‘Whatisthat?’ I say, covering my mouth and nose.
Atlas has stopped inside another cubicle and is shovelling coal into one of several small coal-burners. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and the dark hair of his forearms glistens with the humidity. My neck prickles with heat and I pull off my jacket, and tie my hair up. I keep walking until I reach the final cubicle that spans the whole width of the room. A platform has been mounted across it, covered in grass and rocks and sand. It looks like someone has dumped the contents of a beach here. Scattered across the sand are several mounds of dried ferns, feathers and some loose bits of charred grey coal.
‘Atlas,’ I call over my shoulder. ‘What’s this—’
Something moves inside one of the mounds. I take a step backwards. Is it a rat? The ferns shake vigorously, sending feathers flying into the air. It’s too big to be a rodent. The movement stops and a long green tail pokes out of the mound. I turn to look at Atlas as he comes up behind.
‘I hope that’s not what I think it is.’
He doesn’t joke or say something clever. His face is soberand unsmiling. The tail disappears and a small snout takes its place. The dragonling creeps towards me with its belly to the floor. Spikes run along the length of its back and, when it lifts its head to sniff the air, I see two horns protruding from under its chin. I stare, barely daring to breathe. This Western Drake is only a few days old.
‘That shouldn’t be here,’ I say, my voice shaking.
Atlas lifts the lid off a barrel and reaches inside. The smell fills my nostrils, overpowering. The barrel is full of raw meat. He throws a piece on to the platform and the dragonling lets out a squawk and pounces on it, its wings lifting it momentarily into the air. Two more dragonlings appear out of nowhere and jump on to the first one, shrieking as they fight over the piece of meat.
‘Why not?’ Atlas says.
Is he really asking that question? I stare at him as he tosses more meat, cut up into chunks, and then some tiny stones that the dragonlings lick up off the floor. He opens one of the burners and shovels a spadeful of hot coal on to the platform. The first dragonling sniffs it once, then collapses on to the smoking heap and curls up, resting its snout beneath its wing.
I crouch down to look at it. I’ve never seen one this small. Its scales are as tiny as fingernails, shimmering with different shades of green and blue and brown as if they haven’t yet decided what colour they’ll be. The horns beneath its chin means it’s a male. Where did he come from and where are his parents? The other two snap at one another, their pronged red tongues slick with blood.
‘Are they orphans?’ I ask.
Atlas shrugs. ‘Doubt it.’
I feel my face flush with anger. ‘If they’re not orphans, then were they stolen?’
‘Wyvernmire had them delivered last night by someone attending the ball,’ Atlas says. His eyes darken as he watches the coals smoulder, white-hot, beneath the body of the sleeping dragonling. ‘I was here settling them in when Gideon attacked you.’
‘Who delivered them?’
Could it have been the German Secretary of Defence, or Lord Rushby, or that Bulgarian prince?
Atlas just shrugs again.
‘You seem … unconcerned,’ I say.
‘Doesn’t matter what I think,’ he replies callously. ‘If these dragonlings help Wyvernmire win the war, then who cares where they’re from?’
I suck in a breath through my teeth.
‘But who do they belong to?’ I ask. ‘Rebel dragons?’
Atlas nods once. ‘Taken from some nests in Scotland before the rebels drove the army out.’
‘They’ll come looking for them,’ I say. ‘The parents.’
‘Perhaps.’ His indifference is unnerving.
‘What are you going to do with them?’ I ask.
‘Gain their trust,’ Atlas says. ‘Study them and record how fast they grow.’
‘But they won’t grow!’ I explode. ‘Not the way they’re supposed to. This isn’t their natural habitat, for one, and dragonlings need their parents to learn how to fly, to breathe fire, to speak! Surely you haven’t agreed to this?’
When he looks at me, his gaze is cold.
‘Do you think I have a choice? We have to win the war, don’t we? Isn’t that whatyou’veagreed to?’ He shakes his head and slams the door to the coal-burner closed. ‘You’ll crack the code and give it to Wyvernmire. And for what? So she can fly like a dragon, hunt like a dragon, talk like a dragon? Why do you think she wants to do those things? It’s so she can control them, so she can control us!’
