Chapter 3
CHUMANA’S STRAWBERRY SCALES SHINE IN THE lamplight, slick with a natural oil that protects the skin beneath from their rough edges.
The sores that used to run up her legs, the result of years spent locked inside a dark library, are gone and her teeth are coated in blood.
When I told Hollingsworth I wanted to live somewhere far from the First Class luxuries that reminded me of Bletchley Park, she insisted it be with Chumana.
My eyes dart to the carcass of a young stag behind the pink dragon and my stomach lurches. So that’s what the smell is.
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Bon appétit.’
Chumana watches as I head to the makeshift parlour area in the corner of the warehouse and change into a nightdress.
A wet wind blows in from the river, straight through the missing wall at the far end of the room.
It was smashed away during a rebel attack before we moved in.
We can’t block it up because it’s the only entrance to the building Chumana can fit through.
A small fire burns within a metal barrel.
I watch out of the corner of my eye as Chumana returns to her prey, holding it steady by an antler as she peels off strips of meat with her teeth.
The scent of warm blood is overpowering.
I pour myself a glass of water from the jug and sit down amid a pile of blankets to watch the Bulgarian dragon I live with crunch the stag’s skull between her jaws.
‘Chumana,’ I say.
She stops chewing, blood trickling down her chin as her eyes flick lazily to me.
‘Wyvernmire has appointed General Goranov as Dragon Chief of State.’
A low growl emanates from her throat. ‘I know.’
My heart sinks. Of course she does.
So why am I the only one who didn’t?
‘Why would she do such a thing?’
Chumana licks her lips. ‘She believes it will make her powerful on the world stage, to have a Bulgarian Bolgorith at her side.’
‘And will it?’
‘It will make her a threat,’ she breathes. ‘Britannia will be hated for allying with Bulgaria, but it will also be feared.’
‘She’s also made Slavidraneishá the country’s national dragon tongue,’ I say as Chumana eats.
‘Are you surprised?’
‘So British dragons cannot speak their own tongues, but the Bulgarian invaders can?’
A bone cracks loudly between Chumana’s teeth.
‘Wyvernmire will do whatever is necessary to keep control,’ she hisses.
‘Since she betrayed Queen Ignacia, no British dragon is required to be loyal to her. Ignacia may be refusing to ally with the rebels, but she still wants revenge against the government. As for the humans, the lower classes are joining the rebellion and the First Class is beginning to question her, too.’
‘That’s why she has Hollingsworth writing the Babel Decree articles,’ I say bitterly. ‘She wants to know what everyone is saying at all times.’
Chumana grunts. ‘Assimilation through language is an age-old tactic among humans. Perhaps this war will be fought with tongues rather than talons or teeth. It is why Rita Hollingsworth chose you as her Swallow.’
‘Her swallow?’ I say.
‘That is what she calls you. What the rebels call you.’ Chumana looks up again, her grin full of blood. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘She wants me to be the face of the rebellion, but she doesn’t bother to tell me anything,’ I mutter. ‘She still hasn’t sent me to Canna. What’s the point of learning to speak the tongue of the Hebridean Wyverns if I’m never actually going to use it?’
‘So you assume you are ready to come face to face with a pack of wyverns?’ Chumana breathes.
‘I’ve read Clawtail’s descriptions of them, of their behaviour and culture and environment, and I can speak basic Cannair now, so—’
‘You forget that they are dragons, dragons with wings and teeth and a taste for flesh. And you are just a girl.’
‘Just a girl?’ I spit. ‘Why is it that everyone has forgotten what I did at Bletchley Park, what Atlas and I . . .’
I stop as the memories unfurl again, threatening to wrap their cold hands around my throat and choke me.
‘We could go to Canna together, couldn’t we?
’ I continue. ‘We could fly there tonight. And if I can’t convince the wyverns to help us then maybe you can.
They’ll recognise you as one of their own.
’ I shrink beneath Chumana’s fiery gaze.
She stares at me, no trace of her meal left except for some shining white bones and a red stain on the floor.
‘I will thank you,’ she snarls, ‘not to compare me to a wyvern. Obstinate, fickle, two-legged things.’
‘I have two legs,’ I say, swallowing the laugh in my throat. ‘Does that mean I’m obstinate and fickle?’
‘And yet,’ she says, ignoring me, ‘you would do well not to underestimate them. Wyverns are proud, prouder than any other species. They hoard knowledge like Bolgoriths hoard riches, as though they invented intelligence itself and should be rewarded for it. They hunt in packs, so swift and methodical that it is as if they are of one mind.’ Her eyes fall on my face and I feel my smile disappear.
‘You will not outsmart one, and you will not outrun one.’
‘What’s the difference between a wyvern and a dragon, apart from the number of legs?’
‘Wyverns lack the solitary nature of dragons,’ Chumana replies.
‘They live by no maxim. They are an excitable, unpredictable species and their bodies are smaller, more pliable than those of dragons. I have seen one pass through the narrowest of gaps in search of its prey. I suspect that these particular wyverns—’
‘The Hebrideans,’ I say.
‘—will only be found if they want to be.’
‘Clawtail’s journal says the Hebridean Wyverns only speak one language. Did you know that?’
Chumana growls.
‘The only other species anywhere near as lazy about learning tongues are the Bulgarian Bolgoriths, and that’s only because they communicate largely in echolocation.’
‘Lazy. Such a compliment warms my heart,’ Chumana says.
‘You know I don’t mean you,’ I reply. ‘Hollingsworth says that Goranov’s army places troops in family groups because their strong emotional bond allows them to communicate effectively over long distances.
’ I steal a glance at Chumana. ‘You were wise to tell us, you know. That the Koinamens is more than just language. You know I won’t try to translate it ever again. ’
When she doesn’t reply, I push the pile of pamphlets Edward gave me towards her.
‘Will you deliver these for me? Tonight?’
She sniffs. ‘No one told me that living with you would involve becoming a giant dracovol.’
‘Well, you’re the most inconspicuous dragon-sized dracovol I know.
’ I nod towards the silver piece of metal lying in the corner.
Chumana begrudgingly sticks her snout under the crown and tosses it on to her head.
With the silver peak between her eyes, she looks just like one of Wyvernmire’s dragons.
I found it dented in the street in the aftermath of a rebel attack and after dragging it back here, Chumana used her flame to weld it back into shape.
I’m surprised Hollingsworth didn’t have one made for her, as it makes her night-time flights even less noticeable.
Whether she likes it or not, Chumana is crucial to Hollingsworth, because only she can listen to the Bulgarians using her Koinamens.
She can only understand their most simple calls, as she’s not bonded with any of them, but it’s enough to know where they’re stationing patrols or where they’ll attack next.
She takes the pamphlets in her mouth and lumbers over to the missing wall. I follow, the wind whipping my nightdress around my legs. I peer over the edge at the dark street below, then up into the starry sky. Chumana transfers the bundle to her talon.
‘Keep back,’ she growls. ‘Do you remember how to listen for a Bolgorith?’
‘Your wings beat slower,’ I say, nodding. ‘Two beats, not three.’
‘Good. Extinguish the lamp.’
Chumana steps off the ledge and into the air.
I gasp as she swoops low, her wings barely fitting between the rows of buildings, then lifts with such a force that the bushes lining the street bow in her wake.
I go back to the blankets on the floor and pull them aside.
Hidden beneath them are five more pamphlets.
I slide them into my satchel. Tomorrow, I’ll show them to Hollingsworth.
She’ll be angry at first, but they’ll make her realise how dedicated I am to the rebel cause.
They’ll make her realise that I’m ready to go to Canna.
I tuck them inside my satchel, then blow out the lamp and lie down.
The wind blows humid across the room, threatening to pull my covers away.
I burrow down the way I used to do as a child in my bed, back when I slept on cotton sheets instead of floorboards.
But I’m not frightened in the sugar house.
I know I’m safer here than anywhere else in London.
When Chumana and I first took up residence, both still wounded from the Battle of Bletchley, my body reacted to every creak and groan.
Atlas’s voice haunted my dreams and looking at Chumana, so bloody and beaten, was an unbearable reminder of how I felt.
We kept to opposite sides of the building, me freezing beneath my damp blankets, until one night the floor beneath me shook and a hot wing dropped over my body.
‘You can’t sleep like this forever,’ I had hissed bitterly into the dark. ‘I’ll just be an inconvenience to you.’
‘You’ll inconvenience me more if you’re dead,’ came the reply.
I lie still, listening to the sound of my own beating heart and the distant swish of wings outside.
I wait for Chumana to return, for her presence to banish the thoughts that slip back into my mind every time I’m alone, those that remind me that the war still isn’t won, that my parents are still imprisoned and that Atlas is still dead.
Dragon Chief of State . . . how will Britannia ever escape this mess?