"Put the Bluejay in the tower!" Firefox's voice was almost lost in the huge expanse of the castle courtyard. "And take the others to the dungeons." So they were going to be separated. Mo saw Resa, moving painfully on her sore feet, turn to Firefox. One of the mounted men kicked her back so roughly with his boot that she fell to the ground. And Mo felt a dragging sensation in his breast, as if his hatred had given birth to something, something that wanted to kill. A new heart, cold and hard.
A weapon. If only he had a weapon, one of the ugly swords they all wore at their belts, or one of those sharp, shiny knives. There seemed to be nothing more desirable in the world than such a sharp piece of metal – more desirable than all the words Fenoglio could write. They hauled him off the cart. He could hardly keep his footing, but somehow or other he stood upright. Four soldiers surrounded him and seized him, and he imagined himself killing them one by one. While that new, cold heart in his breast beat time.
"Hey, go a bit more carefully with him, will you?" Firefox snapped at them. "You think I brought him this whole damn way just for you fools to kill him now?"
Resa was crying. Mo heard her call his name again and again. He turned, but he couldn't see her anywhere, he only heard her voice. He called her name, tried to break free, kicked out at the soldiers who were dragging him away toward one of the towers.
"You just try that again!" snarled one of them. "What's biting you, then? You two will soon be reunited. The Adderhead likes wives to watch an execution."
"That's right, he can't get enough of their weeping and wailing," mocked another man. "You'll see, he'll keep her alive a little longer just for that. And you'll get a magnificent execution, Bluejay, you mark my words."
Bluejay. A new name. A new heart. Like ice in his breast, with edges as sharp as a blade.
49. THE MILL
"We rode and rode and nothing happened. Wherever we went, it was calm, peaceful, and beautiful. You could call it a quiet evening in the mountains, I thought, if that hadn't been so wrong."
Astrid Lindgren, The Brothers Lionheart
It took Dustfinger over three days to reach the Spelt-Mill with Meggie and Farid. Three long, gray days during which Meggie hardly spoke a word, although Farid did his best to cheer her up. Most of the time it was raining, a fine drizzle, and soon none of them could remember what it felt like to sleep in dry clothes. Only when, at last, the dark valley where the mill stood opened out before them, did the sun break through the clouds. Low in the sky above the hills, it shed golden light on the river and the shingle roofs. There wasn't another dwelling to be seen far and wide – only the miller's house, a few outhouses, and the mill itself, with its great wooden wheel dipping deep into the water. Willows, poplars, and eucalyptus bushes lined the bank of the river on which it stood, together with alders and wild pear trees. There was a cart standing at the foot of the steps leading into the mill. A broad-shouldered man, dusty with flour, was just loading it up with sacks. There was no one else in sight except a boy who, on seeing them approach, ran over to the house. All looked peaceful – peaceful and quiet, apart from the rushing of the water, which drowned out even the chirping of the cicadas.
"You'll see!" Farid whispered to Meggie. "Fenoglio's written something. I'm sure he has. Or if not, we'll just wait until -"
"We'll do no such thing," Dustfinger brusquely interrupted him, looking distrustfully around. "We'll ask about the letter and then go on. Many people come to this mill, and after what happened on the road the first of the soldiers will soon be putting in an appearance. If it was up to me, we wouldn't show our faces here until everything had calmed down a bit, but if you must…"
"Suppose the letter hasn't come yet?" Meggie looked at him with anxiety in her face. "When I wrote to Fenoglio I told him I'd wait for it here!"
"Yes, and I don't remember saying you could write to him at all, did I?"
Meggie made no answer, and Dustfinger glanced at the mill again. "I just hope Cloud-Dancer delivered the letter safely, and the old man hasn't been showing it around. I don't have to tell you what damage the words on a page can do."
He looked around for the last time before moving out of the cover of the trees. Then he signaled to Farid and Meggie to follow him and strode toward the buildings. The boy who had run to the house was sitting on the steps outside the door of the mill again, and a few chickens ran away, squawking, as Gwin shot toward them.
"Farid, catch that damn marten!" ordered Dustfinger, as he whistled Jink to his side, but Gwin hissed at Farid. He didn't bite him (he never bit Farid), but he wasn't letting himself be caught either. He slipped through Farid's legs and bounded after one of the chickens. Cackling, it fluttered up the steps of the mill, but the marten wasn't to be shaken off that way. He shot past the boy, who was still sitting on the steps apparently taking no interest in anything, and disappeared through the open door in pursuit of the chicken. A moment later the cackling stopped abruptly – and Meggie glanced anxiously at Dustfinger.
"Oh, wonderful!" he murmured, making Jink jump back into his backpack. "A marten in the flour and a dead chicken, that's going to make us very popular here! Speak of the devil…"
The man loading up the cart wiped his floury hands on his trousers and came toward them.
"Excuse me, please!" Dustfinger called to him. "Where's the miller? I'll pay for the chicken, of course. But we're really here to collect something. A letter."
The man stopped in front of them. He was a full head taller than Dustfinger. "I'm the miller now," he said. "My father's dead. A letter, you say?" He inspected them one by one. His eyes lingered longest on Dustfinger's face.
"Yes, a letter from Ombra," replied Dustfinger, glancing up at the mill. "Why isn't it grinding? Don't the farmers bring you their grain anymore, or have you run out of miller's men?"
The miller shrugged. "Someone brought us damp spelt to grind yesterday. The bran gummed up the millstones. My man spent hours cleaning them. What kind of letter is it? And who's it to? Don't you have a name?"
Dustfinger looked at him thoughtfully. "So is there a letter here?"
"It's for me," said Meggie, stepping forward beside him. "Meggie Folchart. That's my name."
The miller inspected her at length – her dirty dress, her matted hair – and then he nodded. "Yes, I have it inside," he said. "I'm only asking because a letter can be dangerous in the wrong hands, can't it? Go on in, I'll just load up this last sack."
"Fill the water bottles," Dustfinger whispered to Farid, slinging his backpack over the boy's shoulders. "I'll catch that damn marten, pay for the chicken, and as soon as Meggie has the letter we'll be off out of here."
Before Farid could protest, he had disappeared into the mill. With Meggie. The boy passed his arm over his dirty face and watched them go.
"Fill the water bottles!" muttered Farid as he climbed down the bank to the river. "Catch the marten! Does he think I'm his servant?" The mill boy was still sitting on the steps as Farid stood in the cold river, holding their gourds under water. There was something about that boy that he didn't like. Something in his face. Fear. Yes, that was it. He was afraid. What of? It's hardly likely to be me, thought Farid, looking around. Something was wrong, he could smell it. He'd always been able to smell it, even back in his other life when he had to stand guard, spy out the land, follow people unseen, go scouting ahead – oh yes, he knew what danger smelled like. He put the water bottles in the backpack with Jink and scratched the sleepy marten's head.
He didn't see the body until he was about to wade back to the bank. The dead man was still young, and Farid had a feeling that he'd seen his face before. Hadn't the man thrown a copper coin into his bowl in Ombra, during the celebrations at the castle? The body was caught in the branches bending low above the water, but the wound in its chest was clearly visible. A knife. Farid's heart began to race so suddenly that he could hardly breathe. He looked at the mill. The boy sitting outside it was clutching his own shoulders as if he feared he might fall apart with
terror. But the miller had disappeared.
No sound could be heard from the mill, but that meant nothing. The rushing water would have drowned out everything – screams, the clash of swords…
Come on, Farid, he told himself sharply. Slink up there and find out what's going on. You've done it a hundred times – no, even more often. Ducking low, he waded through the river and climbed up onto the bank behind the mill wheel. His heart was in his mouth as he leaned against the wall of the mill, but that was nothing new, either. A thousand times or more he had slunk up to a building, a window, a closed door, with his heart beating hard. He leaned Dustfinger's backpack with the sleeping marten in it against the wall.
Gwin. Gwin had run inside the mill. And Dustfinger had gone after him. That wasn't good. Not good at all. Meggie was with him, too. Farid looked up at the mill. The nearest window was a good way above his head, but luckily the wall was rough-textured. "Keep silent as a snake," he whispered to himself as he hauled himself up. The windowsill was white with flour dust. Holding his breath, Farid peered in. The first thing he saw was a pudgy fellow with a foolish face, probably the miller's man. Farid had never seen the other man beside him before, but unfortunately he couldn't say the same of his companion.
Basta. The same thin face, the same vicious smile. Only the clothes were different. Basta was no longer wearing his white shirt and black suit with the flower in his buttonhole. No, Basta now wore the Adderhead's silvery gray, and he had a sword at his side. With a knife in his belt, too, of course. But he was holding a dead chicken in his left hand.
Only the millstone stood between him and Dustfinger – the millstone and Gwin, who was crouching in the middle of the round stone, staring longingly at the chicken as the tip of his tail twitched restlessly up and down. Meggie was standing close to Dustfinger. Was she thinking the same as Farid? Did she remember Fenoglio's deadly words? Perhaps, for she was trying to entice Gwin over to her, but the marten took no notice.
What am I to do? Farid wondered. What on earth am I to do? Climb in? Nonsense, what use would that be? His silly little knife couldn't prevail against two swords, and then there'd be the miller and his man to deal with, too. The miller was standing right beside the door. "Well, are these the folk you were waiting for?" he asked Basta. How pleased with himself and his lies he looked. Farid would have loved to use his knife to peel that sly smile off his lips.
"Yes, they are!" purred Basta. "The little witch and the fire-eater in the bargain. It was well worth the wait. Even though I'll probably never get that damn flour out of my lungs again."
Think, Farid. Go on. He looked around, let his eyes wander, as if they could find him a way of escape through the solid masonry. There was another window, but the miller's man was standing in front of it, and a wooden staircase led to the loft, where they probably stored the grain. They would tip it through the wooden hopper sticking up through the floor of the loft, and then it would fall on the millstone. The hopper! Yes, it rose through the ceiling of the mill like a wooden mouth right above the stone. Suppose he…
Farid looked up at the mill. Was there another window higher up? Yes, there was, hardly more than a hole in the wall, but he had crawled through narrower openings before. His heart was still in his mouth as he hauled himself farther up the wall. The river flowed fast to his left, and a crow stared at him from a willow as suspiciously as if it were about to give him away to the miller at any moment. Farid was breathing heavily as he forced his shoulders through the narrow aperture in the wall. As he set foot on the wooden floorboards of the loft, they creaked treacherously, but the river drowned out that telltale sound. On his stomach, Farid inched over to the hopper and peered down through it. Right below him stood Basta. And Dustfinger must be standing opposite him on the other side of the stone, with Meggie. Farid couldn't see him, but he could imagine only too well what Dustfinger was thinking of: Fenoglio's words telling the tale of his death.
"Grab that marten, Slasher!" Basta told the man beside him. "Go on, do it."
"Do it yourself. You think I want to catch rabies?"
"Come here, Gwin!" That was Dustfinger's voice. What was he doing? Trying to laugh his own fear in the face, the way he sometimes did when the fire bit his skin? Gwin leaped off the stone. He would be sitting on Dustfinger's shoulder, staring at Basta. Stupid Gwin. He didn't know about the words…
"Fine new clothes, Basta!" said Dustfinger. "When the servant finds a new master he must wear new clothes, mustn't he?"
"Servant? Who's a servant here? Just listen to him. As bold as if he'd never felt my knife! Have you forgotten how you screamed when it cut your face?" Basta set one boot on the millstone. "Don't you dare move so much as a finger. Hands up! Go on, up in the air! I know what you can do with fire in this world. One little whisper from you, one snap of your fingers, and my knife goes into the little witch's breast."
A snap of the fingers. Yes, get on with it, Farid! He looked around, searching for what he needed, quickly twisted some straw together to make a torch, and began whispering. "Come along!" he lured the fire, clicking his tongue and hissing the way Dustfinger had shown him after he put a little fire-honey in his mouth for the first time. They had practiced every evening behind Roxane's house, practiced the language of fire, its crackling words… Farid whispered them all until a tiny flame came licking up out of the straw.
"Ooh dear! See how the little witch is staring at me, Slasher?" asked Basta below him, with pretended terror. "What a pity she needs written words for her witchcraft! But there's no book anywhere here. Wasn't it nice of her to write to us in person and tell us where to find you?" Basta disguised his voice to make it sound shrill and girlish. "The Adderhead's men have taken them all away, my parents and the strolling players! Write something for me, Fenoglio! Or something like that. You know, I was really disappointed to hear that your father's still alive. Oh, don't look so disbelieving, little witch, I still can't read and I don't intend to learn, but there are enough fools around the place who can, even in this world. A scribe ran into our arms right outside the city gates of Ombra. It took a little while for him to decipher your scribble, but we still had a good enough start to get here ahead of you. We were even on the spot in time to kill the old man's messenger, who was supposed to warn you."
"You're even more talkative than you used to be, Basta." Dustfinger's voice sounded as if he found this tedious. How well he could hide his fear! Farid always admired him for that, almost more than for his skill with fire.
Slowly, very slowly, Basta drew his knife from his belt. Dustfinger didn't like knives. He generally kept his in his backpack, and his backpack was leaning against the wall outside. Farid had so often begged him to keep the knife in his belt, but no, he wouldn't hear of it.
"Talkative? Well, well." Basta looked at his reflection in the bright blade of the knife. "No one could say the same of you. But I tell you what! Since we've known each other so long, I'll carry the news of your death to your wife in person! What do you say to that, fire-eater? Do you think Roxane will be glad to see me again?" Caressingly, he ran two fingers along the blade. "And as for you, little witch… I thought it was really nice of you to entrust your letter to an old tightrope-walker. With his stiff leg, he wasn't half as fast as my knife."
"Cloud-Dancer? You killed Cloud-Dancer?"
There was no boredom in Dustfinger's voice now. Stand still, please, whispered Farid. Please, please stand still. He was hastily feeding more straw to the flames.
"Ah, so you didn't know that yet!" Basta's voice became soft with contentment. "Yes, there'll be no more dancing for your old friend. Ask Slasher, he was there."
"You're lying!" Meggie’s voice shook. Farid bent cautiously forward. He saw Dustfinger push her roughly behind him, his eyes searching for a way out, but there was none. Sacks full of flour were stacked behind him and Meggie, Slasher was barring their way to their right, on their left was the man with the silly grin, and in front of the window through which Farid had peered stood the
miller. But there was straw lying on the floor at their feet, a great deal of straw, and it would burn almost as well as paper.
Basta laughed. With one bound, he leaped up on the millstone and looked down at Dustfinger. He was standing very close to the outlet of the hopper now. Hurry up, come on, whispered Farid, kindling a second bundle of straw from the first and holding them both above the funnel. He hoped its wood wouldn't catch fire. He hoped the straw would slide through. He hoped so. His fingers were scorched as he stuffed the burning bundles in, but he took no notice. Dustfinger was in a trap, and Meggie was in it with him. What did a couple of burned fingers matter?
"Yes, poor Cloud-Dancer was far too slow," purred Basta, as he tossed his knife from one hand to the other. "You're faster than him, I know, fire-eater, but you won't get away all the same. And this time I'm not just going to cut your face, this time I'll slice your skin off in strips from head to foot."
Now! Farid let the burning straw drop. The hopper swallowed it like a sack of corn and spat it out on Basta's boots.
"Fire! Where's that fire coming from?" It was the miller's voice. His man was bellowing like an ox when it sees the butcher's hatchet.
Farid's fingers hurt, his skin was beginning to blister, but the fire was dancing, dancing up Basta's boots, licking close to his arms. Terrified, he stumbled, fell backward off the millstone, and cracked open his head against the edge of it. Blood flowed. Basta feared fire, feared it more than the bad luck against which his amulets were supposed to protect him.
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