Inkdeath (51 page)

"Why are you sitting staring at me like that? Did he believe what you told him about his daughter and the Bluejay? Well, come on, out with it!" She pecked angrily at a beetle that had wandered into the tent, crunching it up so noisily that Orpheus felt sick.

"Oh yes, yes," he said, irritated. "Of course he believed me. I was very convincing."

"Good." The Magpie fluttered up onto the books that Orpheus had stolen from the library and peered down on what he had been writing. "What’s all this? Has the Adderhead ordered a unicorn from you, too?"

"No, no. That’s nothing. Just a.. . er. . . a story I’m supposed to be writing for his pest of a grandson." Orpheus placed his hand over the words, as if by chance.

"What about the White Book?" Mortola preened her ruffled feathers. "Have you found out where the Adderhead is hiding it? He must have it with him!"

"Death and the devil, of course not! Do you think the Adderhead carries it about with him publicly?" This time Orpheus didn’t even try to keep the contempt out of his voice, and Mortola pecked his hand so hard that he screeched.

"I don’t like your tone, Moonface! He must have it somewhere, so look for it, seeing as you’re here. I can’t take care of everything."

"When did you ever take care of anything?" Oh, why don’t I wring her skinny neck, he said to himself, wiping the blood from the back of his hand, the way my father used to kill chickens and pigeons?

"Is that any way to speak to me?" The Magpie pecked at his hand again, but this time Orpheus snatched it away in time. "Do you think I’ve just been perching on a branch doing nothing? I’ve rid the world of the Black Prince and made sure that his men will help me in future, not the Bluejay."

"Really? The Prince is dead?" Orpheus took a great deal of trouble to sound unimpressed. That would hurt Fenoglio. The old man was ridiculously proud of his character. "What about the children he stole? Where are they?"

"In a cave northeast of Ombra. The moss-women call it the Giants’ Chamber. There are still a few robbers with them, and some women. It’s a stupid hiding place, but since the Adderhead thought it was a good idea to send his brother-in-law to look for them, the children are probably safe there for a good while yet. Folk say even a rabbit can outwit that man."

Interesting! And wasn’t that a piece of news that could convince the Adderhead of his own usefulness?

"What about the Bluejay’s wife and daughter? Are they there, too?"

"Certainly," Mortola hissed as if something were stuck in her throat. "I was going to poison the little witch as well and send her after the Prince, but her mother chased me away. She knows too much about me, far too much!"

This was getting better and better.

But Mortola could read his thoughts on his face. "Don’t look so stupidly pleased with yourself! You’re not to tell the Adderhead a word about any of this. They’re both mine. I’m not leaving them to the Silver Prince this time, just for him to let them go again, understand?"

"Of course! My lips are sealed!" Orpheus immediately assumed his most innocent expression. "What about the others—the robbers who are going to help you?"

"They’re following you. They’ll lie in ambush for the Adder tomorrow night. They think it’s their own idea, but I planted it in their silly heads! Where can the Book fall into their hands more easily than in the middle of the forest? Snapper’s staged hundreds of such attacks in the past, and he won’t have to deal with the Piper. The stupid Adder has left his best watchdog behind —I suppose to punish him for letting the Bluejay escape. But he’s only cutting into his own rotting flesh, and perhaps the Magpie will redeem her own son from Death with his corpse as early as tomorrow.

It’s a pity that if I do I won’t see the White Women take the bookbinder away, but that can’t be helped. Take him away they will, and this time they won’t let him go again. Who knows? Perhaps Death will be so pleased to have both the Adderhead and the Bluejay that the White Book will be forgotten. Then I can write my son’s name in it and never fear for him again!"

She was talking feverishly, faster and faster with every sentence, cackling as if she would choke on the words if she didn’t get them out fast enough.

"Hide in the bushes when they attack!" she added. "I don’t want Snapper killing you, too, by mistake. I may need you yet if the fool happens to fail!"

She really does still trust you, Orpheus, he thought. He could almost have laughed out loud. What had happened to Mortola’s mind? Did she think of nothing but worms and beetles now? A poor prospect for her, thought Orpheus, and a very good one for me.

"Good. Excellent," he said, while his brain thought swiftly of the best way to use all this information. Only one thing was perfectly clear: If the White Book fell into Mortola’s hands, he himself would have lost the game. Death would take the Adderhead, Mortola would write her son’s name in the White Book, and he himself wouldn’t even get back the book that Dustfinger had stolen from him, to say nothing of immortal life! He would be left with nothing but the stories Fenoglio had written for a spoiled child. No, there was no alternative, he must go on backing the Adderhead.

"Why are you standing there gaping like a mooncalf?" Mortola’s voice sounded more like a bird’s hoarse cry with every word.

"My lord!" Oss put his head into the tent, looking alarmed "The Adderhead wants to see you. They say he’s in a terrible temper."

"I’m coming." Orpheus almost trod on the Magpie’s tail feathers as he stumbled out of the tent. She hopped aside with an angry cackle.

"Horrible creature!" grunted Oss, kicking out at her. "You j ought to shoo it away, my lord. My mother says magpies are thieves reborn."

"I don’t like it, either," whispered Orpheus. "I tell you what, why not wring its neck while I’m gone?"

Oss’s mouth twisted in an unpleasant smile. He liked such tasks. Perhaps he wasn’t such a bad bodyguard after all. No, he wasn’t.

Orpheus passed his hand once more over his hair (old mans hair, they called it here; no one else in Ombra was such a pale blond) and made for the Adderhead ‘s tent. He wouldn’t be able to read the Bluejay here for him, and whatever was hidden in Jacopo’s book must wait until his audience with the Silver Prince was over, but thanks to Mortola he had something else to offer now.

The Adderhead’s tent was as black beneath the trees as if night had left a piece of itself behind there. And suppose it had? Night was always binder to you than day, Orpheus, he told himself as Thumbling pushed back the dark cloth of the tent flap, his face expressionless. Didn t darkness and silence make itso much easier to dream the world to your own taste? Yes, perhaps he ought to make it always night in this world, once he had Inkheart back again. . . .

"Your Highness!" Orpheus bowed iow as the Adderhead’s face emerged from the darkness like a distorted moon. "I bring news I’ve just learned from listening to the wind. I think you’ll like it. . ."

Here she came again! Elinor Loredan The name sounded almost as if he’d thought her up himself. Cursing, Fenoglio pulled the blanket over his face. Wasn’t it bad enough that she was a know-it-all, a bluestocking, and stubborn as a mule? Did she have to be an early riser, too? He supposed day was just beginning to dawn outside.

"Hm, that doesn’t look particularly inspired!" Her eyes had gone straight to the blank sheet of paper lying beside him. How -horribly bright and cheerful she sounded.

"Don’t they say the Muses’ kisses are sweetest early in the morning? I think I read that somewhere."

Huh. As if she knew anything about kissing—and hadn’t he earned his sleep, when there wasn’t a decent drop of wine to be had in this wretched cave? Hadn’t he just saved the Black Prince’s life? Very well, the Prince’s legs were still rather weak, and he wasn’t eating much, as Minerva kept saying with concern. But then, all those children had to be fed, not an easy task at this time of year, and the little ones were hungry the whole time — when they weren’t asking him or Darius for a story, Farid for some tricks with fire, or Meggie for a few songs about the Bluejay. She sang them better than Battista by now.

Perhaps that’s something I ought to do, thought Fenoglio, ostentatiously turning his back on Signora Loredan. Write some more game here for us to hunt something easily brought down, with plenty of meat on it and a good flavor.

"Fenoglio!" She’d actually pulled the blanket off him! This was incredible!

Rosenquartz put his head out of the pocket where he had taken to sleeping and rubbed his eyes.

"Good morning, Rosenquartz. Get some paper out and sharpen the pens."

That tone of voice! Just like a hospital nurse! Fenoglio sat up with a groan. He really was too old to be sleeping on the floor of a damp cave! "That’s my glass man, and he does what I tell him to do!" he grunted, but before he knew it Rosenquartz was scurrying past him with a syrupy- sweet smile on his pale pink lips.

What by all the ink-devils was he playing at? The glass-headed traitor! How eagerly he did as she told him, whereas if he, Fenoglio, asked Rosenquartz for something, it didn’t arrive half so quickly.

"Wonderful!" whispered Signora Loredan. "Thank you, Rosenquartz."

Elinor. It’s not the name I’d have given her, thought Fenoglio as he forced his feet into his boots, shivering. Something more warlike would fit her much better . . .

Penthesilea or Boadicea or some such Amazon. . . . Heavens, it was cold in this cave, too! Can’t you change the weather somehow, Fenoglio? Could he?

As he blew on his cold hands, his uninvited visitor held out a steaming mug to him.

"Here you are. Doesn’t taste particularly good, but it’s hot. Coffee made from tree bark — you know, Rosenquartz really is a delightful glass man!" she whispered to him in a confidential tone. "Jasper is very nice, too, but so shy. And then there’s that pink hair!"

Flattered, Rosenquartz ran his fingers over it. Glass men’s ears were certainly as keen as any owl’s, which was why even with their fragile limbs they made such good spies. Fenoglio could cheerfully have stuffed the vain little creature into his empty wineskin.

He took a sip of the hot brew it really did taste nasty—got to his feet, and dipped his face in the basin of water that Minerva always left ready for him in the evening. Did he just imagine it, or was there a thin layer of ice on the surface?

"You really don’t understand the first thing about writing, Loredan!" he growled.

That was it, Loredan! That’s what he’d call her in future. It suited her much better than the flowery "Elinor." "For one thing, early in the morning is the worst possible time. The brain is like a wet sponge at that hour. And for another, real writing is a question of staring into space and waiting for the right ideas."

"Well, you certainly are very good at staring into space!" Oh, what a sharp tongue she had. "Next you’ll be telling me that tipping brandy and mead down your throat encourages the flow of ideas, too."

Had Rosenquartz just nodded in agreement? He’d chase him out into the forest, where his wild cousins would teach him to eat snails and beetles.

"Well, then, Loredan, I’m sure you’ve known all along how this story ought to turn out! Let me guess: I suppose a frozen sparrow told you the ending yesterday when you were sitting outside the cave, gazing at my forest and my fairies, totally beguiled by them!" Damn it, another tear in his trousers. And Battista had hardly any yarn left for mending clothes.

"Inkweaver?" Despina came around the wall that allowed him, for a few precious moments, to forget where he was. "Do you want any breakfast?"

Dear, kind Minerva. She still looked after him as if they were back in her house in Ombra. Fenoglio sighed. The good old days. . . "No, thank you, Despina," he replied, looking sideways at his other visitor. "Tell your mother that unfortunately someone ruined my appetite first thing today."

Despina and Elinor exchanged a glance that could only be called conspiratorial.

Good heavens, were even Minerva’s children on Loredan’s side now?

"Resa has been gone for two days, not to mention Snapper, but what was the good of leaving you the book if you’re just going to sleep the day away or drink bad wine with Battista?"

Dear God, how delightful this world had been when he hadn’t had that voice ringing in his ears the whole time!

"You owe it to Mortimer to give him a few words to help him. Who else is going to do it? The Black Prince is too weak, and Mortimer’s poor daughter is just waiting for you to give her something to read aloud at long last. But oh no, no. It’s too the wine is bad, the children make too much noise, how’s anyone supposed to write? You don’t run out of words when it comes to complaining!"

There! Rosenquartz was nodding again! I’ll mix soup in his sand, thought Fenoglio, so much soup that he writhes with stomach cramps like the Black Prince — and I won’t write a single word to cure him!

"Fenoglio, are you listening to me?" She was looking at him as reproachfully as a teacher asking where his homework was!

The book, yes. Resa had left it here for him. So what use was that supposed to be? It just reminded him how easy he had once found storytelling, before he put every word down on paper knowing that it could become reality.

"It can’t be all that difficult! Mortimer has done almost all the work for you in advance! He’s going to pretend to the Adderhead that he can heal the Book, then Violante will distract her father’s attention, and Mortimer will write the three words in it. Maybe afterward there’ll be a duel with the Piper — that kind of thing always reads well — I suppose the Fire-Dancer will put on a show, too, although personally I still don’t like him—and yes, you could have Resa playing a part as well. She could keep that horrible Snapper occupied, I don’t know just how, but I’m sure you’ll think of something. . . ."

"Be quiet!" thundered Fenoglio in such a loud voice that Rosenquartz, terrified, took refuge behind the inkwell. "What outrageous nonsense! That’s just typical. Readers and their ideas! Yes, Mortimer’s plan sounds really good. Plain and simple, but good.