Inkdeath

by Cornelia Funke

  The Adderhead frowned, and bent down to his grandson. ‘You will not read in the throne-room as long as I’m here. You won’t even put your head around the door. You will stay in your own room, or I’ll have you shut in with the hounds like Tullio, understand? By the emblem of my house, you look more and more like your father. Can’t you at least cut your hair?’

  Jacopo held the gaze of those reddened eyes for an astonishingly long time, but finally he bowed his head, turned without a word and stalked away, the books still held in front of him like a shield.

  ‘He really is coming to look more like Cosimo all the time!’ remarked the Milksop. ‘But he gets his arrogance from his mother.’

  ‘No, he gets it from me,’ the Adderhead told him. ‘A very useful quality for him when he sits on the throne.’

  The Milksop cast an anxious glance after Jacopo. But the Adderhead struck his brother-in-law’s chest with his swollen fist. ‘Summon your men!’ he ordered him. ‘I have work for you to do.’

  ‘Work?’ Looking ill at ease, the Milksop raised his brows. He had dusted them with silver, like his wig.

  ‘Yes, for a change you won’t be hunting unicorns, you’ll be hunting children. Or do you want to let the Black Prince get away with hiding those brats in the forest, while you and the Piper are busy letting my daughter lead you by the nose like dancing bears?’

  The Milksop twisted his pale mouth, looking injured. ‘We had to prepare for your arrival, dear brother-in-law, and try to catch the Bluejay again—’

  ‘In which attempt you weren’t particularly successful!’ the Adderhead brusquely interrupted him. ‘Luckily my daughter has told us where we can find him, and while I recapture the bird you two so generously allowed to go free, you can bring the children here for me – along with that knife-thrower who calls himself a prince, so that he can watch me skin the Jay. I fear his own skin is too black to make parchment, so I’ll have to think of something else for him. Fortunately I am very inventive in such matters. But, to be sure, they say the same of you, don’t they?’

  The Milksop flushed, obviously flattered, although it was clear that the prospect of hunting children through the forest didn’t excite him half as much as a unicorn hunt, perhaps because they were prey that couldn’t be eaten.

  ‘Good.’ The Adderhead turned and walked on unsteady legs towards the door of the hall. ‘Send me Sootbird and the Piper!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘He should be through with chopping off hands by now. And tell the maids that Jacopo will go with me to the Castle in the Lake. No one spies on his mother better than that child, even though she doesn’t especially like him.’

  The Milksop stared at him expressionlessly. ‘As you please,’ he murmured in a thin voice.

  But the Adderhead turned once more as the servants scurried to open the heavy door for him.

  ‘As for you, milkface.’ Orpheus couldn’t help instinctively giving a start. ‘I set off at sunset. My brother-in-law will tell you where you must be then. You’ll have to bring your own servant, and a tent. And make sure you don’t bore me. Parchment could always be made of your skin too.’

  ‘Your Highness!’ Orpheus bowed again, although he was feeling weak at the knees. Had he ever played a more dangerous game? But everything will be all right, he told himself. You wait and see, Orpheus. This story is yours. It was written for you alone. No one loves it better, no one understands it better, certainly not the old fool who wrote it in the first place!

  The Adderhead had been gone for some time, but Orpheus still stood there as if beguiled by the promise of the future.

  ‘So you’re a magician. Fancy that.’ The Milksop was inspecting him as if he were a caterpillar that had turned into a black moth before his eyes. ‘Is that why the unicorn was so easy to hunt? Because it wasn’t real?’

  ‘Oh, it was real enough,’ replied Orpheus with a patronizing smile. It was made of the same stuff as you, he added in his mind. This Milksop creature really was a pathetic character. As soon as he could make the words come to life again he’d write a totally ridiculous kind of death for him. Suppose he had him torn to pieces by his own hounds? No. He’d make him choke to death on a chicken bone at one of his banquets, and then have him falling on his silver-dusted face into a large dish of black pudding. That was it. Orpheus couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘That smile will soon be wiped off your face!’ the Milksop hissed at him. ‘The Adderhead doesn’t like having his expectations disappointed.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you know that better than anyone,’ replied Orpheus. ‘Now kindly show me the library.’

  43

  Four Berries

  On my wall hangs a Japanese mask

  of gilded wood, the mask of an evil demon.

  With sympathy, I see

  the veins at his temples swelling,

  showing what a strain it is to be bad.

  Bertolt Brecht,

  The Mask of Evil

  The marten was worse than the bear. He was watching her, he was chattering her name into the boy’s ear (fortunately the boy didn’t understand him) and chasing her away. But a time came when the marten followed the boy outside, and the bear just raised his heavy head when she hopped up to the bowl of soup that one of the women had put in front of his master.

  Nothing was easier to poison than soup. The Black Prince was arguing with Snapper once again, and his back was turned as she dropped the dark red berries into the dish. Five tiny berries, that was all it would take to send the prince of the robbers to another kingdom, one where his bear wouldn’t be able to follow him. But just as she was about to let the fifth berry fall from her beak the wretched marten shot towards her, as if even outside he had scented what she was planning. The berry rolled away, and Mortola prayed to all the devils in hell that four would be enough to kill.

  The Black Prince. Another high-minded fool. Presumably his heart felt a pang every time he saw a cripple. He’d never help her to get hold of the book that would let her bargain with Death, not he. But fortunately men like that were less common than white ravens, and most of them died young. Such men didn’t want what made other hearts beat faster: riches, power, fame. No, the Black Prince wasn’t interested in any of that. Justice made his heart beat faster. Pity. Love. As if life hadn’t treated him just as badly as the others. Kicks and blows, pain and hunger. He’d known more than enough of all that. So where did the pity that motivated him come from? And the warmth of his silly heart, the laughter in his face? He simply didn’t see the world as it really was, that was the explanation – neither the world nor the people he felt so sorry for. Because if you did see them for what they were, what on earth would make you want to fight and even die for them?

  No, if anyone could help her to get her hands on the White Book before the Bluejay wrote in it and ransomed himself from Death, it was Snapper. He was a man after Mortola’s own heart. Snapper saw people as they really were: greedy and cowardly, full of self-interest, cunning. Only one kind of injustice had made him a robber, injustice to himself. Mortola knew all about him. One of the Laughing Prince’s stewards had seized his farm, the way the powerful classes so often simply took what they wanted. That, and nothing else, had driven him into the forest. Yes, she could deal with Snapper.

  Mortola knew exactly how to harness him for her own purposes once the Black Prince was out of the way. ‘What are you all still doing here, Snapper?’ she would whisper to him. ‘There are more important things in life than looking after a few snotty-nosed children! The Bluejay knows why he’s really landed you with them. He’s planning to sell you all! You must kill him before he throws in his lot with the Adderhead’s daughter. How did he try fooling you – by saying he only wanted to write in the White Book to kill the Adderhead? Nonsense! He wants to make himself immortal! And there’s something else I’m sure he hasn’t told you. The White Book doesn’t just keep Death at bay – it makes its owner rich beyond the dreams of avarice!’

  Oh yes, Mortola knew how Snapper’s
eyes would light up at those words. He didn’t understand what made the Bluejay tick. Nor would he understand that she herself wanted the Book only to buy her son back from Death. But he would certainly set off at once with the prospect of gold and silver before his eyes. As soon as the Black Prince couldn’t stop him any more … and luckily the berries worked fast.

  Gecko called to her. He had filled his hand with breadcrumbs and was holding it up as if there were nothing tastier in the world. What a fool. Thought he knew something about birds. Well, perhaps he really did. After all, she was no ordinary bird. Mortola uttered a hoarse laugh. It sounded strange, coming from that pointed beak, and the Strong Man raised his head and looked up at the rocky ledge where she was perching. Yes, he knew about birds and what they said. She’d have to watch him carefully. ‘Oh, never mind, kek-kek-kek, kraaa!’ said the magpie in her, the magpie that thought only of worms and shiny things and the gleam of its black feathers. ‘They’re all fools, fools, such fools. But I am clever. Come along, old woman, let’s fly after the Bluejay and peck his eyes out. What fun!’

  Every day it was getting more difficult to keep her wings still when the magpie wanted to spread them, and Mortola had to shake her bird’s head harder and harder to make it think human thoughts. Sometimes she couldn’t even remember for sure what human thoughts were like.

  Now the feathers would shoot out through her skin even without the seeds. She had already swallowed too many, and the poison was wandering through her body and sowing the bird in her blood. Never mind. You’ll find a way to drive it out, Mortola, she thought. But first the bookbinder must be dead and her son alive again! His face … what did it look like? She could hardly remember.

  The Black Prince was still arguing with Snapper, as he did so often these days. Eat it! Start eating, you fool! Two other robbers came along – the pock-marked actor who was always at the Prince’s side, and Gecko, who saw the world as Snapper did. One of the women came over to them, brought the actor a bowl of soup too and pointed to the one she had put in front of the Prince.

  That’s right, listen to her! Sit down! Eat! Mortola thrust her head forward. She felt how her human body wanted to shake off the feathers, how it longed to spread and stretch. Yesterday a couple of children had almost caught her shape-shifting. Silly, noisy nuisances. She’d never liked children – except her own son, and she had never let even him see that she loved him. Love ruined you. It made you soft, gullible …

  There. He was eating. At last. Yes, enjoy it, Prince! The bear trotted up to his master and snuffled at the bowl. Get out, you clumsy great brute. Let him eat it. Four berries. Five would have been better, but with a little luck four would do the trick. It was useful that the trees they grew on were far from rare. Two of them stood only a little way below the cave. Resa was always warning the children not to try their berries.

  The Black Prince put the bowl to his mouth and drank the dregs. Good. He’d soon feel Death twisting his guts. Mortola uttered a triumphant croak and spread her wings. Gecko raised his hand with the breadcrumbs again as she flew away over his head. Idiot. They were all stupid, very, very stupid. But that was just as well.

  The women began ladling soup out for the children, and Silvertongue’s daughter stood far away at the back of the long line. There’d be enough time to pick a few berries for her too. More than enough time.

  44

  The Hand of Death

  Death is great.

  Laugh as we may,

  we are its own.

  In life’s bright day

  It weeps its way

  Into our hearts.

  Rainer Maria Rilke,

  Closing Piece

  Minerva made good soup. Meggie had often eaten it when she was staying with Fenoglio, and the aroma rising from the steaming bowls was so delicious that for a moment the huge, chilly cave really seemed like home. ‘Please, Meggie, do eat something!’ Resa had said. ‘I don’t have an appetite any more than you do, but it’s not going to help your father if we starve to death because we’re so worried about him.’

  No, she supposed not. When she’d asked Farid to call up the fiery pictures for her again, the flames had shown nothing. ‘You can’t force them!’ Farid had muttered in annoyance as he put the ashes back into his bag. ‘The flames like to play, so you have to pretend you don’t really want anything from them. But how am I supposed to do that when you’re staring at them as if it were a matter of life and death?’

  Well, what else was it? Even the Black Prince was anxious about Mo. He had decided to follow Violante to the Castle in the Lake with a few men. He was going to set off tomorrow, but he wouldn’t take Resa and Meggie with him. ‘Of course not,’ Meggie’s mother had whispered bitterly. ‘This world belongs to men.’

  Meggie picked up the wooden spoon that Doria had carved for her (it was a very good spoon) and listlessly stirred the soup. Jasper peered at it longingly. Of course. Glass men loved human food, although it wasn’t good for them. Jasper was spending more and more time with Doria, even though Farid was back. Meggie wasn’t surprised. Farid had been far from talkative since Dustfinger sent him away again. Most of the time he walked restlessly in the surrounding hills or tried to call up pictures in the fire. So far Roxane had looked into the flames only once. ‘Thank you,’ she had said to Farid afterwards, her voice cool. ‘But I’d rather go on listening to my heart. It usually tells me whether he’s all right.’

  ‘There, isn’t that just what I told Dustfinger?’ Farid had said, annoyed. ‘So why did he send me to her? She doesn’t need me. She’d bewitch me away if she could.’

  Doria offered Jasper his spoon.

  ‘Don’t give him any!’ said Meggie. ‘He can’t digest it! Ask him.’ She was very fond of Jasper. He was so much friendlier than Rosenquartz, who liked nothing better than losing his temper and quarrelling with Fenoglio.

  ‘She’s right,’ muttered Jasper gloomily, but his sharp little nose sniffed, as if at least to fill his glass body with the forbidden aroma. The children sitting around Meggie giggled. They all liked the glass man, and Doria often had to rescue him from their small hands. They liked the marten too, but Jink snapped and spat when the fuss the children made of him got to be too much. The glass man, however, had little defence against human fingers.

  The soup really did smell good. Meggie dipped her spoon into her bowl – and jumped when the magpie that had flown to Gecko fluttered over to her own shoulder. By now the bird seemed to belong in the cave, like Jink and the bear, but Resa disliked it.

  ‘Get away!’ she said, shooing the magpie off Meggie’s shoulder. The bird croaked angrily and jabbed at Resa with its beak. Meggie was so startled that she spilt the hot soup over her hands.

  ‘Sorry.’ Resa mopped the liquid off Meggie’s fingers with the hem of her dress. ‘I can’t stand that bird. I expect it’s because it reminds me of Mortola.’

  The Magpie – of course. It was a long time since Meggie had thought about Capricorn’s mother, but then she hadn’t been there when Mortola had shot Mo. Resa had.

  ‘It’s only a bird,’ said Meggie, her thoughts already far away again, following her father. She had found very little about the Castle in the Lake in Fenoglio’s book. Deep in the mountains, in the middle of a lake … an endless bridge over black water. Was Mo riding over that bridge now? Suppose she and Resa simply followed the Black Prince? Do you hear, Meggie? Whatever happens, stay with the robbers! Promise me!

  Resa pointed to the bowl in her lap. ‘Do please eat it, Meggie!’

  But Meggie turned to Roxane, who was quickly making her way past the children as they sat there eating. Her beautiful face was paler than Meggie had seen it since Dustfinger’s return. Resa stood up, looking anxious.

  ‘What’s happened?’ She took Roxane’s arm. ‘Is there any news? Has anything been heard of Mo? You must tell me!’

  But Roxane shook her head. ‘The Prince …’ The anxiety in her voice was plainly audible. ‘He’s not well, and I don’t kno
w what it is. He has terrible stomach cramps. I have a few roots here that may help him.’

  She moved on, but Resa held her back again. ‘Stomach cramps? Where is he?’

  Meggie heard the bear’s howl from far away. The Strong Man was looking like a desperate child as they made their way towards him. Battista was there too, with Woodenfoot and Elfbane. The Black Prince lay on the ground. Minerva was kneeling beside him, trying to get some liquid into his mouth, but he writhed in pain, pressed his hands to his body and struggled for breath. Sweat stood out on his forehead.

  ‘Quiet, bear!’ he gasped. He could hardly get the words past his lips; he had bitten them in his pain until they bled. But the bear went on howling and snorting as if his own life was at stake.

  ‘Let me by.’ Resa pushed them all aside, even Minerva, and took the Prince’s face between her hands.

  ‘Look at me!’ she said. ‘Please, look at me!’

  She wiped the sweat from his brow and looked into his eyes.

  Roxane came back with a few roots in her hand, and the magpie flapped its way over to Gecko’s shoulder.

  Resa stared at it.

  ‘Strong Man!’ she said, so quietly that no one but Meggie heard her. ‘Catch that bird.’

  The magpie jerked its head as the Black Prince writhed in Minerva’s arms.

  The Strong Man looked at Resa, his face streaming with tears, and nodded. But when he took a step towards Gecko, the magpie flew away and perched on a ledge high up below the roof of the cave.

  Roxane knelt beside Resa.

  ‘He’s lost consciousness,’ said Minerva. ‘And see how shallow his breathing is!’

  ‘I’ve seen cramps like these before.’ Resa’s voice was trembling. ‘The berries that cause them are dark red, not much bigger than a pinhead. Mortola liked to use them because they’re easily mixed with food, and they bring a very painful death. There are two of the trees they grow on just below this cave! I’ve warned the children not to eat the berries.’ She looked up at the magpie again.

  ‘Is there an antidote?’ Roxane straightened her back. The Black Prince lay there as if dead, and the bear pushed his muzzle into his master’s side and moaned like a human being.