Inkdeath ti-3

by Cornelia Funke

  "Of course I would! I'd send six times as much silver to the Castle of Night, because I wouldn't be squandering it on banquets and hunting parties. But for that you must leave me the Bluejay – once he's done what you want."

  Impressive. She was actually still making conditions. Oh yes, I like her, thought Orpheus. I like her very much. She just has to have her weakness for lawless bookbinders driven out of her. But then… what possibilities!

  Obviously, the Adderhead was appreciating his daughter more and more as well. He laughed louder than Orpheus had ever heard him laugh before. "Look at her!" he cried. "Bargaining with me even though she stands there empty-handed! Take her to her room," he ordered one of his soldiers. "But watch her carefully. And send Jacopo to her. A son should be with his mother. You, however," he said, turning to Mortimer, "will finally agree to my demand, or I'll have my bodyguard torture a yes out of you."

  The Piper, aggrieved, lowered his knife when Thumbling stepped out of the darkness. Violante cast him an uneasy glance, and resisted when the soldier dragged her away with him – but Mortimer still remained silent.

  "Your Grace!" Orpheus took a respectful step forward (at least, he hoped it looked respectful). "Let me get him to consent!"

  A whispered name (for you just have to call the creatures by their right names, like dogs), and the Night-Mare emerged from Orpheus's shadow.

  "Not the Night-Mare!" the Piper said forcefully. "You want to see the Bluejay dead on the spot, like the Fire-Dancer? No." He had Mortimer hauled to his feet again.

  "Didn't you hear? I'm dealing with this, Piper." Thumbling took off his black gloves.

  Orpheus tasted disappointment like bitter almonds on his tongue. What a chance to show the Adderhead how useful he was! If he'd only had Fenoglio's book so that he could use it to write the Piper right out of this world. And that Thumbling fellow, too.

  "My lord! Please, listen to me!" He stepped in front of the Adderhead. "May I ask for the answer to an additional question to be extracted from the prisoner in the course of what, I'm sure, he will find a rather uncomfortable process? You'll remember the book I told you about, the book that can change this world in any way you like! Please get him to say where it is!"

  But the Adderhead just turned his back. "Later," he said, and dropped back, with another groan, into the chair where the shadows hid him. "We're talking about only one book now, a book with white pages. You can start, Thumbling," said his gasping voice in the darkness. "But take care of his hands."

  When Orpheus felt the sudden chill on his face, he thought at first that the night wind was blowing through the black-draped windows. But there they were, standing beside the Bluejay, as white and terrible as they had been in the graveyard of the strolling players. They surrounded Mortimer like flightless angels, their limbs made of mist, their faces white as bleached bone. The Piper stumbled back so hastily that he fell and cut himself on his own knife. Even Thumbling's face lost its look of indifference. And the soldiers who had been guarding Mortimer flinched back like frightened children.

  It couldn't be true! Why were they protecting him? As thanks to him for tricking them more than once? For stealing Dustfinger away from them? Orpheus felt the Night-Mare cower like a beaten dog. So even the Night-Mare feared them? No. No, for heaven's sake! This world really must be rewritten. And he was the man to do it. Yes, indeed. He'd find a way.

  What were they whispering?

  The pale light spread by the daughters of Death drove away the shadows where the Adderhead was concealed, and Orpheus saw the Silver Prince fighting for breath in his dark corner, putting his shaking hands over his eyes. So he was still afraid of the White Women, even though he had killed so many men in the Castle of Night to prove that he wasn't. All lies. The Adderhead, in his immortal body, was breathless with fear.

  But Mortimer stood among Fenoglio's angels of death as if they were a part of him – and smiled.

  60. MOTHER AND SON

  The scent of moist dirt and fresh growth washes in over me, watery, slippery, with an acid taste to it like the bark of a tree. It smells like youth, it smells like heartbreak.

  Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

  Of course the Adderhead had Violante locked in her mother's former chamber. He knew very well that she would just hear the many lies his late wife had told her all the more clearly there. It couldn't be true. Her mother had never lied to her. Mother and father had always meant good and bad, truth and lies, love and hate. It had been so simple! But now her father had taken that from her, too. Violante searched inside herself for her pride and the strength she had always preserved, but all she found was an ugly little girl sitting in the dust of her hopes, at the heart of her mother's shattered image.

  She leaned her forehead against the barred door and listened for the Bluejay's screams, but she heard only the guards talking outside her door. Oh, why hadn't he said yes? Because he thought she'd still be able to shield him? Thumbling would soon teach him better. She couldn't help thinking of the minstrel whom her father had had quartered because he had sung for her mother, and the servant who had brought her books and was starved to death in a cage outside her window. She had given him parchment to eat. How could she have promised the Bluejay protection when those who were on her side had always gone to their deaths?

  "Thumbling will slice strips off his skin!" Jacopo's voice hardly reached her. "They say he does it so skillfully that his victims don't die. He's said to have practiced on dead bodies!"

  "Be quiet!" She felt like slapping his pale face. He was growing more and more like Cosimo every day, although he would so much rather have been like his grandfather.

  "You can't hear anything from here. They'll take him down to the cellar near the dungeons. I've been there. All the instruments are still in place – rusty, but they're still fit for use: chains, knives, screws, iron spikes…"

  Violante looked at him, and he fell silent. She went to the window, but the cage where they had first imprisoned the Bluejay was empty. Only the Fire-Dancer lay dead outside it. Strange that the ravens hadn't touched him. As if they were afraid to.

  Jacopo took the plate of food that one of the maids had brought him and sulkily picked at it. How old was he now? She couldn't remember. At least he'd stopped wearing that tin nose since the Piper had made fun of him for it.

  "You like him." "Who?"

  "The Bluejay."

  "He's better than any of them." Once again she listened at the door. Why hadn't he said yes? Then perhaps she might yet have been able to save him.

  "If the Bluejay makes another book, will Grandfather still go on smelling so bad? I think he will. I think he'll just fall down dead someday. He looks dead already, really." How indifferent he sounded. A few months ago Jacopo had still adored her father. Were all children like that? How would she know? She had just one child. Children… Violante still saw them running out of the castle gate in Ombra and into their mothers' arms. If the Bluejay died for them, were they really worth it?

  "I don't like looking at Grandfather anymore!" Jacopo shuddered and put his hands over his eyes. "If he dies I'll be king, won't I?" The chill in his clear voice both impressed and alarmed Violante.

  "No, you won't. Not after your father attacked him. His own son will be king. King in the Castle of Night and in Ombra."

  "But he's only a baby."

  "So his mother will reign for him. And the Milksop." What's more, Violante added in her thoughts, your grandfather is still immortal, and no one seems able to do anything about it. Not for all eternity.

  Jacopo pushed his plate aside and strolled over to Brianna. She was embroidering a picture of a horseman who looked suspiciously like Cosimo, although Brianna said he was the hero of an old fairy tale. It did Violante good to have Brianna with her again, although the girl had been even more silent than usual since the Night-Mare had killed her father. Perhaps she had loved him after all. Most daughters loved their fathers.

  "Brianna!" Jacopo thrust a hand i
nto her beautiful hair. "Read to me. Go on. I'm bored."

  "You can read for yourself. In fact, you can read very well." Brianna removed his fingers from her hair and went on with her embroidery.

  "I'll fetch the Night-Mare!" Jacopo's voice rose shrilly, as it always did when he didn't get his own way, "I'll fetch it to eat you like your father. Oh no, I forgot, it didn't eat him. He's lying dead out in the courtyard, with ravens pecking around him."

  Brianna didn't even raise her head, but Violante saw her hands trembling so violently that she pricked her finger.

  "Jacopo!"

  Her son turned to her, and for a moment Violante thought his eyes were begging her to say more. Shake me! Hit me! Punish me! said those eyes. Or take me in your arms. I'm scared. I hate this castle. I want to go away.

  She hadn't wanted children. She didn't know how to deal with them. But Cosimo's father had begged for a grandson. How was she supposed to deal with a child? She could hardly manage to keep her own painful heart together. If only it had at least been a girl. The Bluejay had a daughter. Everyone said he loved her very much. Perhaps he'd give in after all for the daughter's sake and bind her father a second book. If the Milksop really did catch the girl. And then? She didn't want to think about his wife. Perhaps she was dying anyway. The Milksop liked treating those he hunted cruelly.

  "Read! Read to me!" Jacopo was still standing in front of Brianna. He snatched the embroidery from her lap, so roughly that she pricked her hand again.

  "That looks like my father."

  "No, it doesn't!" Brianna cast a quick glance at Violante.

  "Yes, it does. Why don't you ask the Bluejay to bring him back from the dead? The way he brought your father back?"

  Once Brianna would have slapped him, but Cosimo's death had broken something in her. She was soft now, like the inside of a shellfish, soft and full of pain. All the same, her company was better than none, and Violante slept much more easily when Brianna sang for her in the evenings.

  Outside, someone pushed back the bolt.

  What did that mean? Were they coming to tell her that the Piper had killed the Bluejay after all? That Thumbling had broken him like so many men before? And if so, she asked herself, what difference does it make? Your heart is broken into pieces anyway.

  But it was Four-Eyes who came in. Orpheus, or Moonface, as the Piper derisively called him. Violante still couldn't understand how he had insinuated himself into her father's good graces so swiftly. Perhaps it was his voice. It was almost as beautiful as the Bluejay's, but something in it made Violante shudder.

  "Your Highness!" Her visitor bowed so low that the bow verged on mockery.

  "Has the Bluejay given my father the right answer after all?"

  "No, I'm afraid not. But he is still alive, if that's what you wanted to know." His eyes looked so innocent through those round glasses – glasses that she had copied from him, except that, unlike Four-Eyes, Violante didn't always wear hers. Sometimes she preferred to see the world through a blur.

  "Where is he?"

  "Ah, so you've seen the empty cage. Well, I suggested to the Adderhead different accommodation for the Bluejay. You presumably know about the dungeons where your grandfather used to throw his prisoners. Once in there, I'm sure our noble robber will very soon give up the idea of resisting your father's wishes. But let's come to the reason for my visit."

  His smile was sweet as syrup. What did he want from her?

  "Your Highness." His voice stroked Violante's skin like the hare's foot that Balbulus used to smooth parchment. "Like you, I am a great lover of books. Sad to say, I hear that the library of this castle is in a terrible condition, but it has also come to my ears that you still have a few books with you. Would it be possible for me to borrow one, or maybe even two? Of course I would show my appreciation of the loan in every possible way."

  "What about my book?" Jacopo pushed in front of Violante, his arms folded in the pose his grandfather used to adopt before his swollen arms had made even that gesture painful. "You haven't given it back to me yet. You owe me" – he counted on his short fingers – "you owe me twelve silver coins."

  The look Orpheus gave Jacopo was neither warm nor sweet, but his voice was still both. "Why, of course! What a good thing you've reminded me of it, Prince. Come to my room and I'll give you the coins and your book back. But now let me speak to your mother, will you?" With an apologetic smile, he turned back to Violante.

  "Well, what do you say?" he asked, lowering his voice to a confidential tone. "Would you lend me one, Your Highness? I've heard wonderful things about your books, and believe me, I will treat them with the utmost care."

  "She only has two with her." Jacopo pointed to the chest beside the bed. "And they're both about the Blue -"

  Violante clapped her hand over his mouth, but Orpheus was already making for the chest.

  "I'm sorry," she said, barring his way. "I am too much attached to these books to let them out of my hands. And as I'm sure you have heard, my father has seen to it that Balbulus can't illuminate any more books for me."

  Orpheus hardly seemed to be listening. He was staring spellbound at the chest. "May I at least take a look at them?"

  "Don't let him have them!"

  Clearly, Orpheus hadn't even noticed Brianna. His face froze when he heard her voice behind him, and his plump fingers clenched into fists.

  Brianna stood up and returned his hostile glance with composure. "He does strange things with books," she said. "Books and the words in them. And he hates the Bluejay. My father said he tried selling him to Death."

  "Poor confused creature!" stammered Orpheus, but he was visibly nervous as he adjusted his glasses. "She was my maid, as presumably you know, and I caught her stealing. No doubt that's why she says such things about me."

  Brianna turned as red as if he had thrown hot water in her face, but Violante moved to her side to defend her. "Brianna would never steal," she said. "Now go away, please. I can't give you the books."

  "Oh, so she'd never steal?" Orpheus was clearly having some difficulty in giving his voice its old velvety sound. "As far as I know she stole your husband from you, didn't she?"

  "Here you are!"

  Before Violante could react, Jacopo was standing in front of Orpheus, holding her books. "Which one do you want? She likes reading the thicker book most. But this time you must pay me more than you paid for my own book!"

  Violante tried to snatch the books from his hands, but Jacopo was surprisingly strong, and Orpheus hastily opened the door.

  "Quick. Take these books to safekeeping!" he ordered the soldier on guard outside.

  The man had no difficulty in getting the books away from Jacopo. Orpheus opened them, read a few lines first from one, then from the other – and gave Violante a triumphant smile.

  "Yes, exactly the reading matter I need," he said. "You'll get them back as soon as they've served their purpose. But these books," he added to Jacopo, pinching his cheek roughly, "I'm borrowing for free, you greedy son of a dead prince! And we can forget about any payment for your other book, too, or do you want to meet my Night-Mare? I'm sure you've heard of it."

  Jacopo just stared at him with a mixture of fear and hatred on his thin face.

  Orpheus, however, bowed and went out through the doorway. "I really can't thank you enough, Your Highness," he said by way of farewell. "You have no idea how happy these books make me. Now the Bluejay is certain to give your father the right answer soon."

  Jacopo was chewing his lip hard as the guard outside shot the bolt again. He always did that when something hadn't gone the way he wanted. Violante slapped his face so hard that he stumbled against her bed and fell. He began crying without a sound, his eyes fixed on her like a dog that has been punished.

  Brianna helped him up and wiped his tears away with her dress.

  "What is Four-Eyes going to do with the books?" Violante was shivering. She was shivering all over. She had a new enemy.

  "I don't know,"
Brianna replied. "All I do know is that my father took one away from him because he had done great harm with it."

  Great harm.

  Now the Bluejay is certain to give your father the right answer soon.

  61. CLOTHED AND UNCLOTHED

  Archimedes finished his sparrow, wiped his beak politely on the bough, and turned his eyes full on Wart. These great, round eyes had, as a famous writer had expressed it, a bloom of light upon them like the purple bloom of power on a grape.

  "Now that you have learned to fly," he said, "Merlin wants you to try the wild geese."

  T. H. White, The Once and Future King

  It was easy to fly, so easy. The skill of it came with the body, with every feather and every delicate bone. For the seeds had turned Resa into a bird. The transformation caused painful spasms, which had terrified Lazaro the Strong Man, but she hadn't turned into a magpie like Mortola. "A swift!" the Strong Man had whispered when she flew to his hand, dizzy to find everything suddenly so much larger.

  "Swifts are nice birds, very nice. It suits you." He had very gently stroked her wings with his forefinger, and it seemed so strange that she couldn't smile at him with her beak. But she could speak in her human voice, which alarmed poor Tullio even more.

  Her feathers warmed her, and the guards on the banks of the lake didn't even look up as she flew over their heads. Obviously, they hadn't yet found the soldiers the Strong Man had killed. The crests on their gray cloaks reminded Resa of the dungeons of the Castle of Night. Forget them, she thought, as she spread her wings on the wind. That's in the past. But perhaps you can still change what's yet to come. Or was life after all only a tangle of threads spun by fate, and there was no escaping it? Don't think, Resa, she told herself, fly!