Inkspell

“Servant? Who’s a servant here? Just listen to him. As bold as if he’d never felt my knife! Have you forgotten how you screamed when it cut your face?” Basta set one boot on the millstone.



“Don’t you dare move so much as a finger. Hands up! Go on, up in the air! I know what you can do with fire in this world. One little whisper from you, one snap of your fingers, and my knife goes into the little witch’s breast.”



A snap of the fingers. Yes, get on with it, Farid! He looked around, searching for what he needed, quickly twisted some straw together to make a torch, and began whispering. “Come along!” he lured the fire, clicking his tongue and hissing the way Dustfinger had shown him after he put a little fire-honey in his mouth for the first time. They had practiced every evening behind Roxane’s house, practiced the language of fire, its crackling words .. Farid whispered them all until a tiny flame came licking up out of the straw.



“Ooh dear! See how the little witch is staring at me, Slasher?” asked Basta below him, with pretended terror. “What a pity she needs written words for her witchcraft! But there’s no book anywhere here. Wasn’t it nice of her to write to us in person and tell us where to find you?”



Basta disguised his voice to make it sound shrill and girlish. ” The Adderhead’s men have taken them all away, my parents and the strolling players! Write something for me, Fenoglio! Or something like that. You know, I was really disappointed to hear that your father’s still alive. Oh, don’t look so disbelieving, little witch, I still can’t read and I don’t intend to learn, but there are enough fools around the place who can, even in this world. A scribe ran into our arms right outside the city gates of Ombra. It took a little while for him to decipher your scribble, but we still had a good enough start to get here ahead of you. We were even on the spot in time to kill the old man’s messenger, who was supposed to warn you.”



“You’re even more talkative than you used to be, Basta.” Dustfinger’s voice sounded as if he found this tedious. How well he could hide his fear! Farid always admired him for that, almost more than for his skill with fire.



Slowly, very slowly, Basta drew his knife from his belt. Dustfinger didn’t like knives. He generally kept his in his backpack, and his backpack was leaning against the wall outside. Farid had so often begged him to keep the knife in his belt, but no, he wouldn’t hear of it.



“Talkative? Well, well.” Basta looked at his reflection in the bright blade of the knife. “No one could say the same of you. But I tell you what! Since we’ve known each other so long, I’ll carry the news of your death to your wife in person! What do you say to that, fire-eater? Do you think Roxane will be glad to see me again?” Caressingly, he ran two fingers along the blade. “And as for you, little witch .. I thought it was really nice of you to entrust your letter to an old tightropewalker. With his stiff leg, he wasn’t half as fast as my knife.”



“CloudDancer? You killed CloudDancer?”



There was no boredom in Dustfinger’s voice now. Stand still, please, whispered Farid. Please, please stand still. He was hastily feeding more straw to the flames.



“Ah, so you didn’t know that yet!” Basta’s voice became soft with contentment. “Yes, there’ll be no more dancing for your old friend. Ask Slasher, he was there.”



“You’re lying!” Meggie’s voice shook. Farid bent cautiously forward. He saw Dustfinger push her roughly behind him, his eyes searching for a way out, but there was none. Sacks full of flour were stacked behind him and Meggie, Slasher was barring their way to their right, on their left was the man with the silly grin, and in front of the window through which Farid had peered stood the miller. But there was straw lying on the floor at their feet, a great deal of straw, and it would burn almost as well as paper.



Basta laughed. With one bound, he leaped up on the millstone and looked down at Dustfinger.



He was standing very close to the outlet of the hopper now. Hurry up, come on, whispered Farid, kindling a second bundle of straw from the first and holding them both above the funnel. He hoped its wood wouldn’t catch fire. He hoped the straw would slide through. He hoped so. His fingers were scorched as he stuffed the burning bundles in, but he took no notice. Dustfinger was in a trap, and Meggie was in it with him. What did a couple of burned fingers matter?



“Yes, poor CloudDancer was far too slow,” purred Basta, as he tossed his knife from one hand to the other. “You’re faster than him, I know, fire-eater, but you won’t get away all the same. And this time I’m not just going to cut your face, this time I’ll slice your skin off in strips from head to foot.”



Now! Farid let the burning straw drop. The hopper swallowed it like a sack of corn and spat it out on Basta’s boots.



“Fire! Where’s that fire coming from?” It was the miller’s voice. His man was bellowing like an ox when it sees the butcher’s hatchet.



Farid’s fingers hurt, his skin was beginning to blister, but the fire was dancing, dancing up Basta’s boots, licking close to his arms. Terrified, he stumbled, fell backward off the millstone, and cracked open his head against the edge of it. Blood flowed. Basta feared fire, feared it more than the bad luck against which his amulets were supposed to protect him.



As for Farid, he raced down the steps to the floor of the mill, pushed aside the miller’s man, who was staring at him as if he were a ghost, ran to Meggie, and pulled her away with him toward the window through which he had first looked. “Jump!” he called to her. “Quick, jump out!” Meggie was trembling. Her hair was full of flour, and she closed her eyes before she jumped, but jump she did.



Farid looked around at Dustfinger. He was talking to the flames, making them sing and grow, while the miller and his man beat desperately at the burning straw with empty sacks, but the fire danced on. It was dancing for Dustfinger.



Farid crouched in the open window. “Come on!” he called to Dustfinger. “Hurry up!” Where was Basta?



Dustfinger pushed the miller aside and ran to him through the smoke and flames. Farid swung himself out of the window and clung to the sill outside as he watched the dazed Basta hauling himself up by the millstone. His hand was bloody when he put it to the back of his head. “Get him!” he shouted to Slasher. “Hold the fire-eater fast!”



“Quick!” cried Farid, as his toes tried to find a foothold on the outside of the wall, but Dustfinger stumbled over an empty sack as he ran. Gwin jumped off his shoulder and scurried toward Farid; when Dustfinger got to his feet again Slasher was standing between him and the window, coughing, his sword in his hand.



“Come on!” Farid heard Meggie shouting. She was standing right under the window, her eyes wide with fear, staring up at him. But Farid wriggled his way back into the burning mill.



“What are you doing? Get out!” Dustfinger shouted at him as he struck out with a burning sack at Slasher, whose trousers had caught fire. Slasher swayed as he lashed out with his sword, first at the flames, then at Dustfinger. His sharp blade slit open Dustfinger’s leg just as Farid jumped down into the burning straw again. Dustfinger stumbled back against the wall, pressing his hand to his thigh, while Slasher raised his sword again, half mad with rage and pain.