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‘Sure,’ Jacob said. ‘The apple. How could I forget?’
Chanute’s ugly face stretched into a relieved smile. ‘There you go. You’ll sort it out. And there’s also always that well.’
Jacob turned his back to him. He couldn’t let Chanute see the truth on his face.
‘Damn! I wish that Ogre had chewed off my head instead of my arm.’ Chanute held his hand to his cheek again. ‘You don’t have any moor-root on you?’ Eating moor-root numbed any pain, but it also made you feel for days as if you were being swarmed by will-o’-the-wisps. Jacob pulled the tin that contained his first-aid kit from his rucksack: moor-root, fever-haulm, a wound-dressing salve Alma had concocted for him, iodine, aspirin, and some antibiotics from the other world. Jacob fished out one of the roots and offered it to Chanute. The roots looked like shrivelled grubs, and they tasted hideous.
‘Where is Fox? Is she here?’
She’d been sensing for a while that something was wrong. But as long as there’d been hope, he’d found it easy to convince himself that it was best for her not to know the truth. He couldn’t wait to see her.
Chanute shook his head as he put the root into his mouth. ‘She’s been gone for weeks. The Dwarf wanted to hire you to get him a Man-Swan feather, and since you weren’t around, Fox offered to get it for him. Don’t look at me like that! She’s more careful than you, and smarter than the two of us together. She got the feather, but the swan got her on the arm. Nothing to worry about. She staying at the Dwarf’s until it’s fully healed. He bought himself some ramshackle castle with all the gold your tree’s giving him. Fox left you the address.’
He lifted the Ogre’s jaw, which he used as a paperweight, and held out an envelope to Jacob. The crest on it was embossed in real gold. The tree that Jacob had paid to buy a way into the Goyl fortress had made Evenaugh Valiant a very rich Dwarf.
‘Take her this if you’re going to see her.’ Chanute pushed a package towards him. It was wrapped in silk. ‘Tell Fox it’s from Ludovik Rensman. His father has the law offices behind the church. Ludovik is a good catch. You should have seen his face when I told him she was gone.’ He rolled his eyes. The last woman Chanute had been involved with was a rich widow from Schwanstein, but she hadn’t been able to tolerate the wolf heads he’d hung in her parlour.
‘Ahhh!’ Relieved, Chanute dropped on his bed. ‘It tastes worse than a Witch’s backside, but you can always count on moor-root!’ He still slept on the same old tattered blanket he’d always snored on in the wilderness. Maybe it made him dream of his old adventures.
Gold leaf stuck to Jacob’s fingers as he opened the envelope with Fox’s letter. Her handwriting was much better than his, even though he had taught her to write in the first place. The letter contained nothing more than a brief greeting and directions.
He’d been gone a long time.
‘Gallberg,’ he muttered. ‘That’s more than ten days’ ride from here. What does the Dwarf want with a castle in those godforsaken mountains?’
‘How would I know?’ Chanute’s eyes were already glazing over. ‘Maybe he’s trying to commune with Mother Nature? You know how sentimental those Dwarfs get with old age.’
Maybe, but that was definitely not true for Evenaugh Valiant. The Dwarf must have discovered a ream of silver beneath the castle. Jacob tucked Fox’s letter into his backpack. A Man-Swan feather . . . a dangerous assignment. But Chanute was right: Fox already knew just about as much about treasure hunting as he did.
was sleeping by the side of the road, his bundle clutched to his chest so that the Thumblings didn’t steal what little he owned. Jacob had not been much older when he first came to Schwanstein, but thanks to Alma he’d at least been better nourished.
The pointy gables had looked like one of the illustrations in his grandparents’ yellowed fairy-tale books, and the coal soot in the air had smelled so much more exciting than the exhaust fumes in the other world. Everything had smelled of adventure: the leather harnesses on the carriages, even the horse manure on the grimy cobblestones and the butcher’s scraps that were being picked over by some hungry Heinzel. A few months later he’d met Albert Chanute, and he’d lost his heart for good to the world behind the mirror.
The windows of The Ogre were still shuttered. Jacob tied Alma’s horse in front of the tavern’s door. Only the windows to his own room were open, just as he’d left them. Fox sometimes slept there when he was gone. He’d spent the whole journey lining up the words he wanted to say to her. But there was no version that made the truth sound any better.
Chanute’s new cook was behind the counter, washing the previous night’s dirty glasses. Chanute had hired the former soldier after too many tavern guests had complained about the food the owner cooked himself. Tobias Wenzel had lost his left leg in one of the battles with the Goyl, and he drank too much, but he was a very good cook.
‘He’s upstairs,’ he said as Jacob approached the bar. ‘Careful, though. He’s got a toothache, and the Goyl just raised the taxes.’
The Goyl had been ruling Austry for half a year, and nobody in Schwanstein suspected that the Reckless brothers had not been entirely blameless in this. Not that it would have interested anyone much, anyway. The men were back from the war (those who had survived it), and the Goyl were building new factories and roads, which was good for trade. Even the mayor was still the same. There were bombings and organised resistance in the capital, but most of the country had learnt to live with the new masters. And the Empress’s throne now belonged to her daughter, who was pregnant by her stone-skinned husband.
Chanute barked a grouchy ‘What?’ when Jacob knocked on his door. His chamber was crammed with even more memorabilia than The Ogre’s taproom.
‘Well, I never!’ he growled. His hand was pressed to a swollen cheek. ‘This time I really thought you wouldn’t come back.’ A toothache. Not something you wanted to have on this side of the mirror. Jacob had once had an infected tooth extracted in Vena. Fighting an Ogre took less courage.
‘And?’ Chanute scrutinised him through squinting eyes. ‘Did you find the bottle?’
‘Yes.’
‘See? I told you it wouldn’t be a problem.’ Chanute wiped a quill on his wooden hand and stared at the paper in front of him. He’d been writing his memoirs ever since some drunk patron had told him he could make a fortune from them.
‘Yes, I found it.’ Jacob went to the window. ‘But the blood didn’t help.’
Chanute put down his quill. He tried very hard not to look concerned, but he’d never been a good actor. ‘Damn,’ he muttered. ‘Never mind, though. You’ll think of something else. What about the apple? The one in that sultan’s cursed garden? You know the one!’
Jacob already had the answer on his tongue, but the old man looked worried, so he quickly swallowed the truth. Chanute probably would have ridden off himself to find a cure. Chanute had grown old. He wore his prosthetic arm less often now because it caused him too much pain. And his hearing had grown so weak that twice already he’d nearly run into a carriage in the market square. No. Jacob still felt those calloused hands on his skin from all the beatings the old man had given him, but he owed everything he’d achieved in this world to Albert Chanute and to what the old treasure hunter had taught him. He owed him a lie.
‘Sure,’ Jacob said. ‘The apple. How could I forget?’
