It was not difficult to see where Mo had been lying. The straw in that place was bloodstained, like the blanket beside it. A bowl of water, an overturned wooden mug, a bunch of dried flowers… Meggie picked them up and ran her fingers over the petals. She kneeled down and stared at the bloodstained straw. Fenoglio's parchment was close to her breast, but Mo was gone. How could Fenoglio's words help him now?
Try, something inside her whispered. You can't tell how powerful his words are in this world. It's made of them, after all.
She heard footsteps behind her. Farid and Dustfinger were back, and Dustfinger was holding a child in his arms, a little girl. She stared at Meggie, wide-eyed, as if she were in a bad dream and couldn't wake up.
"She wouldn't talk to me, but luckily Farid inspires rather more confidence," said Dustfinger, carefully putting the child down on her feet. "She says her name is Lianna and she's five years old. And there were a lot of men: silver men with swords, and snakes on their breasts. Not so very surprising, if you ask me. They obviously killed the guards and some of those who defended themselves, and then took the rest away, even the women and children. As for the wounded" – he glanced briefly at Meggie – "they were clearly loaded onto some kind of cart. The men had no horses with them. The girl is here only because her mother told her to hide among the trees."
Gwin scurried into the cave, followed by Jink. The little girl jumped when the martens leaped up at Dustfinger. Then she watched, fascinated, as Farid took Gwin off Dustfinger's shoulder and put him on his own lap.
"Ask her if there were other children here," said Dustfinger softly.
Farid held up five fingers and showed them to the girl. "How many children, Lianna?"
The child looked at him and tapped first Farid's forefinger, then his second and third fingers. "Merle. Fabio. Tinka," she whispered.
"Three," said Dustfinger. "Probably no older than she is."
Timidly, Lianna put out her hand to stroke Gwin's bushy tail, but Dustfinger held her fingers in a firm grip. "Better not," he said gently. "He bites. Try the other one."
"Meggie?" Farid came over to her. But Meggie did not answer him. She wound her arms tightly around her knees and buried her face in her skirt. She didn't want to see the cave anymore. She didn't want to see any of Fenoglio's world anymore, not even Farid and Dustfinger or the girl who didn't know where her own parents were, either. She wanted to be in Elinor's library, sitting in the big armchair where Elinor liked to read, and she wanted to see Mo put his head around the door and ask what the book on her lap was. But Mo wasn't here, perhaps he was gone forever, and Fenoglio's story held her fast in its black, inky arms, whispering terrible things to her – about armed men who dragged away children, old people, the sick… mothers and fathers.
"Nettle will soon be here with Cloud-Dancer," she heard Dustfinger say. "She'll look after the child."
"What about us?" asked Farid.
"I'll follow them," said Dustfinger. "To find out how many are still alive and where they're being taken. Although I think I know."
Meggie raised her head. "To the Castle of Night."
"Good guess,"
The girl put her hand out to Jink; she was still small enough to find comfort for her grief in stroking an animal's fur, Meggie envied her.
"What do you mean, you'll follow them?" Farid shooed Gwin off his lap and stood up,
"Exactly what I said." Dustfinger's face was as uncommunicative as a closed door, "I will follow them while you two wait here for Cloud-Dancer and Nettle. Tell them I'm trying to follow the trail, and Cloud-Dancer is to take you back to Ombra. He's not fast enough to follow me with his stiff leg. Then tell Roxane what's happened, so she doesn't think I've vanished again, and Meggie will stay with Fenoglio." His face was as well controlled as ever when he looked at her, but in his eyes Meggie saw all that she herself was feeling: fear, anxiety, anger… helpless anger.
"But we have to help them!" Farid's voice shook.
"How? The Black Prince might have been able to save them, but they've obviously caught him, and I don't know anyone else ready to risk his life for a few strolling players."
"What about that robber everyone's talking about, the Bluejay?"
"There's no such person." Meggie's voice was little more than a whisper. "Fenoglio made him up."
"Really?" Dustfinger looked at her thoughtfully. "I've heard otherwise, but still… well, as soon as you're in Ombra, get Cloud-Dancer to go to the strolling players and tell them what's happened. I know the Prince has men at his command, men who are devoted to him and probably well armed as well, but I've no idea where they are. Perhaps one of the strolling players may know. Or Cloud-Dancer himself. He must try to get word to them somehow. There's a mill in Argenta called the Spelt-Mill, It's always been one of the few places south of the forest where people can meet or exchange news without the risk that it will come to the Adderhead's ears at once. The miller is so rich he doesn't even have to fear the men-at-arms. So if anyone wants to see me, or has any idea of how we can help the prisoners, let him send news there. I'll drop in now and then to ask if any messages have come. Understand?"
Meggie nodded. "The Spelt-Mill," she repeated quietly, unable to look anywhere but at the bloodstained straw.
"Right, Meggie can do all that, but I'm going with you." Farid's voice sounded so defiant that the little girl, still kneeling silently beside Meggie, was upset and reached for her hand.
"I'm warning you, don't start on about looking after me again!" Dustfinger's voice was so sharp that Farid lowered his eyes. "I'm going alone, and that's that. You take care of Meggie and the child until Nettle comes, and then get Cloud-Dancer to take you to Ombra."
"No!" Meggie saw the tears in Farid's eyes, but Dustfinger just walked toward the cave entrance without another word. Gwin scuttled in front of him.
"If it gets dark before they arrive," he added, looking over his shoulder at Farid, "then light a fire. Not because of the soldiers They have what they came for, but wolves and Night-Mares arealways hungry: the wolves for your flesh, the Night-Mares for your fear."
Then he was gone, and Farid stood there, his eyes blurred with tears. "That bloody bastard!" he whispered. "That thrice-accursed son of a bitch! But he'll soon see. I'm going to follow him. I will look after him! I swore I would." Abruptly, he kneeled down in front of Meggie and took her hand. "You will go to Ombra, won't you? Please. I have to go after him. I know you understand!"
Meggie said nothing. What was there to say? That she wasn't going back any more than he was? He'd only have tried to persuade her not to go on. Jink rubbed against Farid's legs, and then scurried outside. The little girl ran after the marten but stopped at the entrance to the cave – a small, forlorn figure, all alone. Like me, thought Meggie.
Without looking at Farid, she took Fenoglio's parchment out of her belt. The letters could scarcely be made out in the twilight that filled the cave.
"What's that?" Farid straightened up.
"Words. Only words, but better than nothing."
"Wait, I'll give you a light." Farid rubbed his fingertips together and whispered. A tiny flame appeared on his thumbnail. He blew gently on the little flame, until it grew like the flame of a candle, and then held his thumb above the parchment. The flickering light made the letters shine as if Rosenquartz had retraced them with fresh ink.
Useless, something whispered in Meggie. The words will be useless! Mo isn't here, he's far away, he may not even be alive anymore. Shut up! she snapped at this internal voice. I'm not listening. This is all I can do, there's nothing else, nothing at all! She picked up the bloodstained blanket, placed the parchment on it, and ran her fingers over her lips. The little girl was still standing outside the cave, waiting for her mother to come back.
"Read it, Meggie!" Farid nodded at her encouragingly.
And she read it, her fingers clutching the blanket stained with Mo's dried blood, "Mortimer felt the pain…" She thought she felt it herself, in the sound of every l
etter on her tongue, in every word that passed her lips. "The wound was burning. It burned like the hatred in Mortola's eyes when she had shot him. Perhaps it was her hatred that was sucking the life out of him, making him weaker and weaker. He felt his own blood wet and warm on his skin. He felt Death reaching out to him. But all of a sudden there was something else, too: words. Words that relieved the pain, cooled his brow, and spoke of love, nothing but love. They made his breathing easier again and healed the place where death had been flowing in. He felt the sound of them on his skin and deep in his heart. They echoed ever louder, ever more clearly through the darkness that threatened to swallow him up, and suddenly he knew the voice speaking the words: It was his daughter's voice, and the White Women withdrew their pale hands as if they had burned themselves on her love."
Meggie buried her face in her hands. The parchment rolled up on her lap of its own accord, as if it had served its purpose. Straw pricked her through her dress, as it had in the shed where Capricorn had once imprisoned her and Mo. She felt someone stroking her hair, and for a moment, a crazy moment, she thought Fenoglio's words had brought Mo back, back to the cave safe and sound, and everything was all right again. But when she raised her head, it was only Farid standing beside her.
"That was beautiful," he said. "I'm sure it helped. You wait and see."
But Meggie shook her head. "No!" she whispered. "No Those were only beautiful words, but my father isn't made of Fenoglio's words. He's made of flesh and blood."
"So? What difference does that make?" Farid removed her hands from her tearstained face. "Perhaps everything's just made of words. Look at me, for instance. Pinch me. Am I made of paper?"
No, he wasn't. And Meggie had to smile when he kissed her, although she was still shedding tears.
Dustfinger had not been gone long when they heard footsteps among the trees. Farid had taken Dustfinger's advice and made a fire, and Meggie was sitting close to him with the little girl's head on her lap. Nettle said not a word as she emerged from the darkness and saw the wrecked camp. Silently, she went from one dead body to another, looking for life where none was left, while Cloud-Dancer, his face unmoving, listened to the message Dustfinger had left for him. It was only when Meggie asked Cloud-Dancer to take a message, not just to Roxane and the strolling players but to Fenoglio, too, that Farid fully realized she didn't intend to go back to Ombra any more than he did. His expressionless face didn't show whether he was angry or glad.
"I've written my message for Fenoglio." With a heavy heart, Meggie had torn a page for it out of the notebook that Mo had given her. On the other hand, what better use could she put it to than saving him? If it was still possible to save him. "You'll find Fenoglio in Minerva's house, in Cobblers' Alley. And it's very important that no one else reads the message."
"I know the Inkweaver!" Cloud-Dancer watched Nettle draw a ragged cloak over the face of another dead man, Then he frowned at the sheet of paper with Meggie's writing on it. "There've been messengers who were hanged for the words they carried. I hope these aren't that kind? No, don't tell me!" he said defensively as Meggie was about to answer. "Usually, I ask the sender to tell me the words of any message I carry, but with this one I have a feeling I'd better not know."
"What do you suppose she's written?" asked Nettle bitterly. "No doubt she was thanking the old man for writing the songs that will bring her father to the gallows! Or is he to write a dirge for him, the Bluejay's last song? I scented misfortune the moment I saw that scar on his arm. I always thought the Bluejay was just a legend, like all the noble princes and princesses in other songs. Well, you were wrong there, Nettle, said I to myself, and you're certainly not the first to notice the scar. So the Inkweaver had to go and describe it in detail! Curse the old fool and his silly songs! Men have been hanged before because they were taken for the Bluejay, but now it seems the Adderhead has the right man in his hands, and the game of playing heroes is over. Protecting the weak, robbing the strong… Yes, it all sounds very fine, but heroes aren't immortal except in songs, and your father will find only too soon that a mask doesn't protect you from death."
Meggie just sat there and stared at the old woman. What was she talking about?
"Why are you looking at me like that, so surprised?" asked Nettle. "Do you think the Adderhead sent his men here for a few old strolling players and pregnant women, or for the Black Prince? Nonsense. The Black Prince never hid from the Adder yet. No. Someone slipped off to the Castle of Night and whispered in the Adderhead's ear that the Bluejay was lying Wounded in the strolling players' Secret Camp and could easily be picked up, along with the poor players who were hiding him.
It will have been someone who knows the camp and has surely been paid good silver for his treachery. The Adderhead will make a great spectacle of the execution, the Inkweaver will write a touching song about it, and perhaps someone else will soon wear the feathered mask, for they'll go on singing those songs long after your father's dead and buried behind the Castle of Night."
Meggie heard her own blood surging through her veins.
"What scar are you talking about?" Her voice was little more than a whisper.
"Why, the scar on his left arm! Surely you must know it? The songs say that the Adderhead's hounds bit the Bluejay there when he was hunting their master's White Stags…"
Fenoglio. What had he done?
Meggie covered her mouth with her hand. She once again heard Fenoglio's voice on the spiral staircase as they were going down from Balbulus's workshop: "I like to base my characters on real people. Not every writer does that, but in my experience it makes them more lifelike! Facial expressions, gestures, the way someone walks, a voice, perhaps a birthmark or a scar – I steal something here, something there, and then they begin to breathe, until anyone hearing or reading about them thinks they can touch them! I didn't have a wide choice for the Bluejay…"
Mo. Fenoglio had taken her father as his model.
Meggie stared at the sleeping child. She, too, had often slept like that, with her head in Mo's lap.
"Meggie’s father is the Bluejay?" Farid, beside her, uttered an incredulous laugh. "What nonsense! Silvertongue can't even bring himself to kill a rabbit. You mark my words, Meggie, the Adderhead will soon realize that, and then he'll let him go. Come on!" He rose to his feet and offered her his hand. "We must start out or we'll never catch up with Dustfinger!"
"You're going after him now?" Nettle shook her head at such folly, while Meggie laid the little girl's head down on the grass.
"Keep going south if you miss his trail in the dark," said Cloud-Dancer. "Due south, and then you'll reach the road sometime. But beware of wolves. There are many wolves in these parts."
Farid just nodded. "I have fire with me," he said, making a spark dance on the palm of his hand.
Cloud-Dancer grinned. "Well done! Perhaps you really are Dustfinger's son, as Roxane suspects!"
"Who knows?" was all Farid would reply, and he led Meggie away with him.
She followed him into the dark trees, feeling numb. A robber! She could think of nothing else. He had made Mo into a robber, a part of his story! At that moment she hated Fenoglio just as much as Dustfinger did.
38. AN AUDIENCE FOR FENOGLIO
"Lady Cora," he said, "sometimes one has to do things which are unpalatable. When great issues are involved one can't toy with the situation in silk gloves. No. We are making history."
Mervyn Peake, Titus Groan
Fenoglio was pacing up and down his room. Seven steps to the window, seven back to the door. Meggie had gone, and there was no one who could tell him if she'd found her father still alive. What an appalling muddle! Whenever he began to hope he was getting things under control again, something happened that did not remotely suit his plans. Perhaps another man really did exist somewhere – a diabolical storyteller who was continuing his tale, giving it new twists and turns, unpredictable and unpleasant developments, moving his characters as if they were chessmen, or simply placing ne
w ones who had nothing to do with his own story on the chessboard!
And still Cosimo had sent no messenger. Well, I must exercise a little more patience, Fenoglio told himself. He's only just ascended his throne, and I'm sure he has a great deal to do. All his subjects wanting to see him, petitioners, widows, orphans, his administrators, gamekeepers, his son, his wife… "Oh, nonsense! I'm the one he should have sent for first of all!" Fenoglio uttered the words so angrily that he was startled by the sound of his own voice. "I, the man who brought him back to life, who made him in the first place!"
He went to the window and looked up at the castle. The Adderhead's banner flew from the left-hand tower. Yes, the Adderhead was in Ombra and must have ridden like the devil to see in person his son-in-law, newly back from the dead. He hadn't brought Firefox with him this time; no doubt the man was busy looting or murdering elsewhere on his master's behalf, but the Piper was still abroad in the streets of Ombra, always with a few men-at-arms in his wake. What did they want here? Did the Adderhead still seriously hope to place his grandson on the throne?
No, Cosimo would never allow it.
For a moment Fenoglio forgot his dark mood, and a smile stole over his face. Ah, if he could only have told the Adderhead who had wrecked his fine plans! A writer! How that would have angered him! They had given him an unpleasant surprise – he with his words, Meggie with her voice…
Poor Meggie… poor Mortimer…
How pleadingly she had looked at him. And what a farcical performance he had put on for her! Yet how could the poor thing have thought for a moment that he could help her father, when he himself hadn't even brought Mortimer here? Quite apart from the fact that Mortimer wasn't one of his creations in the first Place. But that look of hers! He simply had not the heart to let her leave without any hope at all!
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