Reckless II

by Cornelia Funke

  “What has he got to do with Will?”

  Yes, what? It didn’t sound as though this was just about a few heirlooms. Jacob didn’t like it at all, but the mirror was far, and it might be weeks before he got to see Will again. If he got to see him again.

  Oh, to hell with it… he would see his brother again.

  Fox lifted the card to her nose. Always the vixen, even in her human skin. “Silver. And there’s a scent I don’t recognize.” She returned the card to him and reached for her coat. Jacob had been with her when she bought it. The fabric was nearly the same color as her fur. “I don’t like that smell. Be careful.”

  The other travelers started pushing them toward the door. Though the platform was lost in the steam of the locomotive, the wind brought the smell of salt and tar from the port. Porters. Cabdrivers. There were two porters with wooden seats on their backs; they were waiting for the two Dwarfs who’d been sitting behind them in the dining car. Being barely three feet tall and trying to push one’s way through a train station was no fun.

  They took one of the cabs waiting in front of the station. Fox got off at the square where the ships’ outfitters had their shops, but Jacob instructed the driver to take him to the port. They could only hope Dunbar was right with his theory about the Witch Slayer’s head. But to be certain, they had to find a way to get on board the royal flagship first.

  22

  IRON FLANKS

  There they lay, hull by hull. The creaking of wet rope mingled with the screeching gulls and the voices of men readying their ships for departure. Albion’s navy was matched by no other on this side of the mirror. And that confidence was stamped on the faces of every one of the sailors carrying ditty bags up the swaying gangways, and of the officers leaning on the railing. The flag with the crowned Dragon flapped above them all. Albion wasn’t even keeping the fleet’s mission a secret.

  Jacob picked up a newspaper from the wet cobblestones. Every letter of the headline on the front page sprouted curlicues yet was as clear as the headlines in his world.

  They felt very safe. Everybody knew about the Goyl’s fear of the sea. Albion didn’t supply weapons to just Flanders, either. Her ships also took arms to the north, where an alliance was forming against the Goyl. Almost the entire fleet sailed under both steam and wind these days, and its cannons’ firepower was legendary. But that still didn’t seem to be enough for Wilfred the Walrus.

  Jacob stared at the sketch printed on the next page. Though he could barely make it out on the wet paper, his heart began to beat at a ridiculous pace, just as it did when he’d seen the airplanes in the Goyl fortress. The quest he’d abandoned so long ago. The trail that had always disappeared into nothing. And he’d stumbled onto it again, in a place where he never would have thought to look

  Jacob put down the newspaper and scanned the row of ships.

  To his left lay the ship he’d come to Goldsmouth for: the Titania, flagship of the Albian fleet, named after the King’s mother. Three hundred seventy-six crew. Forty-five cannons. The grimy waters of the harbor reflected the figurehead, but Jacob only gave her a cursory glance. His eyes were searching for the ship from the front page.

  Where was it?

  His glance wandered past wooden hulls and masts until it found pale sunlight reflected on metal.

  There she was. At the last berth. Gray, ugly, like a steel shark in a school of wooden mackerel. The low hull rose just a few feet above the water and was clad, like the funnels, in iron all the way down to the waterline. In Jacob’s world, the first iron ships had been instrumental in deciding the American civil war. This, however, was already a much more modern version.

  Jacob! Forget it! But reason didn’t stand a chance. His heart beat in his throat as he picked his way past crates and duffel bags, through groups of seamen hauling munitions and provisions, women saying farewell to their husbands, and children pressing teary faces into their fathers’ uniforms. It was like stumbling through one of his dreams, only this forest was made up of ships’ masts.

  Up close the iron ship looked even more impressive. It was enormous, even though most of the hull was hidden beneath the waterline. Four men stood by the gangway that led from the pier up to the deck. Three of them were officers of the Regal Navy, but the fourth was wearing civilian clothes. That man had his back to Jacob. His hair was gray, and he wore it short, just as Jacob did.

  What if it was him? After all these years. Turn back, Jacob. It’s over; it’s in the past. But he was twelve again. The moth on his chest was forgotten. Forgotten, too, was what he’d come here for. He just stood there and stared at the iron ship and at the back of a stranger.

  Jacob!

  A cabin boy ran past him, two boxes of cigars under his scrawny arms. A final errand for the officers. He looked up in alarm as Jacob grabbed hold of him. “Do you know who that man is? The one standing with the officers?”

  The boy gave him a look as though Jacob had asked him to name the sun. “That’s Brunel. He built the Vulcan, and he’s already planning a new ship.”

  Jacob let the boy go.

  One of the officers looked around, but the civilian still had his back to Jacob.

  Brunel. Not a very common name. Isambard Kingdom Brunel was one of his father’s heroes. Jacob had barely been seven when John Reckless had tried to explain Brunel’s iron-bridge blueprints to him.

  All those years, and now there were just a few steps left.

  “Mister Brunel?” How timid his voice sounded. As though he really was twelve again. Brunel turned around, and Jacob found himself looking into the eyes of a stranger. Only the eyes were as gray as his father’s.

  Jacob wasn’t sure what he felt. Disappointment? Relief? Both?

  Say something, Jacob. Go on.

  “Brunel. That’s an unusual name.”

  “My father was from Lotharaine.” Brunel smiled. “May I ask who…”

  “Why, that’s Jacob Reckless.” The officer standing next to Brunel gave Jacob a nod. “Quite a different kind of trade, John. Hunting for old magic. And this man here happens to be very good at it.” He offered his hand to Jacob. “Cunningham. Not nearly as interesting a name. Lieutenant in the Regal Navy. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Thankfully, our newspapers still like to publish reports about treasure hunters, even if they mostly poke fun at the artifacts these days. A medal from the Austrian Empress for a Glass Slipper. The Iron Cross of Bavaria for a pair of Seven Miles Boots. I admit to harboring some envy for your trade. As a child I was determined to pursue your profession and no other.”

  “Congratulations.” Brunel gave Jacob an appreciative nod. His accent didn’t at all sound Lotharainian.

  Behind them, torpedoes were being loaded on board. They’d shred any wooden hull like paper.

  Cunningham’s eyes followed Jacob as he bade the men farewell. Brunel, however, had already turned his attention to the ship again. Albion’s new magician.

  Relief and disappointment. An old hope, all but forgotten. Jacob barely saw where he was walking. Barrels, ropes, crates… everything around him was blurred like his face on the dark glass of the mirror. ‘Look at that, Jacob. This bridge is weightless and as perfect as a spider’s web—but it’s made of iron.’ Did he even remember what his father looked like? He remembered his voice, the hands that had lifted him onto the desk so he could touch the model planes that hung above it.

  “Jacob!”

  Someone grabbed his arm. Fox.

  “The outfitter wanted a fortune.” She shot a furtive glance at the sailors hauling sacks of coal to the Titania’s cargo hatch. “I only had enough for one uniform. Have you found a way to get us on board?”

  Damn. He’d found out nothing. He’d so lost himself in memories that he had nearly forgotten he soon would have no future.

  “What’s with you?” Fox looked worried
. “Did something happen?”

  “No. Nothing.” And that was the truth. Nothing had happened. He’d seen a ghost, the same ghost he kept stumbling after in his dreams. It was high time he buried not just his mother but also his father. He’d thought he’d done so already.

  He took the bundled uniform off Fox. A few sailors were staring so openly at her that Jacob gave them a sharp look. “How will you get on board?”

  Fox shrugged. “I’ll let the vixen find a way.”

  “That’s too dangerous.”

  “Mister Reckless?”

  Jacob turned around. He’d expected Brunel’s slender face, but it was Cunningham who was standing behind him.

  The officer bowed stiffly to Fox and gave Jacob a slightly awkward smile. “We… eh… only set to sea in an hour. I would like to introduce you to our captain. I’m sure he’d find some of your adventures very interesting.”

  Jacob quickly had a polite refusal on the tip of his tongue, but Fox interceded. “Which ship do you serve on, Mr. Cunningham?”

  Cunningham pointed behind him. “The Titania. We’re escorting a shipment of arms to Flanders. We sail at sunset.”

  Fox gave Cunningham her most seductive smile. “It will be our pleasure,” she said, taking the bundle with the uniform from Jacob’s arms and quickly hiding it behind her back.

  Cunningham’s bearded face beamed with delight, and Jacob sent a silent apology to all the reporters he’d ever cursed for the lies and exaggerations they had published about him.

  “Certainly,” he said. “We’re in no rush. I wouldn’t even mind coming along for the whole journey. I love going on voyages.” A more brazen lie had never left his lips.

  Cunningham looked as though he couldn’t believe his luck.

  *

  The captain of the Titania shared his first officer’s passion for treasure hunting. He put them up in the cabin the King himself used whenever he paid a visit to his flagship. When Cunningham introduced them as Jacob Reckless and wife, Jacob had to explain that Fox was only blushing because they hadn’t been married long. It was just one of the many lies he’d have to come up with over the next hours.

  The captain served them a dinner opulent enough for a journey of three hundred days instead of three. As the Titania weighed anchor, the ship’s cook was serving dessert, and Jacob found it increasingly difficult to ignore the movements of the ship while Cunningham quizzed him about adventures that had been completely made up by some newspaper. When the captain, whose mustache was just as dreadful as his King’s, began quizzing Jacob about the butchering techniques of Ogres, Fox used the bloody subject as a pretext to excuse herself. Jacob would have loved to follow her, but Cunningham wouldn’t let him go. Jacob had to console himself with the fact that by the time he’d be able to get away, Fox would have checked all the guards and escape routes on board. Through the stern windows of the captain’s cabin, Jacob could see lanterns of other frigates, and ahead were the moonlit iron flanks of Brunel’s ship.

  “Would Mr. Brunel be on board the Vulcan on a voyage like this?” Jacob was proud of the nonchalance with which he asked the question.

  The captain shook his head with disdain. “To my knowledge he’s never even left Albion. Isn’t that right, Cunningham?”

  His first officer nodded as he poured himself another glass of port. “Brunel’s not too fond of the sea.”

  “And his ship shows it.” The captain downed his glass as though he could wash away the iron ship with it. “Sadly, our King has been smitten with Brunel ever since he built that horseless carriage. You see them everywhere now. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. That iron monstrosity out there is making us the laughingstock of the world. Our metal babysitter.”

  Jacob’s eyes were glued to the Vulcan while Cunningham and the captain waxed lyrical about past military engagements at sea and the beauty of wooden ships on fire. When the two officers began to discuss the penetration power of modern cannons and the annoyance of smashed-up limbs, Jacob quickly made his excuses—though they would have certainly loved the story about Chanute’s missing arm.

  The silver moon, which resembled the one in the other world so much, was standing between the black clouds. Its red twin stained the waves like rusty metal. Fox was waiting at the bow. Below her, the figurehead stretched over the frothy waters.

  “How’s your stomach?” Nobody except her knew about his dislike of sea travel. Not even Chanute. “You’re lucky the sea is calm.”

  And lucky that an officer of the Regal Navy had recognized him after he mistook Albion’s leading engineer for his father. Maybe his luck had returned. About time…

  “Three guards on the prow,” Fox whispered. “I’ll distract them while you climb over the railing.”

  One of the guards was leaning just a few yards away between the lifeboats, looking in their direction. What did he see? Lovers in the moonlight? And what if that were true, Jacob? What if he allowed himself to forget what Fox had been to him all these years? Even the guard wanted to kiss her. It was written all over his face.

  You’d break her heart, Jacob. Or Fox, his.

  “What are you waiting for?” She put the backpack in his hand.

  “Don’t give him too much hope. He’s nearly two heads taller than you.”

  Fox smiled. “I think you have the more dangerous task.”

  She sauntered toward the guard in a straight line, just as the vixen approached her prey.

  Jacob leaned over the railing. The figurehead had the body of a Dragon but the head of a man. Dunbar had first noticed how much the gilded face resembled statues of the Witch Slayer during his research for a lecture on the history of the Regal Navy. Jacob still thought it was a rather far-fetched theory, but the figure supposedly came alive whenever the fleet was attacked. The head of a Warlock to protect Albion’s fleet. Some black magic was always useful, even in these modern times. Dunbar claimed that Feirefis’s great-great-grandson had begun the tradition of fitting the flagship’s figurehead with the miraculous head, not knowing that it was that of his wizarding ancestor.

  Jacob looked around.

  Robert Lewis Dunbar, I hope you’re not wrong about this!

  He couldn’t see the guard anymore. Where had Fox lured him? Forget about it, Jacob. She’s a grown-up. He took the Rapunzel-hair from the snuff tin where he kept it. The golden hair was one of the few items he hadn’t lost in the Goyl fortress—thanks to Valiant. Jacob rubbed it between his fingers, and the hair grew fiber on fiber until it was stronger than any hemp rope. Jacob tied one end to the railing. The other end he dropped down, and it immediately wrapped itself around the neck of the figurehead. He jumped over the railing and rappelled down the glistening rope until he could clamber onto the Dragon’s back.

  Don’t look down, Jacob.

  He could stand on any precipice without the slightest reaction from his stomach, but the sight of the water beneath nearly made him vomit all over Guismond’s golden head. The Dragon’s wings, which were pressed against its body, were also covered with golden scales, but its body and neck were made of scarlet-painted wood.

  Jacob loosened the Rapunzel-rope from the bulky neck and tied it around his waist. Then he pulled a fishing net from his backpack and wrapped it around the head and neck so that the head, once he cut it off, wouldn’t just drop into the ocean. His fingers were damp from the spray, and the high waves made him slip twice, but the Rapunzel-rope saved him from falling into the water.

  The head was attached to the Dragon’s neck with a broad metal band, but the knife Jacob pulled from his belt could even cut through steel. He’d stolen it from the kitchen of Valiant’s castle. There was nothing better than a Dwarf knife, and Valiant owed Jacob much more than a knife, anyway, for the scars he bore on his back.

  On the horizon, the first light of morning was eating into the night
like mold. Hurry, Jacob. Of course, he expected that Guismond had secured his three bequests with a spell that would allow only his children to touch them without harm. So Jacob pulled on the gloves that had protected him in the tomb before he slipped the knife through the net. It cut through the metal band like fresh bread, and as he touched the head, he felt nothing—the gloves worked. Good. Jacob was halfway through when he heard a sound from above. Fox was standing by the railing. He motioned her to wait up there; the figurehead’s mounting didn’t look strong enough to support them both. Suddenly, the wooden body beneath him bucked. Even though it was only connected by a few inches of metal, the golden head opened its mouth and let out a scream that resounded far across the water.

  Jacob heard the engines even before the planes appeared out of the dawn light. A squadron of double-deckers was headed toward them across the black waves. The sailors were so dumbfounded that the planes managed to reach the ships before a single gun was aimed at them. They bore down on the Albian fleet like an aerie of eagles swooping down on a swarm of defenseless fish. Their red fuselages were painted with the black outline of a salamander—which had replaced the Fairy’s moth on the Goyl crest ever since their King had taken a human wife.

  The figurehead flapped its wings, and Guismond’s head screamed through the net that Jacob had pulled over its gilded skin. He held on tight to the Dragon’s neck as the first bombs exploded between the ships. Screams and shots joined the noise of the howling engines. Explosions tore through the wooden hulls, and men dropped from the riggings like birds. Fire rained from the sky, setting even the sea itself aflame. The head, Jacob! Or you’ll soon be as dead as those already being eaten by the fish down there—even if you manage to survive today.

  Above him, Fox was trying desperately to steady the rope. Jacob clawed his fingers into the net; he ducked just before one of the wings could slice its barbed shoulder through his back. Fox was screaming something at him, but Jacob couldn’t hear her through the noise. And he could hardly see anything, either. His eyes were burning from the biting smoke gathering between the ships. Even the wind reeked of powder and burning wood, but the planes kept up their attacks. The howl of their engines nearly burst Jacob’s eardrums, and the Titania groaned like a wounded animal.