Page 4 of A Language of Dragons

YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR breaking the Peace Agreement.

The words play over and over in my mind as I lie on the bed in the prison cell. I sit up and swallow, my throat as dry as sandpaper. Why did I take the risk of going to watch Chumana burn Wyvernmire’s office? Why didn’t I just go straight home? The dawn light filters through the tiny cell window and a sudden pang clutches at my heart. Ursa will be waking up in a strange house with people she barely knows. Will she cry when she realises I’m gone? Will she think I’ve left her forever? What will the state do with the abandoned child of rebels?

The guilt crushes my chest, forcing my breath out in short, painful sobs. I thought I’d never do anything worse than what I did to Sophie back in the summer. But now the stain of despair left by that one decision – the stain that always manages to seep into every good thing – has grown bigger. It’s like I can’t stop making mistakes that hurt the people I love.

I close my eyes and welcome the guilt, more painful than the stinging welts left by the birch rod or the humiliation of being discarded by Hugo Montecue after I gained the courage to push his hands away. I force myself to feel every drop of it.

Don’t make mistakes if you’re not prepared to live with the consequences , Mama has always told me.

This pain is the consequence of my actions.

I dwell on it all day, my eyes fixed on the patch of sky through the window. I wait as long as I can bear before I’m forced to use the chamberpot in the corner, and as I crouch over it I hear a loud boom that reverberates through the whole building. Outside, people scream. I drift in and out of sleep as the white clouds are replaced by stars. When I wake again, the sun is high in the sky, and a bolt slides loudly across the door.

Stay calm , I tell myself. They can’t prove anything.

‘Stand up!’ orders the voice through the Guardian helmet.

I stand.

‘Arms out.’

‘I’ve been here for a whole day and night,’ I say as the Guardian searches me. ‘You still haven’t read any official charges against me.’

‘The Prime Minister’s office was the target of arson,’ the Guardian says. ‘You – and a dragon – were both seen at the scene of the crime.’

‘In that case, I think it was most likely the dragon that lit that fire, don’t you?’ I spit.

My insides twist like snakes. What’s wrong with me? If I’m going to get out of here, I need to show the shiny schoolgirl version of Viv Featherswallow – not this new, angry,breaking-into-buildings-with-her-rebel-father’s-penknife version.

‘Hands behind your back.’

The Guardian handcuffs me and pushes me towards the door. The corridor is full of cells identical to my own. Are my parents in one of them? Is Marquis? I’m pushed into a lift, shinier and more modern than the one in the library, and it jolts to a stop several floors up. We emerge on to a carpeted corridor that smells strongly of tea. Photographs of important-looking people line one wall and in the centre is a framed copy of the Peace Agreement – signed by the Dragon Queen Ignacia herself in her own blood. The former Prime Minister’s ink pen must have seemed embarrassingly pathetic in comparison.

I eye the tiny printed words, lines and lines of promises and clauses negotiated between humans and dragons. The same document that took pride of place in every classroom I’ve ever sat in. My only chance is to convince whoever runs the prison how much I agree with it.

The Guardian leads me into a small parlour lit by dull electric lamps. Ugly metal filing cabinets stand against the walls and on a table at the far end of the room is a model of what looks like a city in miniature, with paper dragons suspended above.

‘Sit,’ the Guardian says, steering me towards an armchair.

I sit. A teapot is steaming on a small table set for two, with a box of tea leaves beside it.

‘This is a mistake,’ I tell the Guardian, who has positioned himself by the door. ‘I support the Peace Agreement. It literally stops humans and dragons from killing each other, so why would I—’

A tall woman strides into the room and I bite my cheek so hard I taste blood. Prime Minister Wyvernmire wears a long dark coat and a brooch the shape of a dragon’s talon. A symbol of her commitment to the Peace Agreement and to the Dragon Queen. Her red hair is coiffed and set with hairspray so that it resembles a puffy halo round her head. Her face, pale as milk, contains several fine, powdered lines. She’s older than I imagined.

‘Good morning, Miss Featherswallow.’

Her voice sounds exactly the same as it does on the radio – severe and smooth. She takes a seat in the armchair opposite mine. I open my mouth, then close it again. I am meeting the Prime Minister of Britannia. In handcuffs.

‘Welcome to Highfall Prison, where the country’s most radical rebels are guarded with the highest security levels.’ Prime Minister Wyvernmire’s eyes narrow. ‘You should feel right at home.’

I shrink into my seat.

Rebels are tax-avoiding sloths at best and violent anarchists at worst. I’ve read the newspaper articles about the acts of vandalism, the bombs in letterboxes, the attempted assassinations.

‘No, I don’t,’ is all I manage to say.

‘Forgive me,’ Wyvernmire says, pouring the tea into cups. ‘I simply thought that, given who your parents are …’

‘You can’t prove anything about my parents,’ I say, instantly regretting it.

‘Unfortunately, you are correct,’ Wyvernmire replies. ‘The evidence my Guardians collected was destroyed in a fire that ravaged Ten Downing Street in the early hours of yesterday morning. But of course you know all about that.’

My stomach plummets. Any fierceness I was feeling before dissolves on the spot.

‘Nevertheless,’ Wyvernmire continues, ‘we have eyewitnesses more than happy to give evidence of your parents’ crimes. It’s ironic how even the most radical insurrectionists are willing to betray their comrades when their own necks are on the line.’

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. ‘My parents aren’t insurrectionists. And neither am I.’

Wyvernmire sets a teacup in front of me.

‘You released a criminal dragon from its prison at the University of London, somehow convincing it to set fire to my office in a gross act of arson. Or are you going to tell me that the destruction of the evidence linking your parents to the rebellion against my government was a mere coincidence?’

I stare at the ground, my face stinging with shame.

‘Do you know what we call an attack on a political building, Vivien?’

‘Terrorism,’ I whisper.

‘Clever girl.’

The reality of what I asked Chumana to do begins to sink in.

‘But what interests me is how you managed to persuade this dragon to do your bidding,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘Your actions have only further incriminated your parents, and yourself, in the process. And yet … I believe there is something more to you. You made quite an impression on Rita Hollingsworth.’

‘I never want to see that woman again,’ I say.

‘Top of your class twelve years running. Fluent in nine languages. The apple of your parents’ eye.’

Wyvernmire gestures to the Guardian to uncuff me. I rub my sore wrists and take a sip of the hot, sweet tea.

‘My dear girl,’ the Prime Minister says, ‘what on earth possessed you?’

The gentleness in her voice takes me by surprise. My tears mingle with the steam from the teacup. Two days ago, all I wanted was an apprenticeship in the Academy’s translation department, but now I’ll probably never go back to university.

‘My parents are good people, and I wanted to help them,’ I say slowly.

‘They made a choice that ripped your family apart,’ Wyvernmire says, her voice resuming its slow, austere quality. ‘They used their influential positions in society to aid the rebel movement. And they deliberately kept you in the dark, leading you to make a decision that has ruined any chance of you achieving your dream career and potentially orphaning yourself and your sister.’

I suck in a sharp breath. ‘This is all a mistake,’ I say, stumbling over the words. ‘My mother has worked for the Academy; my uncle is part of the military—’

‘We’ve been watching your home for months,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘Ever since you applied to university. The people who come in and out of your house are known—’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Did you say ever since I applied to university?’

‘We don’t let just anyone read for a degree in Dragon Tongues, Vivien.’

‘You don’t?’

‘The last few decades have seen a substantial rise in rebellion and dissidence, most commonly found in those whose careers keep them in regular contact with … dragons.’ The Prime Minister closes her eyes as if that last word caused her physical pain. ‘We have found it wise to discourage the learning of dragon tongues, or at least to entrust it to those citizens we know to be loyal.’

She smiles at me, and such a gesture doesn’t seem to come naturally to her. ‘Why else would the university have asked you for so many character references?’

References. I needed five, but only had four by the time application day arrived. That was why I’d gone to see Mistress Morris, who asked me to …

No, I can’t think about that now.

‘The protocol investigations following your application flagged up some irregularities regarding your parents and uncle,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘They are part of a group of Second Class Coalition sympathisers.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ I whisper. ‘My parents were always strict about class boundaries, and we attend the Peace Agreement Celebration every year …’

‘Vivien,’ Wyvernmire says patiently, ‘I am quite convinced that you knew nothing of your parents’ crimes. However, my Guardians watched you break your house arrest, drop your sister off at a house in Marylebone and force entry into the University of London.’

They know where Ursa is.

‘On Saturday evening, you didn’t just release a criminal dragon. You told it to commit an act of terrorism on Ten Downing Street, which is a direct breach of the Peace Agreement between the humans and dragons of Britannia.’

Prime Minister Wyvernmire sets her tea down and stares at me with unblinking green eyes.

‘You started a war.’

Blood rushes in my ears. ‘A war?’

‘Surely you must realise that?’

I gaze out of the window just as a dragon streaks past, so close to the building that I see the green feathers of its wing. The tea swirls in my empty stomach. I look back at Prime Minister Wyvernmire.

‘My military is now poised to attack the dragons in retaliation,’ she says. ‘All alliances have been broken. And the chaos you have created has given the rebel groups the opportunity to move against my government.’

There is a low, heavy rumble from down the street. The windows rattle. What have I done? The room swims around me. Why didn’t I just leave London like Mama told me to?

‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur. ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just wanted my parents home.’

‘For fifty-seven years, the Peace Agreement has kept us safe,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘Fortunately, I have been preparing for the possibility of its dismantling for quite some time.’

She pauses. ‘While the rebels have spent the last twenty-four hours carrying out acts of war across the country, I spent them conversing with Queen Ignacia. She takes no responsibility for the act of the dragon who helped you start this war and has ordered it destroyed.’

I think of Chumana, finally free only to be murdered mid-flight.

‘And we have come to an understanding.’

I’m nodding, but I don’t understand a word of what the Prime Minister is saying. All I can think of is how much better things would have been for Ursa if I’d just stayed at home.

‘The Peace Agreement will remain in place,’ Wyvernmire says, ‘but we will use this attempt to thwart it as an opportunity to come down on rebel humans and dragons alike. The rebel movement is attacking, and we must defend ourselves.’

‘So … this is a civil war?’ I say. ‘With the government and the Dragon Queen on one side, and the rebels on the other?’

‘Correct,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘The question now, Vivien, is this: which side will you be on?’

The clock on the wall counts the seconds of silence.

‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘I broke the Peace Agreement. My parents are rebels. I’m a criminal now, aren’t I?’

Wyvernmire leans forward. ‘Are you really fluent in nine languages?’

‘Yes …’ I reply. Why does this matter? ‘Three human languages and five dragon tongues … six if you count Komodonese.’

Wyvernmire folds her hands in her lap.

‘The War Effort requires the skills of a polyglot,’ she says simply. ‘A speaker of dragon tongues. Someone with a unique talent for deciphering … meaning.’

I blink.

‘Your family is currently facing the death penalty,’ she continues. ‘Your sister will be orphaned and placed in a Third Class children’s home and the people currently caring for her will be punished for harbouring the child of rebels—’

‘No!’ I say. ‘They’re only doing what any decent person would do.’

Wyvernmire’s expression turns cold.

‘I am offering you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,’ she says. ‘I am offering you a job.’

A job?

I suddenly see myself in a labour camp, my life flashing before my eyes in one continuous stream of pain and drudgery.

‘Should you accept – and excel – then, and only then, will you and your family be pardoned.’

My heart leaps.

Is this real?

‘Your parents and uncle will be unable to exercise their current professions. However, they will be permitted to seek work elsewhere,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘You will be allowed to return to your studies, having proved your loyalty to the government once and for all.’

‘And my cousin?’ I say. ‘He’s the most innocent of all of us.’

‘He will also be pardoned.’

I let out a shaky breath. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive Mama and Dad for what they’ve done, but at least I can save their lives. At least I can bring them home.

‘What is the job?’

‘I’m afraid you won’t be told until you get there.’ Wyvernmire glances at the gold watch on her wrist. ‘Do you accept?’

I force myself to pause, to take a sip of lukewarm tea, to pretend I have a choice in the matter.

‘Where will my family be in the meantime?’

‘At Highfall.’

My stomach lurches. So they are here.

‘And my sister and her … carers? They’ll be safe?’

‘Of course,’ Wyvernmire replies. ‘Unless you fail to carry out the work given to you.’

I nod slowly, hope flooding my body. The sunlight hits the window, surrounding the Prime Minister in a golden glow. Here is the woman I have long admired – fair and dignified, who commands respect like a man. Among the first of Britannia’s women to attend university, she has achieved as much for the nation as Hollingsworth has for the Academy. Wyvernmire is just doing her job, I realise. The job that keeps society running. The one that has kept the alliance between the British humans and dragons – hanging by a thread thanks to me – intact. And now she’s offering me the opportunity to erase the past two days as if they were just one terrible dream.

Y our languages saved you, Vivien, and they’ll save you again .

‘All right,’ I say. ‘But I have one condition.’

‘You are hardly in a position to bargain.’

‘My cousin Marquis. He’s clever – he studies dragon anatomy. Give him a job, too.’

Wyvernmire stares at me. ‘No.’

‘He can’t stay here; he’s done nothing wrong!’ I feel braver, buoyed by the realisation that the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom has just suggested she needs me. ‘Take us both,’ I say, ‘and we’ll both help you win this war.’

She studies my face for a long time, as if seeking out a lie.

‘Very well,’ she says.

I feel weightless, as if I might begin to float at any moment.

‘But if you fail, your cousin will meet his end by way of the hangman’s noose – just like the rest of your family.’

I nod. ‘I accept your offer.’

Wyvernmire reaches into her briefcase and pulls out a handful of typewritten pages.

‘You are required to sign the Official Secrets Act before you go anywhere. In doing so, you are taking a lifelong vow never to reveal the details of the job you are about to undertake. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ I say, taking the pen being offered to me.

I scan the page quickly and words like SECRETS and DRAGONS and GOVERNMENT GUIDELINES jump out at me. But there’s no point in reading it. This job is my only hope.

I sign the paperwork and Wyvernmire gives me a satisfied nod. Then she tips her head in the Guardian’s direction.

‘Get Miss Featherswallow cleaned up.’

I suddenly notice the state of my trousers, smeared in dragon blood.

‘And release the boy,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘They’re going to the DDAD.’

‘Can I ask one question?’ I say as the Guardian escorts me to the door, without handcuffs this time.

‘One,’ Wyvernmire says.

‘The dragon, the one that burned your office. Has it been destroyed yet?’

Lines crease across the Prime Minister’s forehead.

‘No,’ she says. ‘For now, that particular rebel is still alive.’

Transcript of an excerpt from ‘A Natural History of Dragon Tongues’, a paper delivered to students at the University of London in 1919, by Dragon Anthropologist Dr Helina Featherswallow MA, PhD.

Before one can embark on the proper study of dragon tongues, as all you bright young things are about to do, one must first take into account their origins.

Over the last fifty years of scholarship, it has become widely accepted that dragon tongues did, in fact, develop from human languages. Indeed, had human beings not walked this earth, dragons might never have developed any form of spoken language at all. And yet dragons display a mastery of language that far surpasses our own.

There is no evidence to suggest that dragons ever spoke verbally before the evolution of humans on our planet. When our ancestors, whose first spoken languages began to emerge only once they learned to control their primitive vocalisations, started to migrate throughout the world, interaction with the dragon populations became inevitable. It was at this precise moment in time, when the dragons had grasped the basic foundations of human language, that dragon tongues were born.

This explains why the six known dragon tongues spoken in the anglophone countries of England, Australia and America bear multiple similarities to English (a Germanic human language) but almost none to Spanish (a Romance human language). Indeed, these six English-related dragon tongues bear in turn similarities to the dragon tongue spoken in Germany, due of course to the fact that both German and English evolved from the same unwritten ancestor, Proto-Germanic.

Furthermore, Wyrmerian, a modern-day tongue spoken by British dragons, and Draecksum, spoken by Dutch dragons, are so close that many words are interchangeable. This is because Holland is one of the main areas from which the Anglo-Saxon settlers in England migrated from. Our human languages now even borrow from dragon tongues, with skrit , a common word in English vocabulary meaning fool , originating from Wyrmerian. It is interesting to note that dragon languages contain many words requiring the ‘s’ sound, which comes naturally to dragons due to the forked nature of their tongues.

Only once a linguist has understood the origins of Dragonese as a whole can they hope to study each tongue separately. Indeed, it is this manner of proceeding that will allow one to delve even further into the subject of dragon linguistics, as I know you hope to do, beginning with the fascinating theory of dragon dialects, which—