Inkdeath

"He will save us!" she had whispered. In the evenings she sang, low-voiced, the songs going around Ombra, and very bad songs they were. About the White Hand and the Black Hand of Justice, the Jay and the Prince . . . a bookbinder and a knife-thrower against the Piper and his army of fire-raising men-at-arms. But why not?



After all, didn’t that sound like a good story?



Fenoglio picked up Despina as the soldiers escorting the hunting party rode by.



Strolling players followed them down the street: pipers, drummers, jugglers, brownie-tamers, and of course Sootbird, who wasn’t going to miss any fun, even if—



so they said — he felt ill at the sight of people being blinded and quartered. Then came the hounds, dappled like the light in the Wayless Wood, with the kennel-boys who made sure the dogs were hungry on the day of the hunt, and finally the hunters, led by the Milksop, a skinny figure on a horse much too large for him. He was as ugly as his sister was said to be beautiful, with a pointed nose that seemed too short for his face and a wide, pinched mouth. No one knew why the Adderhead had made him, of all men, lord of Ombra. Perhaps it had been at the request of his sister, who, after all, had given the Silver Prince his first son. But Fenoglio suspected it was more likely that the Adderhead had chosen his puny brother-in-law because he could be sure the Milksop would never rise against him.



What a feeble character, thought Fenoglio scornfully as the Milksop rode by with a supercilious expression on his face. Obviously, this story was now filling even leading roles with cheap supporting actors.



As expected, the fine ladies and gentlemen had brought back Plenty of game: partridges dangling from the poles to which the grooms had tied them like fruit that had just fallen, haifa dozen of the deer he had thought up especially for this world, with reddish-brown coats that were still as dappled as a fawn’s even in old age (not that these animals had been particularly old), hares, stags, wild boars.



The women of Ombra stared at the slaughtered game expressionlessly. Many put a telltale hand to their empty stomachs or glanced at their ever-hungry children waiting in doorways for their mothers.



And then—then they carried the unicorn past.



Damn that Cheeseface!



There were no unicorns in Fenoglio’s world, but Orpheus had written one here just so that the Milksop could kill it. Fenoglio quickly put his hand over Despina’s eyes when they carried it by, its white coat pierced and bloodstained. Rosenquartz had told him not quite a week ago about the Milksop’s commission. The fee for it had been high, and all Ombra had wondered what distant country Four-Eyes had brought that fairy-tale creature from.



A unicorn! What stories could have been told about it! But the Milksop wasn’t paying for stories, quite apart from the fact that Orpheus couldn’t have written them.



He did it with my words, thought Fenoglio. With my words! He felt fury clenched like a stone in his belly. If he only had the money to hire a couple of thieves to steal the book that supplied that parasite with words! His own book! Or if, at least, he could have written a few treasures for himself! But he couldn’t manage even that —



he, Fenoglio, formerly court poet to Cosimo the Fair and creator of this once-magnificent world! Tears of self-pity came to his eyes, and he imagined them carrying Orpheus past, stabbed and bloodstained like the unicorn. Oh yes!



"Why arc you counting our children? We want you to stop it!"



Minerva’s voice brought Fenoglio out of his vengeful daydreams. When she saw her mother step in front of the horses, Despina wound her thin little arms so tightly around his neck that he would hardly breathe. Had Minerva lost her wits? Did she want her children to be not just fatherless but motherless, too’



A woman riding just behind the Milksop pointed her gloved finger at Minerva with her bare feet and shabby dress. The guards moved toward her with their spears.



For heaven’s sake, Minerva! Fenoglio’s heart was in his mouth. Despina began crying, but it wasn’t her sobs that made Minerva stumble back. Unnoticed, the Piper had appeared on the battlements above the gateway.



"You ask why we’re counting your children?" he called down to the women.



As always, he was magnificently dressed. Even the Milksop looked like a mere valet by comparison. He stood on the battlements shimmering like a peacock with four crossbowmen beside him. Perhaps he had been up there for some time, watching to see how his master’s brother-in-law would deal with the women waiting for him. His hoarse voice carried a long way in the silence that suddenly fell on Ombra.



"We count everything that’s ours!" he cried. "Sheep, cows, chickens, women, children, men — not that you have many of those left — fields, barns, stables, houses. We count every tree in your forest. After all, the Adderhead likes to know what he’s ruling over.



His silver nose still looked like a beak in the middle of his face. There were tales saying that the Adderhead had ordered a silver heart to be made for his herald, too, but Fenoglio felt sure there was still a human heart beating in the Piper’s breast.



Nothing was more cruel than a heart made of flesh and blood, because it knew what gives pain.



"You don’t want them for the mines?" The woman who spoke up this time did not step forward like Minerva but hid among the others. The Piper did not answer at once. He examined his fingernails. The Piper was proud of his pink nails. They were as well manicured as a woman’s, just as Fenoglio had described them. In spite of everything, it was still exciting to see his characters acting exactly as he had imagined.



You soak them in rose water every evening, you villain, thought Fenoglio, as Despina stared at the Piper like a bird staring at the cat that wants to eat it. And you wear them as long as the nails of the ladies who keep the Milksop company.



"For the mines? What a delightful idea!"



It was so quiet now that the silver-nosed man didn’t even have to raise his voice, In the setting sun his shadow fell over the women, long and black. Very effective, Fenoglio thought. And how stupid the Milksop looked. The Piper was keeping him waiting outside his own gates like a servant. What a scene. But this one wasn’t his own invention. . . .



"Ah, I understand! You think that’s why the Adderhead sent me here!" The Piper leaned his hands on the wall and looked down from the battlements, like a beast of prey wondering whether the Milksop or one of the women would taste better. "No, no. I’m here to catch a bird, and you all know the color of its feathers. Although, as I hear, he was black as a raven during his last impudent exploit. As soon as that bird is caught, I’ll be riding back to the other side of the forest. Isn’t that so, Governor?"



The Milksop looked up at him and adjusted his sword, still bloodstained from the hunt. "If you say so!" he called in a voice that he could control only with difficulty.



He glanced angrily at the women outside the gates, as if he’d never seen anything like them before.



"I do say so." The Piper smiled condescendingly down on the Mjlksop. "But on the other hand," he said, and the pause before he continued seemed endless, "if this bird should escape capture once more,.." He paused again, for a long time, as if he wanted to inspect each of the waiting women thoroughly. "If any of those present here should go so far as to give him shelter and a roof over his head, warn him of our patrols sing songs of how he pulls the wool over our eyes The sigh he heaved came from the depths of his breast. "Well, in that case, no doubt I’d have to take your children with me in his place, for after all, I can’t go back to the Castle of Night empty-handed, can I?"