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.’
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.’