Abelio’s eyes narrow. ‘And who controls it?’
‘The British government,’ I say.
‘Then you are foes,’ Cindra snarls. ‘Patrick was no friend of the government’s.’
‘Neither are we,’ I say calmly. ‘We are part of the resistance against it. Prime Minister’s Wyvernmire’s government is at war with the rest of Britannia.’
Abelio picks up Clawtail’s journal. ‘But how can one learn an entire tongue from a book?’
I hesitate. ‘I’m a polyglot. Learning languages is something I’m good at. But I’m not fluent, as you can probably hear.’
Cindra’s nostrils twitch.
‘We would like to offer you what we can, in exchange for yourfasgadh,’ I say.
‘And you will,’ Abelio growls. ‘You,an nighean leis an innealòir.’
What did he call me?
‘It’s Gaelic. Such a name does not exist in Cannair,’ Aodahn whispers, his eyes wide as moons. ‘Girl with the golden machine.’
‘You will teach us how your tunnel detector works, giving us a detailed explanation of its inner body and a demonstration above ground.’ He blinks. ‘Such an invention could lead to new, wyvern-originated ideas.’
I find myself nodding vigorously, but my mind is whirring, trying to figure out how to pretend the loquisonus is a tunnel detector while hiding its true purpose. The wyverns may bedifferent to dragons, but they share their ultrasonic language, and I don’t think they’ll appreciate the fact that mygolden machinewas made to listen to it.
Abelio points his longest claw at Atlas. ‘What can he offer us?’
I feel Atlas tense beside me. He doesn’t need to speak Cannair to understand the demand.
‘I can whittle wood,’ he says. ‘Craft shapes from tree bark and driftwood, ‘weapons––’
I shake my head, lacking the vocabulary to translate what he said, so Aodahn does it for me.
‘We are well-practised in the art of carpentry,’ Abelio replies.
The wyverns stare at him expectantly, the only sound the roaring of the fire. I count the beads of sweat on Atlas’s brow. It hits me once again that we’re surrounded by dragons. Dragons with teeth and flame who are under no obligation to keep us alive.
‘Why don’t you offer to give them Bible readings,’ Marquis hisses from behind.
Serena snorts and I turn around and glare at them, but it does nothing to wipe the grin off Marquis’s face.
‘Atlas is a soldier,’ I tell Abelio. ‘He’s been rebelling against the government for years. He knows all there is to know about the war and those inflicting it on us.’
‘We have no interest in your war,’ Abelio growls.
‘Forgive me,’ I say. ‘Only, I thought you said you wereprogressivedragons. But how can you possibly be progressive if you don’t know where progress is needed?’ I pause, preparingmy next sentence. ‘You’ve been isolated from human and dragon society for years, but Atlas can teach you about its politics. Starting with the breaking of the Peace Agreement and the Academy for Draconic Linguistics.’
Cindra’s eyes gleam like molten silver and Abelio lets out a satisfied grunt.
Atlas grabs me by the elbow. ‘Translate,please.’
‘You’re to be their Professor of Politics,’ I say.
Marquis bursts into fits of laughter behind us, hastily covering up the sound with a cough. Atlas gives me a bewildered look.
‘And this one?’ Cindra says, taking a step towards Serena.
Serena smiles sweetly. ‘The feminine arts.’
