Fearless

by Cornelia Funke

  ‘Jacob!’ Fox wrapped her arms around him and pulled his head out of the water. ‘You won’t make it to the shore. Let yourself sink. Do you hear?’

  Sink? What was she talking about? He tried to breathe, but even the air seemed to be made of salt water.

  ‘It’s your only chance. They don’t come to the surface.’

  They? Fox pulled him down before he could understand what she meant. Water rushed into his mouth and nose. He tried to resist, but Fox wouldn’t let go. She pulled him deeper and deeper, no matter how much he struggled. Jacob tried to push her away – he wanted to breathe, only breathe – but then suddenly he felt other hands. Warm and slender, like the hands of children. They pushed one of their scales into his mouth, and his lungs began to breathe water as though they’d never done anything else. The bodies floating around him and Fox were transparent, like frosted glass. Fish or human – they were both. The Lotharainians called them Mal de Mer, but they had a different name on every coast. It was said that they capsized boats to take the souls of the dead to their cities at the bottom of the sea. The Empress had a specimen of a Mal de Mer in her Chambers of Miracles, but death had turned its crystalline beauty into dull wax.

  They swarmed around Fox as though she were one of them, weaving flowers into her hair, stroking her face, but she would not let go of Jacob, and when they tried to pull him deeper, she pushed the naiads away. It was like a dance between her and them, until at some point Jacob felt a wave wash him on to firm ground. He felt damp sand, shells crushing between his fingers. His eyes burnt from the salty water, but he managed to open them to see clouds and a grey sky above. Fox was crouched next to him. She was also too weak to get to her feet, but they dragged each other along, away from the water’s hissing waves that still sounded so hungry, until, exhausted, they finally dropped side by side on to the sand.

  Jacob spat out the scale the Mal de Mer had pushed between his lips, and he greedily gulped the damp air into his burning lungs. It was salty and cold and more delicious than anything he’d ever tasted.

  Breathing. Just to be breathing.

  Fox reached for the blossoms the Mal de Mer had put into her hair. Underwater they’d shone in all the colours of the rainbow, but now they were wilted and dull. Fox threw them into the waves as if trying to give them back their life. Then she knelt down again next to Jacob and dug her hands deep into the grey sand.

  ‘That was close.’ Her voice sounded as though she couldn’t believe that they were still alive.

  Alive. Jacob reached under his wet shirt, but all his fingers found was the moth.

  The swindlesack with the head was gone.

  Fox smiled as she put her hand up her sleeve. She pulled out the sack and threw it on to his chest.

  The gloves, like his backpack, had been claimed by the sea. Still, as Jacob put his hand into the sack and touched the golden hair, all he felt as was a slight tingling. Swindlesacks could dampen black magic, though Jacob had never seen such a strong effect. It didn’t matter . . . he had the head. He could only hope that the Goyl had been less successful in the meantime. Jacob tied up the sack and looked at the sky, where a few hungry gulls circled among the clouds. In his mind’s eye, he could still see the red aeroplanes diving at the burning ships.

  ‘Why did the Mal de Mer help us?’

  Fox was wiping the sand from her bare arms. She’d pulled her dress off in the water, and now she was just wearing the one of fur. She wore it beneath her clothes whenever things might get dangerous, but this time it wasn’t the vixen who had saved them, but her human self.

  ‘They usually only help women,’ she said. ‘When I was a child they saved my mother’s sister. Normally, they take the men with them, and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to protect you from them, but without their help, you would have drowned.’ Fox smiled. ‘Luckily, they realised I wasn’t going to let them have you without a fight.’

  Yes, luckily. She was so fearless, it sometimes scared him. Jacob sat up. He could only hope the hand and the heart would be easier to find. Not that he really expected they would be. He looked around. Steep sandy cliffs and a pebbly beach. A lighthouse in the distance.

  ‘Do you know where we are?’

  Fox nodded. ‘I grew up not far from here. I asked the Mal de Mer to take us here. We’re in Lotharaine, just a few miles from the Flandrian border.’ She got to her feet. ‘We’d better see that we move on, though. The fishermen here are not very friendly towards strangers. You still have the gold handkerchief? We’ll need money for horses and new clothes.’

  Jacob reached into his pocket. The handkerchief was soaking wet, but Earlking’s card dropped from his pocket as dry and untouched as though it had just snuck into his hand. Fox gave the card a nervous look, but it was blank except for Earlking’s name. The card was pearly white, as though the sea had washed away the ink. Jacob shooed away a little spider that had crawled from his pocket, then he tucked the card away again. He still wanted to throw it away, but ever since he’d seen Will’s name on it, the card felt like a connection to his brother – even though Jacob knew the notion was irrational.

  The handkerchief usually worked even when it was wet, but Jacob had to rub it for what seemed an eternity before it finally released one paper-thin coin. Yes, he really needed a new one, but these handkerchiefs weren’t easy to find.

  Jacob poured out the water from his boots. ‘How many times has it been now?’ He got to his feet.

  ‘How many times has what been?’ Fox could also barely stand. They were both shivering in their wet clothes.

  ‘That you saved my skin.’

  Fox smiled as she brushed the sand off his back. ‘I think we’re nearly even.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A BOOTPRINT

  Coast . . . his hand . . . almost crushed. The spider danced haltingly, as though she’d swallowed as much water as her sister.

  Albion had lost its fleet, and Nerron had almost lost his eight-legged spy. Luckily, twin spiders were made of hardier stuff than ships of wood or iron. And Reckless had also done quite well, if the spider’s report was true. Fire from the sky . . . water . . . smoke . . . death. Nerron had some trouble figuring out exactly what had happened, but in the end all he needed to know were two things: the Goyl attack had made the crossbow even more attractive to all their enemies, and Reckless had made it back to the mainland – with the head.

  Oh, this race was fun. Even if the princeling had the hand for now. And speak of the devil . . . the knocks on Nerron’s door sounded like someone who wasn’t used to standing in front of closed doors. Nerron nudged the spider back into the medallion and opened the door.

  ‘Look at this!’ Louis shoved a discoloured shirtsleeve into Nerron’s face. ‘They can’t even wash clothes in this dump! And what do you think my father will say when I telegraph him that Lelou had to pick lice from my hair this morning?’

  Nerron pictured the chandelier he wanted to build from Louis’s bones. Imagination was such a wonderful gift!

  ‘What are we looking for next?’ Ah. He’d tasted blood. The hunger for the hunt. Louis had far too many royal robbers in his ancestry to be immune to it.

  ‘Get the others and meet me behind the stables.’

  Nerron wanted to slam the door shut, but Louis put his expensive boot in the jamb. ‘You’re not really the chatty kind, Goyl. I think you’re not telling us everything you know about this search.’

  And why should I, my princeling? So you or your dad might get the idea to search for the crossbow yourselves?

  ‘Ask Lelou. He’ll know more than I,’ Nerron replied. ‘And about those lice: why don’t you just have the landlord waive your wine bill?’

  Louis picked a particularly fat specimen from his forehead and crushed it with disgust between his fingers.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, pulling his boot out of the door. ‘Behind the stables. But remember, I don’t like waiting.’

  Of course, it was Nerron who ended up waiting. Maybe they
found some more lice. Quite astonishing that Louis’s eau de toilette didn’t kill them all on the spot. Eaumbre trudged silently behind his royal charge, but Lelou was talking at Louis in his usual breathless way. He only quieted when he saw Nerron beside the saddled horses.

  ‘Lelou says you told him we have to also find a heart and a head before we get the crossbow?’ Louis had the swindlesack with the hand hanging from his gold-studded belt. He ran his fingers over it, as if to remind them that so far he was the more successful treasure hunter, not Nerron.

  Blue-blooded idiot.

  Nerron gave him his most innocent smile.

  ‘Yes, that is correct,’ he said. Best to let Lelou think he had every detail about this hunt. It would keep the Bug from asking too many questions. But now it was time to deviate a little from the truth.

  He put on a concerned face. ‘Sadly, I just had news that a spy from Albion has got hold of the head. And he may get the heart before we catch up with him by coach or train. So I suggest we use magic to stop him.’

  A deep frown furrowed Louis’s deceptively high forehead.

  ‘Albion. Always Albion,’ he growled. ‘My father’s too nice to them.’

  Lelou rubbed his pointy nose. ‘I travelled with magic once. It’s very unhealthy. My own shadow started talking to me afterwards.’

  Nerron pulled a leather pouch from his saddlebag. ‘Not to worry. We Goyl use magic that has no side effects.’ He didn’t actually know if that applied to humans, but of course he didn’t mention that little detail.

  The pouch contained soil Nerron had collected from a bootprint near the lifts at the mine where Guismond’s tomb was discovered. He was certain it belonged to Reckless. Lelou watched warily as Nerron spread the soil on a flat stone. What an opportunity to get rid of them all! He could barely resist the temptation, but Louis still had the hand, and Lelou’s knowledge might prove useful in the search for the heart. What about the Waterman, Nerron? He shot a quick look at Eaumbre. Nerron’s instinct told him that even Eaumbre might yet prove useful, even if only to kill the other two.

  ‘There . . . it’s quite simple. As long as you do exactly as I say.’ Nerron waved them to his side impatiently. ‘Hold the reins in your left hand and put your right hand on the shoulder of the man in front of you.’

  Lelou had to stand on his tiptoes to reach Louis’s shoulders, and the princeling pulled on his calf-leather gloves before he touched the Waterman. Eaumbre, however, clawed his fingers into Nerron’s shoulder as if he wanted to remind him how much damage they could do.

  Nerron pressed his boot into the soil Jacob Reckless had stood on a few days earlier. He smelled salt in the air.

  Water.

  He shuddered.

  Hopefully, they weren’t about to land up to their necks in it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE SECOND TIME

  They had the head. Jacob caught himself feeling ridiculously confident as he and Fox checked in to an inn. After all that cold water, they wanted to spend at least one night in a warm bed. They were in Saint-Riquet, a small town with narrow alleys that spoke of a time long forgotten even on this side of the mirror. The market square was lined by timber-framed houses whose roofs were tiled by Giants, and the church bell always chimed right before death claimed one of its people.

  That evening Fox set out to find a livery stable and organise some horses for the journey, and Jacob telegraphed Dunbar and Chanute, hopeful they might have leads in the search for the hand and the heart. He wasn’t sure how Dunbar would react to the news that his theory had been right and that they had found the head. Maybe he’d at least be glad they were still alive. Jacob also sent a telegram to Valiant just to keep the Dwarf happy, but he didn’t tell Valiant about the head, nor where they were at the moment. Jacob did not trust Valiant’s discretion, and the Dwarf would find out soon enough that Jacob had no intention of selling the crossbow to the highest bidder.

  It was the first warm day of spring, but the barefoot flower girl selling primroses on the corner was probably still freezing. She was redheaded and as scrawny as a young bird. Fox had barely been much older when Jacob had first seen her human form. He bought a posy off the girl because he knew how much Fox loved primroses. He was just taking the flowers from her small hand when the pain shot into his chest again.

  It was even worse than the first time. Jacob stumbled against the nearest wall and pressed his forehead against the cold stone, desperately fighting for air. The pain was so horrendous that he nearly dropped to his knees to beg the Fairies for mercy. Nearly.

  The child looked frightened. She picked up the flowers he’d dropped and held them out to him. Jacob could barely grip them.

  ‘Thanks,’ he stammered.

  He somehow managed a smile as he put a copper sou into the girl’s hand. The child smiled back with relief.

  The inn was only a few alleys away, and yet he could barely manage to get back. The pain lasted until he unlocked the door to his room. He locked it before unbuttoning his shirt. The moth had another spot on its wing, and he could remember only four letters of the Fairy’s name.

  Start counting, Jacob.

  He took some of Alma’s powder, but his hands were shaking so badly that he spilled most of it.

  Damn, damn, damn . . .

  Where was Fox? Getting a couple of horses shouldn’t take that long. When there finally was a knock on the door, it was only the landlady’s youngest daughter.

  ‘Monsieur?’ She had mended his waistcoat. Her hands reverently brushed over the brocade before she handed it to him. The waistcoat had been a gift from the Empress, and the girl’s dress had probably been worn by her older sisters before her. Cinderella. Except in this case, the girl’s own mother played the role of the evil stepmother. Jacob had seen how she ordered her youngest about. And here Jacob himself had sold Cinderella’s real glass slipper to the Empress. Maybe Dunbar was right. Jacob could still hear the Fir Darrig’s angry voice in his ear: ‘You treasure hunters are turning the magic of this world into a commodity only the powerful can afford!’

  The girl had done her job well, and Jacob put his hand on his gold handkerchief to pay her. The coin that came from it was even thinner than the previous one, but the girl stared at the golden piece as though he had brought her a glass slipper after all. Her hand was rough from cleaning and sewing, but it was as slender as a Fairy’s hand, and she looked at him with such longing, as if he was the prince she’d been waiting for. And why not, Jacob? A little tenderness to fend off death? You’re still alive now. But all he could think of was when Fox would return.

  As he opened the door for her, the girl stopped and turned around. ‘Oh, and I found this in your waistcoat, Monsieur.’

  Earlking’s card was still spotless white. Except for the words on the back:

  FORGET THE HAND, JACOB.

  Jacob was still standing there, staring at the card, long after the girl had left. He warmed it between his hands (no, it was not Fairy magic), soaked it in gun oil (the simplest way to detect Silt or Leprechaun spells), and rubbed it with soot to rule out witchcraft. The card stayed perfectly white and kept displaying just those four words: FORGET THE HAND, JACOB. What the hell was that supposed to mean? That the Goyl already had it?

  Jacob had seen many writing spells behind the mirror: threats that suddenly appeared on your skin, paper that filled with curses after a wind dropped it in front of your boots, prophecies that carved themselves into the bark of a tree. Gnome, Stilt, or Leprechaun hexes . . . magical pranks filled the air of this world like pollen.

  FORGET THE HAND. And then what?

  When Fox returned, the landlady was explaining to Jacob how to get to Gargantua. The city had a library that collected everything about the Kings of Lotharaine, and Jacob hoped to find some clues about the hand there – or maybe get news that the Goyl had already been there . . .

  He decided not to tell Fox about the moth’s second bite. She looked tired and was strangely absent-minded. W
hen he asked her about it, she claimed it was because of the horses – they weren’t really very good. Saint-Riquet was more the place to buy good sheep. Still, Jacob sensed there was something else on her mind. He knew her as well as she knew him.

  ‘Come on, tell me. What’s the matter?’

  She avoided his eyes.

  ‘My mother lives not far from here. I was wondering how she’s doing.’

  That wasn’t all, but Jacob didn’t press her any further. There’d always been a tacit understanding between them to respect each other’s secrets, an agreement that the past was a land they both didn’t care to visit.

  ‘It’s not a big detour. I could meet you in Gargantua tonight.’

  For a split second, he wanted to ask her to stay with him. What’s the matter with you, Jacob? And of course he didn’t. It was bad enough that he himself had never gone to see his mother until it was too late. It had been all too easy to pretend she’d always be there, just like the old house and the apartment full of old ghosts.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in the hotel right by the library. Or do you want me to come with you?’

  Fox shook her head. She only ever spoke very reluctantly about why she’d left her home. All Jacob knew was that the fur was not the only reason.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But I’d better do this alone.’

  Yes. There was more, but her face did not invite Jacob to ask.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ She put her hand over his heart.

  ‘Good!’ Jacob hid the lie behind his brightest smile. Fooling her wasn’t easy, but luckily there were plenty of reasons for the tiredness in his voice.

  He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you in Gargantua.’ Her skin still smelled of the Mal de Mer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE BEST

  They didn’t land in the sea but on a beach as grey as powdered granite. The Waterman complained that his scales were itching, and Lelou swore the magic had made his fingernails grow, but the tracks they found in the sand were so fresh that even the prince managed to follow them. Nerron let him have his fun until they reached the first crossing, where, to the untrained eye, the trail disappeared among the tracks of cart wheels and farmers’ feet. For Nerron they were still easier to read than the signposts by the roadside. Reckless and the vixen had taken the road to Saint-Riquet, a provincial town where the inhabitants once used to get regularly trampled by Giants. Their huge teeth could still be found in the surrounding fields. The ivory fetched a good price.