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  whether he had seen it before. He took no notice of Farid at all. ‘You from the north, then? I heard you have a lot of fun up there.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Silvertongue went so close to the guard that the man took a step back. ‘Come on, you know Capricorn doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

  The guard nodded sullenly. ‘Yes, yes, all right,’ he muttered, looking over to the church. ‘There’s no point standing guard here anyway. What do they think will happen? Do they expect the fire-eater to come and steal the gold? That fellow was always lily-livered, he’ll be well away by now, he—’ But suddenly, while the guard was still looking at the church, Silvertongue seized the gun and hit him on the head with the butt. Then he dragged him round behind Capricorn’s house where it was pitch dark.

  ‘Did you hear what he said?’ Farid had quickly gagged the guard and was expertly tying a rope round the man’s legs. ‘Dustfinger must have escaped! He said “he’ll be well away”. He can’t have meant anyone else!’

  ‘Yes, I heard. But my daughter is still here.’ Silvertongue gave him the rucksack and looked round, but the square was now so deserted and quiet it was as if they were the only people left in Capricorn’s village. Not a sound was heard from the guard up in the church tower. No doubt tonight he had eyes for nothing but the events taking place on the brightly lit football field.

  Farid took two torches and the bottle of inflammable liquid from Dustfinger’s rucksack. He got away, he was thinking, he got away! He could almost have laughed out loud.

  Silvertongue went back to Capricorn’s house, peered into several windows, and finally broke one of them, taking off his jacket and pressing it against the glass to muffle the sound when it broke. Laughter and music drifted up from the car park.

  ‘The matches! I can’t find them!’ Farid rummaged among Dustfinger’s things until Silvertongue took the rucksack from his hand.

  ‘Give it to me!’ he whispered. ‘You get the torches ready.’

  Farid did as he was told. He carefully soaked the cotton wool in the acrid-smelling spirits. Dustfinger will come back, he thought, he’ll come back to look for Gwin, and then he’ll fetch me. Voices came from one of the alleys. Men’s voices. For a few terrible moments they seemed to be coming closer, but they died away again, swallowed up by the music coming from the car park and filling the night like a foul smell.

  Silvertongue was still looking for the matches. ‘Ugh!’ he said, swearing softly and removing his hand from the rucksack. Marten droppings were smeared over his thumb. He wiped them off on the nearest wall, put his hand in the rucksack again and threw Farid a box of matches. Then he took something else out – the little book that Dustfinger kept in a side pocket he had sewn inside. Farid had often looked at it. It had pictures stuck in it, cut-out pictures of fairies and witches, trolls and dragons, brownies, nymphs and ancient trees. Silvertongue flicked through it while Farid was soaking the second torch. A photograph was lying between the pages – the photograph of Capricorn’s maid, the woman who had tried to help Dustfinger and was to die for it tonight! Or had she escaped with him? Silvertongue was staring at the photograph and suddenly it was as if nothing else in the world existed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Farid put the match to the dripping torch. The flame flared up, hissing and hungry. How beautiful it was! Farid licked his finger and passed it through the flame. ‘Here, take this.’ He held the torch out to Silvertongue. It would be best for him, as the taller of them, to throw it through the window. But Silvertongue just stood there gazing at the photo.

  ‘That’s the woman who helped Dustfinger,’ said Farid. ‘The one they caught too. I think he’s in love with her. Here.’ Once again he held the burning torch out to Silvertongue. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  Silvertongue looked at him as if he had been woken from a dream. ‘In love … in love,’ he murmured as he took the torch from Farid’s hand. Then he put the photograph in the breast pocket of his shirt, cast another glance at the empty square, and threw the torch through the broken window into Capricorn’s house.

  ‘Give me a leg up! I want to see it burning!’ cried Farid. Silvertongue did as he asked. The room seemed to be some kind of office. Farid saw paper, a desk, a picture of Capricorn on the wall. Someone here could write after all. The burning torch lay among the sheets of paper covered with writing, it licked and gulped, it whispered with delight at such a feast, flared up and leaped on, from the desk to the curtains at the window. Greedily, it consumed the dark fabric. The whole room was filled with red and yellow. Smoke billowed out of the broken window, stinging Farid’s eyes.

  ‘I must go!’ Silvertongue put him down abruptly. The music had stopped. Suddenly it was eerily quiet. Silvertongue ran off along the street leading down to the car park. Farid watched him go. He had something more to do. He waited until the flames were shooting out of the window, then he began shouting. ‘Fire! Capricorn’s house is on fire!’ His voice echoed over the empty square.

  Heart thudding, he ran to the corner of the big house and looked up at the church tower. The guard there had leaped to his feet. Farid lit the second torch and threw it at the church porch. The air began to smell of smoke. The guard froze, turned, and – at last – he rang the bell.

  And Farid ran off to follow Silvertongue.

  55

  Treachery, Loose Talk, and Stupidity

  Then he said, ‘Without a doubt, I must perish; there is no way I can get out of this narrow prison.’

  Tales from the Thousand and One Nights

  Elinor thought she was showing considerable courage. Of course she still did not know exactly what fate awaited her – and if her niece knew more than she did, she hadn’t told her – but she could be sure it would be nothing pleasant. Nor did Teresa give the men who came to take them up from the crypt the satisfaction of seeing her shed tears. She couldn’t curse them or shout at them anyway; her voice was gone, like a garment she no longer wore. Luckily, she had two pieces of paper with her, crumpled, dirty scraps, much too small for all the words unspoken over nine years. She had filled the paper with tiny writing until there wasn’t space for a single word more. She didn’t want to say anything about herself and what had happened to her, and just waved Elinor’s whispered questions impatiently away. There were questions of her own she wanted to ask, question after question about her daughter and her husband. Elinor whispered the answers into her ear, very quietly so Basta in the adjoining cell would not realise that the two women who were about to die with him had known each other ever since the younger one had learned to walk holding on to Elinor’s endless bookshelves.

  Basta was not in a good way. Whenever they looked at him they saw his hands clinging to the bars, knuckles white under his sun-tanned skin. Once, Elinor thought she heard him weeping, but when they were taken out of the cells his face was as vacant as a dead man’s, and when their guards locked them up in that unspeakable cage he crouched on the floor in a corner, and sat as motionless as a doll that no one wants to play with.

  The cage smelled of dogs and raw meat, and indeed it did look like a dog pound. Several of Capricorn’s men ran the butts of their shotguns along the silvery grey bars before sitting down on the benches that had been made ready for them. Basta in particular was the object of enough scorn and derision for ten men, and from his failure to react at all one could only guess at the depths of his despair. All the same, Elinor and Teresa kept as far away from him as they could in the same cage. They also kept away from the bars, from all the fingers poking through, the faces the men made at them, and the burning cigarettes flicked at them. They stood close together, both glad and sorry to be with one another.

  On the outskirts of the arena, right beside the entrance and carefully segregated from the men, sat the women who worked for Capricorn. They showed none of the men’s ghastly excitement. Most of their faces were downcast, but again and again their glances strayed to Resa with expressions of pity – and dread.

  Capricorn arri
ved when the long benches were full. There were no seats for the boys, so they squatted on the ground in front of the Black Jackets. His face emotionless, Capricorn strode past them all as if they were nothing but a flock of crows that had assembled at his command. Only in front of the cage containing his prisoners did he slow his pace to examine each of the three with a small, satisfied glance. For the fraction of a second life came back into Basta as his former lord and master stopped by the bars; he raised his head, his eyes pleading silently, like a dog begging for forgiveness, but Capricorn walked on without a word. When he had seated himself in his black leather armchair Cockerell placed himself behind it, legs planted wide apart. Obviously, he was the new favourite now.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, stop looking at him like that!’ Elinor snapped at Basta when she realised that his eyes were still following Capricorn. ‘He’s planning to feed you to his friend like a fly to a frog, so how about a little indignation? You were always so ready with a choice selection of threats: “I’ll cut your tongue out, I’ll slice you to pieces …” What’s happened to all that, then?’

  But Basta only bowed his head and stared at the floor beneath his boots. Elinor thought he looked like an oyster with the flesh and life sucked out of it.

  When Capricorn was sitting down the blaring music fell silent, and they brought Meggie forward. They had put a horrible dress on her, but she held her head high, and the old woman whom they all called the Magpie had difficulty dragging her up on to the rostrum which the Black Jackets had set up in the middle of the field. A single chair stood on the rostrum, looking as forlorn as if someone had left it there and forgotten it. Elinor thought a gallows and a rope would have looked more suitable. Meggie looked down at them as the Magpie forced her up the wooden steps.

  ‘Hello, darling!’ called Elinor when Meggie’s frightened gaze recognised her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m only here because I didn’t want to miss hearing you read!’

  Everything had fallen so still on Capricorn’s arrival that her voice echoed over the whole arena. It sounded brave and fearless. Fortunately, no one could hear how hard her heart was hammering against her ribs. Nor did anyone notice that she was almost choking with fear, for Elinor had put on her armour, the impenetrable and extremely useful armour behind which she had always hidden at times of need. It had become a little harder with every grief she felt, and lately there had been grief enough in Elinor’s life.

  One of the Black Jackets laughed at her words, and a faint smile even flitted over Meggie’s face. Elinor put her arm round Teresa’s shoulders and held her close. ‘Look at your daughter,’ she whispered. ‘As brave as … as …’ She wanted to compare Meggie to a hero from some story, but all the heroes she could think of were men, and anyway none of them seemed to her brave enough for a comparison with the girl standing there perfectly straight, scrutinising Capricorn’s Black Jackets with her chin jutting defiantly.

  The Magpie had brought not only Meggie but an old man. Elinor guessed that this was the writer who had caused them so much trouble – Fenoglio, the creator of Capricorn, Basta and all the other monsters, including the terrible creature Meggie was to bring to life tonight. Elinor had always thought more of books than their authors, and she looked at the old man without much goodwill as Flatnose led him past their cage. There was a seat ready for him only a little way from Capricorn’s armchair. Elinor wondered whether that meant Capricorn had found a new friend, but when Flatnose placed himself behind the grim-faced old man she concluded that Fenoglio was more likely a prisoner himself.

  Capricorn rose as soon as the old man was seated. Without a word, he let his gaze pass slowly over the long line of his men, as if recalling every one of them, remembering what good and what bad service each had done him. The silence in the arena smelled of fear. All the laughter had died away, and not a whisper could be heard.

  ‘There is no need,’ Capricorn finally began, raising his voice, ‘for me to explain to most of you why the three prisoners you see here are to be punished. For the rest, it is enough for me to say it is for treachery, loose talk, and stupidity. One may argue, of course, over whether or not stupidity is a crime deserving of death. I think it is, for it can have exactly the same consequences as treachery.’

  As he said this there was a restless stir on the benches. At first Elinor thought Capricorn’s words had set it off, but then she heard the bell. Even Basta raised his head as its tolling sounded through the night. At a sign from Capricorn, Flatnose beckoned to five men and strode off with them. Those left behind put their heads together uneasily, and some even jumped up and turned to look at the village. However, Capricorn raised his hand to quell the murmur that had arisen. ‘It is nothing!’ he called in so loud and cutting a tone that everything immediately fell still again. ‘A fire, that’s all. And we know how to deal with fire, don’t we?’

  There was laughter, but some of the crowd, both men and women, were still looking anxiously at the houses.

  So they’d done it. Elinor bit her lips so hard that they hurt. Mortimer and the boy had started a fire. No smoke yet showed above the rooftops, and, reassured, all the faces turned back to Capricorn who was saying something about deceit and falsehood, discipline and negligence, but Elinor only half heard him. She kept looking at the houses of the village, though she knew it was dangerous to do so.

  ‘So much for the prisoners we have here!’ cried Capricorn. ‘Now for those who got away.’ Cockerell picked up a sack that had been lying behind Capricorn’s chair and gave it to him. Smiling, Capricorn put his hand into it and held something up: a piece of fabric from a shirt or dress, torn and bloodstained.

  ‘They are dead!’ called Capricorn to his audience. ‘I’d rather have seen them here, of course, but unfortunately there was nothing for it: they were trying to escape and had to be shot. Well, no one will miss the treacherous little fire-eater – almost all of you knew him – and fortunately Silvertongue has left us his daughter, who has inherited his gifts.’

  Teresa looked at Elinor, her eyes glazed with horror.

  ‘He’s lying!’ Elinor whispered to her, although she too could not take her eyes off the bloodstained rags. ‘He’s using my lies, my tricks! That’s not blood, it’s paint, or some kind of dye.’ But she saw that her niece did not believe her. She believed in the bloodstained cloth, just as her daughter did. Elinor could read this on Meggie’s face, and she longed to call out to her that Capricorn was lying, but she wanted him to believe his own story for a little longer – to believe that they were all dead, and no one would come to disturb his festivities.

  ‘That’s right, boast of a bloodstained rag, you miserable fire-raiser!’ she shouted through the bars. ‘That’s really something to be proud of. Why do you need another monster? You’re all monsters! Every one of you sitting there! You murder books, you abduct children …!’

  No one took any notice of her. A couple of the Black Jackets laughed. Teresa moved closer to the bars, clutching their cold metal with her fingers, never taking her eyes off Meggie.

  Capricorn left the bloodstained fabric lying over the arm of his chair. I know that rag, thought Elinor. I’ve seen it somewhere before. They’re not dead. Who else would have started the fire? The matchstick-eater, something inside her whispered, but she refused to listen. No, the story must have a happy ending. It wouldn’t be right otherwise! She had never liked sad stories.

  56

  The Shadow

  My heavens are brass my earth is iron my moon a clod of clay

  My sun a pestilence burning at noon & a vapour of death in the night.

  William Blake,

  Enion’s Second Lament

  In books hatred is often described as hot, but at Capricorn’s festivities Meggie discovered it was cold – an ice-cold hand that stops the heart and presses it like a clenched fist against the ribs. Hatred made her freeze, in spite of the mild air wafting around her telling her that the world was a good, safe place. She knew it was not – as the bloody cloth on which
the smiling Capricorn had laid his ringed hand showed all too clearly.

  ‘Well, so much for that!’ he cried. ‘And now for the real reason we are all gathered here tonight. Not only are we about to punish the traitors but we’re also going to celebrate a reunion with an old friend. Some of you may remember him, and as for the others, I promise that once you have met him you will never forget him.’

  Cockerell twisted his thin face into a sour smile. He was obviously not looking forward to the reunion and, at Capricorn’s words, alarm showed on several other faces.

  ‘But that’s enough talking. Now let’s hear something read aloud to us.’

  Capricorn leaned back in his chair and nodded to the Magpie. Mortola clapped her hands, and Darius came hurrying across the arena with the casket that Meggie had last seen in the Magpie’s room. He clearly knew what it contained. His face was even more haggard than usual as he opened the casket and held it out to the Magpie, his head bowed humbly. The snakes seemed to be drowsy, and this time Mortola did not put on a glove before she lifted them out. She even draped them over her shoulders while she took the book out of its hiding-place. Then she put the snakes back as carefully as if they were precious jewels, closed the lid, and handed the casket back to Darius. He stayed on the rostrum, looking awkward. Meggie caught him looking sympathetically at her as the Magpie made her sit down on the chair and placed the book on her lap.

  Here it was again, the unlucky thing, in its brightly coloured paper jacket. What colour was the binding under it? Raising the dust-jacket with her finger, Meggie saw the dark red cloth, as red as the flames surrounding the ink-black heart. Everything that had happened had begun between the pages of this book, and only the words of its author could save them now. Meggie stroked its binding as she always did before opening a book. She had seen Mo doing the same. Ever since she could remember she had known that movement – the way he would pick up a book, stroke the binding almost tenderly, then open it as if he were opening a box full to the brim with precious things. Of course, the marvels you hoped to find might not be waiting inside the covers, so then you closed the book, sorry that its promise had not been kept. But Inkheart was not a book of that kind. Badly told stories never come to life. There are no Dustfingers in them, not even a Basta.

  ‘I am told to tell you something!’ The Magpie’s dress smelled of musty lavender, its fragrance enveloping Meggie in a suffocating threat. ‘Should you fail to do what Capricorn asks, should it occur to you to stumble over the words on purpose, or distort them so that the guest Capricorn is expecting does not come, then …’ Mortola paused and Meggie felt the old woman’s breath on her cheek, ‘then Cockerell will cut the old man’s throat. Capricorn may not give the order himself, because he believes the stupid lies the old man told him, but I don’t, and Cockerell will do as I say. Understand me, my little cherub?’ She pinched Meggie’s cheek with her bony fingers. Meggie shook off her hand and looked at Cockerell. He moved up behind Fenoglio, smiled at her, and ran a finger across the old man’s throat. Fenoglio pushed him away, and looked at Meggie as if one look could convey everything he wanted to say to her and give her: encouragement, comfort, and maybe even a little amusement in the face of all the horrors surrounding them.

  Whether or not their plan worked depended on him and his words – and Meggie’s reading.

  Meggie felt the paper in her sleeve, scratching her skin. Her hands seemed like the hands of a stranger as she leafed through the pages of the book. The place where she was to begin was no longer marked by a folded corner. A bookmark as black as charred wood lay between the pages. ‘Push your hair back from your forehead,’ Fenoglio had told her. ‘That will be the signal to me.’ But just as she raised her left hand the crowd on the benches became restless again.

  Flatnose was back, with soot marks on his face. He hurried to Capricorn’s side and whispered something to him. Capricorn frowned and looked towards the houses. Now Meggie saw two plumes of smoke rising into the sky from behind the church tower.

  Capricorn rose quickly from his chair. He tried to sound composed, ironic, like a man amused at some childish prank, but his face told a different story. ‘I am sorry to have to spoil the fun for a few more of you, but tonight the red rooster is crowing here too. A feeble little rooster, but its neck must be wrung all the same. Flatnose, take another