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 towards him. Lelou fed him toad spawn thrice daily (the Waterman was often gone hours to find it), but the effect always wore off towards the evening. And the princely breath again smelled of elven dust as well.
‘You obviously forget who 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 your 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 (it was 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.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
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 ageing 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 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.’