CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I WAIT FOR THE LUNCHTIME lull to steal a loquisonus machine. At the end of the shift, Sophie seems to want to say something to me, but decides against it, following Dr Seymour and the others to lunch. Only Soresten is left guarding the glasshouse and he barely glances at me as I walk past the spot where he’s basking in a patch of sun.
‘I’m taking this for maintenance,’ I say, shifting the bag on to my shoulder.
Soresten lifts his head as if to sniff it and my heart flutters. It’s unlikely he could guess what it’s for, but the trumpet-shaped speaker sticking out of the top of the bag hints that it’s something used for listening. Still, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
I stumble into the thick forest of trees. What if I’m too late and Chumana is gone? How long has she been calling for me? What if one of the patrol dragons heard her calls and decides to investigate?
I pull the loquisonus machine out and turn it on, listening as I walk deeper. I hear nothing but the occasional ranging call. If I’m outside the blocking range created by Dr Seymour’s rubber sonar blockers, that means I can emit calls through the loquisonus machine. What if I play Chumana’s calls back to her? She’ll know it’s me, and follow the sound until she finds me. It’s dangerous, of course. One of the patrol dragons could hear, and then witness me speaking the Koinamens through a machine in the forest.
Do you have a better idea?
I kneel at the foot of a tree and set the loquisonus machine on the hard ground. I take off my gloves, pull the headphones out of the machine and flick the switch from input to output . I’ve never done this before. I don’t think even Dr Seymour has, either. The point of the machine isn’t to play back entire recorded calls, but snippets of them, the different calls cut up and stuck together again to say whatever it is we want to say. But there’s no time for that.
I press play on Chumana’s recording.
I can’t hear the calls as the loquisonus machine is converting them back to their original frequency. But I can tell they’re playing, thanks to a tiny flashing green light. What have I done? I cast a nervous look up at the sky. Any minute now, Muirgen or Yndrir or Soresten are going to swoop down on me and demand to know how and why I’m using their secret ultrasonic language, and then they’ll report to their Queen and she’ll abandon Wyvernmire and we’ll lose the war—
‘You dare play that abomination to me, human girl?’
I spin round. A huge pink dragon approaches. How does she tread so quietly with feet the size of boulders? She peers at me with those amber eyes ringed with white circles, and nods her head towards me in greeting.
‘Chumana,’ I breathe. ‘You came.’
Her left shoulder is caked in blood, which oozes from a wound so deep I can see the white glint of bone.
‘ You came,’ she says in Slavidraneishá.
‘You called to me, didn’t you?’ I say. I glance at the loquisonus machine.
‘Yes. I had to use all manner of calls, as I did not know which ones you would recognise.’ She growls again.
‘How did you know I was listening to echolocation?’
‘I know a lot about what occurs inside the glasshouse,’ Chumana replies.
What? But how?
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. ‘You should be in hiding, somewhere far away where Queen Ignacia can’t find you.’
Chumana lets out a laugh. ‘I am the least of Ignacia’s worries.’ Her tail twitches. ‘We cannot stay here. The patrol dragons are on their way – I can hear them calling to each other.’
Panic rises in me. Playing Chumana’s calls back was a stupid idea. I can’t let them find me here.
‘Well, come along!’ Chumana says, nodding towards her back. ‘Just like last time.’
I hesitate. ‘No offence, but I don’t think either of us is too keen on the idea of me riding you.’
Chumana snarls. ‘Riding is for horses. I am permitting you to take refuge on my back. Now hurry up before I change my mind.’
I stuff the loquisonus machine back into the bag. Then I walk round to her side, just like I did in the library, and lay a hand on the base of her spine. Chumana smells different, I realise as I climb. She smells of fresh air and pine trees and warm blood.
‘What happened to your shoulder?’ I ask.
‘It is a mere battle wound,’ she replies.
I don’t ask Chumana what battle she was fighting in. I reach the spot between her wings where the detonator used to be. The scar is neat and smooth.
‘Hold on to something,’ she murmurs.
Then, before I can prepare myself, we lift into the air. The wind steals my shocked gasp, and the bases of Chumana’s wings move so vigorously beneath my thighs that I fall forward, clutching on to whatever scale I can find. I press my face to her hide as I cling on for dear life, not daring to move as I feel us rise, the air growing colder around us. I can hear nothing, nothing but rushing wind and the whooshing of wings. My eyes are screwed tight shut, the loquisonus machine dangling precariously from my shoulder. I open them and peer over Chumana’s wing.
The forest is below me, the tops of the pines a sea of green and brown. There’s no sign of the glasshouse, perfectly hidden as it is, but beyond the forest is Bletchley Park, the manor as much of a hotchpotch as it looks from below, surrounded by black cars and tiny white Guardians. And dragons. I see them everywhere, patrolling by the lake, perched on top of the manor and as distant shapes in the sky. Chumana sees them, too, and I scream as she swoops sideways, tilting us at an angle that almost dislodges my feet from their foothold between spikes and scales. We plunge downwards, hurtling like a missile towards the ground, and the wind slips between our bodies and almost lifts me from her back, the speed of it stealing the breath from me.
Chumana’s giant feet land almost softly in the grass, but the impact still reverberates through her body with a jolt that sends me flying to the ground. I gasp as the air is knocked from my lungs and stare up at her from the grass. Her lips stretch into a grin that reveals pointed yellow teeth.
‘I do hope your machine is not broken,’ she says.
I sit up and pull the loquisonus machine towards me. It seems to have survived the crash-landing, thank goodness.
‘Where are we?’ I ask.
We’ve landed in a dip in the ground, like a deep ditch. The sides are so steep that I can’t see over the top.
‘Beyond the forest,’ Chumana says, pressing a nose to her wound. ‘An unused field.’
It’s the first time I’ve been out of Bletchley since I stepped off that train. The thought occurs to me immediately, of course.
You could go home.
But go home to what? Ursa has been taken by the government and my parents are still at Highfall. If I leave Bletchley, my one chance at saving them will be gone. And besides, I can’t go without Marquis.
I stare around at the ditch. The earth is scorched and there’s a pile of bones in one corner, as well as a skull that looks like it may have belonged to an unfortunate cow. There’s a huge imprint in the ground to the left side, the shape of a heavy body. And a giant papery dragon skin, dead and dry.
‘How long have you been sleeping here?’ I ask Chumana.
‘Several days.’
‘But why? I thought you escaped after you set fire to Wyvernmire’s office. I expected you to get as far away as possible—’
‘Oh, I did,’ Chumana replies. ‘But I had to come back.’
‘You had to come to Bletchley Park specifically?’ I say, rolling my eyes.
What does she want?
‘I must speak with you.’
Her huge head looms above me, the air from her nostrils hot on my face. I stare into her eyes and see my face reflected back in them. She lets out a puff of smoke and shoots a disgusted look at the loquisonus machine.
‘Do you have any idea of what you’re doing by meddling in affairs that are not your own?’
‘How do you know what this is?’ I say. ‘How did you know you could contact me through echolocation—’
‘That is not what it is called!’ Chumana roars.
I stumble backwards as she stamps and the ground shakes beneath us.
‘I know,’ I say, holding up my hands. ‘I’m sorry. It’s the Koinamens. Right?’
Curiosity burns in her eyes. ‘How do you know its true name?’ she snarls.
‘It’s complicated,’ I say.
She stares at me and I glare back.
‘Earlier, you said you had to use all manner of calls to contact me,’ I say. ‘So … does each dragon have their own recognisable calls? Did you call to me using the universal calls, instead of …’
I trail off as Chumana gives me a long, calculating look.
‘If you think I’m going to aid you in the obliteration of my entire species,’ she says, ‘you are mistaken.’
‘The obliteration of your species?’ I say. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I have come to tell you to stop what you’re doing in the glasshouse,’ Chumana says. ‘The rebels know all about it, and it’s only a matter of time before Queen Ignacia learns of it, too.’
So Chumana never went into hiding. She’s with the Coalition. And if she knows what we’re doing with the loquisonus machines that means someone in the glasshouse must be a rebel spy. The truth hits me as fast as the sea fills sand.
Dr Seymour.
Her dracovol mail had nothing to do with Ravensloe or her research. She’s communicating with the Human-Dragon Coalition.
‘Tell me?’ I say, unable to keep the indignation out of my voice. ‘I’m working for Prime Minister Wyvernmire, who has the entire British Army at her command. You can’t tell me anything.’
‘Ah yes, the woman who is threatening to kill your entire family.’ Chumana sneers. ‘I didn’t know you were such a coward, human girl.’
‘I’m not,’ I spit. ‘I don’t have a choice. I’m doing what I’m doing in the glasshouse to save them.’
‘Do you have any idea of the harm you are causing?’ Chumana says.
‘I’m just doing what I’m told,’ I reply. ‘Why would it be so bad if humans spoke the Koinamens? We already speak dragon tongue.’
‘Because the Koinamens is not part of human nature,’ Chumana hisses. ‘That is why you have to resort to using that unnatural, man-made tongue, distorting the sound of my calls and divorcing them from their true essence.’
Her eyes land on the loquisonus machine again.
‘I know it’s not,’ I say quietly. ‘I know it can do things that other languages can’t. It can heal, and it can make dragonlings grow …’
‘Which dragon gave you this knowledge?’ Chumana says.
‘No one. I figured it out for myself. I know the Koinamens isn’t a code, and it’s not a weapon. You were born with it. It’s part of you. And different dragons speak different versions of it, like … dialects,’ I say slowly.
Chumana lets out a deep growl.
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ I say. And Mama was right, too.
‘You are dealing with something that is beyond your comprehension,’ Chumana says. ‘You give our calls names, just like you attempt to categorise the differences in our outward appearances, yet you do not understand how each one fits together to make a whole.’
‘But I want to understand, to know the ways dragons converse—’
‘The Koinamens is not meant for conversation – we have tongues for that. Yet you continue to probe it in the hope that it is subject to some grammatical rule, because then you might bend it to your will! What you do not see is that while the Koinamens says less than other languages, it means more. It is deeper than intellect, faster than light. It is a mother’s whisper inside her dragonling’s mind, to bring him comfort while he awaits her return to the nest. Tell me, human girl: can the meaning of a handshake be translated? A child’s laugh? A dying breath?’
I stare at a blade of trampled grass. How can a language be faster than light?
‘Do you know why the Coalition opposes the Peace Agreement?’ Chumana says.
‘They think it’s corrupt,’ I say. ‘They think it ostracises dragons and oppresses the Third Class.’
‘And do you believe that?’
I think of the children on Canna, of the ban on dragon tongues, of the dead Third Class girl.
‘I think the Peace Agreement was intended for good,’ I say feebly.
‘Many a nation exists without a Peace Agreement, human girl,’ Chumana says. ‘But ours? It has reduced dragons to tolerated subcitizens and enabled a class system that suppresses some of the worthiest of your kind simply because of their economic situation. It is a facade, one that allows Prime Minister Wyvernmire to grant favours to her friends and keep the power within her own circle.’
‘And Queen Ignacia?’ I say. ‘Didn’t she sign the Peace Agreement herself?’
‘She is just as corrupt,’ Chumana hisses.
‘But what do the rebels suggest?’ I say. ‘Without a Peace Agreement, dragons and humans will fight for land, for resources, and there’ll be another war—’
‘A different Peace Agreement,’ Chumana says. ‘One written by the public, with no hidden clauses or inbuilt class systems.’
I shake my head. ‘I have no interest in political debates—’
‘Only because you are privileged enough not to be concerned by them.’
‘The sole reason I’m here is to save my parents and—’
‘Your parents are truer than you are—’
‘My parents are as good as dead!’ I shout at the dragon. ‘Unless I tell Wyvernmire that the dragon code is not a code, but a language with dialects, familial dialects—’
Chumana lets out a deafening roar.
‘You play with dragon secrets hidden from humans since the beginning of time! What do you think your Prime Minister will do once she has the ability to imitate the dragons’ Koinamens? Will she use it to lure and entrap our family members? Will she kidnap eggs and raise her own army of enslaved dragons? Or will she murder a generation of dragonlings before they are hatched, using the calls that only a desperate mother would send to her own egg?’
I stutter and Chumana laughs a low, dangerous laugh.
‘Of course you didn’t know that the Koinamens can kill, just as it can heal and grow. You know nothing of its intricacies, nothing of its ancestral power, nothing of the danger it poses in the wrong hands.’
‘I’m sorry, Chumana,’ I say. I walk over to the loquisonus machine and pick it up. ‘But if I don’t give Wyvernmire what she wants my family will die.’
‘Give it to her and she will win the war,’ Chumana growls. ‘Do you really think she’ll release your rebel parents after that? Do you think she will let them live? You are on the wrong side of history, human girl.’
‘My sister,’ I say, ‘is innocent. And if my parents die she’ll need me even more. This is the only way.’
‘You would choose your sister over the entire dragon race? Over your fellow humans who are treated no better than animals simply for being born Third Class?’
‘I would,’ I say. ‘That probably makes me a terrible person. But trust me, that’s not news to me.’
There’s a long pause, silent except for the annoying chirping of a bird. Then Chumana speaks again.
‘Dragons are skin-shedders,’ she says. ‘Do you know why that matters?’
I glance at the dead skin on the ground and shake my head.
‘Every time we shed, we leave an old self behind. Every time we shed, it is a chance to be someone new. A chance to change our minds.’
‘How convenient for you,’ I reply dryly.
Her wound is bleeding again, blood dripping down her front leg in a river of red.
‘I could heal it, you know,’ I say. ‘None of the dragons around here will do it for you, a rebel, but I could record some healing calls. I could—’
‘I would rather die,’ Chumana snarls.
I nod and start the climb up the side of the ditch.
‘I could kill you, human girl,’ Chumana whispers as I reach the top. ‘I could burn you to ash where you stand. Better still, I could eat your flesh and hide your bones among the others.’
My blood runs cold, but I meet her eyes.
‘Why don’t you?’ I ask. ‘Kill me, destroy the loquisonus machine and everyone will think I ran away with it. My parents will be executed, of course, so you’d essentially be sentencing members of your own side to death, but what’s two more human deaths if you’re already willing to cause one? And here I was thinking the rebels believe humans and dragons are one big happy family.’
Her lips pull back slowly to reveal long canines.
‘Someone requested I keep my teeth to myself. Otherwise, human girl, you might already be rotting at my feet.’