Left or right, Jacob? He turned left.
CHAPTER SIXTY
THE RIGHT SKIN
One of the Preachers had a fresh sword wound. Nerron shot him dead before his filthy fingers could write his madness on to his skin. The Waterman had already been touched by one, but that didn’t seem to worry him. Maybe he felt immune to human madness. Eaumbre had soon realised that the tracks they were following were not Louis’s, but he didn’t turn around. The palace that had risen above the ruins was too tempting.
It reminded Nerron of the fortresses a clan of moonstone Goyl had built a long time earlier against the onyx. Kami’en now used the strongholds as prisons, for they were particularly deep underground.
The ragged lunatics were the only danger they faced in the empty streets, and most of them just let themselves get shot by the Waterman like clay pigeons. It seemed the centuries had weathered the Witch Slayer’s magic, like the city he’d once ruled. Eaumbre was disconcerted by the stone faces staring at them from the walls, but Nerron was not affected. They just proved how much the Doughskins were like his own kind.
When they reached the stairs that led up to the palace, they found Reckless’s and the vixen’s prints like scorch marks on the snowy steps. The snow was now falling ever thicker, tiny icy flakes that felt like stings on Nerron’s stone skin. He hated the cold, and he felt such a sudden longing for the warm womb of the earth that it made him sick. The Waterman, however, just mutely rubbed some snow into his dry skin before he started the ascent.
The scene that awaited them at the top of the stairs proved that the stories about the Lost Palace and its Iron Gate were not just the fruit of some poet’s lively imagination. The charred and ravaged corpses were real, but Nerron could see neither Reckless nor the vixen among the dead.
Where were they? The tracks on the snowy plaza allowed only one conclusion: his rival was already inside the palace.
Damn. How?
Nerron approached the gate, and the iron began to glow immediately. Eaumbre pulled him back as the metal warped to form a mouth. Mouths, claws. The whole gate was coming alive. Spiny necks arching, scaly paws sprouting lava-red claws of iron.
The Waterman stumbled backwards over the bodies.
But Guismond had not expected a treasure hunter with a stone skin. In his time, the Goyl had been nothing more than a dark fairy tale.
To protect him from the claws, Nerron wore the kind of lizard shirt that had already saved Hentzau’s and Kami’en’s lives at the Blood Wedding. And the jade machete that he’d had made especially for the Iron Gate by a Goyl smithy sliced through the necks and paws as though Guismond’s gate produced only monsters of wax. Nerron hacked and pierced until his clothes were stiff with cooling metal. Reckless was not among the dead, so there had to be way in. Nerron split a head before its muzzle could swallow his head; he cut off paws barbed with dozens of needle-sharp talons. Reckless was not among the dead. There had to be a way!
His arms were already growing heavy, when the Waterman finally came to his aid. The heat of the iron scalded his skin, but he fought valiantly. Soon they were both standing up to their knees in shattered metal. Their own panting rang in their ears. Reckless is not among the dead, Nerron. Damn it, there has to be a way! And indeed, suddenly the iron was just iron again, and the gate formed a frieze of skulls. Guismond’s crest appeared on the glowing surface, and a barely visible crack appeared.
Touching the hot iron was painful, despite his stone skin. It hurt so much that Nerron felt as though his bones were melting. But pain was something the Goyl cared much less about than humans did, and finally Nerron managed to force his finger through the crack. The opening he wrestled from the iron was barely big enough to squeeze himself through. The Waterman smelled of burnt fish by the time he joined Nerron on the other side. Behind them, the gate closed itself with a sound like the dull tolling of a bell.
The cold that greeted them brought a relieved sigh from the Waterman, and even Nerron was grateful for the respite it gave to his scorched skin. Through the darkness that surrounded them like the fur of a black cat, Nerron caught the scent of Witch magic. Eaumbre gave him a startled look when he heard the voices, but Nerron smiled. A Step-Spell. He once knew a treasure hunter who was driven to madness by it, but nothing left a clearer trail. Once the voices were aroused, they could be heard for hours. You simply had to follow them.
‘You stay here and watch the gate!’ he said to the Waterman. Maybe Reckless was already on his way back with the crossbow.
But Eaumbre shook his head. ‘No, thank you!’ he whispered. ‘I’ve been the doorman for far too long. Anything I find is mine, right?’