Fearless (Mirrorworld) - By Cornelia Funke Page 0,79

the way the fat butcher stared at you have been warning enough?

He clawed at the slippery wall. Eaumbre was drifting in the briny water deep below. The Waterman was staring up at him as though it was his fault they’d ended like that. Eaumbre could probably survive for years down there in his scaly skin.

The best? My foot! No more eternal glory as a treasure hunter. Into a well, Nerron, a well! The good people of Champlitte now clearly used it only to dispense with unwelcome visitors. Running water, gaslights . . . wherever all that wealth came from, they didn’t like strangers, and definitely not ones with a stone skin.

Nerron put his forehead against the damp wall. Do not look down. Water. The Goyl’s ultimate fear.

He’d tried to heave up the iron plate they’d placed over the well, but after that landed him next to the Waterman, he refrained from any further attempts. His clothes were still damp and as slimy as a snail’s flesh.

His only consolation was that now Reckless wouldn’t get the crossbow, either. Maybe someday one of those scholars who dug up old stones would fish his well-preserved remains from the well and would wonder why he’d been carrying a golden head and a severed hand.

Nerron groaned – by now his claws were aching as though they were being slowly pulled from his fingers – and he pressed himself against the cold wall as he heard voices above. Were the townspeople coming back because they’d decided to burn him alive instead, as they used to do with his kind in Austry?

The iron plate lifted. It had been afternoon when they were thrown into the well, but the piece of sky that now came into view was already darker than Nerron’s skin. His golden eyes squinted as the light of a lantern beamed down the well shaft.

‘What a picture!’ A twangy voice echoed into the well. Arsene Lelou was staring down at him, thrilled, like a child staring at a captured insect. Nerron never thought the sight of the Bug would make him that happy.

His aching fingers barely managed to grab hold of the rope Lelou threw down the well. Someone yanked him so roughly over the well’s wall that he grazed his stony skin. Nerron knew the oafish face from the household of Louis’s cousin. One of the kitchen hands. Milkbeard. He even used that name himself. He threw Nerron on the ground as though he’d spent his whole miserable existence waiting to lay his lumpish hands on a Goyl.

‘By all means hurt him. But don’t kill him!’ Lelou stabbed the tip of his boot into Nerron’s side. It smelled of wax. The Bug spent hours polishing his buttoned boots. ‘What did you expect?’ he hissed. ‘That I’d return Crookback’s son as a Snow-White and get myself executed in your stead? That wasn’t the deal. Elven dust! You really have to try a bit harder if you want to fool Arsene Lelou.’

The Bug loved speaking of himself in the third person.

‘Take his backpack!’ he ordered.

The kitchen boy pressed his boots so hard into Nerron’s back that he thought he could hear his spine crack.

‘I hope you still have the head and the hand,’ Lelou purred. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to throw you right back into that well. We will find the crossbow together, and should you try to sneak off again, I’ll immediately telegraph Crookback about what you did to his son.’

Milkbeard dragged Nerron to his feet. They had an audience. Despite the late hour, half of Champlitte had gathered around the well. The butcher wasn’t the only one who looked disappointed that the stoneface was still alive. Nerron was probably the first Goyl they’d ever seen in the flesh. He wanted to scream at Kami’en: Forget Albion! Start invading Lotharaine now. Nerron wanted to see them dead, all the brave burghers of Champlitte who’d tried to drown him like a cat.

Lelou pressed his pistol into Nerron’s side.

‘Go on. Fish the Waterman out as well!’ he barked at the boy. How, by the Devil and all his golden hairs, had he found them?

The answer was standing in front of the butcher’s shop. The gold ornaments on Louis’s cousin’s carriage would have fed not only the butcher but the whole of Champlitte for a year. Sitting on the coachman’s box was the dog man who trained the princely cousin’s hounds. In Vena, he already used to stare at Nerron in a way like he’d love nothing more than