The house where Fenoglio was lodging reminded Orpheus of places where he himself had lived not so long ago: a shabby building, crooked, leaning sideways, with moldy walls and windows offering a view only of other dilapidated houses. The rain fell inside it, too, because in this world windowpanes were only for the rich! Pitiful. How he hated hiding in the darkest corner of the backyard, where spiders crawled into his velvet sleeves and chicken droppings ruined his expensive boots. But what else could he do? Ever since Basta had killed a strolling player before her very eyes, Fenoglio's landlady went with a pitchfork for anyone loitering in her yard. And Orpheus had to know. He had to know if Fenoglio was writing again. He just hoped that useless glass man would come back before he was up to his knees in mud!
A thin chicken strutted by, and beside him Cerberus growled. Orpheus hastily held his muzzle shut. He'd been glad when Cerberus suddenly came scratching at his door, of course, but one question had immediately spoiled his pleasure – how did the dog come to be here? Was Fenoglio writing again after all? Had Dustfinger taken the book to the old man? None of it made any sense, but he had to know. Who but Fenoglio could have dreamed up the touching scene performed by the Bluejay outside the castle? How much everyone loved the bookbinder for it! Even though by now the Piper must have beaten him half to death, he had become godlike when he rode through the gates of that damn castle. The Bluejay as a noble sacrificial lamb. If that didn't sound like Fenoglio, he'd eat his hat!
Naturally, Orpheus had sent Oss with the glass man at first, but his bodyguard had let Fenoglio's landlady catch him. There was no dark corner where that great hulk could lurk unseen, and Ironstone hadn't even reached the stairs leading to Fenoglio's room. A chicken had chased him through the mud and a cat had almost bitten his head off – you certainly couldn't say that glass men made ideal spies, but their small size came in so handy! The same was true of fairies, of course, but they forgot the least little errand before they'd even flown out of the window – and after all, Fenoglio himself used his glass man as a spy, although he was lamentably unfit for the job.
No, Ironstone was much better at it. However, unlike Fenoglio's glass man, he suffered from vertigo, which made it impossible for him to cross rooftops, and even on the ground he was so bad at finding his way that Orpheus found it better to put him down at the foot of Fenoglio's stairs, if he wanted to be sure he wouldn't get hopelessly lost.
But where the devil was he now? Admittedly, climbing those stairs was like scaling a mountain for a glass man, but all the same… There was a goat bleating noisily in the shed behind which Orpheus was standing – it had probably caught the dog's scent – and some kind of liquid was seeping through the leather of his boots. Its smell was suspiciously appealing to Cerberus, who was snuffling around in the mud so greedily that Orpheus had to keep tugging him away from it.
Ah, here came Ironstone at last! He jumped from step to step, nimble as a mouse. Fabulous. For a glass man, he was a tough little fellow. It was to be hoped that what he'd found out was worth the ruin of those expensive boots.
Orpheus bent down to Cerberus's collar and took off the chain, which for want of a dog leash he had ordered in Smiths' Alley. Cerberus trotted over to the stairs and plucked the protesting glass man off the bottom step. Ironstone claimed that the dog's slobber brought his glass skin out in a rash, but how else was he going to get through the mud with those thin legs of his? An old woman looked out of her window as the dog trotted back to Orpheus, but luckily it wasn't Fenoglio's landlady.
"Well?" Cerberus dropped the glass man into his outstretched hands. Ugh! Dog slobber really was disgusting.
"He's not writing. Not a line!" Ironstone passed his sleeve over His moist face. "I told you so, master! He's drunk himself silly. His fingers shake if he so much as sees a pen!"
Orpheus looked up at Fenoglio's room. Light showed underneath the door. Ironstone, who was slippery as an eel, always crawled through the broad crack underneath it.
"Are you sure?" He fastened the chain to Cerberus's collar again.
"Absolutely sure! And he doesn't have the book, either. He has visitors, though."
The old woman tipped a bucket of water out of her window. Assuming it was water. Once again Cerberus was snuffling around with far too much interest.
"Visitors? I don't want to know about them. But whatever it looks like, I'm sure he's writing again!"
Orpheus looked up at the dilapidated houses. A candle burned in every window. They were burning all over Ombra. For the Bluejay. Curse him! Curse them alclass="underline" Fenoglio and Mortimer, his stupid daughter – and Dustfinger. He cursed the Fire-Dancer most of all. Dustfinger had betrayed him – stolen from him, Orpheus, whose heart had been given to him for so many years, who had read him home to his own story and snatched him away from Death! What was it they called him now? The Bluejay's fiery shadow. A shadow! It served him right. He, Orpheus, would have made him more than a shadow in this story, but that was over and done with. He had declared war on them all. He was going to write them a story that was to his own liking – just as soon as he had the book back!
A child came out of the house and ran barefoot over the muddy yard to disappear into one of the outbuildings. Time to get out of here. Orpheus mopped the dog slobber off Ironstone with a cloth, put him on his shoulder, and stole away before the child came out again. Away from this filth – not that it was much better in the streets.
"Blank sheets, nothing but blank sheets, master!" Ironstone whispered to him as they hurried back through the night to Orpheus's house. "No more than a few sentences, and those were crossed out… That's all, I swear! His glass man almost spotted me today, but I managed to hide in one of his master's boots just in time. You can't imagine how it stank in there!"
Oh yes, he could. "I'll have one of the maids soap you all over."
"No, no, better not. Last time the soapsuds left me belching for more than an hour, and my feet turned white as milk!"
"So? You think I'm letting a glass man who stinks of sweaty feet march all over my parchment?"
A night watchman came toward them, swaying as he walked. Why were those fellows always drunk? Orpheus pressed a few copper coins into the man's wrinkled hand, in case he was thinking of calling a patrol. Now that the Bluejay was a prisoner in the castle, troops of soldiers were out and about in Ombra night and day.
"How about the book? Did you really search for it thoroughly?"
Two boards in Butchers' Alley sang the praises of fresh unicorn meat. Ridiculous. Where was anyone supposed to get that? Orpheus turned into Glaziers' Alley, although Ironstone hated going that way.
"Well, it wasn't easy." Ironstone looked nervously at the notices advertising artificial limbs for broken glass men. "Like I told you, lie has visitors, and with all those eyes to notice things, getting around his room was tricky! I even searched his clothes, all the same, and he nearly shut me up in his chest! But no luck. He doesn't have the book, master, I swear he doesn't!"
"Death and the devil!" Orpheus felt an almost irresistible urge to throw or break something. Ironstone knew these moods of his by now, and clung to his sleeve to be on the safe side.
Who but the old man could have the book? Even if Dustfinger had given it to Mortimer, he certainly hadn't taken it to his dungeon with him! No, Dustfinger himself must have kept it. Orpheus felt a burning sensation in his stomach, as bad as if one of Dustfinger's martens were sitting there gnawing his guts. He was familiar with this pain, which always attacked him when something wasn't going as he wanted. A stomach ulcer, that was it. For sure. So? he asked himself. Mind you don't make it even worse, or do you want to have to go to one of the local quacks and have your blood let?