Inkdeath (39 page)

Meggie could have hit her for the coldness in her voice.

"Yes, and this is his daughter!" said the Strong Man, putting a protective arm around Meggie’s shoulders. "So don’t talk as if you didn’t care what became of him! You’d never have gotten your child back but for her father, have you forgotten that already?

But the Adderhead will still need children for his mines, and yours would be easy prey."

"That’s his daughter? The witch?" The other woman drew her children close to her, but the girl looked curiously at Meggie. "You sound like the Adder’s men!" The Strong Man held Meggie more firmly, as if to ward off the words. "What’s the matter with you? Do you want to know your children are safe or don’t you? You can always take them back to Ombra and hope the Piper doesn’t come knocking at your door!"

"But where are you taking them?" The younger woman had tears in her eyes.

"If I told you, you’d be able to give it away." The Strong Man put the smaller boy up on his shoulders as if he weighed no more than a fairy.

"Can we come, too?"

"No, we can’t feed so many. It will be difficult enough to fill the children’s bellies."

"And how long do you mean to hide them for?" How desperate every word sounded.

"Until the Bluejay has killed the Adderhead." The women looked at Meggie.

"How can he possibly do that?"

"He’ll kill him, you wait and see," replied the Strong Man, and his voice sounded so confident that for a precious moment even Meggie forgot all her fears for Mo. But the moment passed, and once again she felt the snow on her skin, as cold as the end of all things.

Doria put the little girl on his back and smiled at Meggie. He was tireless in his efforts to cheer her up. He brought her berries hard with frost, flowers covered with rime the last flowers of the year and made her forget her troubles by asking her about the world she came from. She was beginning to miss him when he wasn’t near her.

The little girl cried when the women left, but Meggie stroked her hair and told her what Battista had said about the snow: Many of the snowflakes, he had told her, were tiny elves who kissed your face with icy lips before melting on your warm skin. The child stared up at the whirling snow, and Meggie went on talking, letting the words comfort her, too, while the world around turned white, letting herself go back to the days when Mo used to tell her stories before he was part of a story himself. It was a long time since Meggie had been able to say whether it was her story as well.

The snow did not fall for long and left only a fine, light dusting on the cold ground.

Twelve more women brought their children to the abandoned charcoal-burner’s hut, their faces full of anxiety and concern, and full of doubt, too. Were they doing the right thing? Some of the children didn’t even look back at their mothers as the women left, others ran after them, and two cried so hard that their mothers took them away again, back to Ombra where the Piper was waiting for them like a silver spider in its web. By the time darkness fell, nineteen children stood under the trees with their powdering of snow, huddled together like a flock of goslings. The Strong Man looked like a giant beside them as he signaled to them to go with him. Doria conjured acorns out of their little noses and plucked coins from their hair when one of them started crying. The Strong Man showed them how he listened to the birds, and let three children ride on his shoulders all at once.

As for Meggie, she told them stories as darkness fell over them, stories Mo had told her so often that she thought she heard his voice with every word she spoke. They were all exhausted by the time they reached the robbers’ camp. The place was teeming with children. Meggie tried to count them, but soon gave up. How were the robbers to fill so many mouths, when the Black Prince could hardly feed his own men?

What Snapper and Gecko thought of all this showed only too clearly in their faces.

Nursemaids, that was the whisper going around the camp. Is this what we went into the forest for? Snapper, Gecko, Elfbane, Woodenfoot, Wayfarer, Blackbeard . . .

many of them were saying so. But who was the slightly built man with the gentle face standing beside Snapper, looking around as if he had never seen his surroundings before? He looked like no. No, it couldn’t be true. Meggie rubbed her eyes. She was obviously so tired that she was seeing ghosts. But suddenly two strong arms went around her, hugging her so hard that she gasped for air.

"Why, just look at you! You’re almost as tall as me now, you shameless girl!"

Meggie turned.

Elinor.

What was happening? Had she lost her mind? Had it all been nothing but a dream, and now she was waking up? Would the trees dissolve next, would everything disappear — the robbers, the children and she’d see Mo standing beside her bed asking if she intended to sleep right through breakfast?

Meggie pressed her face into Elinor’s dress. It was velvet, and looked like a theatrical costume. Yes, she was dreaming. Definitely. But then what was still real? Wake up, Meg gie! she told herself. Come on, wake up!

The slightly built stranger standing next to Snapper smiled shyly at her as he held his twisted spectacle frame up to his eyes, and yes, it really was Darius!

Elinor hugged her again, and Meggie began to cry. She wept into Elinor’s peculiar dress, shedding all the tears she had been holding back since Mo rode to Ombra Castle.

"Yes, yes, I know! It’s just terrible," said Elinor as she awkwardly stroked Meggie’s hair. "You poor thing. I’ve already given that scribbler fellow a piece of my mind.

Conceited old fool! But you wait, your father will show that silver-nosed fiddler a thing or two!"

"He’s the Piper." Meggie had to laugh although the tears went on running down her face. "The Piper, Elinor!"

"Well, whatever! How’s anyone supposed to remember all these strange names?"

Elinor looked around her. "That Fenoglio deserves to be hung, drawn, and quartered for all this, but of course he doesn’t see it that way. I’m glad we’ll be able to keep an eye on him now. He refused to let Minerva come here on her own, I suppose just because he couldn’t stand the thought of not having her to cook and mend for him!"

"You mean Fenoglio’s here, too?" Meggie wiped her tears away.

"Yes. But where’s your mother? I can’t find her anywhere."

Meggie’s face seemed to show that she still wasn’t on good terms with Resa, but Battista came between them before Elinor could ask her about that.

"Bluejay’s daughter, will you introduce me to your splendidly dressed friend?" He bowed to Elinor. "To what guild of the strolling players do you belong, gracious lady? Let me guess. You’re an actress. Your voice would surely fill any marketplace!"

Elinor stared at him in such horror that Meggie quickly came to her aid. "This is Elinor, Battista—my mother’s aunt. . .

"Ah, one of the Bluejay’s family!" Battista bowed even lower. "Presumably that information will keep Snapper there from wringing your neck. He’s trying to convince the Black Prince that you and this stranger"— he indicated Darius, who joined them with a shy smile— "are spies of the Piper’s."

Elinor spun around so abruptly that she drove her elbow into Darius’s stomach. "The Black Prince?" She blushed like a girl as she saw him and his bear standing with Snapper. "Oh, he’s magnificent!" she breathed. "And so is his bear — the bear looks just the way I imagined him! Ah, this is all so wonderful, so incredibly wonderful!"

Meggie felt her tears drying up. She was so glad Elinor was here, so very glad indeed.

This time they came earlier than on the nights before. Night was only just falling outside. Not that it was ever light in Mo’s cell, but night brought a different kind of darkness, and with it came the Piper. Mo sat up as straight as he could in chains, and prepared to be kicked and struck. If only he hadn’t felt so stupid, so infinitely stupid.

The fool who of his own free will had stumbled into his enemies’ net. Not a robber anymore, not a bookbinder, only a fool.

The cells in the dungeons of Ombra were no more comfortable than the cells in the tower of the Castle of Night. In these dark holes, hardly high enough for a man to stand up, the same fear lurked as in all dungeons. Yes, the fear was back. It had been waiting for him at the gates; it had almost choked him when the Milksop’s men had bound his hands.

Captured. Helpless.

Think about the children, Mortimer! Only the memory of their faces soothed him when he cursed himself for what he had done and endured the blows and kicks that the night brought with it. Dustfinger’s fire at least made the Piper leave him in peace from time to time, but it also infuriated Silvernose more and more. In his mind Mo still heard the voice of the fairy who had fluttered up onto his shoulder that first night. He still saw the fiery spiders scuttering into the Piper’s velvet garments. Mo had laughed at him for the panic in his face but he had paid for that, several times.

Two more days, Mortimer, two days and two nights. Then the Adderhead will arrive.

And then what? Yes, he was a fool to hope he might yet be able to give Death and her pale daughters what they demanded.

Would Resa realize that he had also ridden to the castle for Meggie’s sake when the White Women came for their daughter? Would she understand that he hadn’t told her anything about it so that fear for Meggie wouldn’t eat away at her own heart?

The two soldiers who entered his cell had soot on their hands and faces. They always came in pairs, but where was their silversnouted master? Without a word, they hauled Mo to his feet. The chains were heavy and cut into his skin.

"The Piper’s going to be visiting you in another cell today!" they muttered to him.

"One that your friend’s fire can’t find."

They went farther down, down, and down, past holes from which the smell of rotting flesh rose. Once Mo thought he saw a fiery snake creeping through the darkness, but one of his guards hit him when he turned to look at it.

The cell into which they pushed him was much larger than the one he had been kept in before. There was dried blood on the walls, and the air was both cold and musty.

The Piper kept him waiting, and when he finally arrived, followed by two more soldiers, he, too, had soot on his face. The men who had dragged Mo here made way respectfully for their master, but Mo saw how anxiously they looked around — as if they were waiting for Dustfinger’s fiery spiders to crawl out of the walls any minute now. Mo could sense Dustfinger searching for him. It was as if his thoughts were putting out feelers for Mo, but the dungeons in Ombra lay almost as deep as those in the Castle of Night.

Perhaps tonight he would use the knife that Battista had sewn into the hem of his shirt although his hands hurt so much that he probably wouldn’t even be able to hold it, let alone stab with it. But it felt good to have it with him when the fear became unbearable. The fear and the hatred.

"Your fire-eating friend is getting bolder all the time, but that won’t help you tonight, Bluejay. I’m tired of it!" The Piper’s face was white under the soot that blackened even his silver nose. One of the soldiers hit Mo in the face. Two more days. . .

The Piper looked at his soot-smeared gloves with distaste. "All Ombra is laughing at me. ‘Look at the Piper,’ they whisper. ‘The Fire-Dancer is running rings around his men, and the Black Prince is hiding the children from him! The Bluejay will save us after all.’ Well, enough of that! When I’ve finished with you tonight they won’t think so anymore.

He came so close to Mo that his nose was almost prodding his enemy’s face. "What about it? Don’t you want to use your wonderful voice to call for help? Call all your ragged friends, the Prince and his bear, the Fire-Dancer or how about Violante? Her hairy servant is always on my heels, snooping, and hardly an hour goes by without her telling me that you’re no use to her father Unless you’re alive. But these days her father is nowhere near as terrifying as he used to be. You’ve made sure of that yourself" Violante. Mo had seen her only once, when they were dragging him off his horse in the castle courtyard. How could he have been stupid enough to believe she’d be able to protect him? He was lost. And Meggie with him. Despair rose in him, such black despair that he felt sick, and the Piper smiled.

"Ah, you’re afraid. I like that. I ought to write a song about it. But from now on the only songs sung will be about me dark songs, the kind I enjoy. Very dark."

With a foolish grin, one of the soldiers went up to Mo holding a stick studded with iron.

"‘The Bluejay will run away from them again!’ That’s what they say!" The Piper took a step back. "But you’re never going to run away from anything anymore. From now on you’re going to crawl, Bluejay. Crawl to me."

The two men who had brought him here seized Mo. They forced him up against the bloodstained wall, while the third man raised the iron-studded stick. The Piper stroked his silver nose.

"You’ll need your hands for the Book, Bluejay. But why would the Adder mind if I break your legs? And even if he did . . . as I was saying, the Adderhead’s not what he used to be."

Lost.

Oh God. Meggie, he thought. Had he ever told her such a terrible story as this? "No, Mo, no fairy tales!" she always used to say when she was little. "They’re much too sad." Not as sad as this one.

"What a pity my father was unable to hear your little speech for himself, Piper."

Violante did not raise her voice much, but the Piper whipped around as if she had shouted at him. The soldier with the silly grin lowered the stick, and the others retreated, making way for the Adderhead’s daughter. Violante was almost invisible in the black dress she wore. How could they call her ugly? At this moment Mo felt he had never seen a more beautiful face. He hoped the Piper didn’t notice how his legs were trembling. He grudged the silver-nosed man that satisfaction.

A small, furry face appeared beside Violante. Tullio. Had he fetched her? Her Ugliness had half a dozen of her beardless soldiers with her, too. They looked so young and vulnerable compared to the Piper’s men, but their young hands held crossbows, weapons to be respected even by seasoned men-at-arms.