Inkspell (47 page)

Firefox replied, but Meggie wasn’t listening. The snotty-nosed boy came back with the moss-woman, a short little creature who hardly came up to his shoulder. Her skin was gray as beech bark, her face as wrinkled as a shriveled apple. Moss-women, healers . . Before Farid realized what she meant to do, Meggie had slipped away from him. The moss-woman would know how Mo really was. She made her way as close as she could to the little woman, until only the boy stood between them. The moss-woman’s smock was stained with meat juices from the spit, and her feet were bare, but she inspected the men standing around her with fearless eyes.

“Sure as I live, a genuine moss-woman,” growled Firefox, while his men retreated from the tiny woman as if she were as dangerous as the Black Prince’s bear. “I thought they never came out of the forest. But yes, apparently they know something about healing. Don’t folk say that old witch Nettle’s mother was a moss-woman?”

“Yes, but her father was useless.” The little woman scrutinized Firefox as intently as if she were trying to find out what kind of blood flowed in his veins. “You drink too much,” she observed.

“Just look at your face. Carry on like this and your liver will soon burst like an overripe pumpkin.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the onlookers, but a glance from Firefox silenced them. “Listen, you’re not here to give me advice, she-gnome!” he snapped at the moss-woman. “I want you to look at one of my prisoners. He has to reach the Adderhead’s castle alive.”

“Yes, I know all that,” replied the moss-woman, still examining his face with disapproval. “So that your master can kill him by all the rules of the executioner’s trade. Fetch me water. Hot water and clean towels. And I want someone to help me.” Firefox nodded to the boy. “If you want a helper, pick one for yourself,” he growled, and surreptitiously felt his stomach, where he presumably supposed his liver was located.

“One of your men? No, thank you.” The moss-woman wrinkled up her little nose scornfully and looked around until her eye fell on Meggie. “That one will do,” said the little creature. “She doesn’t look too stupid.”

And before Meggie knew it, one of the soldiers took her roughly by the shoulder. The last thing she saw before she stumbled into the stable after the moss-woman was the expression of alarm on Farid’s face.

Chapter 42 – A Familiar Face

Believe me. Sometimes when life looks to be at its grimmest, there’s a light hidden at the
heart of things.

– Clive Barker,
Abarat

Mo was conscious as the moss-woman kneeled down beside him. He sat leaning back against the damp wall, his eyes searching all the prisoners crouching in the dimly lit stable, looking for Resa’s face. He didn’t see Meggie until the little woman impatiently beckoned her over. Of course he realized at once that even a smile would have given her away, but it was so hard for him not to take her in his arms, so hard to hide the joy and fear that struggled for his heart at the sight of her.

“What are you standing around for?” the old woman snapped at Meggie. “Come here, you stupid thing!” Mo could have shaken her, but Meggie just kneeled down quickly beside her and took the bloodstained bandages that the old woman was none too gently cutting away from his chest.

Don’t stare at her, thought Mo, forcing his eyes to look anywhere else: at the old woman’s hands, at the other prisoners, not at his daughter. Had Resa seen her, too? She’s all right, he thought.

Yes, definitely. She wasn’t any thinner than usual, and she didn’t seem to be sick or injured, either. If only he could at least have exchanged a word with her!

“By fairy spit, what’s the matter with you?” asked the little woman roughly as Meggie almost spilled the water she was handing her. “I might just as well have taken one of the soldiers.” She began feeling Mo’s injuries with her bark-like fingers. It hurt, but he clenched his teeth so that Meggie wouldn’t notice.

“Are you always so hard on her?” he asked the old woman.

The little moss-woman muttered something incomprehensible without looking at him, but Meggie ventured a quick glance, and he smiled at her, hoping she wouldn’t notice the concern in his eyes, his alarm at seeing her again in this of all places, among all the soldiers. Be careful, Meggie, he tried to tell her with his eyes. How her lips were quivering, probably with all the words that she couldn’t say aloud, any more than he could! But it was so good to see her. Even in this place. In all those days and nights of fever, he had so often felt sure that he would never see her face again!

“Hurry up, can’t you?” Suddenly, Firefox was standing right behind Meggie, and at the sound of his voice she quickly bowed her head and held out the bowl of water to the little old woman again.

“This is a nasty wound!” remarked the moss-woman. “I’m surprised you’re still alive.”

“Yes, strange, isn’t it?” Mo was as much aware of Meggie’s glance as if it were the pressure of her hand. “Perhaps the fairies whispered a few words of healing in my ear.”

“Words of healing?” The moss-woman wrinkled up her nose. “What kind of words would those be? Fairies’ gossip is as stupid and useless as fairies themselves.”

“Well, then someone else must have whispered them to me.” Mo saw how pale Meggie turned as she helped the moss woman rebandage his wound, the wound that hadn’t killed him.
It’s
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nothing, Meggie
, he wanted to say,
I’m fine
– but all he could do was look at her again, only in passing, as if her face meant no more to him than any other.

“Believe it or not,” he told the old woman, “I did hear the words. Beautiful words. At first I thought it was my wife’s voice, but then I realized it was my daughter’s. I heard her voice as clearly as if she were sitting here beside me.”

“Yes, yes, folk hear all kinds of things in a fever!” replied the moss-woman brusquely. “I’ve heard of those who swore the dead spoke to them. The dead, angels, demons .. A fever will summon up whole troops of them.” She turned to Firefox. “I have an ointment that will help him,” she said,

“and I’ll brew up something for him to drink. I can’t do any more.” When she turned her back on them, Meggie quickly put her hand on Mo’s fingers. No one noticed, nor did they notice the gentle pressure he gave her hand in return. He smiled at her again, and only when the moss-woman turned again did he quickly look aside. “You ought to look at his leg, too!” he said, nodding toward the strolling player lying asleep beside him on the straw, exhausted.

“No, she oughtn’t!” Firefox interrupted. “It’s all one to me whether he lives or dies. You’re different.”

“Oh, I see! You still think I’m that robber.” Mo leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment. “I suppose it’s no good if I tell you yet again that I’m not?”

By way of answer, Firefox just cast him a contemptuous glance. “Tell the Adderhead. Perhaps he’ll believe you,” he said. Then he pulled Meggie roughly to her feet. “Go on, off with you both!

That’ll do!” he shouted at her and the moss-woman. His men pushed them both toward the stable door. Meggie tried to look around again, her eyes searching for her mother, sitting somewhere among the other prisoners, and looking toward Mo yet again, but Firefox grabbed her arm and forced her out of the door – leaving Mo wishing he had words at his command, words like those that had killed Capricorn. His tongue longed to taste them, longed to send them after Firefox and see him fall in the dust like his former master. But there was no one here to write the words for him. Only Fenoglio’s story was everywhere, surrounding them with horror and darkness – and presumably his own death was already planned for one of the next chapters.

Chapter 43 – Paper and Fire

“Good, well, if that’s decided,” came a weary voice from the opposite end of the dank hold.

It was the gnokgoblin, still manacled and quite forgotten. “Then will someone please
release me.”

– Paul Stewart,
Midnight Over Sanctaphrax

Dustfinger saw the windows of the inn glowing like dirty yellow eyes as he stole across the road.

Jink scurried ahead of him, little more than a shadow in the darkness. There was no moon tonight, and it was so dark in the yard and around the stables that even his own scarred face would just look like a pale patch.

There were guards outside the stable where the prisoners had been shut up, four guards, but they didn’t notice him. They were staring into the night, their faces bored, hands on their sword hilts, looking longingly again and again at the lighted windows opposite. Loud, drunken voices came from the inn – and then the sound of a lute, its strings well plucked, followed by singing in a curiously strained voice. Ah, so the Piper was back from Ombra, too, and singing one of his songs, drunk with blood and the intoxication of killing. The presence of the man with the silver nose was yet another reason why he had to stay out of sight. Meggie and Farid were waiting behind the stables, as agreed, but they were arguing in such loud voices that Dustfinger came up behind the boy and put his hand over his mouth.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he said angrily, his voice low. “Do you want them to put you two in with the others?”

Meggie bowed her head. She had tears in her eyes again.

“She wants to go into the stable!” Farid whispered. “She thinks they’ll all be asleep! As if–”

Dustfinger closed the boy’s mouth with his hand again.

Voices rang out over the yard. Obviously, someone had brought the guards outside the stable something to eat. “Where’s the Black Prince?” he whispered, when all was still again.

“Between the bakehouse and the main building. Tell her she can’t go back into that stable! There are at least fifteen soldiers in there.”

“How many guarding the Prince?”

“Three.”

Three. Dustfinger glanced up at the sky. No moon. It was hidden behind the clouds, and the
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darkness was black as a cloak.

“Are you going to free him? Three aren’t many!” Farid sounded excited. Not a trace of fear in his voice. That fearlessness would be the death of him yet. “We can cut their throats before they make a sound. It’ll be easy.” He often said such things. Dustfinger kept wondering if it was just talk, or if he’d actually done something of the kind in the past.

“I can tell you’re ready for anything!” he said softly. “But you know very well I’m no good at cutting throats. How many prisoners are there?”

“Eleven women, three children, nine men not counting Silvertongue.”

“How is he?” Dustfinger looked at Meggie. “Have you seen him? Can he walk?” She shook her head.

“What about your mother?” She cast him a quick glance. She didn’t like it when he mentioned Resa. “Come on, is she all right?”

“I think so.” She put one hand to the stable wall, as if she could feel her parents behind it. “But I didn’t get a chance to talk to her. Please!” How pleadingly she was looking at him! “I’m sure they’re all asleep. I’ll be very careful!”

Farid cast a despairing glance up at the stars, as if such stupidity would make them break their eternal silence.

“The guards won’t sleep,” said Dustfinger. “So think up a good lie for them. Do you have anything to write with?”

Meggie looked at him incredulously, and for a moment Dustfinger saw her mother’s eyes. Then she quickly put her hand into the bag that she carried with her. “I have some paper with me,” she whispered, hastily tearing a page out of her little marbled notebook.

Like mother, like daughter. Never without the means of writing.

“You’re letting her do it?” Farid looked at him in astonishment.

“Yes.”

Meggie looked at him expectantly.

“Write that there’ll be a fallen tree lying across the road they take tomorrow. When it catches fire, everyone strong and young enough must run into the forest to the left. To the left: That’s important! Write that we’ll be waiting there to hide them. Did you get that down?”

Meggie nodded. Her pencil hurried over the paper. He could only hope that Resa would be able to decipher the tiny handwriting in the darkness of the stable, because he wouldn’t be there to make fire for her.

“Have you thought what you’re going to tell the guards?” he asked.

Meggie nodded. For a moment she looked almost like the little girl she had still been not much more than a year ago, and Dustfinger wondered whether it was a mistake, after all, to let her go –

but before he could change his mind she was off. She raced over the yard and disappeared into
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the inn. When she came back, she was carrying a jug.

“Please, the moss-woman sent me!” they heard her clear voice telling the guards. “I’m to take the children milk.”

“Look at that. Clever as a jackal!” whispered Farid as the guards moved aside. “And brave as a lioness.” There was so much admiration in his voice that Dustfinger couldn’t help smiling. The boy was definitely in love.

“Yes, she’s probably cleverer than both of us put together,” he whispered back. “And certainly braver, at least as far as I’m concerned.”