing. We’re in for quite a show.”
“Chenery challenged her,” Granby tells Laurence, as if it were obvious what they were all about. “He’s in the soup now and no mistake.”
“He could have a chance,” Little says, though he does not look at all convinced.
Granby and Berkley make no reply, the depth of their skepticism plain on their faces.
After a moment, Little sighs. “Oh, all right,” he says, “it is hopeless. But we will have a good show out of it all, at the least.”
Laurence is about to ask what, exactly, will make a good show, when Sutton steps into the center, gesturing everybody quiet.
“First one back to touch the ground wins,” he declares, holding up his arm.
For a moment, the silence is complete, the crowd waiting in anticipation. Laurence sees Harcourt take a deep, slow breath, her eyes fixed upon Sutton’s arm. Then Sutton brings his arm down to his side, and Harcourt and Chenery surge into motion, the crowd screaming encouragement.
They are putting on their harnesses, though they are moving so quickly Laurence can barely follow. They finish within moments of each other, sprinting to Maximus’s side as soon as the last strap has been tightened.
Up, then, with a speed Laurence can only hope to one day achieve, their carabiners flashing as they clip, unclip, clip with the instinctive rhythm of life-long aviators. For a few paces, they are neck-and-neck, but it does not take long for Harcourt to begin to pull away. First only a hair’s breadth, then, slowly, more, until she is a full carabiner clip ahead of Chenery. Her long braid bounces against her back with every stride.
She reaches the top, her arm outstretched, and Laurence realizes suddenly that Warren has been standing on Maximus’s back all along. He is holding two glasses, one in each hand, filled with what appears to be a dark rum. Harcourt grabs one and downs it, opening her mouth and sticking out her tongue to show the drink has been finished to wild cheers from the aviators on the ground. She has already begun her descent as Chenery reaches Warren.
“We do this with the cadets,” Granby says over the noise, in answer to Laurence’s bewildered expression, “in training, over and over. Without the drink, of course. It’s become a sort of challenge, when one wants to settle something.”
Ah. Laurence can appreciate that, particularly given the Corps’ unyielding bar on dueling. As Harcourt’s gap begins to widen further on the descent, Laurence opens his mouth and joins in the cheering almost without realizing it, the anticipation and excitement of the race pulling him into their current.
He gasps with all the rest as Harcourt, close to the ground now, gives an echoing shout of triumph and unclips her carabiners entirely, dropping the last few feet to tumble into a laughing heap.
Chenery lowers himself more slowly, knowing himself beaten even before Sutton announces Harcourt’s victory. He shakes his head ruefully and offers an arm to Harcourt, who uses it to pull herself back to her feet. The red of her face, threatening to rival that of her hair, suggests the dragon-back drink had not been her first of the evening. She is beaming, sweat glistening on her brow and loose hairs wisping abound her face.
“I believe it is time for you to pay up, good sir,” she teases, the nearby torchlight shining bright in her eyes.
Chenery makes her a sloppy leg, a smile on his face despite his loss, and begins removing his harness—apparently the source of the challenge, for as he hands it over to Harcourt, Laurence sees it is newly made, and fine, the leather glossy and supple.
With a wide grin, Berkley reaches out to clap Chenery loudly on the shoulder. "Should've known better, old chap. She hasn't lost one since she was a squeaker."
Chenery shakes his head again, though his next words are light; clearly he is not suffering the loss overmuch. “Hubris befalls us all, I am afraid. Well climbed, Harcourt, I suppose I shall have to beg another harness off our dear Captain Little.”
“But that is the third one this year!” Little exclaims; and indeed the year is barely half-way through. “I am not rich in harnesses, you know.”
“No,” Chenery replies, tossing an arm over Little’s shoulders, “but you are more rich in funds than I, and a good friend besides. I am sure you can rustle one up.”
The aviators begin making their way back to the officers’ club in a rowdy knot, recounting the race with one another. Harcourt is hoisted onto the shoulders of a couple of courier captains Laurence doesn’t recognize, laughing and waving. Laurence spots Granby gesticulating wildly to Little; Berkley stepping back to have a brief word with Maximus; Sutton and Warren toasting with the remains of the bottle of rum.
The flow of them draws Laurence along, and after a moment, he relents to its pull, catching up with Berkley at the end of the group and falling into step with him.
The ways of aviators may yet be unfamiliar to him, but it is none-the-less gratifying to find himself a part of them.