Cornelia Funke - Thief Lord

THE THIEF LORD

Cornelia Funke

[v0.9 Scanned &Spellchecked by the_usual from dt]

CONTENTS

TO ROLF -- AND TO BOB HOSKINS, WHO LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE VICTOR

I t was autumn in Venice when Victor first heard ofProsper and Bo. The canals, gleaming in the sun, dappled the ancient brickworkwith gold. But the wind was blowing ice-cold air from the sea, reminding theVenetians that winter was approaching. Even the air in the alleyways tasted ofsnow, and only the wings of the carved angels and dragons high up on therooftops felt any real warmth from the pale sun.

The house in which Victorlived and worked stood close to a canal; so close, in fact, that the waterlapped against its walls. At night, he sometimes dreamed that the house wassinking into the waves, and that the sea would wash away the causeway thatVenice clings to, breaking the thin thread that binds the city to Italy'smainland. In his dream the sea would sweep the lagoon away too, swallowingeverything -- the houses, the bridges, thechurches, the palaces, and the people who had built so boldly on its surface.

For the time being, however,the city still stood firmly on its wooden legs. Victor leaned against hiswindow and looked out through the dusty glass. Surely no other place on earthwas more proud of its beauty than Venice, and as he watched its spires anddomes, each caught the sun as if trying to outshine one another. Whistling atune, Victor turned away from the window and walked over to his large mirror.Just the weather for trying out his new disguise, he thought, as the sun warmedthe back of his sturdy neck. He had bought this new treasure only the previousday: an enormous mustache, so dark and bushy that it would have made anyself-respecting walrus extremely jealous. He stuck it carefully under his noseand stood on his toes to make himself taller. He turned to the left, to theright, and became so engrossed in his reflection that he only heard thefootsteps on the stairs when they stopped outside his door.

Clients. Blast! Why were theybothering him now of all times?

With a deep sigh he sat behindhis desk. He heard voices whispering outside his door. They were probablyadmiring his nameplate, Victor thought, a handsome black shiny sign with hisname engraved in gold letters.

VICTOR GETZ

PRIVATE DETECTIVE

INVESTIGATIONS OF ANY KIND

It was written in threelanguages -- after all, he often hadclients from abroad. Next to the sign was a knocker -- a lion's head with abrass ring in its mouth, which Victor had polished just that morning.

What are they waiting for? hethought, tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair. "Avanti!"He called out, "Come in!"

The door opened. A man and awoman stepped into Victor's office, which also doubled as his living room. Theylooked around warily, taking in the cacti, the beard and mustache collection,the coat stand bursting with Victor's caps, hats and wigs, the huge street mapof Venice on the wall, and the winged lion that served as a paperweight onVictor's desk.

"Do you speakEnglish?" asked the woman, although her Italian sounded quite fluent.

"Of course!" Victoranswered, gesturing toward the chairs in front of his desk. "English is mymother tongue. What can I do for you?"

They both sat down hesitantly.The man folded his arms and looked rather sullen, the woman stared at Victor'swalrus mustache.

"Oh, that's just forcamouflage," he explained, pulling the mustache from his lip. "Quitea necessity in my line of work. Well, what can I do for you? Anything lost orstolen, any pet run away?"

Without saying a word, thewoman reached into her bag. She had ash-blonde hair and a pointed nose. Hermouth didn't look as if smiling was its favorite activity. The man was a giant,at least two full heads taller than Victor. His nose was peeling from sunburnand his eyes were small and dull. Doesn't look like he can take a joke either,Victor thought, as he committed the two faces to memory. He could neverremember a phone number, but he never forgot a face.

"This is what we've lost," said the woman as she pushedthe photograph across the desk. Her English was even better than her Italian.

Two boys looked out at Victorfrom the photograph. One was small and blonde, with a broad smile on his face;the other was older, dark-haired and more serious looking. He had his arm aroundthe younger boy's shoulder, as if he wanted to protect him from all that wasevil in the world.

"Children?" Victorlooked up in surprise. "I've tracked down a lot of things in my time -- suitcases, dogs, a couple of escaped lizards, andsome husbands -- but you are the first clients to come to me because they'velost their children, Mr. and Mrs...?" He looked at them inquisitively.

"Hartlieb," thewoman answered. "Esther and Max Hartlieb."

"And they are not ourchildren," her husband stated firmly, which immediately earned him anangry look from his pointy-nosed wife.

"Prosper and Boniface aremy late sister's sons," she explained. "She raised the boys on herown. Prosper has just turned twelve, and Bo is five."

"Prosper andBoniface," murmured Victor. "Unusual names. Doesn't Prosper mean 'thelucky one'?"

Esther Hartlieb arched hereyebrows. "Does it? Well, one thing's for sure, they're very strangenames, and that's putting it mildly. My late sister had a fondness for anythingpeculiar. When she died three months ago, my husband and I applied for custodyof Bo since we sadly don't have any children of our own. But we couldn'tpossibly have taken on his older brother as well. Any reasonable person couldsee that. But Prosper got very upset, acting like a lunatic, accusing us ofstealing his brother -- although we wouldhave allowed him to visit Bo once a month." Her pale face grew even paler.

"They ran away more thaneight weeks ago," Max Hartlieb continued, "from their grandfather'shouse in Hamburg, where they were staying at the time. Prosper's quite capableof talking his brother into any foolish scheme, and everything we have foundout so far indicates that he has brought him here, to Venice."

"From Hamburg toVenice?" Victor raised his eyebrows. "That's a long way for twochildren to travel on their own. Have you contacted the police here?"

"Of course we have,"hissed Esther Hartlieb. "They were no help at all. Surely it can't be thathard to find two children, who are all alone --"

But her husband cut her off."Sadly, I have to return home on urgent business. We would therefore liketo put you in charge of the search for the boys, Mr. Getz. The concierge at ourhotel recommended you."

"How nice of him,"Victor mumbled. He fiddled with the false mustache. The thing looked like adead mouse lying next to the phone. "But what makes you so sure they'vecome to Venice? Surely they didn't come just to ride on the gondolas ..."

"It's their mother'sfault!" Mrs. Harltieb pursed her lips and glanced out through Victor'sdirty window. Outside on the balcony, the wind was ruffling the feathers of apigeon. "My sister kept telling the boys about this city. She told themstories about winged lions, a golden cathedral, and about angels and dragonsperched on top of the buildings. She told them that water nymphs came ashorefor walks at night up the little steps on the edges of the canals." Sheshook her head angrily. "My sister could talk about these things in a waythat she almost made me believe her. It was Venice this, Venice that, nothingbut Venice! Bo drew winged lions all the time and Prosper simply drank in everyword his mother said. He probably thought that if they could make it to Venice,he and Bo would land right in the middle of fairyland. What an idea!" Shewrinkled her nose and cast a contemptuous look through the window at thecrumbling plaster of the neighboring houses.