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 armour.
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.’
‘Like a brother?’ Fox hissed across the table. ‘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 towards 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 on to 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.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
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 counter-question: 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 bullet-proof 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 travelling 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 would 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 l
ike 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.
Damn.
He clutched his bound hands to his chest. It will pass. It will pass. How many times now? Try to remember, Jacob! Five. This was the fifth. One more bite. There couldn’t be much left of his heart.
‘What is this?’ The Bastard looked anxiously at Jacob’s pain-stricken face. ‘Did Louis give you anything to drink?’
Jacob could have laughed, if he’d had any breath left. Not a baseless suspicion. The royal house of Lotharaine had a long tradition of poisoning its enemies.
The Bastard pulled Jacob’s hands from his chest and tore his shirt open. The moth was now as black as the onyx in Nerron’s skin, and the red outline of its skull-spotted wings looked like fresh blood.
Nerron recoiled as though he was afraid he might contaminate himself.
Jacob leant against the cave wall. The pain was subsiding, but he probably made quite a pitiable sight. Was this what the Red Fairy had in mind when she’d whispered her sister’s name in his ear? Had she pictured this while she kissed him? That he’d be writhing like a wounded animal, paying with his agony for her pain? Only that she wasn’t going to die of her broken heart.
She has no heart, Jacob.
Nerron poured out the wine he’d brought, and filled the beaker with a brown liquid. ‘Drink slowly,’ he instructed Jacob before putting the beaker in his bound hands. ‘I’m not sure your stomach can take Goyl spirits.’
It tasted like sugared lava.
The Bastard pushed the cork back into the bottle. ‘I have to be careful Louis doesn’t find this. He’d kill himself with it, and his father would execute me. This was the Dark One, I assume? I always wondered how you managed to steal your brother from under her nose.’ He put the bottle back in his sack. ‘The third bolt . . . you want the crossbow for yourself! What if that story is just a myth?’
‘I tried everything else.’ Jacob forced down another gulp of Goyl liquor. It warmed better than any blanket.
‘The apple? The well?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about Djinn blood? The ones from the north. Quite dangerous, but . . .’
‘Didn’t work.’
The Bastard shook his head. ‘Don’t your mothers tell you to stay away from the Fairies?’
‘My mother knew nothing of Fairies.’ Jacob ignored the curiosity in the golden eyes. What was the matter with him? Was he now going to tell his life story to the Goyl? Just one more bite. Maybe he’d die before he saw Fox again. He’d always assumed she’d be with him when he died. Not Will. Not the Fairy. Always the vixen.
Nerron got up. ‘I hope you’re not so stupid to think I’d let you have the crossbow as some kind of noble gesture.’
Jacob pulled his shirt over the moth. ‘You haven’t found it yet.’
The Goyl smiled.
His eyes said, I shall find it. Before you. And you will die.
‘What would you be searching for? If you weren’t busy trying to outrun death?’
Yes, what, Jacob? He was surprised by his own answer. ‘An hourglass.’
The Bastard rubbed his cracked skin. ‘I wouldn’t be racing you for that one. Which moment could be worth holding on to for ever?’ He touched the rock as though searching his memory for one that might have been worth it.
‘What would you like to find most?’ Jacob’s chest was still numb with pain.
The Goyl looked at him. ‘A door,’ he said finally. ‘To another world.’
Jacob suppressed a smile. ‘Really? What’s so bad about this one? And why should another be any better?’
The Bastard shrugged and looked at his speckled hand. ‘It’s my mother’s fault. She told me too many stories. The worlds in them were all better.’
Behind them, Louis was beginning to snore. He was turning more moody and irascible with every day. A side effect of toad spawn, as Jacob had learnt from Alma. Paranoia was another. Both not uncommon character traits in a King’s son.
‘I don’t ask much!’ Nerron said. ‘Having no princes would already make it a better world. And no onyx lords. I could also do without Thumblings . . . and it should have deep, uninhabited caves.’
He turned away. ‘We all have our dreams, right?’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
NOT THE PLAN
‘And where in this mess is the palace supposed to appear?’ Louis pulled the spyglass from Nerron’s hand and pointed it at the ruins of the Dead City, which were barely visible beneath the dense clouds that had settled between the mountains.
‘The palace stood above the city.’ Lelou brushed some hailstones from his thin hair. ‘At the end of that road with the Dragon kennels.’ Of course. The Bug could probably draw an exact map of the Dead City.
The dog man brought Reckless. He had tied his hand behind his back and had, on Louis’s orders, also tied a noose around his neck. Louis still resented their prisoner for having questioned his treasure-hunting abilities.
‘Lock him in the carriage!’ he ordered, rubbing his red eyes.
The dog man obeyed his orders more readily than Eaumbre. He used every opportunity to treat the prisoner worse than his dogs. A casual kick here, an elbow to the ribs there, or a shove with the butt of his rifle. Even now he pushed Reckless so hard that he smashed his face bloody on the side of the carriage. It was obvious that Louis was enjoying the show.
‘What is this?’ Nerron hissed at him. ‘He’s only useful to us alive. Do I really have to keep explaining this?’
The toad spawn had turned the princely smile green.
‘You don’t have to explain anything to me, Goyl,’ he hissed back. ‘I’ve had enough of your explanations.’
Nerron felt the muzzle of a pistol in his back. Judging from the height, it was Lelou who was pressing it into his spine.
‘I told my father a hundred times! The Goyl should all be roasted until their stone skins crack. Sadly, the old man is afraid of your lot!’ Louis sneered. ‘Lelou tells me you’ve been sitting with Reckless every night. You’re suspiciously friendly to him, but you can’t fool me. What’s the plan? Even shares when you both sell the crossbow to Albion?’
The dog man yanked Nerron’s arms back, and Milkbeard trained his gun at Eaumbre. He was as dumb as he was strong, but he was a surprisingly good shot.
Louis gave Nerron a look that contained all the arrogance of his ancestry, and also the recalcitrance of a seventeen-year-old who still felt immortal. A dangerous mix.
‘I will find that crossbow for my father,’ he announced while the dog man tied up Nerron so tight, it felt as though he was trying cut his stone skin with the rope, ‘and Albion will finally stop acting like they own the world. But first we deal with the Goyl.’
Oh, it would have all been so easy had he just killed Louis and Lelou in Vena. Your aversion to killing is becoming a hindrance, Nerron.
‘Who plotted this?’ He tasted his own rage like blood on his tongue. ‘Lelou?’
The Bug blushed, flattered. ‘Oh no. This is entirely the p
lan of His Highness.’ He shot Louis a nervous smile. ‘He’s not very experienced in treasure hunting, but he was right to point out that we are searching for the crossbow of his ancestor. I merely suggested we don’t kill you and Reckless quite yet. After all . . .’
‘. . . we still have to squeeze you for everything you know.’ The dog man exposed his teeth, which were as yellow as those of his charges. ‘About the hidden palace . . . about the crossbow. And all that . . . The prince thinks I should be in charge of that.’ He gave Louis a devoted smile and managed a plump curtsy. ‘The Waterman is the expert,’ he added, ‘but the prince is convinced, and rightly so, that you can’t trust the scale-faces any more than the Stone-skins.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s fine. Why are you telling him all that?’ Louis dabbed a pinch of elven dust into his nose. The stash in his saddlebag seemed inexhaustible. ‘First we take the heart off the vixen. Lock the Goyl in the carriage with Reckless.’
It took all three of them to tie up the Waterman. They tied him to one of the wheels, just as they used to do with Reckless. The dog man dragged Nerron to the carriage.
‘The prince is right, Goyl!’ he whispered before slamming the door shut. ‘You should all be roasted. Those will be good times, when he is King.’
‘Get the horses!’ Nerron heard Louis say with a heavy tongue.
Reckless was lying on one of the benches, his face swollen from its encounter with the carriage.
‘That wasn’t quite the plan, was it?’ he asked.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
GIANTLING RAGE
There they came. Fox stepped back from the fence, which the farmers had erected to keep their livestock away from the cursed ruins. The wind blew from the direction of the dead streets, and it drove ice and hail into her face. Everything around her was spelling one word into the night: calamity.
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