Free Fearless by Cornelia Funke

provisions.’
    ‘Provisions? What for?’ The innocence disappeared immediately. It had looked as out of place on Valiant’s face as a rash, anyway.
    ‘Go back to the tomb if you really want to know. I’m sure the Bastard was not as blind as you.’
    Jacob stepped to the tomb’s door and inspected Guismond’s golden portrait. He could only hope the Goyl wouldn’t beat him at solving the Witch Slayer’s riddle.
    Perfect. As if having to race against death wasn’t enough.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    THE OTHER ONE
    T he hall where Crookback received them was so dark that Nerron could barely see his own hands. Any light from the high windows was swallowed by dark blue brocade curtains, and the candles burning next to the throne were low enough so as not to hurt a Goyl’s eyes. The King of Lotharaine was a very smart man. He’d done much to ensure the comfort of his stone-skinned visitors, for a guest who is comfortable is also less vigilant.
    Charles de Lotharaine had fixed his crooked spine years ago with a corset of hexed fish bones, yet the moniker had stuck, very much to Crookback’s vexation, for he was a vain man. There were rumours that he had the grey in his beard refined with powdered silver and that he was very unhappy about the furrows in his face, which, thanks to his love for tobacco and good wine, grew ever deeper into his skin.
    The onyx lord kept his head bowed as he approached the King. The court of Lotharaine had shunned the old-fashioned ceremonial the onyx loved so much. No kneeling, no uniforms, except on official occasions. Crookback had put the ermine robes and brocade jackets of his ancestors in mothballs. He loved suits of black silk, tailored in the newest fashion, and he was very partial to the slender tobacco sticks the Albian ambassador had brought to the Lotharainian court. He was holding one between his fingers even now. Cigarettes. To Nerron’s ears, the name sounded like a stinging insect. Rumour had it that Crookback liked to hide behind the smoke so nobody could read his face. Charles de Lotharaine was a crowned cat pretending to be vegetarian while the tail of a mouse hung from its mouth.
    The grey haze surrounding the King was so thick that the onyx lord suppressed a cough before he stopped an adequate distance from the throne.
    ‘Your Majesty.’ The old onyx’s voice betrayed none of the disgust he felt towards humans. His dark face hid his hatred as effortlessly as it concealed his insatiable hunger for power. Nia’sny. His name meant ‘darkness’ in their language, and it described his appearance as adequately as his heart. He’d given Nerron strict instructions to remain invisible until called upon. Nothing easier than that. A bastard was practised at being a shadow.
    ‘Your treasure hunter was unsuccessful, just like the men the Dwarfs hired. I am very disappointed.’ Crookback waved at a servant, who was standing behind the throne with an ashtray. ‘You were obviously exaggerating when you praised his skills.’
    Nerron wanted to stub the tobacco stick out on Crook-back’s forehead. Calm, Bastard. He is a King. But he’d never been good at controlling his emotions, and he wasn’t sure whether that was a skill he ever wanted to acquire.
    ‘He managed to open the tomb, just as I promised. And he will find the crossbow! May I remind you that if it hadn’t been for our spies, you never would have learnt about the tomb? The Dwarfs like to think they are, like us, at home in the deep, yet the womb of the earth has no secrets a Goyl won’t discover.’
    No. The old lord could not mask the arrogance in his voice. He was onyx. The most noble skin a Goyl could have – until a carnelian Goyl had declared himself King. The onyx hated Kami’en with a passion that nearly melted their stone skins. In order to depose him, they had revealed the positions of Goyl fortresses, and they had filled Crookback’s wishing sack, into which he made his enemies disappear, with so many of