"No, he gets it from me," the Adderhead told him. "A very useful quality for him when he sits on the throne."
The Milksop cast an anxious glance after Jacopo. But the Adderhead struck his brother-in-law's chest with his swollen fist. "Summon your men!" he ordered him. "I have work for you to do."
"Work?" Looking ill at ease, the Milksop raised his brows. He had dusted them with silver, like his wig.
"Yes, for a change you won't be hunting unicorns, you'll be hunting children. Or do you want to let the Black Prince get away with hiding those brats in the forest, while you and the Piper are busy letting my daughter lead you by the nose like dancing bears?"
The Milksop twisted his pale mouth, looking injured. "We had to prepare for your arrival, dear brother-in-law, and try to catch the Bluejay again -"
"In which attempt you weren't particularly successful!" the Adderhead brusquely interrupted him. "Luckily, my daughter has told us where we can find him, and while I recapture the bird you two so generously allowed to go free, you can bring the children here for me – along with that knife-thrower who calls himself a prince, so that he can watch me skin the Jay. I fear his own skin is too black to make parchment, so I'll have to think of something else for him. Fortunately, I am very inventive in such matters. But, to be sure, they say the same of you, don't they?"
The Milksop flushed, obviously flattered, although it was clear that the prospect of hunting children through the forest didn't excite him half as much as a unicorn hunt, perhaps because they were prey that couldn't be eaten.
"Good." The Adderhead turned and walked on unsteady legs toward the door of the hall. "Send me Sootbird and the Piper!" he called over his shoulder. "He should be through with chopping off hands by now. And tell the maids that Jacopo will go with me to the Castle in the Lake. No one spies on his mother better than that child, even though she doesn't especially like him."
The Milksop stared at him expressionlessly. "As you please," he murmured in a thin voice.
But the Adderhead turned once more as the servants scurried to open the heavy door for him.
"As for you, Milkface" – Orpheus couldn't help instinctively giving a start – "I set off at sunset. My brother-in-law will tell you where you must be then. You'll have to bring your own servant, and a tent. And make sure you don't bore me. Parchment could always be made of your skin, too."
"Your Highness!" Orpheus bowed again, although he was feeling weak at the knees. Had he ever played a more dangerous game? But everything will be all right, he told himself. You wait and see, Orpheus. This story is yours. It was written for you alone. No one loves it better, no one understands it better, certainly not the old fool who wrote it in the first place!
The Adderhead had been gone for some time, but Orpheus still stood there as if beguiled by the promise of the future.
"So you're a magician. Fancy that." The Milksop was inspecting him as if he were a caterpillar that had turned into a black moth before his eyes. "Is that why the unicorn was so easy to hunt? Because it wasn't real?"
"Oh, it was real enough," replied Orpheus with a patronizing smile. It was made of the same stuff as you, he added in his mind. This Milksop creature really was a pathetic character. As soon as he could make the words come to life again he'd write a totally ridiculous kind of death for him. Suppose he had him torn to pieces by his own hounds? No. He'd make him choke to death on a chicken bone at one of his banquets, and then have him fall on his silver-dusted face into a large dish of black pudding. That was it. Orpheus couldn't help smiling.
"That smile will soon be wiped off your face!" the Milksop hissed at him. "The Adderhead doesn't like having his expectations disappointed."
"Oh, I'm sure you know that better than anyone," replied Orpheus. "Now kindly show me the library."
43. FOUR BERRIES
On my wall hangs a Japanese mask
of gilded wood, the mask of an evil demon.
With sympathy, I see
the veins at his temples swelling,
showing what a strain it is to be bad.
Bertolt Brecht, "The Mask of Evil"
The marten was worse than the bear. He was watching her, he was chattering her name into the boy's ear (fortunately the boy didn't understand him) and chasing her away. But a time came when the marten followed the boy outside, and the bear just raised his heavy head when she hopped up to the bowl of soup that one of the women had put in front of his master. Nothing was easier to poison than soup. The Black Prince was arguing with Snapper once again, and his back was turned as she dropped the dark red berries into the dish. Five tiny berries, that was all it would take to send the prince of the robbers to another kingdom, one where his bear wouldn't be able to follow him. But just as she was about to let the fifth berry fall from her beak the wretched marten shot toward her, as if even outside he had scented what she was planning. The berry rolled away, and Mortola prayed to all the devils in hell that four would be enough to kill.
The Black Prince. Another high-minded fool. Presumably his heart felt a pang every time he saw a cripple. He'd never help her get hold of the book that would let her bargain with Death, not he. But fortunately men like that were less common than white ravens, and most of them died young. Such men didn't want what made other hearts beat faster: riches, power, fame. No, the Black Prince wasn't interested in any of that. Justice made his heart beat faster. Pity. Love. As if life hadn't treated him just as badly as the others. Kicks and blows, pain and hunger. He'd known more than enough of all that. So where did the pity that motivated him come from? And the warmth of his silly heart, the laughter in his face? He simply didn't see the world as it really was, that was the explanation – neither the world nor the people he felt so sorry for. Because if you did see them for what they were, what on earth would make you want to fight and even die for them?
No, if anyone could help her get her hands on the White Book before the Bluejay wrote in it and ransomed himself from Death, it was Snapper. He was a man after Mortola's own heart. Snapper saw people as they really were: greedy and cowardly, full of self-interest, cunning. Only one kind of injustice had made him a robber, injustice to himself. Mortola knew all about him. One of the Laughing Prince's stewards had seized his farm, the way the powerful classes so often simply took what they wanted. That, and nothing else, had driven him into the forest. Yes, she could deal with Snapper.
Mortola knew exactly how to harness him for her own purposes once the Black Prince was once out of the way. "What are you all still doing here, Snapper?" she would whisper to him. "There are more important things in life than looking after a few snotty-nosed children! The Bluejay knows why he's really landed you with them. He's planning to sell you all! You must kill him before he throws in his lot with the Adderhead's daughter. How did he try fooling you – by saying he only wanted to write in the White Book to kill the Adderhead? Nonsense! He wants to make himself immortal! And there's something else I'm sure he hasn't told you. The White Book doesn't just keep Death at bay, it makes its owner rich beyond the dreams of avarice!"
Oh yes, Mortola knew how Snapper's eyes would light up at those words. He didn't understand what made the Bluejay tick. Nor would he understand that she herself wanted the Book only to buy her son back from Death. But he would certainly set off at once with the prospect of gold and silver before his eyes. As soon as the Black Prince couldn't stop him anymore… and luckily the berries worked fast.
Gecko called to her. He had filled his hand with bread crumbs and was holding it up as if there were nothing tastier in the world. What a fool. Thought he knew something about birds. Well, perhaps he really did. After all, she was no ordinary bird. Mortola uttered a hoarse laugh. It sounded strange, coming from that pointed beak, and the Strong Man raised his head and looked up at the rocky ledge where she was perching. Yes, he knew about birds and what they said. She'd have to watch him carefully. "Oh, never mind, kek-kek-kek, kraaa!" said the magpie in her, the magpie that thought only of worms and shiny things and the gleam of its black feathers. "They're all fools, fools, such fools. But I am clever. Come along, old woman, let's fly after the Bluejay and Peck out his eyes. What fun!"