Inkdeath

71. THE BOOKBINDER

Fold. Cut. The paper was good, better than last time. Mo's fingertips felt the fibers on its pale white surface, ran along the edges in search of memories. And they came, filling his heart and mind with a thousand images, a thousand and more forgotten days. The smell of the glue took him back to all the places where he had been alone with a sick book, and the familiar gestures made him feel his old satisfaction in giving new life and beauty to a book, saving it from time's sharp teeth, at least for a while. He'd forgotten the peace that came when his hands were doing their work. Fold, cut, pull a thread through the paper. Mortimer was back again: Mortimer the bookbinder, for whom a knife didn't have to be sharp because a sharp blade killed better, and who wasn't threatened by the words, because he was only making them new clothes.

"You're taking your time, Bluejay."

The Piper's voice brought him back to the Hall of a Thousand Windows.

Don't let it happen, Mortimer, he told himself. Simply imagine that the silver-nosed man is still in his own book, is nothing but a voice coming out of the letters on the page. The Bluejay isn't here. Orpheus's words must look for him somewhere else.

"You know you're going to die when you've finished it. That's what makes you so slow, am I correct?" The Piper struck him so hard in the back with his gloved fist that Mo almost cut his own hands, and the Bluejay surfaced for a moment, thinking what it would be like to plunge the blade that cut the paper into the Piper's breast.

Mo forced himself to put the knife aside and picked up another sheet of paper, seeking peace in gluing all that whiteness together.

The Piper was right. He was taking his time, not because he was afraid of dying but because this book must never be finished, and the only reason for every move he made was to bring back Mortimer Folchart, the bookbinder who could not be bound by Orpheus's words. Mo hardly felt them anymore. All the despair that had seeped into his heart in that dark cell, all the rage and hopelessness, had faded as if his hands had washed them out of his heart.

But what would happen if Dustfinger and Resa didn't find the other White Book? Suppose the Night-Mare devoured Brianna and her father? Would he stand in this hall forever, then, binding blank pages? Not forever, Mo. You're not immortal. Luckily.

The Piper would kill him. He'd been waiting to do it ever since they first met in the Castle of Night. And, of course, the strolling players would sing about the death of the Bluejay, not Mortimer Folchart. But what would become of Resa and the unborn child?

And what about Meggie? Don't think, Mortimer, he told himself. Cut, fold, stitch, win yourself some time, even if you don't yet know what for. When you're dead Resa can fly away and find Meggie. Meggie…

Please, his heart pleaded with the White Women, let my daughter live! I will go with you, but leave Meggie here. Her life is only just beginning, though she may not know yet which world she wants to live it in.

Cutting, folding, stitching – he thought he saw Meggie's face on the blank paper. He almost felt her beside him as he had in the Old Chamber in the Castle of Night, the room where Violante's mother had lived. Violante… they'd thrown her into one of the cells. Mo knew exactly what would frighten her most down there: She would be afraid of the darkness taking what little vision she had from her. The Adder's daughter still moved him, and he would gladly have helped her, but the Bluejay must sleep.

Four candles had been lit for him. They didn't give much light, but they were better than nothing. The chains didn't make working any easier, either. Every time he moved, their clinking reminded him that he wasn't in his workshop in Elinor's garden.

The door opened.

"There you are!" Orpheus's voice echoed through the empty hall. "This role suits you much better! What made that old fool Fenoglio think of turning a bookbinder into a robber?"

He stopped in front of Mo with a triumphant smile, just too far away for the knife to reach him. Yes, Orpheus would think of that kind of thing. As usual, his breath smelled sweetish.

"You ought to have known Dustfinger would betray you sometime. He betrays everyone – and believe me, I know what I'm talking about. It's the part he plays best. But presumably you couldn't pick and choose who'd help you."

Mo picked up the leather intended for the cover. It was red, like the cover of the first book.

"Ah, so you're not talking to me anymore! Well, I can understand that." Orpheus had never looked happier.

"Leave him to work, Four-Eyes! Or do you want me telling the Adderhead that he has to live in his itching skin a little longer, just because you felt like a nice chat?" The Piper's voice sounded even more strained than usual. Orpheus wasn't making himself many friends.

"Don't forget, your master will soon be rid of that skin, Piper, and he owes it all to me!" he replied in a supercilious tone. "Your powers of persuasion haven't impressed our bookbinding friend much, if I remember rightly."

So the two of them were competing to see who could be closest to the Adder. At the moment Orpheus seemed to hold the better cards, but perhaps that could be changed.

"What are you talking about, Orpheus?" said Mo, without looking up from his work. He tasted sweet revenge on his tongue. "The Adderhead need feel grateful to no one but the Piper. I was careless. I ran straight into their arms. You had nothing at all to do with it."

"What?" Piqued, Orpheus fiddled with his glasses.

"That's exactly how I'll tell the tale to the Adderhead. As soon as he's had a good sleep." Mo cut through the leather and imagined that he was cutting the web Orpheus had spun around him.

The Piper narrowed his eyes, as if that would help him see more clearly what game the Bluejay was playing. The Bluejay isn't here, Piper, thought Mo. But how could you understand that?

"Careful, bookbinder!" Orpheus took a clumsy step toward him. His voice was almost cracking. "Use your silver tongue to spread lies about me and I'll have it cut out on the spot!"

"Oh yes? By whom?"

Mo looked directly at the Piper.

"I don't want to see my daughter in this castle," he said softly. "I don't want anyone looking for her after the Bluejay is dead."

The Piper returned his glance – and smiled. "That's a promise. The Bluejay has no daughter," he said. "And he'll keep his tongue, too. So long as it speaks the right words."

Orpheus bit his lips so hard that they turned as pale as his skin. Then he moved close to Mo's side.

"I'll write new words!" he hissed in his ear. "Words that will make you writhe like a worm on the hook!"

"Write what you like," replied Mo, cutting through the leather again.

The bookbinder wouldn't feel the words.