E-Book, Englisch, Band 3, 480 Seiten
Reihe: The Mirrorworld Series
Funke Reckless III: The Golden Yarn
1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-78269-129-7
Verlag: Pushkin Children's Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
The Golden Yarn
E-Book, Englisch, Band 3, 480 Seiten
Reihe: The Mirrorworld Series
ISBN: 978-1-78269-129-7
Verlag: Pushkin Children's Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Cornelia Funke is the highly acclaimed, award-winning and bestselling author of the Inkheart trilogy, Dragon Rider, The Thief Lord and numerous other children's novels and picture books. Born in 1958 in the German town of Dorsten, she worked as a social worker for a few years before turning first to illustration and then to writing. Her books have now sold more than 20 million copies worldwide, and have been translated into 37 languages.
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John Reckless had stood in Charles de Lotharaine’s audience chamber before, once, with a different face and a different name. Was that five years ago? He found it hard to believe it hadn’t been longer, but those past years had taught him much about time, about yearlong days and years that passed as quickly as a day.
“These will be better?”
Charles, the Crookback, frowned as his son tried to hide another yawn behind his hand. It was an open secret that the crown prince Louis was suffering from the Snow-White Syndrome. The palace kept silent about where and how the prince had contracted that malady (as was, in these days of progress, the preferred term for the effects of black magic). Yet the parliament of Albion had already seen debates on the dangers (and opportunities) of a King on the throne in Lutis who could at any moment fall into a sleep lasting days at a time. The Albian secret service claimed that Crookback had even gone so far as to secure the services of a child-eater to heal the crown prince. Judging by the yawns Louis tried to hide behind his dark red sleeves, she’d not been very successful.
“You have my word, and that of Wilfred of Albion, Your Majesty. The machines I will build for you will not only fly higher and faster than the airplanes of the Goyl but will also be much better armed.”
What John did not mention was that he could only be so confident because those Goyl airplanes had been designed by him as well. Not even Wilfred of Albion knew of his famous engineer’s past. His stolen name and new face had shielded John from such exposure, just as they protected him from the Goyl, who were supposedly still looking for him. A different nose and a different chin were a small price to pay for days spent free of fear. His nights were still shattered by dreams that were the legacy of years spent in Goyl prisons. But he’d learned to make do with little sleep. Yes, the past five years had indeed taught him a lot. Not that they had made him a better person—he was still a self-serving coward, relentlessly driven by ambition (some truths were best faced straight on). His imprisonment had taught him that, but also a lot about this world and its inhabitants.
“Should your generals be concerned that airplanes may not be the answer to the military superiority of the Goyl, then I can assure you that the parliament of Albion shares these concerns and has authorized me to address them by presenting two of my most recent inventions.”
The authorization had, in fact, been issued by King Wilfred himself, but it seemed best to maintain appearances. Albion was proud of its democratic traditions, though the true power still rested with the King and the nobility. It was no different in Lotharaine, though here the people had a less romantic view of noble and crowned heads—one of the reasons for the armed riots that were currently plaguing the capital.
Louis yawned again. The crown prince had a reputation for being as stupid as he looked. Stupid, moody, and with cruel tendencies that worried even his father. And Charles of Lotharaine was getting old, though he dyed his hair black and was still a handsome man.
John motioned one of the guards who had accompanied him from Albion to come closer. The Walrus (this moniker for Wilfred the First was so fitting, John was perpetually worried he might one day actually use it to address his royal employer) had him well guarded. Albion’s King had insisted, over John’s well-known dislike for ships, that his best engineer go in person to sell Crookback on the idea of an alliance. The construction plans, which the guard now handed to the King’s adjutant, had been drawn by John especially for this audience, leaving out a few vital details he would supply after the alliance was completed. Crookback’s engineers wouldn’t notice. After all, John was confronting them with the technology of another world.
“I call these ‘tanks.’” John had to suppress a smile as his Lotharainian competition leaned over the drawings with an obvious mix of envy and incredulous awe. “Not even the Goyl cavalry can withstand these machines.”
The second drawing showed rockets with explosive warheads. There were indeed moments when John’s conscience tried to put him on trial. He could have brought inventions into this world that would have made it healthier and more just for its people. He usually soothed his conscience with a generous donation to an orphanage, or to Albion’s suffragettes, though that of course brought up memories of his wife, Rosamund, and of Jacob and Will.
“Who is going to manufacture these valves?” an engineer asked doubtfully.
John returned to the present, where he was a man without sons and where the woman in his life was the daughter of a Leonese diplomat and fifteen years his junior.
“If they can make those valves in Albion,” Crookback barked at the engineer, “then we can damn well do it here. Or will I have to recruit my engineers from the universities of Pendragon and Londra?”
The engineer’s face lost all color, and the King’s advisors regarded John with cold eyes. Everyone in the hall knew what the King’s answer meant. The decision was made: Albion and Lotharaine would form an alliance against the Goyl. A historic decision for this world. Two nations that for centuries had used any excuse to declare war on one another, now turned into allies by a common foe. The old and eternal game.
John decided to go to the palace gardens to write a missive informing the Walrus and the parliament of Albion of his diplomatic success, even though it turned out to be near impossible to find a bench without a statue towering over it. His phobia against stone statuary was just one of the irritating consequences of his imprisonment by the Goyl.
He finally found a bench under a tree. As he wrote the message that would shake the balance of power in this world, his uniformed guardians used the time to stare after the ladies of the court as they ambled between the pristine hedges. They certainly seemed to confirm the rumor that it was Crookback’s ambition to have all the most beautiful women of Lotharaine gathered at his court. John found a little comfort in the fact that Crookback was an even worse husband than he. After all, John had never been unfaithful to Rosamund until he discovered the mirror. And as far as his affairs in Schwanstein, Vena, and Blenheim were concerned, one could certainly wonder whether having such dalliances in a different world actually counted as adultery. Oh yes, they do, John.
As he put his signature under the dispatch (with a fountain pen he’d discreetly modernized, after having grown tired of ink-stained fingers), he saw a man rushing toward him across the white gravel paths. He’d noticed the man before, standing in the audience chamber by the crown prince’s side. The unexpected visitor wore an old-fashioned-looking frock coat, and he was barely taller than a large Dwarf. The spectacles he nervously adjusted as he stopped in front of John had such thick lenses they made the eyes behind them look as large as an insect’s. Fittingly, his pupils were just as black and shiny as insect eyes.
“Monsieur Brunel?” A curtsy, a servile smile. “With your permission: Arsene Lelou, tutor to His Highness the crown prince Louis. Could I, possibly, eh”—he cleared his throat as though his assignment were stuck there like a splinter—“bother you with a request?”
“Certainly. What is it?”
Maybe Monsieur Lelou needed help in explaining some technical innovation. It couldn’t be easy to be the teacher of a future King in such a rapidly advancing world. Yet Arsene Lelou’s request had nothing to do with the New Magic, as science and technology were referred to behind the mirror.
“My, eh, royal pupil,” he lisped, “has for these past months been fielding inquiries regarding the whereabouts of a man who has also worked for the Albian royal court. And since you are a member of that court, I wanted to take this opportunity to ask you in His Highness’s name for your aid in our search for this person.”
John had heard nasty stories about how Louis of Lotharaine dealt with his enemies, so the man Arsene was asking him about already had his deepest sympathy.
“Certainly. May I ask whom you are inquiring about?” Always best to feign helpfulness.
“His name is Reckless. Jacob Reckless. He is a famous, if not infamous, treasure hunter who has worked in the service of, among others, the deposed Empress of Austry.”
John noted with irritation his hand trembling as he handed his signed dispatch to one of his guards. How easily one’s own body could turn traitor.
Arsene Lelou noticed the trembling hand.
“A bite from a will-o’-the-wisp,” John explained. “Years ago, but I still have that tremor in my hands.” He’d never been more grateful for his new face, for he had once looked very much like his elder son. “You may relay to the crown prince that he can cease his inquiries. To my knowledge, Jacob Reckless died when the Goyl sank the Albian fleet.”
He was proud of the calmness of his voice. Arsene Lelou would not know...
