Fearless (Mirrorworld 2)

She shoved him into the iron gate. ‘You said you didn’t know!’

‘I’m sorry!’ Reluctantly, she let him embrace her. Her heart was beating fast, nearly as fast as when he had freed the vixen’s leg from the trap.

windows in the history department were dark, like those of the other buildings. Only one, on the second floor, was still illuminated. Robert Lewis Dunbar loved working late into the night.

He didn’t even lift his head when Jacob walked into his office. Dunbar’s desk was so littered with books that it was difficult to spot him behind them all, and Jacob wondered what century he’d lost himself in this time.

Being a talented historian as well as the son of a purebred Fir Darrig was not easy. It meant he’d had to be more brilliant than any human colleague, but that had never been a problem for Dunbar, in spite of the rat’s tail and the very hairy skin his father had passed on to him. Dunbar had not inherited the pointy snout, luckily – his mother’s beauty had given him a halfway-decent face. Most Fir Darrigs came from Eire, Albion’s belligerent neighbour island. They were able to make themselves invisible, and they had – although few people knew this about them – photographic memories.

‘Jacob!’ Dunbar still hadn’t lifted his head. He turned the page he’d been reading and scratched his hairy cheek. ‘’Tis one of the mysteries of this universe why the regents of our university employ night guards who are as blind as they are deaf. Luckily, your pirate’s gait is unmistakable. And I of course did not hear you, Fox!’ He looked up and gave her a smile. ‘By Pendragon’s sword, the vixen is all grown up! And you still endure his company?’ He closed the book and gave Jacob a taunting look. ‘What are we looking for this time? A Habitrot shirt? A gryphon hoof? You should consider a change of career. Light bulbs, batteries, aspirin – those are the words that bring magic to these times.’

Jacob approached the desk and scanned the books Dunbar disappeared into every night, like a paper landscape. ‘The History of Mauretania . . . Flying Carpets . . . The Realm of the Magic Lamp. Are you going on a trip?’

‘Maybe.’ Dunbar caught a fly and popped it into his mouth. A Fir Darrig could never resist a passing insect. ‘What’s a historian to do in a country that only believes in the future? What good will come of it if we allow our lives to be run by cogwheels and pistons?’

Jacob opened one of the books and looked at the illustration of a flying carpet carrying two horses and their riders. ‘Believe me, this is just the beginning.’

Dunbar gave Fox a wink. ‘He so loves playing prophet, doesn’t he? But whenever I ask him exactly what he sees in the future, he evades the question.’

‘One day I may tell you.’ There was nobody whom Jacob would have more liked to tell about the other world than Dunbar. Whenever he saw his friend, Jacob pictured his myopic eyes going wide at the sight of a skyscraper or a jet plane. Although Dunbar was critical of progress in this world, Jacob didn’t know anyone who had as much knowledge and wisdom and still possessed the insatiable curiosity of a child.

‘You still haven’t answered me.’ Dunbar took a pile of books and carried them to the dark bookshelves that lined every wall of his study with printed knowledge. ‘What are you looking for?’

Jacob put the book on flying carpets back on the desk. He wished he were on the hunt for some harmless magical object like that.

‘I am looking for the head of Guismond the Witch Slayer.’

Dunbar stopped so abruptly that one of the books slipped from his arms. He bent down and picked it up.

‘You’d have to find his tomb first.’ His voice sounded unusually cold.

‘I found it. Guismond’s corpse is missing its head, its heart, and its right hand. I believe he had his head sent to Albion. To his elder son.’

Dunbar pushed the books into the shelf, one after another, without saying a word. Then he turned around and leant back against their leather spines. Jacob had never seen such hostility in Dunbar’s face. He was wearing his usual long coat, which hid his rat’s tail. Only its bright red colour gave away the Fir Darrig. They never wore any other colour.

‘This is about the crossbow, isn’t it? I know I’m in your debt, but I will not help you with this.’

A few years back, Jacob had rescued Dunbar from a bunch of drunken soldiers who’d thought it amusing to set his fur on fire. ‘I’m not here to call in a debt. But I have to find the crossbow.’

‘For whom?’ Dunbar’s fur stood on end, like that of an angry dog. ‘Farmers are still ploughing up bones from the old battlefields. Have you traded your conscience for a sack of gold? Do you, at least every now and then, think about what you’re doing? You treasure hunters turn the magic of this world into a commodity only the powerful can afford.’

‘Jacob is not going to sell the crossbow!’

Dunbar ignored Fox’s protest. He returned to his desk and leafed absent-mindedly through his notes. ‘I know nothing about the head,’ he said without looking at Jacob. ‘And I don’t want to know anything. I’m sure you’ll ask others, but I am hopeful nobody can give you the answer you’re looking for. Luckily, this country has lost its interest in black magic. There’s at least that to be said for progress. And now you must excuse me. I have to give a lecture tomorrow on Albion’s role in the slave trade. Another sad Chapter.’

He sat down behind his desk and opened one of the books in front of him.

Fox shot Jacob a helpless look.

He took her arm and pulled her towards the door.

‘Forgive me,’ he said to Dunbar. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

Dunbar didn’t look up from his book. ‘Some things are best never found, Jacob,’ he said. ‘You’re not the only one who likes to forget that.’

Fox wanted to say something, but Jacob pushed her through the door.

‘I forget less often than you think, Dunbar,’ he said before pulling the door shut behind him.