Inkheart (49 page)

Meggie went up to the grating behind which Dustfinger stood. She looked at him only briefly, then gazed over his shoulder. Capricorn's maid was sitting on a stone coffin. The lantern Basta had lit gave only a dim light, but it was enough for Meggie to recognize her face. It was the face from Mo's photograph, except that the hair surrounding it was darker now, and there was no sign of any smile.

As Meggie came closer to the grating her mother lifted her head and was now looking at her as if nothing else in the world existed.

"Mortola let her come here?" said Dustfinger. "That's hard to believe."

"The girl threatened to bite her own tongue." Basta was still standing on the stairs, playing with the rabbit's foot he wore around his neck as a lucky charm.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry." Meggie was speaking to Dustfinger, but as she spoke she looked at her mother, who was still sitting on the stone coffin.

"What for?" Dustfinger smiled his strange smile.

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"For what I must do this evening. For reading aloud from the book." If only she could have let the two of them know Fenoglio's plan.

"Right, now you've said your piece!" barked Basta impatiently. "Come on, the air down here could make your voice hoarse."

But Meggie did not turn. She clung to the bars of the grating as firmly as she could. "No," she said, "I want to stay a bit longer." Perhaps she could think of some way to tell them, some apparently innocent remark. "I read something else out of a story," she told Dustfinger. "A tin soldier."

"Did you, though?" Dustfinger was smiling again. It was odd, but this time his smile seemed to her neither mysterious nor supercilious. "Well, nothing can go wrong this evening, then, can it?"

He was looking at her thoughtfully, and Meggie tried to tell him with her eyes: We're going to rescue you. It won't work out the way Capricorn expects, believe me! Dustfinger was still looking at her, trying to understand. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly and then turned to Basta.

"And how's that fairy, Basta?" he asked. "Still alive, is she, or has your company done her in?"

Meggie saw her mother get up and come toward her, walking tentatively, as if she were treading on broken glass.

"She's still alive," said Basta sullenly. "Tinkling all the time. I can't get a wink of sleep. If she carries on like that I'm going to tell Flatnose to wring her neck, the way he does the pigeons when they poo on his car." Meggie saw her mother take a piece of paper from the pocket of her dress and surreptitiously press it into Dustfinger's hand.

"That would mean at least ten years' bad luck for you both," said Dustfinger. "Take my word for it — I know about fairies. Oh, watch out, what's that in front of you?"

Basta leaped back as if something had bitten his toes. Quick as a flash, Dustfinger's hand came through the grating and gave Meggie the note.

"Damn it, there's nothing there!" swore Basta. "Don't try that again, you hear me?" He turned just as Meggie's fingers were closing around the paper. "A note, eh? Well, well!"

Meggie tried in vain to keep her hand closed, but it was easy enough for Basta to pry her fingers apart. Then he stared at her mother's tiny writing.

"Read it, go on!" he growled, holding the note in front of her eyes.

Meggie shook her head.

"Read it!" Basta's voice was dangerously low. "Or do you want me to carve a pretty pattern on your face like your friend's here?"

"Go on, read it, Meggie," said Dustfinger. "He knows I like a good drop of wine anyway."

"Wine?" Basta laughed. "You wanted the child to get you some wine? How did you think she'd do that?"

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Meggie stared at the real note. She concentrated on every word until she knew it by heart. Nine
years is a long time. I celebrated all your birthdays. You're even lovelier than I imagined you.
She heard Basta laughing.

"Just like you, Dustfinger!" he said. "You think you could drown your fears in drink, but a whole cask of wine wouldn't be enough for that."

Dustfinger shrugged his shoulders. "It was worth a try."

Perhaps he looked a little too pleased when he said that, for Basta frowned and looked thoughtfully at his scarred face. "On the other hand," he said slowly, "you always were a crafty dog. And there are a lot of letters there just for a bottle of wine. What about it, sweetheart?" He held the note in front of Meggie again. "Are you going to read it to me now, or should I show it to the Magpie?"

Meggie snatched the note from him so fast that she had crumpled it behind her back while Basta was still wondering where it had gone.

"Give it here, you little brat!" he hissed at her. "Give me that note or I'll cut it out of your fingers."

But Meggie retreated from him until her back was up against the grating. "No!" she said, clinging to the bars with one hand and pushing the note through them with the other. Dustfinger caught on at once. She felt him taking the paper from her fingers.

Basta hit her in the face so hard that her head struck the grating. Immediately a hand stroked her hair, and when she looked around, dazed, she was gazing into her mother's face. He'll notice any moment, she thought, he'll understand it all, but Basta had eyes only for Dustfinger, who was waving the note back and forth behind the grating as if he were brandishing a worm in front of a hungry bird's beak.

"Well, how about it?" inquired Dustfinger, taking a step back. "Do you dare come in here with me, or would you rather go on hitting little girls?"

Basta stood there motionless, like a child whose ears have suddenly and unexpectedly been boxed. Then he seized Meggie's arm and dragged her toward him. She felt something cold on her throat. She didn't have to see it to know what it was. Her mother screamed and pulled at Dustfinger's hand, but he only held the note higher in the air. "I knew it!" he said. "What a coward you are, Basta! You'd rather put a knife to a child's throat than venture in here. Of course if Flatnose were here to back you up, too, with his broad back and his great fat fists — but he isn't. Come along, you're the one with the knife! I've got nothing but my hands, and you know how I hate to misuse them for fighting."

Meggie felt Basta's grip relax. The blade was no longer pressing into her skin. She swallowed and put a hand to her throat. She almost expected to feel warm blood, but there was none. Basta pushed her away so hard that she stumbled and fell on the damp, cold floor. Then he put his hand into his pants pocket and brought out a bunch of keys. He was panting with rage like a man who had run too far and too fast. Fingers trembling, he put a key into the lock of the cell.

Dustfinger watched him, his face impassive. He gestured to Meggie's mother to step back from the grating and
retreated
himself, nimble as a dancer. You couldn't tell from his scarred face whether he was afraid or not, but the scars looked darker than usual.

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"What's that for?" he said, when Basta came into the cell and held out his knife. "You might as well put it away. If you kill me you'll spoil Capricorn's fun. He won't forgive you for that in a hurry."

Yes, he
was
afraid. Meggie could hear it in his voice. The words were spilling out of his mouth a little too fast.

"Who said anything about killing?" growled Basta as he closed the cell door behind him.

Dustfinger retreated as far as the stone coffin. "Ah, you were thinking of adding a few more decorations to my face?" He was almost whispering. There was something else in his voice now

— hatred, scorn, rage. "Don't expect it to be so easy this time," he said softly. "I've learned a few useful tricks since then."

"Have you indeed?" Basta was standing barely a pace away from him. "And what may they be?

Your friend fire isn't here to help you. You don't even have that stinking marten."

"It was words I had in mind." Dustfinger placed a hand on the coffin. "You see, the fairies have taught me how to lay a curse on someone. They were sorry for my cut face, and they knew how bad I am at fighting. So .. I curse you, Basta — I curse you by the bones of the dead man lying in this coffin. I'll bet there's no old priest in it now, but someone you disposed of. Isn't that right?"

Basta did not answer, but his silence was more eloquent than any words.

"Of course. An old coffin like this makes a wonderful hiding place." Dustfinger caressed the cracked lid with his fingers as if trying to call the dead back to life with the warmth of his hand.

"May his spirit haunt you, Basta!" he said in a solemn voice. "May he breathe my name in your ear at every step you take, may he —"

Meggie saw Basta's hand leap to his rabbit's foot.

"That thing won't help you!" Dustfinger's hand was still on the coffin. "Poor Basta! Are you feeling hot already? Do your limbs begin to tremble?"

Basta lunged at him with the knife, but Dustfinger, light on his feet as he was, avoided the blade.

"Fire is faster than you, Basta!" he whispered. "Much faster."

"Give me the note you handed her!" Basta screamed in his face.

Dustfinger just put the note in his pants pocket.

Meggie stood motionless as a doll. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her mother put her hand in the pocket of her dress. When she brought it out again she was holding a stone in it, a gray stone not much bigger than a bird's egg.

Dustfinger passed his hands over the lid of the coffin, then held them out to Basta. "Shall I touch you?" he asked. "What happens when you touch a murdered man's coffin? Tell me. You know all about such things."

He took another step aside, like a dancer circling around his partner.

"I'll cut your filthy fingers off if you try to touch me!" yelled Basta, his face red with rage. "Every one of them, and your tongue into the bargain." He lunged with the knife again, cutting through
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the air with the bright blade, but Dustfinger avoided it. He was leaping around Basta faster and faster, ducking, retreating, advancing, but suddenly he found that his fearless dance had trapped him. He had only the bare wall behind him now, and the grating cutting off his retreat to the right — and Basta was coming straight at him.

At that moment Meggie's mother raised her hand. The stone hit Basta on the head. Astonished, he spun around, looked at her as if trying to remember who she was, and put his hand to his bleeding face. She never knew how Dustfinger did it, but suddenly he had Basta's knife in his hand. Basta was staring at its familiar blade in amazement, as if he couldn't grasp the fact that the faithless thing was pointing at his own chest.

"Well, how's this, then?" Dustfinger slowly brought the tip of the knife close to Basta's stomach.

"Do you feel how soft your flesh is? The human body is a fragile thing, and you can't get a new one. What is it you and your friends do to cats and squirrels? Flatnose likes describing it —"

"I don't hunt squirrels." Basta's voice cracked. He was trying not to look at the blade, now scarcely a hand's breadth from his snow-white shirt.

"No, so you don't. I remember now. It doesn't amuse you as much as it does the others."

Basta's face was white. All the furious red had ebbed out of it. Fear is not red. Fear is pale as a dead man's face. "What are you going to do now?" he gasped. He was breathing hard, as if he were drowning. "You don't think you'll get out of this village alive, do you? They'll shoot you down before you're across the square."

"Well, I'd prefer that to a meeting with the Shadow," replied Dustfinger. "Anyway, none of you are very good shots."

Meggie's mother came up to him and mimed writing with her finger in the air. Dustfinger put his hand in his pants pocket and gave her the note. Basta followed the paper with his eyes as if the strength of his gaze would draw it to him. Resa wrote something on it and handed it back to Dustfinger, who read what she had written, frowning. "Wait until dark? No, I won't wait. But perhaps the girl had better stay here." He looked at Meggie. "Capricorn won't harm her. After all, she's his new Silvertongue, and sometime her father will try to get her." Dustfinger put the note away again and ran the tip of the knife down Basta's shirt buttons. They clinked as the metal touched them. "You go to the stairs, Resa," he said. "I'll finish off this business, and then we'll stroll across Capricorn's square and walk away like an innocent pair of lovers."

Cautiously, Resa opened the cell door. She came out past the grating and took Meggie's hand.

Her fingers were cold and rather rough, a stranger's fingers, but her face was familiar, although it had looked younger and less anxious in the photograph.

"Resa! We can't take her with us!" Dustfinger seized Basta's arm and forced him back against the wall. "Her father will murder me if she gets shot out there. Now, turn around and cover her eyes, unless you want her to watch. .. " The knife was trembling in his hand. Resa looked at him, horrified, and shook her head vigorously, but Dustfinger acted as if he didn't see her.

"You must thrust hard, Dirtyfingers!" hissed Basta as he pressed his hands against the stone behind him. "Killing isn't easy. You have to practice to do it well."

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"Nonsense!" Dustfinger grabbed him by the jacket and held the knife under his chin, the way Basta had pulled his knife on Mo that time in the church. "Any fool can kill. It's easy — as easy as throwing a book on the fire, breaking down a door, or frightening a child."

Meggie began to tremble; she didn't know why. Her mother took a step back toward the grating, but when she saw Dustfinger's stony face she stopped. Then she turned, drew Meggie's face against her breast, put her arms around her, and held her tight. Her smell seemed familiar to Meggie, like something long forgotten; she closed her eyes and tried not to think of anything, not Dustfinger or the knife or Basta's white face. And then, for a terrible moment, there was only one thing in the world she wanted — to see Basta lying dead on the floor, limp as a doll thrown away, an ugly, stupid toy that always seemed a little scary.

The knife was barely a finger's breadth from Basta's white shirt, but suddenly Dustfinger plunged his hand into Basta's pants pocket, took out the keys to the cells, and stepped back. "No, you're right, I don't know much about killing," he said as he made his way backward out of the cell, "and I'm not about to learn just for you."