Inkdeath (63 page)

She couldn’t be real.

"Listen to me, Mo! You must get away.

"You can’t be here." How heavy his tongue was.

"Yes, I can.

"Dustfinger is dead." Resa. . . she looked so different with her hair pinned up.

Something swam between them. Spikes stuck up from the water, and Resa flinched in alarm. Mo drew her close and hit out at the swimming thing, still as if in a dream.

Dustfinger threw a rope down. It didn’t come low enough, but at a whisper from above it began growing longer, lengthened by fibers made of flames.

Mo reached for it, and let it go again.

"I can’t leave this place." The sparks made the water filling the cell seem as red as blood. "I can’t."

"What are you talking about?" Resa pressed the fiery rope into his damp hands.

"Death. Meggie." He had lost the words, too, in all the darkness. "I have to find the Book, Resa."

She put the rope back into his hands once more. They would have to climb fast to keep it from burning their skin. Mo began climbing, but it seemed as though the darkness clung to him like a black scarf Dustfinger helped him up over the rim of the shaft. Two guards lay there, dead or unconscious.

Dustfinger looked at him, looked into his heart, saw everything in it.

"Those are terrible pictures," he said.

"Black as ink." Mo’s voice was hoarse. "A greeting from Orpheus."

The words were still there. Pain. Despair. Hatred. Rage. His heart seemed to fill with them at every breath he took. As if the dark dungeon were inside him now.

He took a sword from one of the guards and drew Resa close. He felt her trembling under the men’s clothes she wore. Perhaps she really was here. But how? And why wasn’t the Fire-Dancer lying dead outside the cages anymore? Suppose these are only pictures conjured up by Orpheus, he thought as he followed Dustfinger.

Suppose he’s showing them to me only to fling me even deeper into the darkness?

Orpheus. Strike him dead, Mortimer, him and his words. His own hatred frightened him almost more than the darkness, it was so full of blood, so intemperate.

Dustfinger went ahead as fast as if he were leading them along paths he knew.

Flights of steps, gateways, endless passages, with never any hesitation, as if the stones themselves told him the way. Wherever he went, sparks sprang from the walls, spreading out and painting the black with gold. They met soldiers three times. Mo killed them with as much relish as if he were killing Orpheus. Dustfinger had to make him go on, and Mo saw the fear on Resa’s face. He reached for her hand, like a drowning man and felt the darkness still inside him.

In the hand of a giant. His own giant! Not bad, eh? No reason to be sad about it. If only the Black Prince had looked rather livelier! If, if, if, Fenoglio, he told himself. If only you’d finished writing the words for Mortimer! If only you had some idea how this story is to go on now. . .

The huge fingers held him both firmly and carefully, as they were used to carrying small humans around. Not necessarily a reassuring idea. Fenoglio really didn’t want to become some giant child’s toy. He had little doubt that it would be one of the nastiest ways of meeting one’s end. But would anyone ask his opinion? No.

Which brings us back to the one crucial question, thought Fenoglio as his stomach, bumped about as it was, slowly but surely began to feel as if he’d eaten too many of Minerva’s stuffed pigs’ trotters. The one great crucial question.

Was there another man writing this story?

Was there a scribbler sitting somewhere in the hills that he himself had described so vividly, another writer who had sent him falling into this giant’s hand? Or was the wretch sitting in the other world, the real world that hadn’t been written, the way he used to sit there himself, putting Inkheart down on paper?

Oh, come on! What would that make you, Fenoglio? he asked himself, both annoyed and badly shaken, as he always was when that question occurred to him. No, he wasn’t dangling from strings like the stupid puppet that Battista sometimes showed in marketplaces (although it did look a little like him). No, no, no. No strings for Fenoglio, no strings controlling either his words or his fate. He liked to keep his life in his own hands and didn’t want any interference although he admitted that he himself was very fond of pulling strings. But there it was: His story had simply swerved off course. No one was writing it. It was writing itself! And now it had come up with this stupid idea of the giant carrying him off!

Although his stomach rebelled, Fenoglio cast another glance at the depths below him.

It was definitely a long way down, but why should that bother him after he’d fallen from the tree like a ripe fruit? The sight of the Black Prince gave considerably more cause for concern. He really did look alarmingly lifeless lying in the giant’s other hand. What a shame. All the trouble he’d gone to to keep the man alive — all the words, the herbs in the snow, Roxane’s nursing, all for nothing! "Damn it!" Fenoglio swore so loudly that the giant raised him to his eyes to look at him. This was too much!

Would it help to smile? Was it any use talking to him? Well, jf you don’t know the answer, Fenoglio, you old fool, he told himself, then who does?

The giant stopped. He was still staring at him. He had opened his fingers out slightly, and Fenoglio took the opportunity of stretching his old limbs.

Words, words were wanted again — and of course, as always, they had to be exactly right. Perhaps it was a blessing to be mute and unable to rely on words at all!

"Er . . ." What a wretched start, Fenoglio! "Er. What’s your name?" Oh, for heaven’s sake!

The giant puffed air into his face and said something. The sounds that passed his lips were certainly words, but Fenoglio didn’t understand them. How could that be possible?

Good heavens, how the giant was looking at him! Fenoglio’s eldest grandson had looked like that when he found a big black beetle in his kitchen. The boy was both fascinated and troubled by it. And then the beetle began wriggling, and Pippo had dropped it in alarm and trodden on it. So keep still, Fenoglio! No wriggling, not the least little wriggle, however much your old bones ache. Good God, those fingers.

Each of them as long as one of his own arms!

But clearly the giant had lost interest in him for the moment. He was examining his other catch with obvious concern. Finally, he shook the Black Prince as if he were a watch that had run down, and sighed when he still didn’t move. With another deep sigh he sank to his knees — astonishingly gently, given his size looked sadly at the black face, and then carefully laid the Prince on the thick moss under the trees. It was just what Fenoglio’s grandchildren had done with the dead birds they took away from their cat. They’d had exactly the same look on their faces as they laid the small bodies to rest among his roses. Pippo used to make a cross out of twigs for every dead animal, but the giant didn’t do that for the Black Prince. He didn’t bury him, either. He just covered him with dry leaves, very carefully, as if he didn’t want to disturb his sleep. Then he rose to his feet again, looked at Fenoglio —perhaps to make sure that he, at least, was still breathing—and went on, every stride as long as a dozen human footsteps, perhaps more. Going where? Away from everything, Fenoglio, far away!

He felt those mighty fingers closing more tightly around him again, and then — he couldn’t believe his ears! —the giant began humming the same tune that Roxane sang to the children in the evening. Did giants sing human songs? Whether they did or not, this one was obviously happy with himself and the world, even if the toy with the black face was broken. Perhaps he was thinking about giving the other strange creature that had fallen into his hand so suddenly to his son. Oh no! Fenoglio shuddered. Suppose the giant child pulled him apart the way children sometimes dismember insects?

You fool, he thought, you arrogant old fool! Loredan was right. Delusions of grandeur, that’s your trouble! How could you think there are words to control a giant?

Another stride, and then another.., good-bye forever, Ombra. Presumably he’d never find out now what became of the children. And Mortimer.

Fenoglio closed his eyes. And suddenly he thought he heard his grandchildren’s high, insistent voices: Grandfather, play dead for us. Of course! Nothing easier. How often he’d lain there on his sofa without moving, even when they prodded his stomach and his wrinkled cheeks with their little fingers. Play dead.

Fenoglio uttered a loud groan, made his limbs go limp, and fixed his eyes.

There. The giant stopped and looked at him in dismay. Keep your breathing shallow, Fenoglio told himself. It would be better not to breathe at all, but then your stupid old head would probably burst.

When the giant puffed into his face once again he almost sneezed. But Fenoglio’s grandchildren had puffed in his face, too, although with considerably smaller mouths and breath that didn’t smell quite so strong. Keep still, Fenoglio.

Still.

The mighty face became a mask of disappointment. Another sigh rose from that broad chest. A cautious prod with his forefinger, a few incomprehensible words, and the giant kneeled down. The downward plunge made Fenoglio feel dizzy, but he went on playing dead. The giant looked around for help, as if someone might come fluttering down from the trees to revive his toy. A few snowflakes fell from the gray sky — it was getting colder again — and settled on the giant’s huge arms. They were as green as the moss all around, as gray as the bark of the trees, and then finally white, as the snow began to fall more thickly.

The giant sighed and murmured to himself. Obviously, he really was severely disappointed. Then he put Fenoglio down on the ground as carefully as he had set down the Black Prince, gave him one last experimental prod with his finger — Don’t move, Fenoglio told himself! — and sprinkled a handful of dry oak leaves on his face. They had wood lice in them, and other creatures of the forest floor, most of which had a great many legs, and all of them immediately looked for new hiding places in Fenoglio’s clothes. Keep playing dead, he thought. Didn’t Pippo once put a caterpillar on your face ? And much to his disappointment, you still didn’t move!

And he did not move, not even when something very hairy crawled over his nose. He waited for the footsteps to go away and the ground beneath him to stop vibrating like a drum. Away went the helper he had called. Away he went, leaving Fenoglio alone again with all his other creations. Now what?

All was still. There was only the faintest vibration left in the distance, and Fenoglio pushed the dead leaves off his face and chest and sat up, groaning. His legs felt as if someone had been sitting on them, but they would still carry him. But which way should he go? Follow the giant’s footsteps backward, of course, he thought. After all, they ought to take you straight back to the tree with the nests. You’ll be able to read the tracks easily enough for yourself

There. There was the last footprint. How his ribs hurt! He wondered if one of them was broken. If so, he, too, would have a claim on Roxane’s attentions at last. Not an unpleasant prospect. Although something else awaited him on his return: Signora Loredan’s sharp tongue. She’d certainly have something to say about his experiment with the giant. And then there was the Milksop. . .

Involuntarily, Fenoglio quickened his pace in spite of his aching ribs. Suppose the Milksop had come back and brought them all down from the tree by now: Loredan and the children, Meggie and Minerva, Roxane and all the others? Oh, why hadn’t he simply written that the Milksop and his men were struck down by the plague? That was the trouble with writing, there were such an infinite number of turns the story could take. How were you to know which one was right? Go on, admit it, Fenoglio, he thought, a giant just sounded more magnificent. Quite apart from the fact that the plague would hardly have stayed down at the foot of the tree.

For a moment he stood listening, afraid the monster might come back. Monster, Fenoglio? What did that giant do that was so monstrous? Did he bite off your head or tear off a leg? There you are, then.

Even what happened to the Black Prince had been an accident. Where was the place where the Prince had been left? Everything looked the same under the trees, and the giant’s strides were so long that you could lose your way between his footprints.

Fenoglio looked up at the sky. Snowflakes settled on his forehead. Darkness was falling, too. That was all he needed! He immediately remembered every creature with which he had populated the nights in this world. He wouldn’t want to meet a single one of them. There! What was that? Footsteps! He stumbled back against the nearest tree.

"Inkweaver!"

A man was coming toward him. Battista? Fenoglio was so glad to see his pockmarked face! He felt there wasn’t a more beautiful face in the whole world.

"You’re alive!" cried Battista as he came up. "We thought the giant had eaten you!"

"The Black Prince . . ." Fenoglio was truly surprised to feel such pain in his heart for the Prince.

Battista led him away. "I know. The bear found him."

"Is he. . ."

Battista smiled. "No, he’s as alive as you. Although I’m not sure whether all his bones are still unbroken. Seems like Death just doesn’t fancy the taste of him! First poison, now a giant — or maybe the White Women simply don’t like his face! But we’d better make sure we get back to the nests as soon as we can. I’m afraid the Milksop will come back. He’s certainly as terrified of his brother-in-law as he was of the giant!"

The Black Prince was sitting among the roots of the tree where the giant had laid him to rest, his back against the trunk, while the bear tenderly licked his face. The leaves that the giant had so considerately placed over him still clung to his clothes and his hair. He was alive! To his own annoyance, Fenoglio felt a tear running down his nose. He could have thrown his arms around the Prince’s neck.

"Inkweaver! How did you get away?" His voice showed that he was in pain, and Battista gently pushed him back when he tried to sit up straighter.