Reckless II

by Cornelia Funke

  It is over, Fox.

  Troisclerq reached out with his bloody hand and grabbed Jacob’s arm.

  “I’ll see you,” he whispered.

  His hand didn’t let go, but his eyes went as blank as his victims’. Jacob pried the fingers from his arm. Then he staggered to his feet and dropped the rapier. The blood on the blade was black.

  His hand trembled as he unlocked the chains around Fox’s throat and arms with the Bluebeard’s key. Then he held the pitcher to her lips.

  “Drink!” he whispered. “Forget about him. Drink as much as you can. It will be all right.”

  48

  TOO LATE

  A Bluebeard’s house. Of course. At least now some of Louis’s ramblings had made sense. White as milk. Not clear enough? Nerron cursed his own thick-wittedness as he caught a glimpse of the withered hedgerows and the stag standing forlornly in front of the unlit house. He ran off before the bloodhounds could get him.

  The Bluebeard was laid out in his red chamber, surrounded by nine women. They lay next to their murderer as though they were sleeping. Lelou threw up in the corridor. The Bug had a sensitive stomach when confronted with death. Even Eaumbre looked rather distraught at the row of beautiful corpses, but then he quickly went off in search of the Bluebeard’s treasure chamber. Watermen at least kept their girls alive—though some would probably prefer death over a life in a pond.

  Black like a piece of night set in gold. You’re a fool, Nerron. Louis had told him everything he’d wanted to know. Wherever the heart had been hidden in this horrible place, Reckless had found it. Nerron would have bet the head and the hand on that. Just as he was certain the blood in the entrance hall was not that of his rival.

  They found some thoroughly wiped tracks in the driveway, but making yourself invisible wasn’t easy when you were transporting an injured man. And it slowed you down.

  They’d catch up with them soon enough.

  49

  TWO CUPS

  The house, which Fox had found in a dark pine forest barely two miles from Champlitte, smelled neither of cinnamon nor of molten sugar. There also were no gingerbreads on the walls—and you didn’t need a fur dress to scent the dark magic wafting around the house like a bad smell. Jacob would have preferred a Witch like Alma, but Donnersmarck was as good as dead, and child-eaters could heal even the most terrible wounds. It was just best not to ask what went into their potions.

  The woman who opened the door was very beautiful and very young. Most Dark Witches showed themselves in that form even if they were hundreds of years old. Jacob and Fox put Donnersmarck on her kitchen table so she could inspect his wounds. The nails on her fingers were so long and sharp, they made Jacob grateful his friend was already unconscious. Donnersmarck was paying a high price for helping him, and Jacob was not just worried about the wounds inflicted by the Man-Stag. The Witch confirmed his fears. When Jacob described to her who had attacked his friend, she shook her head with a vicious smile.

  “I can save his life,” she said. “But I can’t do anything about him maybe wearing antlers one day. You can stay in my stable. This will take a few days, and you know the price. His life will cost you two cups of blood.” The Witch cut off Fox before she could protest. “Careful now! Or I might also ask for the dress that’s out there in that Devil-Horse’s saddlebag. I’m sure it gives you a beautiful fur.”

  The Witch cut Jacob’s arm expertly, and the two cups were quickly filled. Then she rushed them out of the house. Dark Witches never allowed anyone to witness their craft. The cups had taken a lot of blood. Fox and Jacob chained the Devil-Horses to some trees, and Fox took the saddlebags with her. Jacob had found the fur dress in the servant’s room—and only then had the fear finally disappeared from Fox’s face.

  She caught a few will-o’-the-wisps before she bandaged his arm in the dark stable. It was barely more than a shack, and definitely not the kind of place he’d wanted to take her to after the Bluebeard’s chamber. But the woods out there were no better. This will take a few days. Jacob had wanted to return to Vena as quickly as possible, to start searching for the Bastard. The moth on his chest was missing only two more spots, and the heart was no good to him as long as the Goyl had the head and the hand. But they could hardly repay Donnersmarck for all his help by leaving him alone with a child-eater. The Witch’s needle had kept him from bleeding out, but there wasn’t much life left in him. Jacob didn’t tell Fox about the fourth bite in the Bluebeard’s labyrinth. He was so relieved to have her by his side again, breathing and unhurt, that the moth seemed nothing more but a nightmare, and death was something they’d both left in Troisclerq’s red chamber.

  Fox was so exhausted that she was asleep before Jacob could explain to her why he’d taken the necklace off one of the dead girls. She probably hadn’t even noticed—all she’d been concerned about was whether Troisclerq had destroyed her fur dress.

  Jacob lay down next to her on the filthy straw, but he couldn’t sleep. He just listened to her breathing. At some point a crowned snake crawled into the stable, a kind found only in Lotharaine. The black lily on its head was worth a hundred gold talers, but Jacob didn’t even lift his head. He didn’t want to think about treasure, or about the crossbow, or about having to die soon. Fox was sleeping a deep sleep. Her face was peaceful, as though she’d left all her fear behind in the Bluebeard’s house. She was back in the men’s clothes she’d worn on their trip to Albion. She’d left the Bluebeard’s dress next to her sisters-in-death. Jacob couldn’t take his eyes off her sleeping face. It finally erased all the images that had been tormenting him since Vena. It felt like a miracle that she was still alive, a magic that would pass. No Fairy island, no Lark’s Water, just a bed of filthy straw and her rhythmic breathing—yet nothing had ever felt better.

  Jacob had spent years looking for one of the Hourglasses that stopped time for the Empress. He’d never understood why this was one of the most coveted treasures one could find behind the mirror. There had never been a moment he’d wanted to hold on to forever. The next one always had more promise, and even the most glorious day began to taste stale after a few hours. But now he was lying in the stable of a child-eater, his arm sliced open and death in his chest, wishing for an Hourglass. He waved away a will-o’-the-wisp that had settled on Fox’s brow—they often brought bad dreams—and brushed the hair from her sleeping face.

  His touch woke her. She reached out and ran her finger over the cut Troisclerq’s rapier had left on his left cheek.

  “I am so sorry,” she whispered.

  As if it was her fault he’d been too blind to protect her from Troisclerq. Jacob put his finger on her lips and shook his head. He had no idea how to apologize for all the fear and terror she’d never be able to forget. There was no consolation in that they’d both been Troisclerq’s prey, that they’d given Troisclerq a death he might have even been longing for after all the stolen lifetimes. Was it possible to escape death too long? Could there be too much life? It was hard to believe that on a night like this.

  “You heard the Witch,” he said quietly. “We’ll be here a few days. So sleep! It’s not the coziest of places, but much better than the one we came from, don’t you think?”

  Fox didn’t answer. Her eyes wandered to his chest, to where the moth was hiding beneath his shirt. She hadn’t forgotten about death. From his backpack, Jacob pulled the necklace he’d taken from Ramée’s granddaughter. Her face incredulous, Fox touched the black heart.

  “Two treasures in one go,” Jacob whispered. “I’ll tell you the whole story. But now you have to rest.”

  She was so pale. He felt as though he could see through her skin.

  Outside, one of the Devil-Horses whinnied.

  Fox sat up.

  The horse was quiet again, but it wasn’t a good silence.

  She was quicker to the stable door than he. His eyes
couldn’t make out anything suspicious between the dark trees, but Fox reached for the saddlebag with her fur dress.

  “Someone’s there.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  She just shook her head. Jacob watched the trees while she put on the fur dress. The horses were still restless. Maybe they just smelled the Witch.

  No, Jacob.

  It was a moonless night, and he barely noticed the vixen dart off. There was still light behind the Witch’s window. A dog was barking somewhere.

  Why did you let her go, Jacob? She was too weak. He could still see the pitcher, filled to the rim with her fear. Again, a dog barking. His hand reached for his pistol. He was just about to go after her when the fur of the vixen brushed against his leg.

  “They are over there, to the left, between the trees. The Bastard and five others.” Fox pulled Jacob away from the stable door. He thought he could still feel the fur on her hands. “You can smell the Waterman from miles off. And they have two bloodhounds.”

  Damn. How did the Goyl get there? Jacob seemed unable to shake him off, like a shadow. Jacob rubbed his bandaged arm. It was his left—the heart arm, as the Witches called it. Sadly, it was also his better shooting arm. Not to mention the blood he was missing, and he still had the fight with Troisclerq in his bones. The Bastard would take the heart, and it would be like taking it off a child.

  “Maybe the Witch can help us,” Fox whispered.

  “Sure. But I can’t afford to give another two cups of blood. And have you forgotten about the Waterman?” Witch magic was as powerless against Watermen as a lit fuse thrown into a pond.

  “I can try to lure them away.”

  “No.”

  She knew him well enough to know that this “no” was final.

  Jacob looked toward the Devil-Horses. Even if he and Fox managed to get away, what about Donnersmarck?

  Damn. Too little time in the wrong place.

  He took the black heart from his pocket. Fox flinched as he put the necklace around her neck. Jacob had wrapped the stone in a piece of cloth so it wouldn’t touch her.

  “Take it off before you go to sleep, and make sure the stone never sits on top of your heart!” he whispered. “The cloth will only protect your skin. I’ll try to get you at least an hour’s head start.”

  “No!” She wanted to take the necklace off, but Jacob grabbed her hands.

  “Nothing will happen to me. I’ll surrender myself before things get too hot.”

  “And then what? That Goyl already tried once before to kill you!”

  “He won’t, as long as I am his only chance of getting the heart! You just can’t get caught. Meet up with Valiant. Let the Dwarf deal with the Bastard. There’s an empty watchtower by the Dead City. I’ll tell the Goyl that’s where you’ll be waiting for him.”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “It’ll be all right,” he whispered.

  “When?” she whispered back. “Let’s try together. Please! We’ll be on the horses before they can start shooting.”

  “And Donnersmarck?” Jacob brushed a will-o’-the-wisp from her hair. An Hourglass. He’d find one. But the moment was now lost.

  “Take the rear.” He drew his pistol. “The wall’s so rotten, I’m sure you’ll find a crack over there.”

  Fox turned around, but Jacob pulled her back once more. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. Her heartbeat was like his own.

  Something stirred outside between the trees.

  “Run!” Jacob whispered.

  Red fur where just a moment before was pale skin.

  She was gone before he had turned around again.

  50

  A TRADE

  Yes, the vixen had spotted them. However, the stable she’d disappeared into had only one door, and Louis would hit anything that came out of there. He yawned as often as he breathed, but his eyes were halfway clear again, and he was a decent shot.

  “Shall I let them go?” The dog man could barely hold his panting charges.

  “No. Not yet.” The thought of them tearing the vixen to pieces made him nauseous. It wouldn’t take much and soon he’d be throwing up at every turn, like Lelou.

  Speaking of the Devil…

  “Are you sure he’s in there?” The Bug stared at the stable as though he were trying to burn a hole into the brittle walls. He was very proud of the pistol he’d started to carry in his belt.

  “Yes. He’s standing right behind the door.”

  Reckless thought the darkness hid him, but he’d forgotten he was dealing with a Goyl.

  “I best hit him straight in the head.” Louis trained his rifle. “Or do we need him alive?” His clan’s passion for the hunt. The excitement even made him forget to yawn. They still believed the story about the Albian spy.

  “No. Just shoot him dead,” Nerron replied. He didn’t want Louis to think he was softer than him. And, anyway, Reckless wouldn’t be so stupid as to run out in front of his rifle. Nerron was sure he had the heart. Once more, Reckless had been faster. Two to one for him, Nerron.

  Lelou nervously licked his lips. The pistol on his belt had not made a warrior out of him. Eaumbre was with Milkbeard by the Witch’s house. After what had happened in Vena, Louis had become even harsher toward the Waterman, but Eaumbre bore the insults with a stoic expression, and he kept acting as if he’d never given up the bodyguarding business.

  At Nerron’s sign, Eaumbre kicked in the Witch’s door. Yes, he was useful, though one could never be too sure which side he was on. Probably his own. The child-eater fluttered past him and landed on her roof with a loud croak. The magpie was the Dark Witches’ bird of choice; the White Witches preferred swallows. Reckless had probably been watching, but there was no movement behind the stable door.

  “One thing’s for sure,” Louis muttered. “When we find that crossbow, I get the first shot.”

  “Yes? And who would that be aimed at?”

  Louis gave Nerron an icy look. “A Goyl, of course. And with the second shot, I’ll wipe out the Albian army.”

  Eaumbre stood in front of Nerron. “Just one wounded man. He’s sleeping some kind of Witch sleep. Shall I bring him here to flush out the other one?”

  “No. I’ll get him out anyway.” Nerron drew his revolver and checked the ammunition. Nothing wrong with having a bit of fun.

  Eaumbre stood by his side. The well had obviously not dampened his lust for treasure hunting.

  “I’m coming as well.” Louis suppressed a yawn.

  To hell with Lelou and his toad spawn! Luckily, even the Bug understood that a dead prince meant a dead Arsene Lelou. “Best to let the Goyl handle this, my prince!” he purred. “Who’s going to shoot the spy if he gets away from Nerron and the Waterman?”

  Louis yawned once more. “Fine.” He pointed his rifle at the stable door again. “What are you waiting for, Goyl?”

  Nerron badly wanted to give him some of the lizard venom the onyx used to turn human skin into translucent slime. The crossbow, Nerron. It’ll be worth it all! He could already feel its wooden shaft in his hands. It would give all the treasure hunters sleepless nights. His ugly face would be on the front page of every newspaper, and princes and kings would beg him for his services. Only the onyx would wish him dead, once Kami’en put the crowns of Lotharaine and Albion on his head. They would curse the day they’d sent a five-year-old bastard home instead of to his death.

  Nerron left the dog man and Milkbeard with Louis. They were both loud and stupid, not worthy of this enemy. But he did give Milkbeard orders to set the Devil-Horses free. It would be far too humiliating should Reckless manage to escape on them.

  Nerron stayed under the trees until he could no longer be seen from the stable door. Reckless didn’t have eyes t
hat could see in the dark, and his skin wasn’t as black as the night, but the vixen was with him, and her senses were as sharp as a Goyl’s.

  A few quick steps across the yard. The back against the stable wall. Reckless was no longer standing behind the door. Nerron could see that much.

  Cat and mouse.

  He squeezed through the door.

  A cart. Bails of hay. Brushwood, the kind Witches used for their brooms. Especially the vixen could be hiding anywhere. Would Reckless shoot him without warning? Maybe. Though Reckless was more into rules than Nerron was. According to what people said about him, he had old-fashioned ideas about honor and decency, though he probably would’ve never admitted it.

  Where were they?

  Nerron briefly worried they might have escaped through some kind of spell—but here, in the Dark Witch’s territory, no magic worked besides her own. Hopefully, Lelou made sure Louis didn’t fall asleep.

  The Waterman was still standing in the doorway. What? Was he suddenly afraid of the dark? Go search, you idiot!

  Nerron rammed his saber into the brushwood.

  “I see you’re also quite good at playing hide-and-seek!” His voice sounded like ground-up granite. The damp well was still sitting in his bones. “I just want the heart. Then I’ll let you and the vixen go.” He might even keep that promise, but of course he couldn’t speak for Louis.

  A follet ran past him, and there were rats in the hay. A cozy place, but the vixen’s company without a doubt even turned the filthy stable of a child-eater into a romantic venue.

  There. He could hear someone breathe. You have him now, Nerron. All that hassle, just because he’d trusted the wolves.

  A sound made him spin around, but it was only the Waterman who’d stepped into one of the Witch’s rat traps. Scaly fool. He groaned and cursed as he freed his boot from the iron jaws. The noise distracted Nerron for a fraction of a second, but that was enough. Before he could turn again, he heard the click of a pistol’s hammer.