‘What is apamphlet?’ the low-ranking dragon says, mispronouncing the word.
He can’t have known English for long. He waits for me to reply, his huge head looming.
‘The humans and dragons of Britannia have the right to speak their native languages,’ I say. ‘The pamphlets are . . . they’re like a call to arms.’
A low hissing sound comes from the dragons. Laughter. My cheeks burn, but I don’t flinch. Somehow, I have to convince Goranov that I’m not afraid of him. I have to convince him not to kill me.
‘You have a Bulgarian Bolgorith who follows in your wake,’ Goranov says. ‘My brother was fascinated when I toldhim. However did you manage it?’
‘Brother?’ I say.
‘The Regal Krasimir.’
I remember Hollingsworth’s sketch of the Bulgarian trio.
‘Well?’ Goranov snarls.
‘She doesn’tfollow in my wake,’ I reply. ‘But you certainly followed in Wyvernmire’s, back in the forest at Bletchley Park. I saw it with my own eyes.’
Another growl comes from Goranov’s throat.
‘You think to provoke me? I will rip your head from your shoulders, youkurtapàla.’
The word is derogatory, an insult in Slavidraneishá.
‘I speak only the truth,’ I reply in the same language.
Goranov hisses at the sound of his mother tongue.
‘I’m a polyglot. I speak with both humans and dragons in the languages they understand. That is how I help the rebels. And if you kill me, their greatest asset,’ I lie, ‘then they’ll double down on London in revenge.’
I may be what Hollingsworth calls the face of the rebellion, but I’m not foolish enough to believe the Human-Dragon Coalition would be able to intensify the attacks if I were murdered. They’re barely holding their own against Wyvernmire’s army as it is.
‘An enchantress,’ the low-ranking dragon breathes in English.
‘A brasstongue,’ Goranov says.
His jaws part slightly to reveal a red, flickering tongue. I remember how he marched through the woods in Bletchley, camouflaged by the black smoke, a witness to my last momentswith Atlas. The memory distracts me for a moment, until I hear a clicking sound. I feel the sudden, primal urge to run.
It’s the sound of flame igniting in Goranov’s chest.
He takes a breath and I see the fire swirl in his mouth. I stare in petrified awe.
This is how I die.
What will it feel like to burn?
‘Stop!’
A strident voice echoes through the warehouse. The flames at Goranov’s lips flicker into nothing. I turn my head. A woman is stepping down off the big plane behind the dragons, shrouded in a long black coat. Her red hair gleams in the morning sunlight and when our eyes meet in the shocked silence, she almost lifts a hand as if in greeting.
Blood rushes in my ears.
What isshedoinghere?
‘Stop?’ Goranov snarls. ‘This human is a—’
‘Passenger,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘On the prime-ministerial plane.’ A smug satisfaction sits in the lines of her face. ‘You can board now, Vivien.’
