He gripped the bolt more firmly. His chest was numb, and he managed to pull it out with one tug. It didn’t hurt half as much as the moth’s bites, and the sharp point was clean, as though he’d pulled it out of a piece of wood instead of his own flesh.
The Bastard came toward him and took the bolt from his hand.
“Let her go,” he said to the Waterman.
Fox was shivering as she knelt down by Jacob’s side. Shivering with rage, fear, exhaustion. He wanted to take her away, far away from Bluebeard chambers and enchanted palaces.
Fox looked at him in disbelief as he got to his feet. The skin above his heart was flawless. Even the wound left by the moth had healed. He felt as young as on the first day he went treasure hunting with Chanute.
The Bastard looked at him with a wry smile. “That would also be a good story for the papers: Jacob Reckless has the Witch Slayer’s blood.”
He pulled a swindlesack over the crossbow and dropped the bolt into it.
Jacob looked at the mirror. The Bastard could be right, even if not exactly the way he thought.
“You still want to sell the crossbow to Crookback, or did Louis ruin his father’s chances?”
Talk, Jacob. Play for time.
He’d made a promise to Dunbar.
Fox looked at him.
Two against two.
“What will be your price? A castle? A medal? A title?” Jacob looked at the mirror again. Fox had noticed it as well.
What if he was wrong? It was worth a try.
“Let’s put it this way…” The Bastard put the swindlesack in his pocket. “You got what you wanted. I’ll get what I want.”
“What if I can give you a better price? Better than anything Wilfred of Albion or the Lords of the East could offer you?”
“What could that be? I have a castle full of treasure.”
“Treasure!” Jacob shrugged disdainfully. “You can’t fool me. You care about that as little as I do.”
The Bastard kept his eyes on Jacob. The Goyl liked to claim they could read human faces like open books. “What are you getting at?”
“That the Preachers are right.”
The thin mouth stretched into a sneer. “The gateway to heaven.”
“I wouldn’t call it heaven.” Jacob felt his regained life like a drug. He had cheated death, so why not the Bastard? “I think you’re right about the blood,” he said, “but it’s got nothing to do with kinship. It’s just that Guismond and I came from the same place.”
The Waterman grunted impatiently. He was probably already picturing the girl to whom he would offer Guismond’s treasures in some damp cave. He was going to read her every wish from her eyes, but he’d never let her go.
“They are going to be here soon,” Eaumbre whispered. “The Dwarfs… Crookback’s men… every self-respecting treasure hunter. They will all come, but we can still shift most of the stuff.”
“Then why are you still standing there?” the Bastard replied. “Take what you want, and go. It’s all yours.”
The Waterman gave Jacob a six-eyed glance that seemed to know exactly how many of his kind Jacob and Fox had hunted down and cheated of their quarry.
“I wouldn’t trust them if I were you,” he whispered to Nerron. Then he turned and disappeared through the door into the audience chamber without looking around again.
Nerron stayed silent until the Waterman’s steps had receded. He looked at the pictures around them. His eyes stopped on the silver archway and Guismond’s knights flooding through them. Jacob caught a brief glimpse of a child’s yearning on the speckled face. He even nearly regretted that he couldn’t let the Goyl have what he longed for. But Dunbar was right. Some things should never be found, and if they were found, then their next hiding place had to be better than the first. He stepped over Guismond’s body. Where was all that life coming from that he suddenly felt coursing through his veins? Was some of it the Witch Slayer’s? Not a pleasant thought.
“I’m sure you know them as well as I do,” he said, slowly walking toward the mirror. “The stories about Guismond’s origins. That he was a king’s bastard, the child of a Witch, the son of a golden-haired Devil. Nobody ever figured out that he simply came from another world.”
Jacob stopped next to the mirror.
“This is it,” he said. “The door you’ve been looking for.”
Nerron’s face melted into the dark glass as he stepped to Jacob’s side. Jacob saw how much the Goyl wanted to believe him. He had learned to read the speckled face.
“Prove it, Fox,” he said.
Of course she knew what he was planning. It wasn’t hard to guess. But Fox shrank from the mirror.
“No. You do it.” The fear in her voice was not pretend. For a moment, Jacob worried she wouldn’t follow him. But she’d also made a promise to Dunbar, just as he had.
Nerron’s eyes met his on the dark glass.
The best…
Jacob wouldn’t have minded letting him claim the title. Just a pity the Bastard also wanted the crossbow.
“Go on, then,” Nerron said, “prove it.”
Nerron didn’t notice how Fox moved closer to his side. All he saw was the mirror.
Jacob pressed his hand on the glass.
66
ONE INSTANT
One instant. Jacob disappeared and the Bastard forgot where or who he was. And what he was carrying in his pocket. Just one instant. But that was enough for the vixen. More than enough.
Fox was at the mirror before he could grab her. She had the sack in her hand. His angry howl pierced her ears as she put her hand on the glass.
And then it was all gone.
The Goyl.
The enchanted palace.
Her entire world.
67
THE OTHER SIDE
Fox turned around and Jacob took her hand. He remembered the feeling, that first time your own world disappeared and you found yourself in a different one. The dizziness. The question whether one was dreaming or awake. He was sorry he couldn’t give her more time.
Jacob pulled her away from the mirror and smashed the dark glass with his pistol handle. He hacked away at it until the silver frame held nothing but a few sharp-edged shards. Fox flinched with every strike, as though it were her world he was smashing to pieces. She clutched the sack with the crossbow, holding on to the only thing still connecting her to her world. Jacob was surprised the sack’s magic was still working.
“Where are we?” Fox whispered.
Yes, where?
Around them it was so dark that Jacob barely saw his own hands. He stumbled over a cable, and when he tried to steady himself, his hand touched heavy velvet.
“Kto tu jest?”
The floodlight that flared up above them was so bright that Fox pressed her hands to her eyes. The pieces of the mirror crunched under her boots as she stepped backward and got tangled in a black curtain. Jacob grabbed her arm and pulled her to his side.
A stage. A table, a lamp, two chairs, and between them the mirror. A prop. Nothing else. How had it gotten here? Had it been hidden for years among dusty theater props? Had anybody used it since Guismond passed through with his knights, or had it kept its secret since? How had the Witch Slayer gotten hold of it? So many questions. The same ones Jacob had asked himself countless times about the other mirror. Where did they come from? How many were there? And who made them? For a long time, he’d searched for the answers, but still the only clue he had was the piece of paper he’d found in his father’s book.
Two more lights came on at his feet. Rows of red seats faded into the darkness. It was a large theater.
“Rozbiliscie Lustro!” The man stumbling toward them stopped dead when he saw the bloody outline of the moth on Jacob’s shirt.
Jacob slid his hand into his pocket and gave the man his friendliest smile.
“Przykro mi. Zaplaçe za nie.” That was about the extent of his Polish—if what he’d heard was, in fact, Polish. Jacob had done some business with an antiques dealer in Warsaw, but that was a long time ago.
Luckily, he still had a half-decent coin on him, but the man eyed the gold piece warily, as though Jacob had paid him with stage money.
Just get out of here, Jacob.
He took Fox’s hand and pulled her toward the stage steps. He still felt like a reborn man.
Dressing rooms. Another staircase. A dark foyer and a row of glass doors. Jacob found one that wasn’t locked. The air that greeted him and Fox was heavy with the smells and sounds of his world.
Fox stared aghast at the four-lane road in front of them. The lights above it were so much brighter than anything in her world. A car passed them. Traffic lights tinged the asphalt red, and on the other side of the road a skyscraper stretched toward the night sky.
Jacob took the swindlesack from Fox’s hand and pulled her close.
“We go back soon,” he whispered to her. “I promise. I just want to check on Will and find a good hiding place for the crossbow.”
She nodded and wrapped her arms around him.
It was over.
And it was all good.
68
THE RED
Jacob lived.
The moth was gone and he lived.
How?
The Red Fairy yelled her rage across the water that had borne her.
Nothing could break the most powerful curse of the Fairies. It brought death to any mortal. Eradicated them as though they never existed. Nothing else could ever bring her peace. She wanted her only memory of him to be that of his death.
Yet he lived.
The lake turned as black as the night sky, and the water showed her the weapon that had broken her sister’s curse like a brittle twig.
The Red flinched.
Alder wood.
A string of flexible glass.
A mortised pattern on the gilded shaft.
No.
They were gone. For a long, long time.
All of them.
Banished into the trees that had given them their name. Not one had escaped.
The Red wanted to turn away, but there was something drifting among the lilies. She knelt down and reached for it.
It was a card.
A wilted leaf was stuck to the white paper. Startled, the Fairy pulled back her hand.
Only once before had winter come to her island.
No.
They were gone.
All of them.
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THE RECKLESS SERIES
I
The Petrified Flesh
I I
Living Shadows
I I I
The Golden Yarn
Copyright
Pushkin Children’s Books
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London WC2H 9JQ
© Cornelia Funke and Lionel Wigram, 2013
English language translation © Cornelia Funke and Lionel Wigram, 2013
Illustrations © Cornelia Funke 2016
Map © 2012 Raul Garcia
Inspired by a tale discovered and explored with Lionel Wigram
First published by Pushkin Children’s Books in 2016
ISBN 978 1 782691 28 0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from Pushkin Press
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Reckless II Page 27