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The shelves were lined with rows of books as neat as those found only in libraries that were never used. Louis’s cousin loved to give himself the appearance of an educated man.
One hour. The Waterman delivered on time. The crown prince of Lotharaine did, of course, not knock.
‘The Waterman says we have something to discuss?’ As usual, he reeked of elven dust and the disgusting eau de toilette he applied as liberally as water. ‘Stay outside!’ he ordered Eaumbre as the Waterman tried to follow him. ‘You stink of fish again. Go and find my cousin. I want to go out.’
Eaumbre’s eyes brushed Nerron with a bland glance before he closed the door. Lelou obviously hadn’t taught Louis anything about the pride of Watermen. Quite a dangerous knowledge gap.
‘Did you bring the hand?’
Louis held up the sack.
‘I hope you kept it well away from yourself?’
‘Why?’ Louis frowned. The elven dust made thinking even more difficult than it usually was for him.
‘What is Lelou teaching you? Black magic is not particularly healthy. And it’ll be me who’ll have to answer to your father for any side effects!’ Nerron offered him the apple. ‘Here. The antidote tastes disgusting, but I asked the cook to make it a little more palatable.’
‘An apple?’ Louis flinched. ‘I never touch apples. Two of my aunts were poisoned that way.’
‘As you wish.’ Nerron put the apple on a lectern, next to a book on the family history of Louis’s Austrian relatives, which was gathering dust. ‘Go see a doctor if you don’t believe me. And keep an eye on your fingernails. Once they turn black, it may be too late already.’
Louis stared at his fingers.
‘I’m sick of treasure hunting!’ he burst out. ‘All that magical nonsense. I’m so over it.’
He took the apple and eyed it so warily that Nerron nearly gave up hope. ‘Is that chocolate?’
One bite and he slumped over. Nerron caught him before he hit the marble floor. Not so easy, considering Louis’s weight.
He leant over him and blew into his sleeping face. ‘Where is the heart of Guismond the Witch Slayer?’
‘What?’ Louis mumbled.
Nerron cursed so loudly he had to press his hand over his own mouth. Compared to the princeling, the vagrant on whom he’d tried the formula six years earlier had turned into a veritable font of wisdom.
‘Guis-mond the Witch Slay-er,’ Nerron whispered into the royal ear.
Louis wanted to roll on his side, but Nerron held him; he had to apply quite a lot of force against the princely weight.
‘Lotharaine,’ Louis mumbled.
‘Where in Lotharaine?’
Louis shuddered. ‘Champlitte,’ he whispered. ‘White as milk. Black as a sliver of night. Set in gold.’
Then he began to snore.
He’d be doing little else for the next ten years. Clairvoyance had its price.
Nerron got up. Champlitte. White as milk. Black as a sliver of night. Set in gold. What the devil? He sprinkled Louis’s clothes and hands with elven dust and tucked a few more sachets into his pockets. Then he dropped the apple into the swindlesack with the hand, and stuffed that into the saddlebag that already held the sack with the head. He opened the door – and found himself staring at the Waterman’s uniformed chest.
Eaumbre looked over Nerron’s shoulder.
‘What did you do to him?’ His voice grated on Nerron’s skin like a wet rasp.
‘He overdid the elven dust.’ Nerron surreptitiously put his hand on his pistol.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ the Waterman whispered. ‘Where are you going? You think Crookback will get any joy from his crossbow if he gets his son back as Snow-White?’ The scaly face stretched into a grim smile. ‘But Crookback was never supposed to get the crossbow, was he? You want to sell it to the highest bidder.’
