Fearless (Mirrorworld) - By Cornelia Funke Page 0,89
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.’
Fox rubbed her scuffed wrists. ‘Where did you take the body?’
Valiant held up his hands. As small as children’s hands, and strong enough to bend metal. ‘Not so fast. Jacob is like a brother to me, but we need to renegotiate. There’ll be additional costs now that the fool has let himself get captured.’
‘Like a brother?’ Fox hissed across the table. ‘You’d probably sell Jacob for the silver fingernails of a Thumbling! I wouldn’t be surprised if you joined forces with the Goyl, if he offered you a bigger share.’
That thought brought a flattered smile to the Dwarf’s face. He took any reference to his cunning as a compliment.
‘We should discuss all this in a less public place,’ he purred. ‘My chauffeur is waiting outside. Chauffeur . . .’ He gave Fox a meaningful wink. ‘A wonderful word, isn’t it? Sounds so much more modern than “coachman”.’
As they stepped into the street, the wind nearly blew the ridiculously high hat off the Dwarf’s head. The houses were cowering in the shadow of the mountain, their walls dark with rain. The chauffeur was anxiously wiping the water off the dark green paint of his enormous automobile. He was, of course, human. The horseless vehicle looked even more alien on a village road than the ones Fox had seen in Vena.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Valiant said while the chauffeur rushed towards them with an umbrella. ‘I am a man of the future. The speed’s still a little disappointing, but the looks I get more than make up for that.’
The chauffeur held the umbrella over Fox’s head, though the wind nearly tore it out of his hand. He helped the Dwarf on to the much-too-high footboard.
‘Whatever the reason for this weather,’ Valiant whispered as the shivering Fox sat down next to him on the brown leather, ‘this cold does make keeping a headless King fresh much easier.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
THE SAME TRADE
The Bastard came every night – whenever he had the watch and the others had fallen asleep. He gave Jacob food and sometimes even some of the wine the prince had left over.
Tell me. How did you get through the labyrinth? How did Chanute survive the Troll caves? And to make yourself invisible . . . which method do you use? Did you ever find one of the candles that call the Iron Man with their flame?
During the first night, Jacob answered him with silence or some lie. But by the second night that became boring, so he followed every answer with a counter-question: How did you find the hand? How did you figure out where to catch me with the head? Where do you catch the lizards whose skins you use for your bullet-proof vests?
The same trade.
Of course, the Bastard searched his pockets, and when the Goyl rubbed the gold handkerchief between his fingers Jacob was glad for once that it had stopped working properly. Nerron. Just one name, like all Goyl. His meant ‘black’ in their language. Who’d given him that name? His mother, to deny the malachite in his skin? Or was it the onyx, who usually drowned their bastards? Nerron even checked Earlking’s card, but in the Goyl’s fingers, it just showed the printed name.
Nerron held up the ballpoint pen Jacob always carried because it was so much easier to write with than the quills or the old-fashioned fountain pens used behind the mirror.
‘What do you do with this?’
‘Wishing ink.’ The Goyl had brought meat, and Jacob put some of it in his mouth. The Waterman had, despite Louis’s orders, loosened his ropes. The Bug Man seemed to be the only one who was unquestioningly loyal to the prince. But it was probably still best not to underestimate Louis. He had the same cunning face as his father, though he was probably only half as smart.
‘Wishing ink?’ The Bastard put the pen in his pocket. ‘Never heard of it.’