‘That is no match for my hide,’ she says. She lifts a claw in the direction of the library. ‘Above the desk.’
I go back inside and Chumana follows, her long tail trailing behind like a serpent. Mounted on the wall above the desk is a sword encased in a glass frame. I climb on to the desk to remove the heavy case from the wall, then set it down on the floor. Chumana watches, a puff of smoke rising from her nostrils.
‘Why would they leave this here with a prisoner?’ I ask as I search the desk drawers for something heavy.
‘Doyouknow of any human willing to cut a dangerous explosive from the body of a murderous dragon?’ says Chumana.
I shrug – I bet the Third Class girl I saw killed at the protest would be.
Except her kind rarely get anywhere near university libraries.
My hand touches something round and cold and I pull a paperweight out of a drawer. I throw it down on to the glass case, smashing it to pieces. Then I carefully pull the sword out. It’s heavy and definitely real. The hilt is slightly rusted, but the blade razor-sharp.
‘Right,’ I say, turning round. Chumana is standing between two bookcases, waiting.
‘How do you want to do this?’
‘You will have to climb,’ she says.
I nod, trying to still my shaking hands. I walk round Chumana’s left side, close enough to see the callouses on her skin.
‘I’ll need some light,’ I say from behind her. ‘I don’t suppose you could … set something on fire?’
‘No,’ the dragon growls. ‘Not unless you want us both to explode.’
‘I see,’ I say weakly. ‘I’ll light the lamps, then.’
I light the old gas lamps on the wall, then stare up at Chumana’s body. Her wings shiver on each side of her back, giant leathery things that I know will span the space of the whole room when unfolded. Dome-shaped scales run up the length of her spine.
I grip the sword tighter in one hand. ‘So I’ll just—’
‘Get on with it.’
I place a foot at the base of Chumana’s tail.
Oh, Marquis, if you could see me now.
The climbing is easier than I expected. Chumana’s scales provide holds for my hands and feet – it’s somewhat similarto ascending a breathing cliff. My fingertips brush over the skin between the scales and it’s warm, almost hot, to touch. Chumana smells of animal and dragonsmoke and old books.
I stop at the top of her back, my knees on either side of her spine. The detonator is strategically placed at the base of her wings and surrounded by thick scar tissue. How does it feel to have a piece of metal melted into your skin? Does it hurt less for dragons, whose body temperature is already so high? I hope so.
‘Chumana,’ I say suddenly. ‘How does this detonator work?’
She shifts ever so slightly and I grab hold of her wing so as not to fall off.
‘You must take care,’ Chumana says. ‘The crystals in the detonator are sensitive to shock, as well as heat. Once you’ve removed it, donotdrop it.’
I feel my heart race. So I could potentially be about to kill us both?
‘Buthowdoes it work?’ I repeat. ‘How has it stopped you from escaping all this time?’
‘Friction,’ the dragon growls. ‘If I were to fly, the movement of my wings would set the detonator off. And if that were to fail, the elevation of my body heat caused by my increased heart rate would react with the crystals.’ Chumana growls. ‘It is an ingenious human invention.’
I stare at the lethal silver box, trying to wrap my mind round the cruelty of binding a dragon’s innate need to fly with its certain death.
‘Are you ready?’ I ask and Chumana grunts.
I’ve never used a sword before. I run a finger along the scartissue. What if I cut too deep and Chumana bleeds out? Then I laugh at myself. As if I, Viv Featherswallow, am capable of accidentally killing a dragon.
