Reckless was standing a step away, aiming at Nerron’s heart. Where had he been? Between the hay bales? Eaumbre took a hobbling step toward him.
“I really wouldn’t.” Reckless’s left hand was wet. His whole sleeve was dripping with blood.
“Was that the payment for your wounded friend? How noble.” Nerron waved the Waterman back. “Yes, child-eaters cut deep.”
Reckless shrugged. “Don’t worry. I can still pull a trigger.”
“Yes, but how often? You’ll be dead before you get out that door.” Nerron cast a quick glance behind Reckless, but the vixen was nowhere to be seen. “Come on now. Where is the heart?”
Reckless smiled.
Oh, Nerron, you are a fool.
51
RUN
Fear. And more fear. Too short had been the peace in between.
She was so tired that even the fur gave her no comfort. Fox had drunk her own fear, but she could still feel it. Like a tremor deep inside her.
Places, clinging to her heart like mold… the shabby house that smelled like the sea. The red chamber. They couldn’t just be left behind. No matter how fast the vixen ran. Jacob was the only one who protected her from them.
Fox wanted to sleep by his side. Just be with him and feel his warmth wash away the memory of the red chamber. And the house that smelled of salt.
But she had to run.
She was carrying his life around her neck.
Nothing had ever weighed more.
52
CUNNING AND FOLLY
“You should have let the dogs loose! My father puts vixens in their cages when they are puppies, so they learn to like the taste. You should see what they do with them!”
The same angry rant, every time they stopped for a break. The Snow-White apple had made Louis even more unpredictable—or was it the toad spawn? If it hadn’t been for Lelou, the princeling would have killed Reckless as soon as Nerron led him out of the stable. The future King of Lotharaine really was as stupid as he looked. No, Nerron, much stupider.
“Foxes are smarter than dogs.” The Waterman was sitting in the grass, examining his injured foot. He had smeared on it some ointment that he’d found in the Witch’s house, and now the scaly skin around the wound had turned as white as a mushroom.
“You’re treating that filthy swine like a raw egg!” Louis rammed his sword so hard into the flame that the sparks singed Nerron’s skin. “He’s been giving us the runaround for weeks. Have you already forgotten everything you learned as my father’s bodyguard?” he barked at Eaumbre. “He has you treat prisoners who think they’re smarter than he very differently.”
Eaumbre pulled the boot over his injured foot.
“Fetch him!” Louis ordered.
The Waterman got up quietly, but Nerron stood in his way.
“He’s my prisoner.”
“Really? Since when?” Louis got up. He was swaying a little, but the arrogance on his face was truly regal. Every evening, Eaumbre tied Reckless to one of the carriage wheels. Nerron liked to picture swapping him for Louis and letting the horses have the whip.
The Waterman pushed past him and hobbled to the carriage.
Reckless was still pale from the Witch’s bloodletting, and the Bluebeard had cut a few bloody patterns into his soft skin, but his face still had the same infuriatingly fearless expression it had worn when he faced the wolves.
He even offered his tied hands to Nerron. “The Waterman ties the ropes so tight that my fingers are dying off. How about you take these off me? I’m not planning on running.”
“And why not?” Louis wiped some grease from his mouth with his velvet sleeve. The dog man had shot two rabbits, and Louis had eaten them both himself. “You know what my father does to spies from Albion?”
Reckless shot an amused glance at Nerron. His eyes were asking, Really? A spy? You owe me, Goyl.
“Oh that… that’s just a sideline,” he said out loud. “I’m actually a treasure hunter, like the Goyl. And I’m afraid we’ll have to join forces for this hunt. You have the head and the hand. I have the heart. And if that’s not enough, then ask the Dwarfs whether they know where Guismond’s body is.”
Oh, the cunning dog.
It took Louis a few seconds to comprehend what Reckless was saying. He was now swaying so much that he nearly fell into the fire as he staggered toward him. Lelou fed him toad spawn thrice daily (the Waterman was often gone hours to find it), but the effect always wore off toward the evening. And the princely breath again smelled of elven dust as well.
“You obviously forget whom you’re talking to!” Louis tried very hard to sound menacing.
Reckless gave the hint of a bow. “Louis of Lotharaine. I worked for your father, but you probably don’t remember. He needed an antidote to a love potion. Your cousin was the perpetrator, and you were the victim. Didn’t she turn you into a frog?”
“That story was spread by my father’s enemies.” Louis nearly swallowed his tongue with rage. “I was against leaving your friend with the Witch. You would have called the vixen back if the Waterman had cut off his fingers one by one.”
“My prince!” Nerron wasn’t sure whether Lelou’s voice sounded indignant or impressed.
Louis paid no attention to him. “Call her back,” he panted. “Now! Or I’ll order the Waterman to cut off your fingers. My father usually has them start with the thumbs.”
He nodded at the Waterman. Eaumbre’s scaly face didn’t show what he thought of the order, but he did draw his knife.
“Call her back? How am I supposed to do that?” Reckless asked. “Fox is probably miles ahead of us. Her paws are faster than your golden carriage. She’ll be waiting for me by the Dead City. Ask the Goyl. I’m certain the crossbow is there. And I bet you the heart that without me and the Goyl, you won’t survive more than three steps in those ruins.”
Louis’s face turned as white as curdled milk.
“Forget his fingers,” he barked at the Waterman. “Cut his throat!”
Eaumbre hesitated. But then he put his knife to Reckless’s throat.
Enough. Nerron grabbed Louis and pulled him away.
“Aren’t you listening?” he hissed. “He doesn’t just have the heart! He also has Guismond’s body. What good do you think the hand and the head are without it? Kill him, fine, but then you explain to your father why we couldn’t find the crossbow.”
Louis stared at him as though he was going to cut off Nerron’s fingers next. Not so easy with a Goyl, princeling. “He insulted me. I want to see him dead. Now!”
The Waterman was looking at them, his knife still on Reckless’s throat. In times of emergency, Nerron’s mother used to pray to some mysterious Queen who lived in a copper mountain and wore a dress of malachite. Nerron would have loved to ask her to put just a grain of reason into the crown prince’s head, but salvation already came scurrying to Louis’s side in the shape of Lelou.
“My prince!” he whispered with an appeasing smile. “I’m afraid the Goyl is right. From time to time, even your father has to collaborate with his enemies. You can still kill Reckless later.”
Louis frowned (touching, how humans’ skin creased up when they tried to think) and gave their prisoner a menacing look.
“Fine. Keep him alive for now!” he ordered the Waterman. “But tighten those ropes.”
53
SOMEHOW
The vixen didn’t count the days it took her to reach the mountains where the Dead City lay. But there were too many.
Fox only shed the fur to sneak some restless hours of sleep. With her human body came the memories, but she also caught herself missing the feeling of the wind on her bare skin. She even missed her vulnerable heart. Animal, human, vixen, woman. She was no longer sure what she was more. Or what she wanted to be
more.
She had telegraphed Valiant from a train station. The aging telegraph operator had eyed her as though he could see the fur dress beneath her stolen clothes.
The Dwarf had suggested they meet in a mountain village not far from the Dead City. One could see the ruins from the market square: collapsed towers and domes, pale walls, laid out along the slopes of a mountain like bleached bones. Dark clouds hung over the dead streets. They had drifted in over the entire valley, and Fox felt their cold shadow as she stopped in front of the tavern where she was supposed to meet Valiant.
The goat horns above the door were meant to ward off the kind of ghosts that were particularly feared in this area: tegglis, wax-ghosts, mountain Witches… they were blamed for every dead goat and sick child, even though most of them weren’t half as vicious as their reputation. Fear flourished like weeds in these mountains.
Fox stepped into the dark taproom. The look she got from the landlord was as filthy as his apron, and she was glad Valiant didn’t keep her waiting too long.
“You look like death!” he observed as he pulled up one of the chairs the landlord kept ready for his Dwarf customers. “I hope Jacob’s looking even worse. Shall I show you the telegrams that lying dog has sent me? ‘No trace yet… will keep you posted… this hunt may take years…’ You know what? As far as I’m concerned, that Goyl can drag him here by a rope.”
Tired. She was so tired.
The landlord served the tea she’d ordered, and he took a glass of milk to the child at the next table. Fox felt her hand begin to tremble at the sight of the white liquid.
“What the devil…”
Valiant grabbed her arm and looked in shock at the grazed wrists. She’d be carrying the scars from Troisclerq’s chains for the rest of her life. Tears welled up inside her, but the vixen wiped them away. They were as useless as her fear for Jacob. You will save him. Somehow. How?
Valiant handed her a handkerchief embroidered with his initials.
“Don’t tell me you’re worried about Jacob!” The Dwarf shook his head and sneered. “That Goyl’s not going to hurt a hair on his head. Jacob is unkillable. I know what I’m talking about. I dug his grave once.”
That memory didn’t really make things better. Jacob had dodged death so many times. But not this time, she heard a whisper inside her.
Be quiet.
The child at the next table was drinking her milk. Fox wanted to look away, but she forced herself to watch. Or did she now want to start running from moths and flowers as well?
The wind pushed open one of the windows, blowing hailstones across the wooden tables. The landlord quickly closed it with a worried look on his face. He’d been talking with a farmer who’d told him stories of landslides and drowned sheep—and that one of the crazies who lived in the Dead City had been to his farm, announcing the end of the world. They were called Preachers, men and women who’d lost their minds in the ruins and who believed that the abandoned city housed the gateway to heaven. Fox had met one of them at the edge of the village. They adorned their clothes with tin and glass, turning them into a kind of bizarre armor.
The farmer gave Valiant a dark look.
“You see that?” the Dwarf whispered, returning the look with a gold-toothed smile. “They blame the mines for the bad weather. If those goat-herding imbeciles had any idea how close they are to the truth. Since we found that tomb, it’s not only the weather that’s gone crazy. We’re having more accidents in the mines. Those Preachers are popping up everywhere, prattling about the end of the world, and the farmers keep their livestock locked in the stables, claiming the Dead City’s come alive.”
Fox rubbed her scuffed wrists. “Where did you take the body?”
Valiant held up his hands. As small as children’s hands, and strong enough to bend metal. “Not so fast. Jacob is like a brother to me, but we need to renegotiate. There’ll be additional costs now that the fool has let himself get captured.”
Fox hissed across the table, “Like a brother? You’d probably sell Jacob for the silver fingernails of a Thumbling! I wouldn’t be surprised if you joined forces with the Goyl if he offered you a bigger share.”
That thought brought a flattered smile to the Dwarf’s face. He took any reference to his cunning as a compliment.
“We should discuss all this in a less public place,” he purred. “My chauffeur is waiting outside. Chauffeur…” He gave Fox a meaningful wink. “A wonderful word, isn’t it? Sounds so much more modern than ‘coachman.’”
As they stepped into the street, the wind nearly blew the ridiculously high hat off the Dwarf’s head. The houses were cowering in the shadow of the mountain, their walls dark with rain. The chauffeur was anxiously wiping the water off the dark green paint of his enormous automobile. He was, of course, human. The horseless vehicle looked even more alien on a village road than the ones Fox had seen in Vena.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Valiant said while the chauffeur rushed toward them with an umbrella. “I am a man of the future. The speed’s still a little disappointing, but the looks I get more than make up for that.”
The chauffeur held the umbrella over Fox’s head, though the wind nearly tore it out of his hand. He helped the Dwarf onto the much-too-high footboard.
“Whatever the reason for this weather,” Valiant whispered as the shivering Fox sat down next to him on the brown leather, “This cold does make keeping a headless king fresh much easier.”
54
THE SAME TRADE
The Bastard came every night—whenever he had the watch and the others had fallen asleep. He gave Jacob food and sometimes even some of the wine the prince had left over.
Tell me. How did you get through the labyrinth? How did Chanute survive the Troll caves? And to make yourself invisible… which method do you use? Did you ever find one of the candles that call the Iron Man with their flame?
During the first night, Jacob answered him with silence or some lie. But by the second night that became boring, so he followed every answer with a counterquestion: How did you find the hand? How did you figure out where to catch me with the head? Where do you catch the lizards whose skins you use for your bulletproof vests?
The same trade.
Of course, the Bastard searched his pockets, and when the Goyl rubbed the gold handkerchief between his fingers Jacob was glad for once that it had stopped working properly. Nerron. Just one name, like all Goyl. His meant “black” in their language. Who’d given him that name? His mother, to deny the malachite in his skin? Or was it the onyx, who usually drowned their bastards? Nerron even checked Earlking’s card, but in the Goyl’s fingers it just showed the printed name.
Nerron held up the ballpoint pen Jacob always carried because it was so much easier to write with than the quills or the old-fashioned fountain pens used behind the mirror.
“What do you do with this?”
“Wishing ink.” The Goyl had brought meat, and Jacob put some of it in his mouth. The Waterman had, despite Louis’s orders, loosened his ropes. The Bug Man seemed to be the only one who was unquestioningly loyal to the prince. But it was probably still best not to underestimate Louis. He had the same cunning face as his father, though he was probably only half as smart.
“Wishing ink?” The Bastard put the pen in his pocket. “Never heard of it.”
“Whatever you write with it will come true someday.” Not a bad lie. Somewhere in the east was a goose feather that supposedly did just that.
“Someday?”
Jacob shrugged. He wiped the grease off his tied hands. “Depends on the wish. One, two weeks…”
Hopefully, their paths would have parted by then. They’d been traveling for four days. The Witch must have finished with Donnersmarck by now, unless she’d killed him or turned him into some insect. But taking him before she finished her magic wou
ld have meant certain death.
They rested in caves at night. The Goyl always found one, and Jacob was glad for it. The nights were still so cold that he froze, despite the blanket the Bastard had brought him. His arm hurt from the Witch’s knife, and the cuts from Troisclerq’s rapier burnt his skin. But what really robbed him of his sleep was the uncertainty of whether Fox had made it to safety. He kept seeing her weary face. You’re asking too much of her, Jacob. Too often had his only gift to her been fear—experienced together and conquered together, but fear still. Yet in the child-eater’s stable, all of that had been forgotten. Then he’d just wanted to protect her. But in the end, and like so many times before, it was she who had to help him.
“Don’t you wish it was just the two of us?” The Goyl had lowered his voice, though the other three seemed to be fast asleep. “No prince, no Bug, no Waterman, not even the vixen. Just you and me, against each other.”
“The prince could be useful.”
“What for?”
“He’s related to Guismond. What if you need to have the blood of the Witch Slayer to get into the palace? It is, after all, awaiting his children.”
“Yes. I thought of that as well.” The Bastard looked up at the bats stirring under the cave ceiling. “But I hate the idea of having to drag that blue-blooded airhead with me until the end. No. There’s always another way.”
Jacob closed his eyes. He was tired of how the Goyl’s face reminded him of his brother’s jade skin. Even the cave looked like the cave where he and Will had argued.
The pain was stirring again in his chest, so suddenly that he could barely suppress the scream that wanted to explode from his lips.
Reckless II Page 22
