listening. He kept waking suddenly from sleep, but not because of the voices that came to his ears. Pictures in his mind woke him, terrible pictures that had been robbing him of sleep for days.
This time they had been particularly bad, and so real that he started up as if Gwin had jumped on his chest. His heart was still thudding hard as he sat there staring into the dark. Dreams – in the other world they had often kept him from sleeping too, but he couldn’t remember any of them as bad as this one. ‘It’s the dead. They bring bad dreams,’ Farid always said. ‘They whisper terrible things to you, and then they lie on your breast to feel your racing heart. It makes them feel alive again!’
Dustfinger liked this explanation. He feared death, but not the dead. But suppose it was quite different; suppose the dreams were showing him a story already waiting for him somewhere? Reality was a fragile thing; Silvertongue’s voice had shown him that once and for all.
Roxane stirred in her sleep beside him. She turned her head and murmured the names of her children, the dead as well as the living. There was still no news from Ombra. Even the Black Prince had heard nothing for a long time, either from the castle or the city, no word of what had happened after the Adderhead sent Cosimo’s body back to his daughter, with the news that hardly any of the men who had followed him would come back either.
Roxane whispered Brianna’s name again. Every day she stayed here with him cut her to the heart, Dustfinger knew that only too well. So why didn’t he simply go back with her? Why not turn his back on this infernal hill, and return at last to a place where you didn’t have to hide underground like an animal? Or like a dead man, he added in his thoughts.
You know why, he told himself. It’s the dreams. The accursed dreams. He whispered fire-words to banish the darkness in which dreams put forth such dreadful blossoms. A flame licked up sleepily from the ground beside him. He held out his hand and let it dance up his arm, lick his fingers and his forehead, in the hope that it would simply burn the horrible pictures away. But even the pain did not rid him of them, and Dustfinger extinguished the flame with the flat of his hand. His skin was sooty and hot afterwards, as if the fire had left its black breath behind, but the dream was still there, a terror in his heart, too black and strong even for the fire.
How could he simply go away when he saw such images by night – pictures of the dead, again and again, nothing but blood and death? The faces changed. Sometimes it was Resa’s face he saw, sometimes Meggie’s, then at other times the face of the Barn Owl. He had seen the Black Prince too, with blood on his breast. And today – today it had been Farid’s face. Just like the night before. Dustfinger closed his eyes when the pictures came back, so plain and clear … Of course he had tried to persuade the boy to stay with Roxane tomorrow, when he set off with the robbers – along the road they were to come down, Resa and Silvertongue, Meggie, the Barn Owl and all the others. (Just how many there would be, even the Prince’s informers could not say.) But it was hopeless.
Dustfinger leaned back against the damp stone into which hands long gone had cut the narrow galleries, and looked at the boy. Farid had curled up like a small child, knees drawn up against his chest, with the two martens beside him. They slept at Farid’s side more and more often when they came back from hunting, perhaps because they knew that Roxane did not like them.
How peacefully the boy lay there, not at all as Dustfinger had just seen him in his dreams. A smile even flickered across his dark face. Perhaps he was dreaming of Meggie, Resa’s Meggie, as like her mother as one flame is like another, and yet so different. ‘You do think she’s all right, don’t you?’ Farid asked that question heaven knows how many times a day. Dustfinger still clearly remembered the feeling of being in love for the first time. How vulnerable his heart had suddenly been! Such a trembling, quivering thing, happy and miserably unhappy at once.
A cold wind blew through the galleries, and Dustfinger saw the boy shivering in his sleep. Gwin raised his head when he rose and took the cloak off his shoulders, covering Farid with it. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ he whispered to the marten. ‘He’s crept into your heart just as he crept into mine. How could it happen to us, Gwin?’
The marten licked his paw and looked at him from dark eyes. When he dreamed it was surely only of hunting, not of dead boys.
Suppose the old man was sending the dreams? The idea made Dustfinger shudder as he lay down beside Roxane on the hard ground again. Yes, Fenoglio could be sitting in some corner, as he had often done these last few days, spinning bad dreams for him. That was exactly what he had done with the Adderhead’s fears! Nonsense, thought Dustfinger angrily, putting his arm round Roxane. Meggie isn’t here. Without her, the old man’s words are nothing but ink. Now try to get some sleep, or you’ll be nodding off as you wait among the trees with the others tomorrow.
But it was a long time before he could close his eyes.
He just lay there and listened to the boy’s breathing.
70
The Pen and the Sword
‘Of course not,’ said Hermione. ‘Everything we need is here on this paper.’
J.K. Rowling,
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
Mo worked all night, while the storm raged outside as if Fenoglio’s world could not accept that soon immortality would arrive in it. Meggie had tried to stay awake, but finally she had nodded off again, head on the table, and he had put her to bed as he had done so many times before. Marvelling yet again to see how big she was now. Almost grown up. Almost.
Meggie woke as he snapped the clasps shut. ‘Good morning,’ he said as she raised her head from the pillow – and hoped it would really be a good morning. Outside, the sky was turning red like a face with the blood streaming back into it. The clasps held well. Mo had filed them so that no part of them pricked or dug into the fingers. They held the blank pages together as firmly as if Death were already between them. The leather he had been given for the binding had a reddish tinge, and it surrounded the wooden boards of the covers like their natural skin. The back was gently rounded, the stitching firm, the quires carefully planed. But the fact was that none of that mattered with this book. No one would read it. No one would keep it beside his bed to leaf through its pages again and again. The book was eerie for all its beauty, even Mo felt that, although it was the work of his own hands. It seemed to have a voice that whispered barely perceptible words, words that were not to be found on its blank pages. But they existed. Fenoglio had written them, in a place far away, where women and children now wept for their dead husbands and fathers. Yes, the clasps were important.
Heavy footsteps echoed along the corridor outside the door. Soldiers’ footsteps. They came closer and closer. Outside, the night was fading. The Adderhead was taking Mo at his word. By the time the sun rises …
Meggie quickly got out of bed, passed her hand over her hair and smoothed down her creased dress.
‘Is it finished?’ she whispered.
He nodded, and took the book from the table. ‘Do you think the Adderhead will like it?’
The Piper opened the door, with four men following him. His silver nose sat on his face as if it had grown from the flesh.
‘Well, Bluejay? Have you finished?’
Mo inspected the book from all sides. ‘Yes, I think so,’ he said, but when the Piper put his hand out he hid it behind his back. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I’m keeping this until your master has kept his side of the bargain.’
‘You are?’ The Piper smiled in derision. ‘Don’t you think I know ways of taking it from you? But hold on to it for a while. Fear will make you weak at the knees soon enough.’
It was a long way from the part of the Castle of Night where the ghosts of forgotten women lived to the halls where the Adderhead held court. The Piper walked behind Mo all the way with his curiously arrogant gait, stiff as a stork, so close behind that Mo felt his breath on the nape of his neck. Mo had never been in most of the corridors along which t
hey marched, yet he felt as if he had walked down them all before – in the days when he read Fenoglio’s book over and over again as he tried to bring Resa back. It was a strange feeling to be here himself, behind the words on the page – and looking for her again.
He had read about the hall whose mighty doors opened for them, too, and when he saw Meggie’s look of alarm he knew only too well what other dreadful place it reminded them both of. Capricorn’s red church had not been half as magnificent as the Adderhead’s throne-room, but thanks to Fenoglio’s description Mo had recognized the model at once. Red-washed walls, column ranged beside column on both sides, except that unlike those in Capricorn’s church, these were faced with scales of silver. Capricorn had even taken the idea of a statue from the Adderhead, but the sculptor who immortalised the Silver Prince clearly knew his trade better.
Capricorn had not tried to imitate the Adderhead’s throne. It was in the shape of a nest of silver vipers, two of them rearing up with their mouths fixed and wide open, so that the Adderhead’s hands could rest on their heads. The lord of the Castle of Night was magnificently clad, despite the early hour, as if to welcome his immortality with due honour. He wore a cape of silvery-white heron feathers over garments of black silk. Behind him, like a flock of birds with bright plumage, stood his court: administrators, ladies’ maids, servants – and among them, dressed in the ashen grey of their guild, a number of physicians.
Mortola was there too, of course. She stood in the background, almost invisible in her black dress. If Mo had not been looking out for her he would have missed her. There was no sign of Basta, but Firefox was standing next to the throne, arms crossed under his fox-fur cloak. He was staring their way with hostility, but to Mo’s surprise his dark looks were aimed not at him, but mainly at the Piper.
It’s a game, thought Mo as he walked past the silver columns. Fenoglio’s game. If only it hadn’t felt so real. How quiet it was in the red hall, in spite of all the people. Meggie looked at him, her face so pale under her fair hair, and he gave her the most encouraging smile his lips could manage – feeling thankful that she couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.
The Adderhead’s wife sat beside him. Meggie had described her perfectly: an ivory porcelain doll. Behind them stood the nurse with the eagerly awaited son. Mo had never wanted a son, only a daughter. Resa had teased him about it when they didn’t yet know what their baby would be. The child’s crying sounded strangely lost in the great hall. Even the rain beating against glazed windows high above them drowned out the shrill little voice.
It’s a game, thought Mo once more when he was standing before the steps of the throne, only a game. If only he’d known more about the rules. There was someone else present whom they knew. Taddeo the librarian, head humbly bent, stood right behind the Adderhead’s throne, and gave him an anxious smile.
The Adderhead looked even more exhausted for lack of sleep than he had on their last meeting. His face was blotched and full of shadows, his lips colourless. Only the rubies in the corners of his nostrils shone red. Who could say how many sleepless nights he had spent? For a moment it seemed to Mo as if all his life had gone into the rubies at the corners of his nose.
‘Good, so you have really finished,’ he said. ‘Of course, you’re in a hurry to see your wife again, I’m sure. I’ve been told she asks about you every day. That’s love, I expect, isn’t it?’
A game, only a game … it didn’t feel like that. Nothing had ever seemed more real than the hatred that Mo felt at this moment, as he looked at that coarse and arrogant face. And he felt something else beating in his breast again: his new, cold heart. Or was it just his old heart, burned out with hatred?
The Adderhead made a sign to the Piper, and the silver-nosed man stepped commandingly towards Mo. He found it hard to put the book into the man’s gloved hands. After all, there was nothing else that could save them now. The Piper noticed his reluctance, smiled scornfully at him – and took the book up the steps to his master. Then, with a brief glance at Firefox, he stationed himself right beside the throne with an arrogant air, as if there were no more important man in the hall.
‘Beautiful. Beautiful indeed!’ The Adderhead caressed the white pages of the book. ‘Whether or not he’s a robber, he knows something about bookbinding, don’t you agree, Firefox?’
‘There are men of many trades among the robbers,’ was all that Firefox replied. ‘Why not an accursed bookbinder too?’
‘How true, how true. Did you all hear that?’ The Adderhead looked at his colourfully clad retinue, inviting approval. ‘It seems to me that my herald still thinks I’d have let a little girl trick me. Yes, he believes I’m a credulous fool by comparison with his old master Capricorn.’
Firefox was about to protest, but the Adderhead silenced him with a gesture. ‘Do not speak!’ was all he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘In spite of my very obvious folly, I have thought of a way to prove which of the two of us is wrong.’ With a nod of the head, he summoned Taddeo to his side. Eager to oblige, the librarian approached him, taking pen and ink from the folds of his flowing robe.
‘It’s perfectly simple, Firefox!’ You could tell that the Adderhead liked the sound of his own voice. ‘You, and not I, will be the first to write your name in this book! Taddeo here has assured me that the letters can be removed again with a scraper that Balbulus once designed specially for that purpose, leaving no trace. No one will be able to see even a shadow of your writing on the pages. So you write your name – which I know you are able to do – we give the Bluejay a sword, and he runs it through your body. Isn’t that a fabulous idea? Won’t it prove beyond doubt whether or not this book can do what his daughter promised me?’
A game. Mo saw fear spread over Firefox’s face like a rash.
‘Well, come along!’ the Adderhead derided him, opening the book and leafing through the blank pages, as if lost in thought. ‘Why do you suddenly look so pale? Isn’t such a game precisely to your taste? Come along, write your name in it. Not the name you’ve given yourself, but the one you were born with.’
Think. Mo saw one of the guards surrounding him and Meggie draw his sword. What are you going to do? What? He felt Meggie’s horrified gaze, felt her fear like a chill beside him.
Firefox looked round as if searching for a face that might offer help, but no one stepped forward, not even Mortola. She stood there with her lips compressed so tightly that they were almost white, and if her glance could have killed as her poisons often did, the book would not have helped the Adderhead. As it was, however, he just smiled at her, and put the pen in his herald’s hand. Firefox stared at the sharpened quill as if he were not sure what to do with it. Then he dipped it ceremoniously in the ink – and wrote.
‘Excellent!’ The Piper took the book from his hand the moment he had finished. The Adderhead waved to one of the servants waiting with dishes full of fruit and cakes at the foot of the silver columns. ‘Well, what are you waiting for, Firefox? Try your luck!’ Honey dripped from his fingers as he pushed one of the cakes between his lips.
Firefox, however, stood there, still staring at the Piper, whose long arms were wound round the book as if he were holding a baby. He responded to Firefox’s glance with a nasty smile. Firefox abruptly turned his back to him and the Adderhead, and came down the steps.
Mo removed Meggie’s hand from his arm and pushed her gently aside, although she resisted. The men-at-arms standing around retreated, with incredulity on their faces, as if clearing a stage. Except for the one who had drawn his sword and now held it out to Mo. Was this still Fenoglio’s game? It would be like him. When Mo had entered the hall just now he’d have given one of his eyes for a sword, but he didn’t want this one. He wanted it as little as the roles some other people wanted him to play, whether Fenoglio or the Adderhead. He had always hated games like this, games played by the strong with someone weaker, the cat with the helpless mouse … he hated them, even when the mouse was a murderer and fire-rai
ser.
When Firefox stopped at the foot of the steps, hesitating as if he were wondering whether there might not be some way out for him after all, one of the men-at-arms went up to him and took his sword from its sheath.
‘Here, Bluejay, take it.’ The soldier who was holding his sword out to Mo was getting impatient, and Mo remembered the night when he had picked up Basta’s sword and chased him and Capricorn out of his house. He still remembered just how heavy the weapon had felt in his hand, how the bright blade caught the light …
‘No, thank you,’ he said, stepping back. ‘Swords are not among the tools of my trade. I thought I’d proved that with the book.’
The Adderhead wiped the honey off his fingers, removed a few cake crumbs from his lips, and looked him up and down. ‘Oh, come on, Bluejay!’ he said in a tone of mild surprise. ‘You heard. We don’t expect any great skill in swordplay. All you have to do is run it through his body. It really isn’t difficult!’
Firefox was staring at Mo. His eyes were clouded with hatred. Look at him, you fool, Mo told himself. He’d run you through with that sword on the spot, so why don’t you do it to him? Meggie understood why not. He saw it in her eyes. Perhaps the Bluejay might take that sword, but not her father.
‘Forget it, Adder,’ he said out loud. ‘If you have an account to settle with your bloodhound, see to it yourself. Ours is a different agreement.’
The Adderhead looked at him with as much interest as if some exotic animal had wandered into his hall. Then he laughed. ‘I like your answer!’ he cried. ‘Indeed I do. And do you know something? It finally shows me I’ve caught the right man. You are the Bluejay, without any doubt. He’s said to be a sly fox. But all the same I’ll keep my bargain.’
And so saying, he nodded to the man-at-arms who was still offering Mo the sword. Without hesitation, the man turned and thrust the long blade through the body of his master’s herald, so fast that Firefox did not even manage to flinch back.
Meggie screamed. Mo drew her close and hid her face against his chest. But Firefox stood there, staring in bewilderment at the sword sticking out of his body as if it were a part of him.
With a self-satisfied smile, the Adderhead looked around, enjoying the silent horror in the hall around him. Firefox took the sword sticking out of his body and pulled the blade out very slowly, his face distorted, but without swaying on his feet. And the great hall became as still as if all present had stopped breathing.
As for the Adderhead, he applauded. ‘Well, look at that!’ he cried. ‘Is there anyone here in this hall who thinks he could have survived that swordstroke? He’s just a little pale, that’s all – am I right, Firefox?’
His herald did not reply, but just stood there staring at the blood-stained sword in his hands.
But the Adderhead went on, in a voice of high good humour, ‘Well, I think that proves it! The girl wasn’t lying, and the Adderhead is not a gullible fool who fell for a child’s fairy-tale, is he?’
He placed his words as carefully as a beast of prey places its paws. Nothing but silence answered him. Even Firefox, his face white with pain, said not a word as he wiped his own blood from the swordblade.
‘Excellent!’ remarked the Adderhead. ‘That’s done, then – and now I have an immortal herald. It’s time I was able to say the same of myself. Piper,’ he said, turning to the man with the silver nose. ‘Empty the hall for me. Get everyone out – servants, women, physicians, clerks, all of them. I want just ten men-at-arms to stay, the librarian, you and Firefox, and the two prisoners. You go away too!’ he snapped at Mortola, who was about to protest. ‘Stay with my wife and get that baby to stop crying at last.’
‘What’s he going to do, Mo?’ whispered Meggie as the hall emptied around them. But he could only shake his head. He didn’t know either. He only felt that the game was far from over yet.
‘What about us?’ he called to the Adderhead. ‘My daughter and I have fulfilled our part of the bargain, so fetch the prisoners from your dungeons and let us go.’
But the Adderhead only raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Yes, of course, of course, Bluejay,’ he graciously replied. ‘As you have kept your word, I keep mine. The Adder’s word of honour. I’ve already sent men down to the dungeons, but it’s a long way from there to the gate, so give us the pleasure of your company a little longer. Believe me, we shall provide you with entertainment.’
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