His brother’s glassy glance followed Jacob from room to room. He nearly walked past the one with the number 33.

The red walls were covered with portraits of Austry’s imperial family. They hung all the way up to the ceiling, frame on frame, countless faces with the brown patina of many centuries. The deposed Empress’s great-grandparents, her grandmother’s infamous brothers, the Emperor whom everybody called the Changeling (he’d probably been one). And of course there was also a portrait of Guismond. He wasn’t wearing the cat-fur coat from the tomb’s door, but was clad in the armour of a knight, though his helmet was shaped like the head of the crowned wolf on his crest. Next to his was a portrait of his wife with their three children. In the painting the children were still very young and stood very close to their mother. The pupils of Guismond’s wife were not those of a Witch, but that didn’t mean much. Every Witch could make herself look like a human woman. There were also portraits of Feirefis and Gahrumet as Kings, but Jacob just gave them with a quick glance. He also passed Orgeluse’s portrait, which showed her with her husband. The picture he did stop at was the one painting in room 33 that didn’t depict a member of the imperial dynasty. Jacob had noticed it years earlier, because the man looking out from the heavy golden frame bore a slight resemblance to his grandfather. Hendrick Goltzius Memling had been the Witch Slayer’s court painter, but it was not his art that had made him famous. He was also rumoured to have carried on a passionate affair with Guismond’s daughter. His was a self-portrait. Memling had painted it three years after Guismond’s death, and he’d dated it himself. Hanging from his neck was a gold-set stone. Memling was touching it with the fingers of his right hand, which was crippled but had reportedly enabled him to handle the tools of an engraver better than anybody else. The stone was as black as coal.

The golden hearts and the black hearts. Chanute’s voice had sounded almost devout when he told Jacob about them. ‘The golden ones are those of alchemists. At some point they got the silly idea to turn their hearts into gold to make themselves immortal. Many had theirs cut out of their living bodies.’ ‘And the black ones?’ Jacob had asked. What did a thirteen-year-old boy care about immortality? ‘The black ones are the hearts of Warlocks,’ Chanute had replied. ‘They look just like black jewels. Whoever carries one around his neck supposedly gets anything he desires. But if you wear it too close to your heart, it will rob you not only of all joy but also of your conscience.’

Jacob stepped closer to the painting.

Memling was looking down at him through cold eyes. There were stories that he had poisoned not only his wife but also Orgeluse out of jealousy. It might have been Orgeluse’s downfall that she had given the man she loved her father’s heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

THE RIGHT KING

The Dragon’s lair lay beneath the back yard of a brewery. Nobody in Vena had known of its existence until a Goyl patrol had noticed the unmistakable smell of sulphur and lizard fire.

Kami’en’s bodyguards were hiding in the shadows of the brewery’s gate. They were probably counting on their alabaster skin being mistaken for a shimmer of moonlight. They’d become too used to how easily human eyes were deceived. Sneaking past them was fun, and after the debacle with the apothecary, Nerron really could do with some cheering up.

Two more guards were posted where the Dragon’s breathing tunnels opened behind the brewery drays. Nerron was past the guards before they could turn their heads, and he quickly melted into the darkness of the tunnel. The Dragon had been dead for centuries, but its smell enveloped Nerron as though it were still lurking in its lair below.

Quiet, Bastard. Like a snake.

At its end, the tunnel opened into a cave that was black from Dragon fire. Only in some places a little gold gleamed through the soot. The treasure cave. Better preserved than most Nerron had seen. He pressed himself against the cool rock.

And there he was, his skin like petrified fire – even in the darkness. The King of the Goyl.

Kami’en had his back to the tunnel. Just one well-aimed bullet. Or a poisoned arrow between his shoulder blades. How many assassins had the onyx hired in vain to stand right where he was standing? And it had been so easy. Yes, you’re the best, Nerron. Never mind that you haven’t found the damned heart yet.

‘How long will it take?’ Kami’en’s voice sounded calm, as usual. As though he had nothing to fear in this world.

‘The architect tells me two months, but I can make sure work is completed earlier.’ Of course. Hentzau was standing next to the King. Only a few years earlier, he would have caught Nerron’s scent, but the years spent above ground had made Kami’en’s loyal dog half-blind and had dulled his sense of smell until it was barely better than that of a human.

‘Hire some Dwarfs. They work fast.’ Nerron stepped out of the tunnel.

Hentzau spun around and positioned himself protectively in front of Kami’en.

Good dog.

‘What is this?’ he barked at Nerron. ‘You want me to put a bullet into your speckled skin?’ His jasper face had turned even more craggy since the Blood Wedding. Compared to Hentzau, even Nerron could pass as attractive. Nerron bowed his head with a smile and pressed his fist over his heart, a gesture of obedience he usually had problems with, but not in front of this King.

‘Be grateful, Hentzau. He’s just demonstrating my need for better bodyguards.’ Kami’en turned around as leisurely as only one could who owned half the world. He was wearing the same uniform in which he’d survived his wedding. Moonstones for the human bloodstains, rubies for the Goyl blood. The Dark Fairy knew how to turn horror into beauty.

‘He’s right. Hire Dwarfs,’ Kami’en said to Hentzau. ‘I want work to begin immediately. I’m tired of that human palace. This will be my study. The guards in the sleeping cave. One tunnel to the palace, one to the train station, and a third one connecting to the road beneath the river.’ He shot a cool glance at Nerron. ‘You still haven’t found the heart?’

‘No. But I have the hand and the head.’

‘Good.’ Kami’en rubbed the sooty wall until the gold appeared beneath. ‘The Witch Slayer’s crossbow. Maybe I should send my aeroplanes to the Dwarf mines. Teach them not to keep secrets from me.’

‘There are many places we should send them to,’ Hentzau growled. ‘Even in the east, the Doughskins are now joining forces against us. Ask him who’s getting them all to sit around the same table. Without the onyx, they’d still be killing each other.’ He stared at Nerron. Like all soldiers, Hentzau never trusted anyone not in uniform, and especially not an onyx bastard who had the trust of the King’s enemies. Maybe he sensed that Nerron, despite all his admiration for the King, served nobody but himself. Yet they owed him for the names of many spies, and his information had helped thwart two attempts on Kami’en’s life. Even Hentzau realised they needed the Bastard, though he didn’t trust Nerron as far as he could spit.

‘Hentzau’s spies tell me you have some serious competition for the crossbow.’ Kami’en’s face was as impassive as the likeness they minted on his coins. Only once had Nerron seen the King less composed, and that was when he’d first heard from him how far-reaching the onyx conspiracy against him was.