‘I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ I say in Slavidraneishá. ‘But it’s not.’
Making a sudden switch to a different language is a way to test people, to gauge what they think of you by disarming them, catching them unawares. But Daria doesn’t even flinch.
‘They sent word about you,’ she says. She watches a gull soar across the sky.
Goranov has echolocated to other Bolgoriths about my arrival? But we’re miles from London. How could the Koinamens have stretched so far?
‘You’re the brasstongue from Bletchley Park, the place where the Bulgarian-British alliance was made.’
There’s that word again.
Brasstongue.
‘What does that mean?’
The old man waves frantically from the boat and I see Wyvernmire’s face grow taut with impatience.
‘A human who speaks many dragon tongues. Sometimes you can be useful. But most of the time you are . . . dangerous. In my country, there is not a single one left.’
‘That’s because you murdered everyone,’ I spit.
Daria’s amber eyes blink twice and I think she’s about to reply when the old man bellows across the sand. ‘Come on!’
Daria flicks her tail towards him. ‘Go. The rebel dragons are almost here.’
She must be hearing their echolocation calls.
‘You would do well to cooperate with your Prime Minister until you reach the island,’ she continues. ‘But then you must escape. If you wait until you are under Bulgarian guard, it will be too late.’
I turn to her. ‘Why would you tell me that? I’m a rebel human. You’re a Bulgarian dragon.’
Her red tongue flickers inside her mouth. ‘You remind me of a survivor I once met in the motherland. I quite liked him.’
A survivor? In Bulgaria?
I walk towards the water. ‘Bye.’
‘Goodbye, brasstongue.’
My feet squelch into the algae-covered mud of the shallows. The old man helps Wyvernmire into the boat before offering me his hand. ‘Do ye’ want to be food for the dragons, wean?’
The boat is long and wooden, heavily varnished with leather seats and a steering wheel. It’s the type used for pleasure-sailing, not war.
‘Welcome aboard,’ the old man says. ‘I’m Craig.’
I take a seat. ‘Are you a turncoat, Craig?’ I ask calmly.
He laughs as Wyvernmire sits down next to me, her lip curling at the mud and water we have trailed across the deck.
‘What makes ye’ say that?’
‘Mainland Scotland is controlled by rebels, but this piece of Skye that sits just across from the Small Isles isconveniently unguarded.’ I look across the water at Daria, who is still watching us. ‘So my guess is thatyouare the guard, and you’ve turned your station into another access route for the Prime Minister’s Guardians.’
Craig raises an eyebrow at Wyvernmire. ‘Clever little thing, isn’t she?’
‘The rebels will realise what you’re doing soon,’ I say.
‘Course they will,’ Craig replies. ‘Scotland’s PM is a right dragon-lover. But in the meantime—’
