Inkspell (65 page)

“I can’t find Cosimo!” he muttered. “I’ve been looking for him for hours. Have any of you seen him?”

“Firefox has had his body taken away,” the Prince replied. “I expect they’ll put it on public display so that this time no one can claim he’s still alive.”

Fenoglio stared at him until the bear began to growl. Then he shook his head again and again. “I don’t understand it!” he stammered. “How could it happen? Didn’t Meggie read what I wrote for her? Didn’t Roxane find her?” He looked despairingly at Dustfinger. How well he remembered
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the day he had described his death! A good scene, one of the best he’d ever written.

“Oh yes, Roxane gave Meggie the letter. Ask her yourself if you don’t believe me. Although I don’t think she’ll feel much like talking at the moment.” Dustfinger pointed to the woman walking among the corpses. Roxane. The beautiful Roxane. She bent over the dead, looked into their faces, and finally kneeled down beside a man whom a White Woman was approaching. She quickly put her hands over his ears, bent over his face, and gestured to the two robbers who were following her with torches in their hands. No, she would certainly not feel much like talking just now.

Dustfinger looked at him. Why that reproachful expression? Fenoglio wanted to snap at him.

After all, I invented your wife, too! But he bit back the words. “Very well. So Roxane gave Meggie the letter,” he said instead. “But did Meggie
read
it?”

Dustfinger looked at him with great dislike. “She tried to, but the Adderhead had her taken to the Castle of Night that very evening.”

“Oh God!” Fenoglio looked around. The dead faces of Cosimo’s men stared at him. “So that’s it!”

he cried. “I thought all this had happened only because Cosimo wanted to set off too soon, but no! The words, my wonderful words .. Meggie can’t have read them, or everything would have been all right!”

“Nothing would have been all right!” Dustfinger’s voice was so cutting that Fenoglio involuntarily flinched. “Not a man of all these lying here would be dead if you hadn’t brought Cosimo back!”

The Prince and his men stared at Dustfinger, unable to make anything of this. Of course, they had no idea what he was talking about. But obviously Dustfinger knew only too well. Meggie had told him about Cosimo. Or had it been the boy?

“Why are you staring at him like that?” Farid challenged the robbers, ranging himself at Dustfinger’s side. “It was exactly as he says! Fenoglio brought Cosimo back from the dead. I was there myself.”

How the fools flinched away! Only the Black Prince looked thoughtfully at Fenoglio.

“What nonsense!” Fenoglio said. “No one comes back to this world from the dead! Think what a crowd there’d be! I made a new Cosimo, a brand-new one, and everything would have turned out well if Meggie hadn’t been interrupted while she read! My Cosimo would have been a wonderful ruler, a –”

Before he could say any more, the Prince’s black hand came down over his mouth. “That’s enough,” he said. “Enough talking while the dead lie here around us. Your Cosimo is dead, wherever he came from, and the man they take for the Bluejay because of your songs may well be dead soon, too. You seem to enjoy playing with Death, Inkweaver.”

Fenoglio tried to protest, but the Black Prince had already turned to his men. “Go on looking for the wounded!” he told them. “And hurry! It’s time we got off this road.”

They found barely two dozen survivors. Two dozen among hundreds of dead. When the robbers set off again with the wounded men, Fenoglio staggered after them in silence without asking where they were going. “The old man is following us!” he heard Dustfinger tell the Prince.

“Where else would he go?” was all the Prince replied – and Dustfinger said nothing. But he kept well away from Fenoglio, as if he were Death itself.

Chapter 66 – Blank Paper

We make for your sake such things as stand fast,

Through the ages these pages forever will last.

On blank paper the printer sets down what is heard,

Giving life to what’s rife with the power of the word.

– Michael Kongehl, “On the White Art”,
Die Weisse und die Schwarze Kunst

When Mortola had Mo’s cell unlocked, Meggie was just telling him about the Laughing Prince’s festivities, the tightrope-walker and the Black Prince and Farid’s juggling with the torches. Mo put his arm protectively around her as the bolts outside were shot back and Mortola came into the cell, flanked by Basta and the Piper. The sunlight falling into the room made Basta’s face look like boiled lobster.

“Look at that, what an idyll! Father and daughter reunited,” sneered Mortola. “Truly touching!”

“Hurry up!” the guard told her through the door, low-voiced. “If the Adderhead hears that I let you in to see him, they’ll put me in the pillory for three days!”

“And if they do I’ve paid you well enough, haven’t I?” was all Mortola replied, while Basta went up to Mo with a vicious smile.

“Well, Silvertongue,” he purred, “didn’t I say you’d all fall into our trap yet?”

“You look more as if it was you who fell into Dustfinger’s trap,” replied Mo, quickly putting Meggie behind him when, by way of answer, Basta snapped open his knife.

“Basta! Stop that!” Mortola snapped at him. “We don’t have time for your games.”

Meggie came out from behind Mo’s back as Mortola moved toward her. She wanted to show the old woman that she wasn’t afraid of her (even if, of course, that was only a brave lie).

“Those were interesting words that you had hidden in your clothing,” Mortola said to her, low-voiced. “The Adderhead was particularly interested in the part about three very special words.

Oh, see how pale she’s gone around her pretty little nose! Yes, the Adderhead knows about your plans, little pigeon, and he knows now that Mortola isn’t as stupid as he thought. But unfortunately he still wants the book you promised him. The fool really does believe that you two can keep his death imprisoned in a book.” The Magpie wrinkled her nose at such princely stupidity and came yet closer to Meggie. “Yes, he’s a gullible fool, like all princes!” she whispered.

“We both know that, don’t we? For the words you carried with you also say that Cosimo the Fair will conquer this castle and kill the Adderhead, with the aid of the book your father is to bind for him. But how can that be so? Cosimo is dead, and for good this time. Oh, how alarmed you look, you little witch!” Her bony fingers pinched Meggie’s cheeks hard. Mo went to strike her hand away, but Basta faced him with the knife. “Your tongue has lost its magic power, my little darling!” said the Magpie. “The words are only words. The book your father is to bind for the Adderhead will be nothing but a blank book – and once the Silver Prince finally realizes that, nothing will save you two from the hangman. And Mortola will be avenged at last.”

“Leave her alone, Mortola!” Mo reached for Meggie’s hand in spite of Basta’s knife, and Meggie clasped his fingers firmly in hers as thoughts raced through her mind in confusion. Cosimo was
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dead? For the second time? What did that mean?
Nothing
, she thought.
Nothing at all, Meggie.

Because you never read the words that were to protect him.

Mortola seemed to notice her relief, for the Magpie’s eyes became as narrow as her lips. “Ah, so that doesn’t trouble you? Do you think I’d lie to you? Or do you believe in that book of immortality yourself? Let me tell you something.” The Magpie’s thin fingers dug into Meggie’s shoulder. “It’s a book, no more, and I am sure you and your father remember what my son used to do with books! Capricorn would never have been fool enough to entrust his life to one, even if you’d promised him immortality for it! And furthermore .. those three words that it seems must not be written in the book . . I know them now, too.”

“What do you mean by that, Mortola?” asked Mo quietly. “Do you by any chance dream of putting Basta here on the Adderhead’s throne? Or even yourself?”

The Magpie cast a quick glance at the guard outside the cell door, but he had his back to them, and she turned to Mo again, her face expressionless. “Whatever I intend to do, Silvertongue,” she hissed at him, “you won’t live to see it. This story is over for you. Why isn’t he in chains?” she snapped at the Piper. “He’s still a prisoner, isn’t he? At least tie his hands while you move him.”

Meggie was about to protest, but Mo cast her a warning glance.

“Believe me, Silvertongue,” said Mortola in a low voice as the Piper roughly tied Mo’s hands behind his back, “even if the Adderhead sets you free after you’ve made him his book, you won’t get far. And Mortola’s word is worth more than the words of a poet. Take the pair of them to the Old Chamber!” she ordered as she went to the door again. “But watch them closely, and make sure that not a single book falls into their hands.”

The Old Chamber lay in the most remote part of the Castle of Night, far from the halls where the Adderhead held court. The corridors down which Basta and the Piper led them were dusty and deserted. No silver adorned the columns and doors here, there was no glass in the draughty windows. The room whose door the Piper finally opened, with a mocking bow to Mo, seemed to have been unoccupied for a long time. The pink fabric of the bed hangings was moth-eaten. The bunches of flowers standing in pitchers in the window niches were long dried up; dust was caught in the withered blossoms, and lay thick and dirty white on the chests that stood under the windows. In the middle of the chamber there was a table: a long wooden surface laid on trestles. A man stood behind it, as pale as paper, with white hair and ink stains on his fingers. He gave Meggie only a quick glance, but he studied Mo as thoroughly as if someone had asked him to deliver an expert opinion on him.

“Is this the man?” he asked the Piper. “He looks as if he’d never held a book in his hand in his life, let alone had the faintest idea how to bind one.”

Meggie saw a smile steal over Mo’s face. Without a word he went over to the table and examined the tools lying on it.

“My name is Taddeo, and I am the librarian here,” the stranger went on, sounding annoyed. “I don’t suppose that a single one of these objects means anything to you, but I can assure you that the paper you see there alone is worth more than your wretched robber’s life. The finest product of the best paper mill for a thousand miles around, enough to bind more than two books of five hundred pages. Although a genuine bookbinder, of course, would prefer parchment to any paper, however good.”

Mo held out his bound hands to the Piper. “There could be two opinions about that,” he said, as the silver-nosed minstrel, his 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 that 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, beech wood 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 flavor 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 around 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?”