Inkdeath

Why had she come? Why was she doing this to herself? Because she wanted to convince herself that it was all really happening, that she wasn’t just reading about it?



The woman next to her reached for her arm. "He’s coming!" she whispered to Resa.



There were whispers everywhere. "He’s coming! He’s really coming!" Resa saw the sentries on the watchtowers by the gate giving the Piper a signal. Of course he was coming. What had they expected? Did they think he wouldn’t keep his word?



The Milksop adjusted his wig and smiled at the Piper as triumphantly as if he personally, single-handed, had driven into his path the quarry he’d been hunting so long, but the Piper ignored him. He was staring at the street leading up from the city gate, his eyes as gray as the sky above him and just as cold. Resa remembered those eyes only too well. She also remembered the smile that now stole over his thin lips.



He had smiled in just the same way in Capricorn’s fortress whenever there was going to be an execution.



And then she saw Mo.



There he was all of a sudden, where the street ended, mounted on the black horse that the Prince had given him after he had to leave his own behind at Ombra Castle. The mask that Battista had made him was dangling around his neck. He didn’t need the mask anymore to be the Bluejay. The bookbinder and the robber had the same face now.



Dustfinger was behind him. He was riding the horse that had carried Roxane to the Castle of Night, bringing Fenoglio’s words to save them. But there were no words for what was going to happen now. Or were there? Was the terrible silence weighing down on them made of words?



No, Resa, she thought. This story has no author anymore. What happens now is written by the Bluejay in his own flesh and blood — and for a moment, as he rode out of the alley, even she could call Mo by no other name. The Bluejay. How hesitantly the women made way for him, as if they themselves suddenly thought the price he was going to pay for their children too high. But at last they formed a lane just wide enough for the two riders, and every hoofbeat made Resa clutch the folds of her dress more tightly.



What’s the matter? Didn’t you always love to read such stories? she thought bitterly, her heart in her mouth. Wouldn’t you have liked this story, too? The robber setting the children free by giving himself up to his enemies.. . Admit it, you’d have loved every word! Except that the heroes of such stories don’t usually have wives. Or daughters.



Meggie was still standing there as if none of this had anything to do with her, but her eyes were fixed on her father as if her gaze could protect him. Mo rode past, so close that Resa could have touched his horse. Her knees felt weak. She reached for the arm of the nearest woman, feeling so faint and ill that she could hardly keep on her feet.



Look at him, Resa, she told herself. That’s what you’re here for, to see him once again, aren’t you?



Did he feel fear? The fear that had made him wake abruptly from sleep on so many nights, his fear of bars and fetters? Resa, leave the door open.



Dustfinger is with him, she thought, trying to comfort herself. Dustfinger is right behind him, and he left all his own fears behind with Death. But Dustfinger will stay with him only as far as the castle gates, whispered her heart, and the Piper is waiting beyond them. She felt her knees giving way again until suddenly Meggie’s arm was under hers, holding it as firmly as if her daughter were the older of the two of them.



Resa turned her face into Meggie’s shoulder, while the women around her looked longingly at the castle gates, which were still firmly closed.



Mo reined in his horse. Dustfinger was still just behind him, his face as expressionless as only he could make it. She wasn’t yet used to the sight of him without his scars. He looked so much younger. Many eyes rested on him, the FireDancer whom the Bluejay had brought back from the dead.



"The Piper won’t be able to touch him!" whispered the woman beside her, murmuring it like a magic spell. "No, how can he hold the Bluejay captive if even Death couldn’t do it?"



Perhaps the Piper is more murderous than Death, Resa felt like replying, but she said nothing. She held her peace and looked up at the man with the silver nose.



"So here you really are! The Bluejay, in person!" His hoarse voice carried a long way in the silence that had settled over Ombra again. "Or do you still claim to be someone else, as you did back at the Castle of Night? How shabby you look. A dirty vagabond. I really thought you’d send someone in your place, hoping we wouldn’t find him out behind the mask too soon.



"Oh, I don’t think you as stupid as that, Piper!" Mo’s face was full of contempt as he looked up at the silver-nosed man. "Although shouldn’t we change your name and call you after your new trade in future? Butcher of Children, how do you like that?"



Resa had never heard such hatred in Mo’s voice before. The voice that could call the dead back to life. How intently everyone was listening. And in spite of all the hate and anger in it, it still sounded so soft and warm by comparison with the Piper’s.



"Call me what you like, bookbinder!" The Piper put his gloved hands on the battlements. "I hear you know something about butchery yourself. But why did you bring the fire-eater with you?



I don’t remember inviting him! Where are his scars? Did he leave them with the dead?"



The battlements caught fire just where the Piper was leaning, and the flames whispered words that only Dustfinger understood. The silver-nosed tyrant flinched back, cursing, and struck at the sparks that were settling on his fine clothes, while Jacopo ducked into safety behind his back and stared, fascinated, at the whispering fire.



"I left certain things with the dead, Piper. And I brought certain others back."



Dustfinger didn’t raise his voice, but the flames went out as if they were creeping away into the stone, to wait there for more words of fire. "I’m here to warn you not to treat your guest badly. Fire is as much his friend as mine now, and I don’t have to tell you what a powerful friend it can be."



His face pale with anger, the Piper rubbed the soot from his gloves, but before he could reply the Milksop leaned over the battlements.



"Guest?" he cried. "Do you call that the right word for a robber who already has an appointment to meet the hangman in the Castle of Night?" His voice reminded Resa of the cackling of Roxane’s goose.



Violante pushed him aside as if he were one of her servants. How small she was.



"The Bluejay is giving himself up as my prisoner, Governor! That was the agreement. And he is under my protection until my father comes." Her voice was sharp and clear, astonishingly strong for such a slight body, and for a moment Resa took heart. Perhaps she really can protect him after all, she thought, and saw the same hope on Meggie’s face.



Mo and the Piper were still staring at each other. Their hatred seemed to spin threads between the two of them, and Resa couldn’t help thinking of the knife that Battista had sewn so carefully into Mo’s clothes. She didn’t know whether it frightened or reassured her to know that he had it with him.



"Very well! Let’s call him our guest!" the Piper called down. "Which means that we ought to show him our own special brand of hospitality! After all, we’ve been waiting for him long enough."



He raised his hand, still sooty from Dustfinger’s fire, and the guards at the gate leveled their spears at Mo. Some of the women screamed. Resa thought she heard Meggie’s voice, too, but she herself was mute with fear. The sentries on the towers bent their crossbows.