Inkdeath

Page 44

"There’s another letter for you, my lord!"
Ah, how good it made him feel being called that! My lord. . .
Oss came in, bowed his bald head (he sometimes overdid the Servility), and handed Orpheus a sealed piece of paper. Paper?
That was strange. The fine gentlemen usually sent their orders written on parchment, and the seal didn’t look familiar, either. Well, never mind that. This would be the third order today; business was good. The Piper’s arrival had made no difference to that. This world could have been made for him! Hadn’t he always known it, ever since he first opened Fenoglio’s book with his sweaty schoolboy fingers? His accomplished lies didn’t get him jailed as a forger or con man here; they valued his talents at their true worth in this world—and all Ombra bowed to him when he crossed the marketplace in his fine clothes. Fabulous.
"Who’s the letter from?"
Oss shrugged his ridiculously broad shoulders. "Dunno, my lord. Farid gave it to me."
"Farid?" Orpheus sat up straight. "Why didn’t you say so at once?" He quickly snatched the letter from Oss’s clumsy fingers.
Orpheus—of course he didn’t begin "Dear Orpheus." Even in the salutation of a letter the Bluejay told no lies! — Farid has told me what you want in return for the words my wife has asked you for. I agree.
Orpheus read the words three times, four, five times, and yes, there it was in black and white.
I agree.
The bookbinder had taken the bait! Could it really be that easy?
Yes, why not? Heroes are fools. Hadn’t he always said so? The Bluejay had fallen into the trap, and all he had to do was snap it shut. With a pen, some ink.., and his tongue.
"Go away! I want to be alone!" he snarled at Oss, who was standing there looking bored and throwing nuts at the two glass men. And take Jasper with you!" Orpheus liked talking to himself out loud when he was writing down his ideas, so the glass man had better be out of the room. Jasper sat on Farid’s shoulder far too often, and on no account must the boy learn what Orpheus was planning to write now. It was true that the stupid boy wanted Dustfinger back even more fervently than he did, but Orpheus wasn’t so sure that he would sacrifice his girlfriend’s father in return. No, by now Farid worshipped the Bluejay as much as everyone else here did.
Ironstone gave his brother a gleefully malicious glance as Oss picked up Jasper from the desk with fleshy fingers.
"Parchment!" Orpheus ordered as soon as the door had closed behind the two of them, and Ironstone busily spread the best sheet they had on the desk.
Orpheus, however, went to the window and looked out at the hills from which, presumably, the Bluejay’s letter had come. Silvertongue, Bluejay. . . fine names they’d given him, and yes, Mortimer was certainly very much braver and more noble than Orpheus himself was, but such a paragon couldn’t compete with him in cunning.
The good are stupid.
You have his wife to thank for this, Orpheus, he told himself as he began pacing up and down (nothing helped him think better). If his wife wasn’t so afraid of losing him, you might never have found the bait you need!
Oh, it would be fantastic! His greatest triumph! Unicorns, dwarves, rainbow-colored fairies . . . not bad at all, but nothing compared to what he’d do now! He would bring the Fire-Dancer back from the dead. Orpheus. Had the name he had taken ever suited him better? But he would be wilier than the singer whose name he had stolen. He would indeed. He would send another man into the realm of Death in the FireDancer’s place — and he’d make sure that he didn’t come back.
"Do you hear me, Dustfinger, in the cold land where you are now?" whispered Orpheus, while Ironstone busily stirred the ink. "I’ve caught the bait to buy your freedom, the most wonderful bait of all, decked out with the finest pale blue feathers!"
He began humming, as he always did when he was pleased with himself, and picked up Mortimer’s letter again. What else had the Bluejay written?
It will be as you require. By the Devil’s cloven hoof, he was writing in the style of public proclamations, like the robbers of the old days. I will try to call up the White Women, and in return you will write words to take my wife and daughter back to Elinor’s house. But all you are to say about me is that I willfollow them later.
Well, well. What was this?
Surprised, Orpheus lowered the sheet of paper. Mortimer wanted to stay? Why?
Because his noble and heroic heart wouldn’t let him steal away now that the Piper had made his threat? Or did he just like playing the part of a robber too much?
"Well, never mind which, noble Bluejay," said Orpheus softly (oh, how he liked the sound of his own voice!). "It won’t turn out the way you think it will. Because I have plans of my own for you!"
High-minded idiot! Hadn’t Mortimer ever read any tale of robbers right through? No happy ending for Robin Hood, for Angelo Duca, for Dick Turpin, and all the rest of them. Why would there be a happy ending for the Bluejay? No, he was going to play just one part: the bait on the hook, a tasty bait — and one condemned to certain death.
And I will write the last song about him! thought Orpheus as he strode up and down with a spring in his step, as if he already felt the right words inside him all the way down to his toes. Good people, hear the amazing tale of the Bluejay who brought the Fire-Dancer back from the dead but then, sad to say, lost his own life. Heartrending.
Like Robin Hood’s death at the hands of the treacherous nun, or Angelo Duca’s end on the gallows beside his dead friend, with the hangman riding him to death on his shoulders. Yes, every hero needs a death like that. Even Fenoglio wouldn’t write it in any other way.
Ah, but he hadn’t finished reading the letter yet! What else did that most noble of robbers have to say? Hang a piece of blue cloth in the window when you have written the words. (How romantic! A real robber’s idea. He really did seem to be turning more and more into the character made by Fenoglio in his image!) I will meet you at the graveyard of the strolling players on the following night. Farid knows where it is. Come alone, bringing one servant at the most. I know you are on friendly terms with the new governor, and I will not show myself until lam certain that none of his men is with you. Mortimer. (Well, well, so he actually still signed his old name. Who did he think he was fooling?)
Come alone? Oh yes, I’ll come alone, thought Orpheus. And you won’t be able to see the words I’ve sent on ahead of you! He rolled up the letter and slid it under his desk.
"Everything ready, Ironstone? A dozen sharpened pens, ink stirred slowly while you take sixty-five breaths, a sheet of the best parchment?"
‘A dozen pens. Sixty-five breaths. The very best parchment."
"What about this list of words?" Orpheus looked at his bitten fingernails. He had recently taken to bathing them in rose water every morning, but unfortunately that just made them tastier. "Your useless brother left his footprints all over the words beginning with B."
The list. The list of all the words used by Fenoglio in inkheart, arranged in alphabetical order. He had only recently told Jasper to prepare it —.- his brother had terrible handwriting.
But unfortunately the glass man had only just reached the letter so Orpheus still had to look everything up in Fenoglio’s book