Ironstone was crouching on his shoulder, silent and depressed, probably thinking about the soapy water ahead of him. However, Cerberus was sniffing every wall he padded past. No wonder dogs liked this world – it stank to high heaven. I'd change that, too, thought Orpheus. And I'd write myself a better spy, one as tiny as a spider and definitely not made of glass. But you won't be writing anything here anymore, Orpheus, a voice whispered inside him, because you've lost the book!
Cursing, he quickened his pace, hauling Cerberus impatiently along with him – only to tread in cat dirt. Mud, chicken droppings, cat dirt… His boots were ruined, and where was he going to get the silver for a new pair? His last attempt to write himself a chest of treasure on Gallows Hill had been a dismal failure, producing coins as thin as silver foil.
At last. There it was in all its glory. His house. The finest house in Ombra. His heartbeat always quickened when he saw the front steps shining in the darkness, white as alabaster, and the coat of arms over the entrance that made even Orpheus himself believe he was of royal descent. No, up to now things really hadn't gone badly for him here. He had to keep reminding himself of that when he felt like smashing glass men or wishing a plague of boils on the neck of a certain skinny Arab boy. Not to mention ungrateful fire-eaters!
Orpheus stopped suddenly. A bird was perching on the steps. It sat as if it intended to build a nest right there on the spot. It didn't fly away even when Orpheus came closer, but just stared at him with its black button eyes. Birds – he hated them. They left their droppings everywhere. And all that fluttering, those sharp beaks, those feathers full of mites and worm eggs…
Orpheus undid the chain from Cerberus's collar. "Go on, catch it!"
Cerberus loved to chase birds, and now and then he even caught one. But this time he put his tail between his back legs and retreated as if a snake were wriggling there on the steps of Orpheus's house. What the devil…?
The bird jerked its head and hopped one step lower.
Cerberus ducked, and the glass man clung uneasily to Orpheus's collar. "It's a magpie, master!" he whispered in his ear. "They…" His voice almost failed him. "They smash glass men and collect the colored splinters for their nests! Please, master, chase it away!"
The magpie jerked its head again and stared at him. This was a strange bird, decidedly strange.
Orpheus bent and threw a stone at it. The magpie spread its wings and uttered a hoarse cry.
"Oh, master, master, it's going to smash me to pieces!" wailed Ironstone, clinging to his ear. "Gray glass men are very rare!"
This time the magpie's cry sounded like laughter.
"You still look as stupid as ever, Orpheus."
He knew the voice at once.
The magpie stretched its neck. It coughed as if it were choking on grain pecked up too greedily. Then it spat out some seeds on the alabaster-white steps – one, two, three seeds – and began to grow.
Cerberus cowered behind his legs, and Ironstone was trembling so pitifully that his limbs clattered like china in a picnic basket.
But the magpie went on growing. Feathers became black clothes, gray hair pinned severely back, fingers hastily counting the seeds that the bird's beak had spat out onto the steps. Mortola looked older than Orpheus remembered her, much older. Her shoulders were hunched, even when she stood up. Her fingers curled over like the claws of a bird, her face was gaunt under the high cheekbones, and her skin was the color of yellowed parchment. But her eyes were still piercing and made Orpheus bow his head like a boy being scolded.
"How – how do you do that?" he stammered. "Fenoglio's book says nothing about shape-shifters! Only about Night-Mares and -"
"Fenoglio! What does he know?" Mortola plucked a feather off her black dress. "Everything changes shape in this world, only most have to die first. But there are ways and means" – and as she spoke she carefully dropped the seeds she had picked up into a leather bag – "for people to free themselves from their own shapes without any need for the White Women."
"Really?" Orpheus immediately began wondering what kind of possibilities that opened up for this story, but Mortola didn't give him any time to think it over.
"You've settled into this world in fine style, haven't you?" she murmured, looking up at his house. "Four-Eyes, the milky- bearded merchant from across the sea, who trades in unicorns and dwarves and can read every wish of the new lord of Ombra in his eyes – well, I thought to myself, bless me if that isn't my dear friend Orpheus! He's obviously managed to read himself here. And you've even brought that nasty dog along with you."
Cerberus bared his teeth, but Ironstone was still trembling. Glass men really were absurd creatures. And to think Fenoglio was proud of them!
"What do you want?" Orpheus did his best to sound cool and superior, not like the frightened little boy he became only too easily in Mortola's presence. She still terrified him, he had to admit it.
Footsteps echoed through the night, presumably from one of the patrols sent out by the Piper to comb Ombra in case the Black Prince found some way of freeing his noble fellow-fighter after all.
"Do you always welcome your guests outside the door?" hissed Mortola. "Come on, time we went in!"
Orpheus had to bring the bronze knocker down on the wood three times before Oss opened the door. He blinked sleepily down at Mortola.
"Is this that wardrobe-man from the other world or a new one?" asked Mortola, pushing her way past Oss with her skirts rustling.
"A new one," muttered Orpheus, whose mind was still trying to work out whether it was a good thing she was back or not. Wasn't she supposed to be dead? But it was becoming clearer all the time that you couldn't rely on Death in this world. Which was both reassuring and alarming.
He took Mortola, not to his study, but into the reception room. The old woman looked around as if everything in it were hers. No, very likely it wasn't a good thing she was back. And what did she want of him? He could imagine: Mortimer. For sure she still wanted to kill him. Mortola didn't abandon such plans easily – particularly not where her son's murderer was concerned. In this case, however, it looked like other people were ahead of her in line.
"So now the bookbinder really is the Bluejay!" she remarked, as if Orpheus had spoken his thoughts out loud. "How many more ridiculous songs are they going to sing about him? Hailing him as their savior… as if we hadn't brought him to this world in the first place! And the Adderhead, instead of hunting him down after he killed his best men on Mount Adder, blames Mortola for his escape and for the way the flesh is rotting on his own bones. I knew at once it must be the White Book. Silvertongue is wily, but his innocent look deceives them all, and the Adder handed me, not him, over to the torturers, to get the name of the poison. I still feel the pain of it today, but I outwitted them – I made them bring me seeds and herbs, saying I'd brew them an antidote for their master. Instead I made myself wings to fly away. I listened to the wind and to the gossip in marketplaces to find the bookbinder, and I discovered he really was playing the robber, and the Black Prince had found him a hiding place. It was a good hiding place, too, but I found it all the same." Mortola pursed her lips while she spoke, as if she felt she still had a beak. "How I had to control myself not to peck out his eyes when I saw him again! There's no hurry, Mortola, I thought. Being in a hurry has spoiled your fine revenge once already. Sprinkle a few poisonous berries in his food, leaving him to writhe like a worm and die slowly enough for you to enjoy your revenge. But some stupid crow pecked the berries out of his dish, and the next time I tried it the bear snapped at me with his stinking muzzle and pulled out two of my tail feathers. I tried again in the camp where the Black Prince took them – him and his daughter and that deceitful maid – but the wrong man ate from that dish. 'Poisonous fungi,' they said, 'he's eaten poisonous fungi!'"