Inkheart, Page 34

  When Elinor heard the shots she jumped up so fast that she stumbled over her blanket in the dark and fell full length in the coarse grass. It pricked her hands as she got up. ‘Oh God, oh God, they’ve caught them!’ she stammered, groping round in the night looking for the stupid dress the boy had stolen for her. It was so dark that she could scarcely see her own feet. ‘Oh, it serves them right,’ she kept repeating to herself. ‘Why didn’t they take me with them, the stupid idiots? I could have kept watch, I’d have been on the alert.’ But when she had finally found the dress and pulled it over her head with trembling fingers she suddenly stood still.

  How quiet it was. Deathly quiet.

  They’ve shot them, something whispered inside her. That’s why it’s so quiet. They’re dead. Dead as mutton. They’re lying bleeding in that square outside the house, both of them. Oh, my God! Now what? She sobbed. No, Elinor, no tears now. What use are tears? You must look for them, come on. She stumbled off. Was she going the right way?

  ‘No, you can’t come too, Elinor,’ Mortimer had said. He had looked so different in the black suit Farid had stolen for him – like one of Capricorn’s men, which of course was the point of the masquerade. The boy had even found him a shotgun.

  ‘Why not?’ she had replied. ‘I’ll even put that silly dress on!’

  ‘A woman would be conspicuous, Elinor! You’ve seen for yourself – there are never any women in the streets at night. Only the guards. Ask the boy.’

  ‘I don’t want to ask him! Why didn’t he steal a suit for me too? Then I could have disguised myself as a man.’

  They had no answer to that.

  ‘Elinor, please, we need someone to stay with our things!’

  ‘Our things? You mean Dustfinger’s dirty rucksack?’ She was so angry she had kicked it. How clever they’d thought themselves, but their disguise had done them no good! Who had recognised them? Basta, Flatnose, the man with the limp? ‘We’ll be back by dawn, Elinor, with Meggie,’ Mo had said. Liar! She could tell from his voice that he didn’t believe it himself. Elinor stumbled over a tree root, grabbed at something prickly, and fell to her knees sobbing. Murderers! Murderers and fire-raisers. What had she to do with people like that? She should have known better when Mortimer suddenly turned up at her door, asking her to hide the book. Why hadn’t she just said no? Hadn’t she thought instantly that the matchstick-eater looked like someone with the word trouble written all over him in red? But the book – ah, the book. Of course she hadn’t been able to resist the book.

  They took that stinking marten with them, she thought as she picked herself up again, but not me. And now they’re dead. ‘Let’s go to the police!’ How often she’d said that! But Mortimer had always given the same answer. ‘No, Elinor, Capricorn would get Meggie well out of the way as soon as the first police officer set foot in the village. And believe me, Basta’s knife is faster than all the police in the world.’ As he spoke she had seen that little frown above his nose, and she knew him well enough to know what it meant.

  What was she going to do? She was alone, after all.

  Don’t make such a fuss, Elinor, she told herself. You’ve always been alone, remember. Now, use your head. Whatever’s happened to her father, you must help the girl – get her out of this thrice-accursed village. There’s no one left but you to do it. If you don’t, she’ll end up as one of those timid maidservants who scarcely dare to raise their heads and whose only purpose is to clean and cook for their ghastly master. Perhaps she’ll be allowed to read aloud to Capricorn now and then, when he feels like it, and then, when she’s older … she’s a pretty little thing. Elinor felt sick. ‘I need a shotgun,’ she whispered, ‘or a knife, a big sharp knife. I’ll slip into Capricorn’s house with it. Who’s going to recognise me in this unspeakable dress?’ Mortimer had always thought she couldn’t cope with the world except between the covers of a book, but she’d show him!

  Just how will you do that? asked the little whispering voice inside. He’s gone, Elinor, gone like your books.

  She wept, so loudly that she alarmed even herself and put a hand to her mouth. A twig cracked under her feet, and the light went out behind one of the windows in Capricorn’s village. She had been right. The world was a terrible place, cruel, pitiless, dark as a bad dream. Not a good place to live in. Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness – and love. Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you security and friendship and didn’t ask anything in return, they never went away, never, not even when you treated them badly. Love, truth, beauty, wisdom and consolation against death. Who had said that? Someone else who loved books, she couldn’t remember the author’s name, only the words. Words are immortal – until someone comes along and burns them.

  She stumbled on, getting closer all the time. Pale light seeped from Capricorn’s village, like milky water running into the night. Three of the murderers were standing among the vehicles in the car park with their heads together. ‘Talk away!’ whispered Elinor. ‘Boast, why don’t you, with your bloodstained fingers and black hearts – you’ll be sorry yet for killing them.’ Would it be better to go down straight away or wait until daylight? Both were mad ideas; she wouldn’t get beyond the third house in the village. One of the three men looked round, and for a moment Elinor thought he could see her. She scrambled back, slipped, and grabbed at a branch before she lost her footing again. Then came a rustling behind her, and a hand covered her mouth before she could look round. She wanted to scream, but the fingers were pressing so hard on her lips that she couldn’t utter a sound.

  ‘So here you are. Any idea how long I’ve been looking for you?’

  It couldn’t be true. She had been so sure she would never hear that voice again.

  ‘Mortimer!’

  ‘Sorry, but I knew you’d scream! Come on!’ Mortimer took his hand away from her mouth and gestured to her to follow him. She wasn’t sure which she wanted to do most, fling her arms round his neck or hit him hard enough to hurt.

  Only when the houses of Capricorn’s village were almost out of sight behind the trees did he stop. ‘Why didn’t you stay at the camp? Staggering round here in the dark – have you any idea how dangerous it is?’

  This was too much. He had walked so fast that Elinor was still gasping for breath. ‘Dangerous?’ In her fury she found it difficult to keep her voice down. ‘You’re a fine one to talk about danger! I thought you were both dead! I thought they’d stabbed you or shot you or …’

  He rubbed a weary hand over his face. ‘Some of them are pretty poor shots,’ he said. ‘Luckily.’

  His calm tone made Elinor want to shake him. ‘Really? And what about the boy?’

  ‘He’s all right too, except for a scratch on his forehead. When they started firing the marten ran away and Farid went after him. That’s when a ricochet caught him. I’ve left him up at the camp.’

  ‘The marten? Is that all you can think about, that vicious, stinking animal? Tonight has aged me by ten years!’ Elinor’s voice was rising again, and she forced herself to lower it. ‘I put on this horrible dress,’ she hissed.’ And I could see you in my mind’s eye, lots of blood and terrible wounds … oh, must you look at me like that?’ she snapped. ‘It’s a wonder you’re not both dead. I should never have listened to you. We should have gone to the police. This time they must believe us, they—’

  ‘It was bad luck, Elinor, that’s all,’ Mo interrupted. ‘Honestly. It just happened to be Cockerell on guard outside the house. The others wouldn’t have recognized me.’

  ‘And what about tomorrow? Perhaps it’ll be Basta or Flatnose then. How’s it going to help your daughter if you’re dead?’

  Mo turned his back to her. ‘But I’m not dead, Elinor,’ he said evenly. ‘And I’m going to get Meggie out of there before she has to play the leading role at an execution.’

  When they reached their camp Farid was asleep. The bloodstained bandage Mortimer had tied round his head looked almost like the turban he had been we
aring when he first appeared among the columns of Capricorn’s church.

  ‘It looks worse than it is,’ Mo whispered. ‘But if I hadn’t held him back he’d have chased half-way round the village after that marten. And if they hadn’t caught us I expect he’d have slipped into the church too, to see how Dustfinger was doing.’

  Elinor only nodded and wrapped her blanket round her. It was a mild night; anywhere else it could have been called peaceful.

  ‘How did you shake them off?’ she asked.

  Mortimer sat down beside the boy. Only now did Elinor see that he was carrying the shotgun Farid had stolen for him. He took it off his shoulder and put it down in the grass beside him. ‘They didn’t follow us for long,’ he said. ‘Why bother? They know we’ll be back. All they have to do is wait.’

  And this time Elinor would be with them, she promised herself. She never again wanted to feel as utterly deserted as she had this night. ‘What are you planning to do next?’ she asked.

  ‘Farid’s idea was to start a fire. I thought that would be too dangerous, but we’re running short of time.’

  ‘Fire?’ Elinor felt as if the word would burn her tongue. Ever since she had found the ashes of her books, the mere sight of a matchstick had caused her to panic.

  ‘Dustfinger’s taught the boy something about handling fire, and anyway, as we know, even the biggest fool can start one. If we were to send Capricorn’s house up in flames—’

  ‘Are you crazy? Suppose it spreads to the hills?’

  Mo bowed his head and stroked his hand over the barrel of the gun. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but I can’t see any other way. The fire will create a diversion, Capricorn’s men will be kept busy putting it out, and in all the confusion I’ll try to get through to Meggie while Farid releases Dustfinger.’

  ‘You’re mad!’ This time Elinor couldn’t help her voice rising. Farid muttered something in his sleep, put his hand nervously to the bandage round his head, then turned over.

  Mo straightened the boy’s blanket and leaned back against the tree trunk. ‘That’s our plan, all the same, Elinor,’ he said. ‘Believe me, I’ve been racking my brains till I thought I’d go crazy. But there’s no other way. And if none of that is any use I’ll set fire to his damn church as well. I’ll melt down his gold and reduce his whole damned village to dust and ashes, but I’ll have my daughter back.’

  Elinor had no answer to that. She lay down and pretended to be asleep even though she couldn’t sleep a wink. When day dawned, she persuaded Mortimer to get a little rest himself while she kept watch. Before long he was fast asleep. As soon as his breath sounded peaceful and regular, Elinor took off the stupid dress, got into her own clothes, combed her tousled hair and wrote him a note. Gone to get help. Back around midday. Please don’t do anything until then. Elinor.

  She put the note into his half-opened hand, so that he would see it as soon as he woke up. As she tip-toed past the boy she saw that the marten was back. He was curled up beside Farid, licking his paws. His black eyes stared at Elinor as she bent over the boy to adjust his bandage. Uncanny little beast, she could never take to him, but Farid loved him like a dog. Sighing, she straightened up. ‘Look after them both, will you?’ she whispered, then set off. The car was still where she had hidden it under the trees. It was a good hiding-place; the branches hung so low that she missed the car herself at first. The engine caught immediately. Elinor listened anxiously to the sounds of the morning for a moment, but there was nothing to be heard apart from the birds greeting the day as exuberantly as if it were their last.

  The nearest village, the last village through which she and Mortimer had driven, was scarcely half an hour’s drive away. There was sure to be a police station there.

  48

  The Magpie

  But they woke him with words, their cruel, bright weapons.

  T.H. White,

  The Book of Merlin

  It was still quite early when Meggie heard Basta’s voice out in the corridor. She hadn’t touched the breakfast one of the maids brought them. When she had asked what had happened last night, what the shots meant, the girl had just stared at her, terrified, shook her head and scurried out of the door. She probably thought Meggie was a witch.

  Fenoglio hadn’t eaten any breakfast either. He was writing. He wrote and wrote without stopping, filling sheet after sheet of paper, tearing up what he’d written, beginning again, putting one sheet aside and starting another, frowning, crumpling up the paper – and starting once more. Hours and hours passed like this, until there were only three sheets of paper he hadn’t torn up. Just three. At the sound of Basta’s voice he hastily hid them under his mattress, kicking the crumpled pieces of paper under the bed with his foot. ‘Quick, Meggie! Help me get them under the bed!’ he whispered. ‘He mustn’t find any – not a single one.’ Meggie obeyed, but all she could think about was why Basta was here. Was he going to tell her something? Did he want to see her face when he told her not to expect Mo any more?

  Fenoglio had sat down at the table again in front of a blank sheet of paper and was rapidly scribbling a few words on it when the door opened.

  Meggie held her breath as if that would hold back the words which were about to come out of Basta’s mouth and stab her in the heart. Fenoglio put down his pen and went to stand beside her. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m to fetch her,’ said Basta. ‘Mortola wants to see her.’ He sounded angry, as if it were beneath his dignity to carry out such a trivial task.

  Mortola? The Magpie? Meggie looked at Fenoglio. What did this mean? But the old man only shrugged his shoulders, at a loss.

  ‘This little pigeon’s to take a look at what she’s to read this evening,’ Basta explained. ‘So she won’t stumble over the words like Darius and spoil everything.’ He beckoned impatiently to Meggie. ‘Come on.’

  Meggie took a step towards him but then stopped. ‘First, I want to know what happened last night,’ she asked. ‘I heard shots.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ Basta smiled. His teeth were almost as white as his shirt. ‘I’ve an idea your father was planning to visit you, but Cockerell wouldn’t let him in.’

  Meggie stood there as if rooted to the spot. Basta took her arm and pulled her roughly away with him. Fenoglio tried to follow them, but Basta slammed the door in his face. Fenoglio called something after her, but Meggie couldn’t hear what it was. There was a rushing sound in her ears as if she were listening to her own blood running far too fast through her veins.

  ‘He managed to get away, if that makes you feel any better,’ said Basta, shoving her towards the staircase. ‘Not that that means much, come to think of it. When Cockerell shoots at the cats, they seem to dodge the bullets too. He’s such a useless shot. But they’re usually found dead in a corner somewhere later.’

  Meggie kicked his shin with all her might, and raced away down the stairs, but Basta soon caught up with her. His face distorted with pain, he grabbed her by the hair and hauled her back in front of him. ‘Don’t you try that again, sweetheart!’ he hissed. ‘You can think yourself lucky you’re the main attraction at our festivities this evening, or I’d wring your skinny little neck here and now.’

  Meggie did not try it again. Even if she had wanted to she wouldn’t have had the chance. Basta kept hold of her hair, pulling her along behind him as if she were a disobedient dog. The pain brought tears to Meggie’s eyes, but she kept her face turned away so that Basta couldn’t see them. He took her down to the cellars. She hadn’t been in this part of Capricorn’s house before. The ceiling was even lower than the one in the shed where she, Mo and Elinor had first been imprisoned. The walls were whitewashed, like the walls in the upper storeys of the house, and there were just as many doors. Most of them looked as if it was a long time since they’d been opened, and heavy padlocks hung in front of some of them. Meggie thought of the safes Dustfinger had talked about, and the gold Mo had brought tumbling into Capricorn’s church. They didn’t get him, she thought.
Of course not. The man with the limp doesn’t shoot well. Basta said so himself.

  At last, they stopped outside a door. It was made of different wood from the other doors down here, wood with a beautiful grain like a tiger’s coat that shimmered with a tinge of red under the naked electric bulbs that lit the cellars.

  ‘And let me tell you,’ Basta whispered to Meggie before he knocked on the door, ‘if you’re as impertinent to Mortola as you are to me she’ll sling you in one of those nets in the church until you’re so hungry you’ll be gnawing at the ropes. Compared to her heart, mine’s as soft as a little girl’s cuddly toy.’ His peppermint-scented breath wafted into Meggie’s face. She would never again be able to eat anything smelling of peppermint.

  The Magpie’s room was large enough to hold a dance in. The walls were red, like the walls in the church, but you couldn’t see much of them. They were covered with photographs in gold frames, photographs of houses and people crammed close together on the walls like a crowd in a space too small for it. In the middle, framed in gold like the photos but much larger, hung a portrait of Capricorn. Even Meggie could see that whoever had painted it was no more skilled at his trade than the sculptor who had carved the statue in the church. Capricorn’s features in the picture were rounder and softer than in real life, and his curiously feminine mouth lay like a strange fruit below the nose, which was a little too short and broad. It was only his eyes that the painter had caught perfectly. As cold as they were in the flesh, they looked down on Meggie like the eyes of a man examining a frog he is about to slit open to see what it looks like inside. No face, she had learned in Capricorn’s village, is as terrifying as a face without pity.

  The Magpie sat, curiously rigid, in a green velvet armchair directly below her son’s portrait. She looked unaccustomed to sitting down – like a constantly busy woman who resented having to stop, but whose body forced her to rest. Meggie saw that the old woman’s legs were swollen above her ankles. They bulged formlessly below her bony knees. Noticing her glance, the Magpie pulled her skirt well down over those knees.

  ‘Have you told her what she’s here for?’ She found standing up difficult. Meggie watched her support herself with one hand on a little table, her lips pressed together. Basta seemed to enjoy her frailty; a smile played round his mouth until the Magpie looked at him, wiping it away with a single icy glance. Impatiently, she beckoned Meggie over. Basta prodded her in the back when she didn’t move.

  ‘Come here. I want to show you something.’ With slow but firm steps, the Magpie walked over to a chest of drawers that looked much too heavy for its gracefully curved legs. Two lamps stood on it, their shades patterned with flowery tendrils. Between them was a wooden casket, decorated all the way round with a pattern of tiny holes. When the Magpie opened its lid Meggie flinched back. Two snakes, thin as lizards and not much longer than Meggie’s lower arm, lay in the casket.

  ‘I always keep my room nice and warm so that this pair don’t get too sleepy,’ explained the Magpie, opening the top drawer of the chest and taking out a glove. It was made of stout black leather, and was so stiff that she had difficulty forcing her gnarled hand into it. ‘Your friend Dustfinger played a nasty trick on poor Resa when he asked her to look for that book,’ she continued, reaching into the box and grasping one of the snakes firmly behind its flat head.

  ‘Come here!’ she ordered Basta, and held the wriggling snake out to him. Meggie saw from his face that everything in him felt revulsion, but he came closer and took the creature. He held the scaly body well away from him as it wound and twisted in the air.

  ‘As you see, Basta doesn’t care for my snakes!’ said the Magpie, with a smile. ‘He never did, not that that means much. As far as I know Basta doesn’t like anything but his knife. He also believes that snakes bring bad luck, which of course is pure nonsense.’ Mortola handed Basta the second snake. Meggie saw the viper’s tiny poison fangs when it opened its mouth. For a moment, she almost felt sorry for Basta.

  ‘Well, don’t you think this is a good hiding-place?’ asked the