The spider was sleepy, but she began to dance as soon as Nerron poked his claw into her pale belly.

Twin spiders.

Rare and very valuable.

It had taken him months to comprehend what the eight legs wrote on his palm. Their silent dance was not unlike that of bees pointing their kin towards the best flowers. The spider, however, didn’t report what she had seen but what her twin sister was seeing right then. And that twin sister had crept into Jacob Reckless’s clothes in Guismond’s tomb.

The head. The hand. The heart. What was he going to search for first?

The spider wrote what appeared to be fragments of a conversation: . . . an old friend . . . no idea . . . long time ago . . . two, three hours from the ferry . . .

The ferry. That could only mean Albion, and hence the west. Perfect. The mere thought of the Great Channel made Nerron nauseous. The Goyl’s wet fear. If the head was in Albion, then Reckless was doing him a favour by finding it and bringing it back to the mainland.

The spider danced on, but her twin sister was awfully chatty and babbled whatever she picked up. Who the hell cared what colour sky Reckless was looking at, or whether he was sleeping outside or in a hotel? Come on! Where exactly was Reckless headed? Did he already know where he was going to look for the hand and the heart? But all the spider danced was the menu of some Flandrian tavern. Damn. If only those beasts were a little smarter.

‘Are you the Goyl who’ll be accompanying the prince?’

The voice was barely more than a damp whisper.

A Waterman was standing outside the carriage window. He was as scaly as the lizards that had given their skin for Nerron’s clothes. His six eyes were colourless, like the water the stable hands had left out for Crookback’s horses.

‘The Goyl accompanying the prince.’ Wonderful. . .

‘The prince is waiting.’ Every word from a Waterman’s mouth sounded like a threat.

Fine. The prince could wait until he had moss growing from his royal armpits. Nerron let the spider slip back into the medallion.

Little waves rippled across the Waterman’s uniform as he walked ahead of Nerron across the courtyard – as though his body was protesting against the clothes. Back in their slimy native ponds, they wore only a covering of algae and mud, and they didn’t keep very clean on land, either. There were few creatures more repulsive to a Goyl than a Waterman.

The prince and a Waterman. ‘Lizard-crap!’ Nerron spat out, which immediately earned him a reproving look from the colourless eyes. At least Watermen were known for not being very talkative, and as royal bodyguards they hopefully also refrained from dragging every halfway-decent-looking human girl into the nearest pond.

The prince is waiting.

Nerron cursed Crookback with every step that brought him closer to the King’s offspring. Louis of Lotharaine was waiting for them in front of the stables where his father kept his racing horses. His travelling clothes were going to attract every highwayman within a hundred miles. It was all Nerron could do to hope that they’d soon get filthy and that Thumblings would pick off all the diamond buttons. The crown prince of Lotharaine ate too well, that much was obvious, and his unkempt white-blond curls hung into his pudgy face as though his servants had only just dragged him out of bed. Louis had even brought one of them with him: the man barely reached up to his master’s chest, and his stiff black frock coat made him look like a bug. He scrutinised Nerron with a look full of surprise, as though he’d never seen a Goyl before. Nerron stared back at him. Whatever you heard about us, Bug Man – it’s all true.

A Waterman, a prince, and a bug . . . Jacob Reckless would be rubbing his hands in glee.

‘So, what exactly are we looking for?’ Louis sounded grouchy, just as one would expect from a spoilt royal brat. He had only just celebrated his seventeenth birthday, but his innocent face was deceptive. Apparently not much was safe from him – not his mother’s maids nor her silver, which he regularly fenced to pay his gambling debts and his tailors.

‘Your father has informed me that this is about Guismond the Witch Slayer, Your Highness.’ The Bug sounded as though his metal spectacles were pinching his nose. ‘You may remember our lessons on your ancestry. Guismond’s younger son is your ancestor. Not in direct line’ – the direct line had their heads chopped off by the people of Lotharaine – ‘but through an illegitimate cousin.’ The Bug closed his mouth and brushed back his thin hair, no doubt congratulating himself on the extent of his learning.

A teacher. The Crookback was sending a teacher along with his son on a treasure hunt. Nerron wished himself far, far away. Even hell sounded attractive right now.

Louis gave a bored shrug. He was staring at a scullery maid crossing the yard. Hopefully, he was just as stupid as he looked. It would make keeping secrets from him easier. ‘Could we at least take a carriage?’ he asked. ‘The one that doesn’t need horses? My father had it brought over from Albion.’

Ignore him, Nerron. Otherwise you’ll have killed him by the second day.

‘We depart in an hour,’ he said to the Waterman. ‘On horseback,’ he added with a glance at Louis. ‘But first I have to take a closer look at your tutor.’ He grabbed the Bug by his lapels and pulled him away, which, just as he’d expected, did not interest his pupil in the slightest.

‘Arsene Lelou. I will not solely be travelling in my capacity as Louis’s tutor!’ the Bug stammered. ‘His father charged me with recording his son’s adventures for posterity. We have interest from some newspapers. . . .’

Nerron silenced him with one click of his tongue. The onyx were excellent teachers when it came to intimidating subordinates.

‘I assume you know a few things about the Witch Slayer’s younger son?’

The Bug’s beardless mouth showed a hint of a condescending smile. ‘I know everything about him. But of course I shall not share my knowledge about the royal family with any . . .’

‘Any what? Listen to me, Arsene Lelou!’ Nerron whispered to him. ‘Killing you would be easier than breaking a Thumbling’s neck, and I think we both know your pupil wouldn’t raise a finger to save you. Maybe you’d like to reconsider sharing your knowledge with me?’ Nerron gave him a smile any wolf would have envied.

Arsene Lelou went so red, he looked as if he was turning into carnelian.

‘What would you like to know?’ he said with a twang. He was trying to be a brave Bug. ‘I can give you the dates and places of his most important victories. I have memorised large portions of his correspondence with his sister, Orgeluse, concerning the Austrian line of succession. Then there are the armistice treaties with his brother, which Feirefis breached several times. And his—’

Nerron impatiently waved all that aside. ‘Do you know anything about a severed hand the Witch Slayer left to Gahrumet?’

Make my day, Bug. Say yes.

But Lelou just pursed his lips disgustedly. ‘Pardon me, but I never heard about such a grotesque heirloom. Would that be all?’

His receding chin trembled – whether from fear or indignation wasn’t clear. He gave a stiff bow and made to return to the others. But after two steps, he suddenly stopped.

‘Mind you, there was an incident’ – Lelou adjusted his spectacles with such a haughty face that Nerron nearly swiped them off his nose – ‘involving the favourite servant of Gahrumet’s grandson. He was choked to death by a severed hand.’