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The eagle’s aim could not have been more perfect. Its wings sent a powerful gust of air through the tent, which tipped over the candles, which lit the papers whipped up from the makeshift tables; and within moments the French command tent would have done justice to Pandemonium. Everyone was shouting – something important had caught fire, perhaps the maps, perhaps the Marshal’s wig – the canvas walls had already begun to smoke – and officers and aides-de-camp were flurrying around one anther in a great mêlée, squawking like hens.
They had only seconds to act. With the bird clamped onto one arm, bleeding where its talons pierced the unprotected flesh, Tharkay caught Laurence by the elbow and ducked them both outside the tent.
The rest of the encampment had not dissolved into any kind of convenient mayhem, but there was enough confusion around the tent to bewilder the soldiers who might have otherwise piled upon them immediately. Tharkay caught the reins of a rearing charger, which had thrown its rider off in a panic, and ducked the hooves: moving as he always did with spare, economical grace, having leapt back a step to avoid a crushed skull, he sprang forward again and swung himself into the empty saddle. Laurence clasped the proffered forearm and pulled himself up behind. There were shouts – gunshots – a cacophony rising up around them like pond water bursting around a pebble; and almost before Laurence had even gotten a decent grip on the back of his coat, Tharkay kicked the charger into a gallop and they plunged through the camp at a speed that made the air whistle high in his ears, as though he’d cut straps from dragonback six hundred feet above the wintry earth.
…
The meagre daylight was almost entirely extinguished by the time their pursuers fell away. They crested an empty ridge, and took a moment to shade their eyes against the bright horizon: no sign yet of Temeraire, or Iskierka. The eagle was a lone dot overhead, circling for prey.
“Well,” Tharkay said at last, “I suppose we had better let him rest,” meaning the horse.
“Yes,” said Laurence grimly. Neither of them had had a chance to snatch back either blade or pistol before fleeing the command tent; if they were found, speed would be their only weapon. “For what it is worth, Tenzing, I am sorry for the loss of your arsenal.”
Tharkay scoffed, low. Laurence, whose arms were still clamped around his middle, could feel him catching his breath: they had ridden at a gallop for miles, and were both exhausted; yet even so he managed half a grin over his shoulder, only half as caustic as it usually was and almost startlingly boyish. “Very bold of you,” he said, “to assume that I would ever surrender the whole of it.”
Laurence stared. “How can you possibly have anything left?”
Tharkay raised an eyebrow.
“But – would you not run a constant risk of maiming yourself?”
The eyebrow rose higher.
“Ah,” said Laurence, in sudden understanding. “It’s in the bluff.”
“I haven’t the faintest notion what you mean.”
“You’re an excellent bluffer, Tenzing. But some bluffs are too rash even for you.”
“Search me, then,” Tharkay said, lightly, “and ascertain the truth for yourself.”
They held one another’s eyes, held suspended in what at that moment might have been the truth or half the truth or no truth at all; then Tharkay smiled again, and this time it was every bit as sardonic as ever. “Or failing that,” he said, “use your imagination,” and turning back around, nudged the charger into a light trot down the hill, where the lee side offered some paltry shelter from the wind.
…