Inkspell (Inkworld 2)

Farid nodded.

“Very well. Forget it, do you hear me? The words are written. Maybe they’ll come true, maybe not.”

But Farid shook his head so vigorously that his black hair fell over his forehead. “No!” he said.

“No, they won’t come true! I swear it. I swear it by the djinns that howl in the desert and the ghosts that eat the dead, I swear it by everything I fear!”

Dustfinger looked thoughtfully at him. “You crazy boy!” he said. “But I like your oath. We’d better leave Gwin here, then, and you can keep him!”

Gwin did not approve. He bit Dustfinger’s hand when he was put on his chain, snapped at his fingers, and chattered even more angrily when Jink got into his master’s backpack.

“You’re taking the new marten with you and the old one must be put on the chain?” asked Roxane, when she came back to them with the root for Nettle.

“Yes. Because someone said he’d bring me bad luck.” “Since when have you believed that kind of thing?”

Indeed, since when? Since I met an old man who claims to have made up you and me, thought Dustfinger. Gwin was still hissing; he had seldom seen the marten so angry. Without a word he took the chain off Gwin’s collar again. And ignored Farid’s look of alarm.

All the way to Ombra Gwin sat on Farid’s shoulders, as if to show Dustfinger that he hadn’t forgiven him yet. And the moment Jink put his nose out of the backpack, Gwin bared his teeth and snarled so menacingly that Farid had to hold his muzzle shut a couple of times.

The gallows outside the city gates were empty; only a few ravens were perched on the wooden beams. Even though Cosimo was back, Her Ugliness was still administering justice in Ombra, just as she had done in his father’s lifetime, and she did not think well of hangings – perhaps because, as a child, she had seen too many men dangling from a rope with their tongues blue and their faces bloated.

“Listen,” Dustfinger said to Farid as they stopped beneath the gallows, “while I take Nettle the root and ask CloudDancer for the message I’m told he has for me, you go and find Meggie. I must talk to her.”

Farid went red, but he nodded. Dustfinger looked at his face with amusement. “What’s all this?

Did something besides Cosimo’s return from the dead happen on the evening when you went to see her?”

“None of your business!” muttered Farid, blushing more deeply than ever.

A farmer, swearing profusely, was driving a cart laden with barrels toward the city gates. The oxen blocked the gateway, and the guards impatiently grabbed the reins. Dustfinger took this chance to get himself and Farid past them. “Bring Meggie here, all the same,” he said as they parted on the other side of the gates. “And don’t get so lovesick you lose your way.”

He watched the boy until he had disappeared among the houses. No wonder Roxane thought Farid was his son. Sometimes he suspected his own heart of thinking the same.

Chapter 34 – CloudDancers Message

Yes, my love,

This world of ours bleeds

With more pain than just the pain of love.

– Faiz Ahmed Faiz, “The Love I Gave You Once”, An Elusive Dawn

There could hardly be a worse smell in the world than the door rising from the dyers’ vats. The acrid stench rose to Dustfinger’s nostrils even as he was making his way along the alley where the smiths plied their trade – tinkers mending pots and pans, blacksmiths shoeing horses, and on the other side of the road the armorers, who were considered superior to the other smiths and were arrogant as befitted their status. The sound of all the hammers beating on red-hot iron was almost as bad as the smell in the alley. The dyers had their hovels in the most remote part of Ombra; their stinking vats were never tolerated in the better parts of any town. But just as Dustfinger was approaching the gate separating their quarter from the rest of Ombra, a man coming out of an armorer’s workshop collided with him.

The Piper. He was easily recognizable by his silver nose, although Dustfinger could remember the days when he had a nose of flesh and blood. Just your luck again, Dustfinger, he told himself, turning his head aside and trying to slip past Capricorn’s minstrel quickly. Of all the men in this world, that bloodhound has to cross your path. He was beginning to hope that the Piper hadn’t noticed who he had bumped into, but just as he thought he was safely past him the silver-nosed man seized his arm and swung him around.

“Dustfinger!” he said in the strained voice that had once sounded so different. It had always reminded Dustfinger of oversweet cakes. Capricorn had loved to listen to it more than any other voice, and the same was true of the songs it sang. The Piper wrote wonderful songs about fire-raising and murder, so wonderful that they almost made you believe there was no nobler occupation than cutting throats. Did he sing the same songs for the Adderhead – or were they too coarse-grained for the silver halls of the Castle of Night?

“Well, fancy that! I’m inclined to think just about everyone’s coming back from the dead these days,” said the Piper, while the two men-at-arms with him looked covetously at the weapons displayed outside the armorers’ workshops. “I really thought Basta had sliced you up and then buried you years ago. Did you know he’s back, too? He and the old woman, Mortola. I’m sure you remember her. The Adderhead was delighted to welcome her to his castle. You know how highly he always thought of her deadly concoctions.”

Dustfinger hid the fear pervading his heart behind a smile. “Why, if it isn’t the Piper!” he said.

“Your new nose suits you much better than the old one. It tells everyone who your new master is and shows that it belongs to a minstrel who can be bought for silver.”

The Piper’s eyes had not changed. They were pale gray like the sky on a rainy day, and they stared at him with as fixed a gaze as the eyes of a bird. Dustfinger knew from Roxane how he had lost his nose, cut off by a man whose daughter he had seduced with his dark songs.

“You always did have a dangerously sharp tongue, Dustfinger,” he said. “It’s about time someone finally cut it out. Indeed, wasn’t that tried once, and you got away only because the Black Prince and his bear protected you? Are they still looking after you? I don’t see them anywhere.” He looked around, his eye searching the scene.

Dustfinger cast a quick glance at the two men-at-arms. They were both at least a head taller than him. What would Farid say if he could see me now? he wondered. That I ought to have had him with me so that he could keep his vow? The Piper had a sword, of course, and his hand was already on the hilt. He obviously thought as little as the Black Prince did of the law forbidding strolling players to carry weapons. A good thing the smiths are hammering so loudly, thought Dustfinger, or no doubt everyone would hear my heart beating with fear.

“I must be on my way,” he said, as casually as possible. “Give Basta my regards when you see him, and as for burying me, he hasn’t done it yet.” He turned – it was worth a try – but the Piper held his arm tightly.

“Of course, and there’s your marten, too!” he hissed.

Dustfinger felt Jink’s damp muzzle against his ear. It’s the wrong marten, he thought, trying to calm his racing heart. The wrong marten. But had Fenoglio ever mentioned Gwin’s name when he staged Dustfinger’s death? With the best will in the world he couldn’t remember. I’ll have to ask Basta to give me back the book so that I can look it up, he thought bitterly. He signaled to Jink to get back into the backpack. Better not think about that.