Inkdeath (Inkworld 3)

What the devil? Orpheus nearly choked on the wine he had just raised to his lips. The old witch was still dreaming of Capricorn’s return! Well, why not, since first Cosimo and then Dustfinger had come back from the dead? But he could think of more interesting turns for this story to take than the return of Mortola’s fire-raising son.

"You really believe the Adderhead will bring the White Book here?" Ah, he felt there were great things in the offing, developments full of promise. Maybe all was not lost, even if Dustfinger had stolen Fenoglio’s book from him. There were other ways to play a significant part in this story. The Adderhead in Ombra! What possibilities that opened up. . . .

"Of course he’ll come! The Adder is more of a fool than most people think." Mortola sat down on one of the chairs that stood ready for Orpheus’s distinguished clients.

The wind blew through the unglazed windows and made the candles flicker.

Shadows danced like black birds on the whitewashed walls.

"So will the Silver Prince let the bookbinder outwit him for the second time?"

Orpheus himself was surprised by the hatred in his voice. To his astonishment, he realized that he now wished for Mortimer’s death almost as passionately as Mortola.

"Even Dustfinger runs after him these days!" he uttered. "Obviously, Death has made him forget what that hero once did to him!" He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, as if he could wipe away the memory of Dustfinger’s cold face. Yes, that was the only reason why Dustfinger had turned against him! Because Mortimer had bewitched him with his accursed voice. He bewitched them all. It was to be hoped that the Piper would cut out his tongue before they quartered him. He wanted to watch as the Milksop’s hounds tore him to pieces, as the Piper sliced up his skin and his noble heart. Oh, if only he could have written that song about the Bluejay!

Mortola’s coughing brought Orpheus back from his bloodthirsty dreams.

"It’s only too easy to swallow these seeds!" she gasped, bent double in the chair, her hands clutching the arms like claws. "You have to put them under your tongue, but they’re slippery little things, and if too many of them go astray and down to your stomach, the bird sometimes comes back when you haven’t summoned it." She jerked her head like the Magpie, opened her mouth as if it were a beak, and pressed her fingers to her pale lips.

"Listen!" she managed to say as the fit shook her again. "I want You to go to the castle as soon as the Adderhead reaches Ombra and warn him against his daughter!

Tell him to ask Balbulus, the illuminator, how many books about the Bluejay Violante has ordered from him. Convince him that his daughter is obsessed with his worst enemy and will do all in her power to save him. Tell him in the finest words you can think up. Use your voice, the way Silvertongue will try to use his. You’re very keen on boasting that your voice is more impressive than Mortimer’s! Prove it!"

Mortola retched — and spat another seed out into the palm of her hand.

She was clever, even if she was totally crazy, and it was surely best to let her believe she could go on acting as if she were his mistress, although all that retching made him feel so unwell he could almost have spat out his own wine. Orpheus brushed a little dust off his elaborately embroidered sleeves. His clothes, his house, all the maids. . . How could the old woman be blind enough to think he’d ever serve her again? As if he’d come into this world to carry out other people’s plans! No, here he served only himself. So he had sworn.

"It doesn’t sound like a bad idea." Orpheus was taking great pains to keep his tone of voice as deferential as usual. "But what about all the Bluejay’s noble friends? He won’t be hoping for support from Violante alone. What about the Black Prince?"

And Dustfinger, he added silently, but he did not speak the name. He was going to take his own revenge on Dustfinger.

"The Black Prince, yes. Another high-minded idiot. My son had trouble with him from time to time himself." Mortola put the seed she had spat out away with the others. "I’ll take care of him. Him and Silvertongue’s daughter. That girl’s almost as dangerous as her father."

"Nonsense!" Orpheus poured himself more wine. Wine made him braver.

Mortola inspected him scornfully. Yes, she obviously still thought him a subservient fool. All the better. She rubbed her thin arms, shuddering as if the feathers were trying to pierce through her skin again.

"What about the old man? The one who, they say, wrote Silvertongue’s daughter the words I took from her in the Castle of Night? Is he still writing foolhardy recklessness into the Bluejay’s heart?"

"No, Fenoglio isn’t writing anymore. All the same, I’d have no objection if you killed him. Far from it—he’s a terrible know-itall."

Mortola nodded, but she didn’t really seem to be listening anymore. "I must go," she said, rising unsteadily from her chair. "Your house is as musty as a dungeon."

Oss was lying outside the door when Mortola opened it. "So this is your bodyguard?"

she asked. "You don’t seem to have many enemies.

Orpheus slept poorly that night. He dreamed of birds, hundreds of birds, but when dawn came and Ombra emerged from the shadows of night like a pale fruit, he went to the window of his bedroom full of new confidence.

"Good morning to you, Bluejay!" he said under his breath, eyes turned to the towers of the castle. "I hope you passed a sleepless night! I daresay you still think the roles in this story have been cast by now, but you’ve played its hero long enough. Curtain up, Act Two: Enter Orpheus. In what part? The part of the villain, of course, Isn’t that always the best role in a play?"

CHAPTER 38

A GREETING TO THE PIPER

Farid wasn’t with the party when the Bluejay rode to Ombra Castle. "You’re staying in the camp." Dustfinger didn’t have to say any more to make Farid worry about causing his death again, and the fear was like a hand clutching his throat. The Strong Man waited among the empty tents with him, because the Black Prince refused to believe that he could pass for a woman. They sat there for many hours, but when Meggie and the others at last came back. Dustfinger wasn’t with them, any more than the Bluejay was.

"Where is he?" The Black Prince was the only person Farid dared to ask, although his face was so grave that even the bear didn’t venture near him.

"Where the Bluejay is," replied the Prince, and when he saw Farid’s look of dismay he added, "No, not in the dungeon. I mean near him, that’s all. Death has bound those two together, and nothing but Death is going to part them again."

Near him.

Farid looked at the tent where Meggie slept. He thought he could hear her crying, but he dared not go to her. She hadn’t yet forgiven him for persuading her father to do that deal with Orpheus, and Doria was sitting outside her tent. He was to be found near Meggie a good deal too often for Farid’s liking, but luckily he appeared to understand as little about girls as his strong brother. The men back from Ombra were sitting around the fire, heads bent. Some of them didn’t even take off the women’s clothes they had been wearing, but the Black Prince gave them no time to drown their fears for the future in wine. He sent them out hunting. They would need good stocks of provisions if they were to hide the children of Ombra from the Piper: dried meat, warm furs.