Fearless (Mirrorworld 2)

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.

What now?

He looked down the dark corridor.

Fox’s face held the same question. And the same fear.

A swaying lantern appeared at the end of the corridor. The night watchman carrying it was nearly as old as the building. Jacob ignored his puzzled look and simply walked past him without a word.

It was a clear night, and the two moons speckled the roofs with rust and silver. Fox spoke only once they’d reached the iron gate.

‘You always have a second plan. What is it?’

Yes, she knew him well.

‘I’ll get some blood shards.’ He started to swing himself over the gate, but Fox grabbed his arm and pulled him back. ‘No.’

‘No what?’ He didn’t mean to sound that irritated. But he was dog-tired, and he was thoroughly sick of running away from death. You’re forgetting something, Jacob. Fear. You’re scared.

‘I have to find the head, and I have no idea where to look, not to mention the heart and the hand. The only man I thought could help me thinks I’m a ruthless thug now, and the way things stand, I myself will be lying in a coffin in less than two months.’

‘What?’ Fox’s voice broke, as though the truth lodged in her throat like a splinter.

Damn it, Jacob!