Inkspell (30 page)

“Oh, thank you.” Swaying with exhaustion, she straightened up again. “When do you think he’ll get the message?”

CloudDancer patted his knee. “My leg must get better first.”

“Of course.” Resa bit back the words she wanted to shout, begging him to hurry. She mustn’t press him too hard, or he might change his mind, and then who would find Dustfinger for her? A piece of wood broke apart in the flames, spitting out glowing sparks at her feet. “I have no money to pay you,” she said, “but perhaps you’ll accept this.” And she took her wedding ring off her finger and offered it to CloudDancer. The toothless man looked at the gold ring as avidly as if he would like to put his own hand out for it, but CloudDancer shook his head.

“No, forget it,” he said. “Your husband is sick. It’s bad luck to give away your wedding ring, I’ve heard.”

Bad luck. Resa was quick to put the ring back on her finger. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, you’re right. Thank you. Thank you with all my heart!”

She turned to go.

“Hey, you!” The minstrel whose back had been turned to her was looking at her. He had only two fingers on his right hand. “Your husband – he has dark hair. Dark as the fur of a mole. And he’s tall. Very tall.”

Bewildered, Resa looked at him. “So?”

“And then there’s the scar. Just where the songs say. I’ve seen it. Everyone knows how he got it: The Adderhead’s dogs bit him there when he was poaching near the Castle of Night, and he took a stag, one of the White Stags that only the Adderhead himself may kill.”

What on earth was he talking about? Resa remembered what Nettle had said:
And if you’re wise,
you won’t let too many of them, see that scar on his arm.

The toothless man laughed. “Listen to Twofingers, will you! He thinks it’s the Bluejay lying there in the cave. Since when did you believe in old wives’ tales? Was he wearing his feathered mask?”

“How should I know?” snapped Twofingers. “Did I bring him here? But I tell you, that’s him!”

Resa sensed that the fire-eater was examining her thoughtfully. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I don’t know any Bluejay.”

“You don’t?” Twofingers picked up the lute lying on the grass beside him. Resa had never before heard the song that he now sang in a soft voice:

Bright hope arises from the dark

And makes the mighty tremble.

Princes can’t fail to see his mark,

Nor can they now dissemble.

With hair like moleskin smooth and black,

And mask of blue jay feathers,

He vows wrongdoers to attack,

Strikes princes in all weathers.

He hunts their game He robs their gold

And him they would have slain.

But he’s away, he will not stay,

They seek the Jay in vain.

How they were all looking at her! Resa took a step backward. “I must go to my husband,” she said. “That song .. it has nothing to do with him. Believe me, it doesn’t.”

She felt their eyes on her back as she returned to the cave. Forget them, she told herself.

Dustfinger will get your message, that’s all that matters, and he’ll find Meggie and bring her here.

The woman who had taken her place rose without a word and lay down with the others again.

Resa was so exhausted that she swayed as she kneeled on the dead leaves covering the floor.

And the tears came once more. She wiped them away with her sleeve, hid her face in the fabric of her dress that smelled so familiar . . of Elinor’s house, of the old sofa where she used to sit with Meggie – telling her about this world. She began to sob, so loudly that she was afraid she might have woken one of the sleeping company. Alarmed, she pressed her hand to her mouth.

“Resa?” It was hardly more than a whisper.

She raised her head. Mo was looking at her. Looking at her. “I heard your voice,” he whispered.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or weep first. She leaned over him and covered his face with kisses. And then she both laughed and wept.

Chapter 26 – Fenoglio’s Plan

All I need is a sheet of paper

and something to write with, and then

I can turn the world upside down.

– Friedrich Nietzsche,
Die Weisse und die Schwarze Kunst

Two days had passed since the festivities at the castle, two days that Fenoglio had spent showing Meggie every nook and cranny of Ombra. “But today,” he said, before they set off again after eating breakfast with Minerva, “today I’ll show you the river. It’s a steep climb down, not very easy for my old bones, but there’s nowhere better to talk in peace. And what’s more, if we’re in luck you may see some water-nymphs down there.” Meggie would have loved to see a water-nymph. She had come upon only one so far, in a rather muddy pond in the Wayless Wood, and as soon as Meggie’s reflection had fallen on the water the nymph had darted away. But what exactly did Fenoglio want to talk about in peace? It wasn’t hard to guess.

What was he going to ask her to read here this time? Or, rather, who was he going to ask her to read here – and where from? From another story written by Fenoglio himself?

The path, down which he led her wound its way along steeply sloping fields where farmers were working, bent double in the morning sun. How hard it must be growing enough to eat to allow you to survive the winter. And then there were all the creatures who secretly attacked your few provisions: mice, mealworms, maggots, wood lice. Life was much more difficult in Fenoglio’s world, yet it seemed to Meggie that with every new day his story was spinning a magic spell around her heart, sticky as spiders’ webs, and enchantingly beautiful, too. .

Everything around her seemed so real by now. Her homesickness had almost disappeared.

“Come on!” Fenoglio’s voice startled her out of her thoughts. The river lay before them, shining in the sun, with faded flowers drifting on the water by its banks. Fenoglio took her hand and led her down the bank, to a place where large rocks stood. Meggie hopefully leaned over the slowly flowing water, but there were no river-nymphs in sight.

“Well, they’re timid. Too many people around!” Fenoglio looked disapprovingly at the women doing their washing nearby. He waved to Meggie to walk on until the voices died away and only
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the rippling of the water could be heard. Behind them the roofs and towers of Ombra rose against the pale blue sky. The houses were crowded close inside the walls, like birds in a nest too small for them, and the black banners of the castle fluttered above them as if to inscribe the Laughing Prince’s grief on the sky itself.

Meggie clambered up onto a flat rock over the water’s edge. The river was not broad but seemed to be deep, and its water was darker than the shadows on the opposite bank.

“Can you see one?” Fenoglio almost slipped off the wet rock as he joined her. Meggie shook her head. “What’s the matter?” Fenoglio knew her well after the days and nights they had spent together in Capricorn’s house. “Not homesick again, are you?”

“No, no.” Meggie kneeled down and ran her fingers through the cold water. “I just had that dream again.”

The previous day, Fenoglio had shown her Bakers’ Alley, the houses where the rich spice and cloth dealers lived, and every gargoyle, every carved flower, every richly adorned frieze with which the skillful stonemasons of Ombra had ornamented the buildings of the city. Judging by the pride Fenoglio displayed as he led Meggie past every corner of Ombra, however remote, he seemed to consider it all his own work. “Well, perhaps not every corner,” he admitted, as she once tried getting him to go down an alley she hadn’t seen yet. “Of course Ombra has its ugly sides, too, but there’s no need for you to bother your pretty head about them.”

It had been dark by the time they were back in his room under Minerva’s roof, and Fenoglio quarreled with Rosenquartz because the glass man had spattered the fairies with ink. Even though their voices rose louder and louder, Meggie nodded off on the straw mattress that Minerva had sent up the steep staircase for her and that now lay under the window – and suddenly there was all that red, a dull red, shining, wet red, and her heart had started beating faster and faster, ever faster, until its violent thudding woke her with a start. .

“There, look!” Fenoglio took her arm.

Rainbow scales shimmered under the watery surface of the river. At first Meggie almost took them for leaves, but then she saw the eyes looking at her, like human eyes yet very different, for they had no whites. The nymph’s arms looked delicate and fragile, almost transparent. Another glance, and then the scaly tail flicked in the water, and there was nothing left to be seen but a shoal of fish gliding by, silvery as a snail track, and a flock of fire-elves like the elves she and Farid had seen in the forest. Farid. He had made a fiery flower blossom at her feet, a flower just for her. Dustfinger had certainly taught him many wonderful things.

“I think it’s always the same dream, but I can’t remember. I just remember the fear – as if something terrible had happened!” She turned to Fenoglio. “Do you think it really has?”

“Nonsense!” Fenoglio brushed aside the thought like a troublesome insect. “We must blame Rosenquartz for your bad dream. I expect the fairies sat on your forehead in the night because he annoyed them! They’re vengeful little things, and I’m afraid it makes no difference to them who they avenge themselves on.”

“I see.” Meggie dipped her fingers in the water again. It was so cold that she shivered. She heard the washerwomen laugh, and a fire-elf settled on her wrist. Insect eyes stared at her out of a human face. Meggie quickly shooed away the tiny creature. “Very sensible,” Fenoglio said. “You
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want to be careful of fire-elves. They’ll burn your skin.”

“I know. Resa told me about them.” Meggie watched the elf go. There was a sore, red mark on her arm where it had settled.

“My own invention,” explained Fenoglio proudly. “They produce honey that lets you talk to fire.

Very much sought after by fire-eaters, but the elves attack anyone who comes too close to their nests, and few know how to set about stealing the honey without getting badly burned. In fact, now that I come to think of it, probably no one but Dustfinger knows.”

Meggie just nodded. She had hardly been listening. “What did you want to talk to me about? You want me to read something, don’t you?”

A few faded red flowers drifted past on the water, red as dried blood, and Meggie’s heart began beating so hard again that she put her hand to her breast. What was the matter with her?

Fenoglio undid the bag at his belt and tipped a domed red stone out into his hand. “Isn’t it magnificent?” he asked. “I went to get it this morning while you were still asleep. It’s a beryl, a reading stone. You can use it like spectacles.”

“I know. What about it?” Meggie stroked the smooth stone with her fingertips. Mo had several like it, lying on the windowsill of his workshop.

“What about it? Don’t be so impatient! Violante is almost as blind as a bat, and her delightful son has hidden her old reading stone. So I bought her another, even though it was a ruinous price. I hope she’ll be so grateful that in return she’ll tell us a few things about her late husband! Yes, yes, I know I made up Cosimo myself, but it was long ago that I wrote about him. To be honest, I don’t remember that part particularly well, and what’s more .. who knows how he may have changed, once this story took it into its head to go on telling itself?”

A horrible foreboding came into Meggie’s mind. No, he couldn’t be planning to do that. Not even Fenoglio would think up such an idea. Or would he?

“Listen, Meggie!” He lowered his voice, as if the women doing their washing upstream could hear him. “The two of us are going to bring Cosimo back!”

Meggie sat up straight, so abruptly that she almost slipped and fell into the river. “You’re crazy.

Totally crazy! Cosimo’s dead!”

“Can anyone prove it?” She didn’t like Fenoglio’s smile one little bit. “I told you – his body was burned beyond recognition. Even his father wasn’t sure it was really Cosimo! He waited six months before he would have the dead man buried in the coffin intended for his son.”

“But it was Cosimo, wasn’t it?”

“Who’s going to say so? It was a terrible massacre. They say the fire-raisers had been storing some kind of alchemical powder in their fortress, and Firefox set it alight to help him get away.

The flames enveloped Cosimo and most of his men, and later no one could identify the dead bodies found among the ruins.” Meggie shuddered. Fenoglio, on the other hand, seemed greatly pleased by this idea. She couldn’t believe how satisfied he looked.

“But it was him, you know it was!” Meggie’s voice sank to a whisper. “Fenoglio, we can’t bring
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back the dead!”

“I know, I know, probably not.” There was deep regret in his voice. “Although didn’t some of the dead come back to life when you summoned the Shadow?”