Inkheart

55. TREACHERY, LOOSE TALK, AND STUPIDITY

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 realize 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 onto 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 suntanned 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 kennel. Several of Capricorn's men ran the butts of their shotguns along the silvery gray 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 each other.

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 over to Resa with expressions of pity – and dread.

Capricorn arrived when the long benches were full. There were no seats for the boys, so they had 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 favorite now.

"For heaven's sake, stop looking at him like that!" Elinor snapped at Basta when she realized 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 who 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 recognized 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 fear less. 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 armor, the impenetrable and extremely useful armor 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 around 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, scrutinizing Capricorn's Black Jackets with her chin jutting out 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, too.

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 one 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 there 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 they hurt. Mortimer and the boy had started a fire. No smoke yet showed above the rooftops, so, 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 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 they were all dead, and that 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.