Inkdeath by Cornelia Funke Page A

that Mo could feel the old man’s fear. Did he think they could simply turn and walk out of the door? A guard would surely have been posted outside some time ago, and even if not, there were soldiers waiting at the bottom of the stairs. How quickly you got used to the way they could appear at any moment, armed with the power to take a man away, imprison him, or kill him with impunity. . . . How Balbulus’s colors glowed! Vermilion, sienna, burnt umber. . .
    how beautiful they were. Beauty that had lured him into a trap. Most birds were trapped with bread and a few tasty seeds, but the Bluejay could be caught by words and pictures.

    "I really don’t know what you’re talking about, highly esteemed Balbulus!"
    stammered Fenoglio. His fingers were still clutching Mo’s arm. "The. . . er. . .
    librarian at the Castle of Night? No. No, Mortimer’s never worked on the other side of the forest. He comes from. . . from the north, yes, that’s it."

    What a terrible liar the old man was. You’d have thought someone who made up stories could tell better lies. However that might be, Mo himself was no good at lying, either, so he kept quiet, silently cursing his curiosity, his impatience, his recklessness, while Balbulus went on staring at him. What had made him think he could simply discard the part he was expected to play in this world by putting on a few black clothes? What had made him think he could go back to being Mortimer the bookbinder for a few hours here in Ombra Castle?

    "Oh, be quiet, Inkweaver!" Balbulus snapped at Fenoglio. "Just how much of a fool do you think I am? Of course I knew who he was the moment you mentioned him. A true master of his art.’ Isn’t that how you put it? Words can be very treacherous, as you really should know by now."

    Fenoglio did not reply. Mo felt for the knife that the Black Prince had given him when they set out from Mount Adder. "From now on you must always have it with you," the Prince had told him, "even when you lie down to sleep." Mo had followed his advice, but what use would a knife be to him here? He’d be dead before he reached the foot of the stairs. For all he knew, maybe Jacopo himself had immediately realized who was standing in front of him and had raised the alarm, too.
    Come quick, the Blueiay’S flown into the cage of his own free will!

    I’m sorry, Meggie, thought Mo. Your father is an idiot. You rescued him from the Castle of Night only for him to get himself captured in another castle. Why hadn’t he listened to her when she saw Sootbird in the marketplace?

    Had Fenoglio ever written a song about the Bluejay’s fear? The fear didn’t come when he had to fight, not then. It came when he thought of fetters, chains, and dungeons, and desperation behind barred doors. Like now. He tasted fear on his tongue, felt it in his guts and his knees. At least an illuminator’s workshop is the right place for a bookbinder to die, he thought. But the Bluejay was back now, cursing the bookbinder for being so reckless.

    "Do you know what particularly impressed Taddeo?" Balbulus flicked a little powdered paint off his sleeve. Yellow as pollen, it clung to the dark blue velvet.
    "Your hands. He thought it astonishing that hands that knew so much about killing could treat the pages of a book with such care. And you do have beautiful hands.
    Look at mine, now!" Balbulus spread his fingers and examined them with distaste.
    "A peasant’s hands. Large and Coarse. All the same, would you like to see what they can do?"

    And at last he stood aside and waved them over, like a conjuror raising the curtain on his show. Fenoglio tried to hold Mo back, but if he’d fallen into the trap, then he meant at least to taste the bait that would cost him his life.

    There they were. Illuminated pages even better than those he had seen in the Castle of Night. Balbulus had adorned one of them with nothing but his own initial. The B
    spread right across the parchment, clad in gold and dark