expression sullen, undid his bonds. ‘You should be glad I asked for paper. Parchment for this book would cost a fortune. Quite apart from the hundreds of goats who would have to give their lives for it. And as for the quality of these sheets, it’s by no means as good as you claim. The texture is coarse, but if there’s no better available it will have to do. I hope at least it’s well sized. As for the rest of this –’ Mo’s expert fingers passed over the tools lying ready – ‘it looks serviceable.’
Knives and bone folders, hemp, strong thread and needles to stitch the pages, glue and a pot to heat it in, beechwood for the back and front covers, leather to go over them – Mo picked them all up, as he did in his own workshop, before he set to work. Then he looked around. ‘What about the press and the sewing frame? And what am I going to heat the glue with?’
‘You … you’ll have everything you need before evening,’ replied Taddeo, in some confusion.
‘The clasps are all right, but I shall need another file, and leather and linen for the tapes.’
‘Of course, of course. Anything you say.’ The librarian nodded, very ready to oblige now, while an incredulous smile spread over his pale face.
‘Good.’ Mo leaned on the table, supporting himself with both hands. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not very strong on my legs yet. I hope the leather is more flexible than the parchment, and as for the glue,’ he added, picking up the pot and sniffing, ‘well, we’ll see if it’s good enough. And bring me some paste too. I’ll use glue only for the covers. Bookworms like the flavour too much.’
Meggie relished the sight of the surprised faces. Even the Piper was staring at Mo in disbelief. Only Basta remained unmoved. He knew that he had brought the librarian a bookbinder, not a robber.
‘My father needs a chair,’ said Meggie, with an imperious glance at the librarian. ‘Can’t you see he’s injured? Is he supposed to work standing up?’
‘Standing up? No … no, of course not! By no means. I’ll have an armchair brought at once,’ answered the librarian distractedly. He was still staring at Mo. ‘You … er … you know a remarkable amount about books for a highwayman.’
Mo gave him a smile. ‘Yes, don’t I?’ he said. ‘Perhaps the highwayman was once a bookbinder? Don’t they say that all kinds of professions are to be found among the outlaws? Farmers, cobblers, physicians, minstrels—’
‘Never mind what he once was,’ the Piper interrupted. ‘He’s a murderer anyway, so don’t fall for his soft voice, bookworm. He kills without batting an eyelid. Ask Basta if you don’t believe me.’
‘Yes, very true!’ Basta rubbed his burned skin. ‘He’s more dangerous than a nest of vipers. And his daughter’s no better. I hope those knives won’t give you any silly ideas,’ he said to Mo. ‘The guards will be counting them regularly, and they’ll cut off one of your daughter’s fingers for every knife that goes missing. And the same applies to any other stupid tricks you try. Do you understand?’
Mo did not answer him, but he looked at the knives as if to count them for safety’s sake. ‘Oh, do get him a chair!’ said Meggie to the librarian impatiently as Mo leaned on the table again.
‘Yes, of course! At once!’ Taddeo hurried away, but the Piper gave an ugly laugh.
‘Listen to the little witch! Ordering people about like a prince’s brat! Well, not surprising, is it, since she claims to be the daughter of a man who can keep Death a prisoner between two wooden covers! What about you, Basta? Do you believe her story?’
Basta put his hand to the amulet hanging round his neck. It was not a rabbit’s paw, as he had worn in Capricorn’s service, but something that looked suspiciously like a human finger-bone. ‘Who knows?’ he muttered.
‘Yes, who knows?’ agreed Mo, without turning to look at the two of them. ‘But I can summon Death, anyway, can’t I, Basta? So can Meggie.’
The Piper cast Basta a swift glance.
Basta had pale blotches on his burned skin. ‘All I know,’ he growled, his hand still on his amulet, ‘is that you should have been dead and buried long ago, Silvertongue. And the Adderhead would do better to listen to Mortola instead of your witchy daughter. He ate out of her hand, did the Silver Prince. He fell for her lies.’
The Piper straightened his back, as ready to attack as the viper on his master’s coat of arms. ‘Fell for her lies?’ he said, in his curiously strained voice. He was a good head taller than Basta. ‘The Adderhead falls for nothing anyone says. He is a great ruler, greater than any other. Firefox sometimes forgets that, and so does Mortola. Don’t go making the same mistake. And now get out. The Adderhead’s orders are that no one who ever worked for Capricorn is to be on guard in this room. Could that mean that he doesn’t trust you?’
Basta’s voice turned to a hiss. ‘You worked for Capricorn once yourself, Piper!’ he said through compressed lips. ‘You’d be nothing but for him.’
‘Oh yes? You see this nose?’ The Piper stroked his silver nose. ‘I once had a nose like yours, an ordinary nose of flesh and blood. It hurt losing it, but the Adderhead had a better one made for me, and since then I don’t sing for drunken fire-raisers, I sing only for him – a real prince whose family is older than the towers of this castle. If you don’t want to serve him, then go back to Capricorn’s fortress. Maybe his ghost is haunting those burned-out walls – oh, but you’re afraid of ghosts, aren’t you, Basta?’
The two men were standing so close that the blade of Basta’s knife wouldn’t have fitted between them.
‘Yes, I am afraid of ghosts,’ he hissed. ‘But at least I don’t spend every night on my knees, whimpering because I’m afraid the White Women might fetch me away, like your fine new master.’
The Piper struck Basta in the face so hard that his head hit the door frame. Blood ran down his burned cheek in a trail of red. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. ‘Take care to avoid dark corridors, Piper!’ he whispered. ‘You don’t have a nose any more, but one can always find something else to cut off.’
When the librarian came back with the chair Basta had gone, and the Piper left too after posting two guards outside the door. ‘No one comes in or goes out except the librarian!’ Meggie heard him ordering brusquely before he left. ‘And check up regularly to make sure the Bluejay is working.’
Taddeo smiled awkwardly at Mo as the Piper’s footsteps died away outside, as if he felt he should apologise for the soldiers guarding the door. ‘Excuse me,’ he said quietly, placing the chair at the table for him, ‘but I have a few books which are showing strange signs of damage. Could you maybe take a look at them?’
Meggie had to suppress a smile, but Mo acted as if the librarian had asked him the most natural question in the world. ‘Of course,’ he said.
Taddeo nodded, and glanced at the door. One of the guards was pacing up and down outside, looking sullen. ‘But Mortola mustn’t know, so I’ll come back when it’s dark,’ he whispered to Mo. ‘Luckily she goes to bed early. There are wonderful books in this castle, but sad to say no one here can appreciate them. It was different in the past, but the past is over and forgotten. I’ve heard matters aren’t much better at the Laughing Prince’s castle these days, but at least they have Balbulus there. We were all very sorry when the Adderhead gave his daughter our best illuminator to take with her as her dowry! Since then I’m not allowed to employ more than two scribes and one illuminator of only average talent. The only copies I can commission are of manuscripts about the Adderhead’s ancestors, the mining and working of silver, or the art of war. Last year, when wood ran short again, Firefox even heated the small banqueting hall with my finest books.’ Tears came to Taddeo’s clouded eyes.
‘Bring me the books whenever you like,’ said Mo.
The old librarian passed the hem of his dark blue tunic over his eyes. ‘Oh yes!’ he murmured. ‘Oh yes, I will. Thank you.’
Then he was gone. Sighing, Mo sat down in the chair that Taddeo had brought him. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let’s get down to work. A book to
keep Death at bay – what an idea! It’s just a pity it’s for this butcher. You’ll have to help me, Meggie, with the folding and stitching, the pressing …’ She just nodded. Of course she would help him. There were few things she liked doing better.
It felt so familiar, watching Mo at work again – setting the parchment straight, folding it, cutting and stitching it. He worked more slowly than usual, and his hand kept going to his chest and the place where Mortola had wounded him. But Meggie could tell that carrying out the familiar movements did him good, even if some of the tools were not like those he was used to. The actions had been the same for hundreds of years, in both this world and the other one.
After only a few hours the Old Chamber had something curiously familiar about it, like a refuge and not just another prison. When twilight began to fall outside, the librarian and a servant brought them a couple of oil lamps. The warm light almost made the dusty room look full of life, for the first time in ages.
‘It’s a long while since any lamps were lit in this room,’ said Taddeo, putting a second one on the table for Mo.
‘Who lived in this room last?’ asked Mo.
‘Our first princess,’ replied Taddeo. ‘Her daughter Violante married the Laughing Prince’s son. I wonder if Violante knows that Cosimo has died for the second time.’ He looked sadly out of the window. A moist wind was blowing in, and Mo weighted the paper down with a piece of wood. ‘Violante came into the world with a birthmark that disfigured her face,’ the librarian went on, in an abstracted voice, as if he were telling this story not to them but to some distant hearer. ‘Everyone said it was a punishment, a curse from the fairies because her mother had fallen in love with a minstrel. The Adderhead had her mother banished to this part of the castle as soon as the baby was born, and she lived here with her daughter until she died … died very suddenly.’
‘That’s a sad story,’ said Mo.
‘Believe me,’ replied Taddeo bitterly, ‘if all the sad stories these walls have seen were written down in books, we could fill every room in the castle with them.’
Meggie looked round as if she could see all those books of sad stories. ‘How old was Violante when she was betrothed to Cosimo and sent to Ombra?’ she asked.
‘Seven. And the daughters of our present princess were only six when they were betrothed and sent away. We all hope she’ll have a son this time!’ Taddeo let his eyes linger on the parchment that Mo had cut to size, the tools … ‘It’s good to see life in this room again,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll come back with the books as soon as I’m sure that Mortola is asleep.’
‘Six, seven years old – my God, Meggie,’ said Mo when Taddeo had gone, ‘here you are, thirteen already, and I still haven’t sent you away, let alone betrothed you to anyone!’
It felt good to laugh, even if the sound echoed strangely in this high-ceilinged room.
Taddeo did not come back until hours later. Mo was still working, although he put his hand to his chest more and more often, and Meggie had already tried persuading him once or twice to lie down and sleep. ‘Sleep?’ was all he said. ‘I haven’t slept properly for a single night in this castle. And anyway, I want to see your mother again, and I won’t be able to do that until this book is finished.’
The librarian brought him two volumes. ‘Look at this!’ he whispered, pushing the first over to Mo. ‘See those places where the binding is eaten away? And inside it looks almost as if the ink were rusting. There are holes in the parchment. You can hardly read some of the words now! What can have caused it? Worms, beetles? I never used to concern myself with these things. I had an assistant who knew all about these sicknesses that books suffer, but one morning he disappeared. They say he joined the robbers in the forest.’
Mo picked up the book, opened it, and passed his hand over the pages. ‘Good heavens!’ he said. ‘Who painted this? I’ve never seen such beautiful illuminations.’
‘Balbulus,’ replied Taddeo. ‘The illuminator who was sent away with Violante. He was very young when he painted this book. Look, his script was still a little awkward, but now his mastery is impeccable.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Meggie.
The librarian lowered his voice. ‘Violante has a book sent to me now and then. She knows how much I admire the craftsmanship of Balbulus, and she knows there’s no one else left in the Castle of Night who loves books. Not since her mother died. Do you see the chests there?’ He pointed to the heavy, dusty wooden chests by the door and under the windows. ‘Violante’s mother kept her books in them, hidden among her clothes. She would take them out only in the evening and show them to the little girl, although I suppose the child hardly understood a word of what her mother read her at the time. But then, soon after Capricorn had disappeared, Mortola came here. The Adderhead had asked her to train the maids in the kitchen – no one said what exactly they were to be trained to do. Then Violante’s mother asked me to hide her books in the library, because Mortola had her room searched at least twice a day – she never found out what for. This,’ he said, pointing to the book that Mo was still leafing through, ‘was one of her favourites. The little girl would point to a picture and then her mother told her a story about it. I was going to give it to Violante when they sent her away, but she left it behind in this room. Perhaps because she didn’t want to take any memories of this sad place to her new life with her. All the same, I’d like to save it as a memento of her mother. You know, I think that a book always keeps something of its owners, woodworms, the corrosive effect of the ink, who knows what else … between its pages.’
‘Yes, I think so too,’ said Mo. ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘And?’ The old man looked at him hopefully. ‘Do you know how it can be preserved from further harm?’
Mo carefully closed the book. ‘Yes, but it won’t be easy. Does the second book look the same?’
‘Oh, that one –’ the librarian cast another nervous look at the door – ‘well, it’s not in such a bad way yet. But I thought you might like to see it. Balbulus completed it not long ago, for Violante. It contains,’ he said, looking uncertainly at Mo, ‘it contains all the songs that the strolling players sing about the Bluejay. As far as I know there are only two copies. Violante owns one, and the other is before you and is a copy that she had specially made for me. They say the man who wrote the songs didn’t want them written down, but any minstrel will sing them to you for a few coins. That was how Violante collected them and had them written out by Balbulus. The strolling players, you see – well, they’re like walking books here, where real books are so few and far between! You know,’ he whispered to Mo as he opened the volume, ‘I sometimes think this world would have lost its memory long ago but for the Motley Folk. Unfortunately the Adderhead is only too fond of hanging them! I’ve often suggested sending a scribe to see them before they’re executed, to get all those beautiful songs written down before the words die with them, but no one in this castle listens to an old librarian.’
‘No, very likely not,’ murmured Mo, but Meggie could tell from his voice that he hadn’t been listening to anything Taddeo had said. Mo was immersed in the letters, the beautiful written characters flowing over the parchment in front of him like a delicate river of ink.
‘Forgive my curiosity.’ Taddeo cleared his throat, embarrassed. ‘I’ve heard that you deny being the Bluejay … but if you will allow me …’ He took the book from Mo’s hand and opened it at a page that Balbulus had illuminated lavishly. A man stood between two trees, so wonderfully painted that Meggie thought she could hear the rustle of the leaves. He wore a bird-mask over his face. ‘That’s how Balbulus painted the Bluejay,’ whispered Taddeo, ‘just as the songs describe him, dark-haired, tall … doesn’t he look like you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mo. ‘He’s wearing a mask, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, yes, indeed.’ Taddeo was still looking intently at him. ‘But did you know that they say something else about the Bluejay? They say he has a very beautiful
voice, not at all like the bird that shares his name. It’s said that he can tame bears and wolves with a few words. Forgive me for being so forward, but –’ he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone – ‘you have a very beautiful voice. Mortola tells strange tales of it. And then, when you have the scar too …’ He stared at Mo’s arm.
‘Oh, you mean this, don’t you?’ Mo placed his finger under a line beside which Balbulus had painted a pack of white dogs, and read: ‘High on his left arm he will bear the scar to his dying day. Yes, I do have a scar like that, but I didn’t get it from the dogs in this song.’ He put his hand to his arm, as if remembering the day when Basta had found them in the tumbledown hut full of broken pots and tiles.
However, the old librarian took a step back. ‘So you are him!’ he breathed. ‘The hope of the poor, the terror of butchers, avenger and robber, as much at home in the forest as the bears and wolves?’
Mo shut the book and pressed the metal clasps into the leather-covered binding. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not, but thank you very much for the book, all the same. It’s a long time since I had one in my hands, and it will be good to have something to read again, won’t it, Meggie?’
‘Yes,’ was all she said, taking the book from his hand. Songs about the Bluejay. What would Fenoglio have said if he’d known that Violante had had them written down in secret? And they might offer so much help! Her heart leaped as she thought of the possibilities, but Taddeo immediately dashed her hopes.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, taking the book gently but firmly from her hands again. ‘But I can’t leave either of the books here with you. Mortola has been talking to me – to everyone who has anything to do with the library. She’s threatened to have anyone who so much as brings a book into this room blinded. Blinded, imagine it! What a threat, when only our eyes reveal the world of words to us! I’ve already risked far too much coming here with them at all, but I love those books so much that I had to ask your advice. Please, tell me what I must do to save them!’
Meggie was so disappointed that she would have turned down his request point blank, but of course Mo saw things differently. Mo thought only of the sick books. ‘Of course,’ he said to Taddeo. ‘I’d better write it down for you. It will take time – weeks, months – and I don’t know if you’ll be able to get all the materials you need, but it’s worth a try. I’m not happy about suggesting this, but I’m afraid you’ll have to take at least the first book apart, because if you’re to save it the pages must bleach in the sun. If you don’t know how to go about it – and it must be done with the utmost care – I’ll be happy to do it for you. Mortola can watch if she wants, to make sure I’m not doing anything dangerous.’
‘Oh, thank you!’ The old man bowed deeply as he put the two books firmly under his thin arm. ‘Many, many thanks. I really do most fervently hope the Adderhead will let you live, and if he doesn’t that he grants you a quick death.’
Meggie would very much have liked to give him the answer this remark deserved, but Taddeo scurried away too fast on his grasshopper legs.
‘Mo, don’t you help him!’ she said when the guard outside had bolted the door again. ‘Why should you? He’s a miserable coward!’
‘Oh, I can understand him,’ said Mo. ‘I wouldn’t like to do without my eyes either, even though we have useful inventions like Braille in our own world.’
‘All the same, I wouldn’t help him.’ Meggie loved her father for his strangely soft heart, but her own could not summon up any sympathy for Taddeo. She imitated his voice. ‘I hope he grants you a quick death! How can anyone say such a thing?’
But Mo wasn’t listening. ‘Have you ever seen such beautiful books, Meggie?’ he asked, lying down on the bed.
‘You bet I have!’ she said indignantly. ‘Any book I’m allowed to read is more beautiful, right?’
But Mo did not reply. He had turned his back to her and was breathing deeply and peacefully. Obviously sleep had found its way to him at last.
67
Kindness and Mercy
Here are we five or six strung up, you see,
And here the flesh that all too well we fed,
Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred,
Inkspell Page 45
