Inkspell

34. CLOUD-DANCERS MESSAGE

There could hardly be a worse smell in the world than the odor rising from the dyers' vats. The acrid stench rose to Dustfinger's nostrils even as he was making his way along the alley where the smiths plied their trade – tinkers mending pots and pans, blacksmiths shoeing horses, and on the other side of the road the armorers, who were considered superior to the other smiths and were arrogant as befitted their status. The sound of all the hammers beating on red-hot iron was almost as bad as the smell in the alley. The dyers had their hovels in the most remote part of Ombra; their stinking vats were never tolerated in the better parts of any town. But just as Dustfinger was approaching the gate separating their quarter from the rest of Ombra, a man coming out of an armorer's workshop collided with him.

The Piper. He was easily recognizable by his silver nose, although Dustfinger could remember the days when he had a nose of flesh and blood. Just your luck again, Dustfinger, he told himself, turning his head aside and trying to slip past Capricorn's minstrel quickly. Of all the men in this world, that bloodhound has to cross your path. He was beginning to hope that the Piper hadn't noticed who he had bumped into, but just as he thought he was safely past him the silver-nosed man seized his arm and swung him around.

"Dustfinger!" he said in the strained voice that had once sounded so different. It had always reminded Dustfinger of oversweet cakes. Capricorn had loved to listen to it more than any other voice, and the same was true of the songs it sang. The Piper wrote wonderful songs about fire-raising and murder, so wonderful that they almost made you believe there was no nobler occupation than cutting throats. Did he sing the same songs for the Adderhead – or were they too coarse-grained for the silver halls of the Castle of Night?

"Well, fancy that! I'm inclined to think just about everyone's coming back from the dead these days," said the Piper, while the two men-at-arms with him looked covetously at the weapons displayed outside the armorers' workshops. "I really thought Basta had sliced you up and then buried you years ago. Did you know he's back, too? He and the old woman, Mortola. I'm sure you remember her. The Adderhead was delighted to welcome her to his castle. You know how highly he always thought of her deadly concoctions."

Dustfinger hid the fear pervading his heart behind a smile. "Why, if it isn't the Piper!" he said. "Your new nose suits you much better than the old one. It tells everyone who your new master is and shows that it belongs to a minstrel who can be bought for silver."

The Piper's eyes had not changed. They were pale gray like the sky on a rainy day, and they stared at him with as fixed a gaze as the eyes of a bird. Dustfinger knew from Roxane how he had lost his nose, cut off by a man whose daughter he had seduced with his dark songs.

"You always did have a dangerously sharp tongue, Dustfinger," he said. "It's about time someone finally cut it out. Indeed, wasn't that tried once, and you got away only because the Black Prince and his bear protected you? Are they still looking after you? I don't see them anywhere." He looked around, his eye searching the scene.

Dustfinger cast a quick glance at the two men-at-arms. They were both at least a head taller than him. What would Farid say if he could see me now? he wondered. That I ought to have had him with me so that he could keep his vow? The Piper had a sword, of course, and his hand was already on the hilt. He obviously thought as little as the Black Prince did of the law forbidding strolling players to carry weapons. A good thing the smiths are hammering so loudly, thought Dustfinger, or no doubt everyone would hear my heart beating with fear.

"I must be on my way," he said, as casually as possible. "Give Basta my regards when you see him, and as for burying me, he hasn't done it yet." He turned – it was worth a try – but the Piper held his arm tightly.

"Of course, and there's your marten, too!" he hissed.

Dustfinger felt Jink's damp muzzle against his ear. It's the wrong marten, he thought, trying to calm his racing heart. The wrong marten. But had Fenoglio ever mentioned Gwin's name when he staged Dustfinger's death? With the best will in the world he couldn't remember. I'll have to ask Basta to give me back the book so that I can look it up, he thought bitterly. He signaled to Jink to get back into the backpack. Better not think about that.

The Piper was still holding his arm. He wore pale leather gloves, finely stitched like a lady's. "The Adderhead will soon be here," he told Dustfinger in an undertone. "He didn't care at all for the news of his son-in-law's strange return to life. He thinks the whole business is a wicked masquerade designed to cheat his defenseless grandson of the throne."

Four guards came down the street wearing the Laughing Prince's colors: Cosimo's colors now. Dustfinger had never in his life been so glad to see armed men. The Piper let go of his arm.

"We'll meet again soon," he hissed in his noseless voice.

"I daresay," was all that Dustfinger replied. Then he quickly pushed between a couple of ragged boys standing there and staring wide-eyed at a sword, made his way past a woman showing her battered cooking pot to one of the smiths, and disappeared through the dyers' gate.

No one followed him. No one seized him and hauled him back. You have too many enemies, Dustfinger, he thought. He didn't slow down until he came to the tubs from which the vapors of the liquid muck used by the dyers rose. The same miasma hung over the stream that carried the stinking brew under the city wall and down to the river. No wonder the river-nymphs were found only above the place where it flowed into the main waterway.

In the second house Dustfinger tried, they told him where to find Nettle. The woman he had been sent to had eyes red with weeping and was carrying a baby. Without a word, she beckoned him into her house, if a house it could be called. Nettle was bending over a little girl with red cheeks and glazed eyes. At the sight of Dustfinger she straightened up, looking grumpy.

"Roxane asked me to bring you this!"

She glanced briefly at the root, compressed her narrow lips, and nodded.

"What's wrong with the girl?" he asked. The child's mother had sat down by the bed again.

Nettle shrugged. She seemed to be wearing the same moss-green garment as she did ten years ago – and obviously she still liked him as little as ever.

"A high fever, but she'll survive," she replied. "It's not half as bad as the one that killed your daughter… while her father was off jaunting around the world!" She looked him in the face as she said that, as if to make sure that her words went home, but Dustfinger knew how to hide pain. He was almost as good at hiding pain as he was at playing with fire.

"The root is dangerous," he said.

"Do you think you have to tell me that?" The old woman looked at him as if he had insulted her. "The wound it's to heal is dangerous, too. He's a strong man or he'd be dead by now."

"Do I know him?"

"You know his wife."

What was the old woman talking about? Dustfinger glanced at the sick child. Her small face was flushed with fever.

"I heard that Roxane's let you back into her bed again," said Nettle. "You can tell her she's more of a fool than I thought. And now go around behind the house. Cloud-Dancer's there. He can tell you more about the other woman. She gave him a message for you."

Cloud-Dancer was standing beside a stunted oleander bush that grew near the dyers' huts.

"That poor child, did you see her?" he asked as Dustfinger came over to him. "I can't bear to see them so sick. And the mothers… you'd think they'd weep their eyes away. I remember how Roxane -" But here he broke off abruptly. "Sorry," he murmured, putting his hand into the breast of his dirty tunic, "I was forgetting she was your child, too. Here, this is for you." He brought out a note on fine, pure white paper such as Dustfinger had never seen in this world before. "A woman gave me this for you. Nettle found her and her husband in the forest, in Capricorn's old fortress, and took them to the Secret Camp. The man's wounded, quite badly."

Hesitantly, Dustfinger unfolded the paper. He recognized the writing at once.

"She says she knows you. I told her you can't read, but -"

"I can read now," Dustfinger interrupted him. "She taught me."

How did she come to be here? That was all he could think of as Resa's words danced before his eyes. The paper was so crumpled that it was difficult to decipher them. Not that reading had ever come easily to him…

"Yes, she said so, too: 'I taught him,' she told me." Cloud-Dancer looked at him curiously. "Where did you get to know the woman?"

"It's a long story." He put the note in his backpack. "I must be off," he said.

"We're going back this evening, Nettle and I!" Cloud-Dancer called after him. "Shall I tell the woman anything?"

"Yes. Tell her I'll bring her daughter to her."

Cosimo's soldiers were still standing in Smiths' Alley, assessing the merits of a sword, something an ordinary man-at-arms could never afford. There was no sign of the Piper. Brightly colored strips of fabric hung from the windows: Ombra was celebrating the return of its dead prince, but Dustfinger was in no mood to celebrate. The words in his backpack weighed heavily on him, even if he had to admit that it gave him bitter satisfaction to see that Silvertongue obviously had even less luck in this world than he, Dustfinger, had known in Silvertongue's. Did he know what it felt like to be in the wrong story now? Or hadn't he had time to feel anything before Mortola shot him?

People were thronging the street leading up to the castle as if it were market day. Dustfinger looked up at the towers, from which black banners still flew. What did his daughter think of the return of her mistress's husband? Even if you were to ask Brianna, she wouldn't tell you, he thought, turning back to the gate. It was time to get out of here before he encountered the Piper again. Or even his master…

Meggie was already waiting with Farid under the empty gallows. The boy whispered something to her, and she laughed. By fire and ashes, thought Dustfinger, see how happy those two look, and you have to be the bearer of bad news yet again! Why is it always you? Simple, he answered himself. Bad news suits your face better than good news.