"Stories?" She leafed through the pages as if expecting the words to fall out. "What stories? Have you told them to us already?" "Not this one." Fenoglio gently took the book from her hands and stared at the page where she had opened it. His own words looked back at him, written so long ago that they sounded like someone else’s work. .
. .
"What kind of a story is it? Will you tell it to me?"
He stared at his old words, written by a different Fenoglio, a Fenoglio whose heart had been so much younger, so much lighter — and not so vain, no doubt Signora Loredan would add.
Great marvels lay north of Ombra. Hardly any of its inhabitants had ever set eyes on those wonders, but the songs of the strolling players told tales about them and when the peasants wanted to escape their toil in the fields for afew precious moments they would imagine themselves standing on the banks of the lake, which, so it was said, the giants used as their mirror. They would picture the nymphs thought to live in it rising from the water and taking them away to castles made of pearls and mother-of-pearl. As the sweat ran down their faces they would sing softly, songs that told of snow-white mountains and of the nests human beings had built in a mighty tree when the giants had begun stealing their children.
Nests . . . a mighty tree . . . stealing their children. Good heavens, that was it!
Fenoglio picked up Jasper and put him on Despina’s shoulder. "Jasper will take you back to your mother," he said, and strode away past her. "I must go to the Prince."
Signora Loredan is right, he thought as he made his way swiftly through the crowd of excited children, weeping mothers, and robbers standing around helplessly. You’re a foolish old man. Your befuddled brain doesn’t even remember your own stories anymore! Orpheus may well know more about your own world than you do by now.
But his vain self, lurking somewhere between his forehead and his breastbone, answered back at once. How are you supposed to remember them all, Fenoglio?
There are just too many of them. Your imagination is inexhaustible.
Yes. Yes, he was indeed a vain old man. He admitted it. But he had very good reasons for his vanity.
CHAPTER 51
THE WRONG HELPERS
Mortola was perching in a poison yew, surrounded by needles nearly as black as her plumage. Her left wing hurt. Orpheus’s servant had almost broken it with his meaty fingers, and only her beak had saved her. She’d pecked his ugly nose until it bled, but she hardly knew how she had managed to flutter out of the tent. She had been able to fly only short distances since then, but even worse, she couldn’t change back from her bird shape, although it was a long time since she had swallowed any of the seeds.
How long since she had taken human form? Two days, three days? The Magpie didn’t count days; the Magpie thought of nothing but beetles and worms (ah, plump, pale worms!), winter and wind and the fleas in her feathers.
The last person she had seen when she was in human shape was Snapper. And yes, he would follow the good advice she had given him in a whisper and attack the Adderhead in the forest, but all the thanks he’d given her was to call her a damn witch and try to seize her so that his men could kill her. She had bitten his hand, hissed at the others until they retreated, and there in the bushes she had swallowed the seeds again so that she could fly to Orpheus — only to have his servant almost break her wings! Peck out his eyes! Peck out all their eyes! Dig your claws into their stupid faces!
Mortola uttered a pitiful cry, and the robbers looked up at her as if she were announcing their death. They didn’t realize that the magpie was the old woman they’d wanted to kill. They didn’t realize anything. What were they going to do with the Book without her help, if they ever really did get their grubby hands on it? They were as stupid as the pale worms she pecked out of the earth. Did they think they just had to shake the Book or tap its rotting pages for the gold she’d promised them to come raining down? No, most likely they thought nothing at all as they sat down there among the trees, waiting for darkness to fall. Only a few hours before, they planned to ambush the Adderhead’s black coach, and what were they doing now?
Drinking home-distilled spirits stolen from some charcoal-burner, dreaming of the wealth to come, bragging that they’d kill first the Adder and then the Bluejay. What about the three words? That’s what the Magpie wanted to call down to them. Which of you fools can write them in the White Book? However, Snapper at least had obviously thought of that point.
"And once we have the Book," he was babbling, "we’ll catch the Bluejay and force him to write the three words in it, and then as soon as the Adder is dead and we’re wallowing in gold we’ll kill him, too, because I’m sick and tired of hearing all those stupid Songs about him."
"Yes, let folk sing about us in future!" mumbled Gecko, putting a piece of bread soaked in brandy into the beak of the crow on his shoulder. The crow, alone among them, kept staring up at Mortola. "We’ll be more famous than anyone! More famous than the Bluejay, more famous than the Black Prince, more famous than Firefox and his fire-raisers. More famous than. . . what was his old master’s name?"
‘‘Capricorn." The name pierced Mortola’s heart like a red-hot needle, and she cowered on the branch where she was perching, shaken by yearning for her son. Ah, to see his face once more, bring him food once more, cut his pale hair.
She uttered another shrill cry, and her pain and hatred echoed through the dark valley where the robbers were planning to attack the lord of the Castle of Night.
Her son. Her son. Her wonderful, cruel son. Mortola plucked feathers from her own breast as if that could drive the pain out of her heart.
Dead. Lost. And his murderer was playing the noble robber, his praises sung by the stupid rabble who used to tremble before her son! The murderer’s shirt had been dyed red, the life had almost flowed out of him, but that little witch of a daughter had saved him. Was she whispering somewhere even now? I’ll peck both their faces to pieces, I’ll do such a good job of it that the treacherous maid won’t recognize them. .
. Resa . . . She saw you back at the cave, Mortola, she saw you, but what’s she going to do about it? The bookbinder went alone, and she’s playing the game that all women play in this world, the waiting game . . . Ah, caterpillar!
She pecked furiously at the hairy body. Caterpillar, caterpillar, cried the voice inside her. Damn this bird-brain. What had she been thinking of just now? Killing. Yes.
Revenge. The bird knew that feeling, too. She felt her feathers ruffling up, her beak striking at the wood of the branch where she sat, as if it were the Bluejay’s body.
A cold wind blew through the tree, shaking its evergreen branches. Rain fell on Mortola’s plumage. Time to fly down under the dark yews that would hide her from the robbers and try, yet again, to shake off the bird-shape, be human flesh once more.
But the bird thought, No! Time to tuck her beak into her feathers, time to let the rustling branches sing her to sleep. Nonsense! She ruffled herself up, shook her silly little head, called her own name back to mind. Mortola. Mortola. Capricorn’s mother.
. .
What was that? The crow on Gecko’s shoulder jerked its head and spread its wings.
Snapper unsteadily got to his feet, drew his sword, and shouted to the others to do the same. But there stood the Adder’s men already, among the trees. Their leader was a lean, hawk-faced man, his eyes as expressionless as the eyes of a corpse. Almost casually, he thrust his sword into the first robber’s chest. Three soldiers attacked Snapper. He slit them open, although his hand must still be hurting from Mortola’s teeth, but his men were dying like flies around him. Folk would sing songs about them, yes, but they’d be songs mocking the fools who had thought they could ambush the Adderhead as easily as any rich merchant.
