"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.
35. INK-MEDICINE
The memory of my father is wrapped up in
White paper, like sandwiches taken for a day of work.
Just as a magician takes towers and rabbits
Out of his hat, he drew love from his small body.
Yehuda Amichai, "My Father," Isibongo
Meggie stopped laughing as soon as she saw Dustfinger approaching her. Why was his face so grave? Farid had said he was happy. Was it the sight of her that made him look so grim? Was he angry with her because she had followed him into his story, and her face reminded him of years that he surely wanted to forget? "What does he want to talk to me about?" she had asked Farid.
"Probably Fenoglio," Farid had said. "And probably Cosimo, too. He wants to know what the old man is planning!" As if she could have told Dustfinger that…
When he stopped in front of her, there was not a sign on his face of the smile that she had always found so hard to interpret. "Hello, Meggie," he said. A marten blinked sleepily out of his backpack, but it wasn't Gwin. Gwin was sitting on Farid's shoulders and hissed as the other marten's nose showed above Dustfinger's shoulder.
"Hello," she said awkwardly. "How are you?" It was strange to see him again. She felt both pleased and distrustful.
Behind them, people were flowing ceaselessly toward the city gate: peasants, tradesmen, entertainers, beggars, everyone who had heard of Cosimo's return. Although there were no telephones or newspapers in this world, and only the rich wrote letters, news traveled fast here.
"Fine! Yes, I'm really fine!" Now he was smiling after all and not in his usual enigmatic way. Farid had told the truth. Dustfinger was happy. It almost seemed to embarrass him. His face looked so much younger, in spite of the scars; but suddenly it turned grave again.
The other marten jumped down on the ground when his master took the backpack off his shoulders and brought out a piece of paper. "I'd meant to talk to you about Cosimo, our prince who has so surprisingly come back from the dead," he said, unfolding the crumpled piece of paper. "But I think I'd better show you this first."
Baffled, Meggie took the note. When she saw the handwriting, she looked at Dustfinger with incredulity. How had he come by a letter from her mother? Here, in this world?
But all he said was: "Read it." And Meggie read it. The words were like a noose going around her neck, drawing tighter with every word, until she could scarcely breathe.
"What is it?" asked Farid uneasily. "What does it say?" He looked at Dustfinger, but Dustfinger did not answer.
As for Meggie, she was staring at Resa's words. "Mortola – Mortola shot Mo?"
Behind them, people were pushing forward to see Cosimo the brand-new Cosimo, but why should she be interested? Nothing else mattered to her now. There was just one thing she wanted to know.
"How…" she said, and looked at Dustfinger in desperation, "how come they're here? And how is Mo? It's not too bad, is it?"
Dustfinger avoided her eyes. "All I know is what it says there," he said. "Mortola shot your father, Resa is with him in the Secret Camp, and she asked me to look for you. A friend brought me her note. He's going back to the camp this morning, with Nettle. She -"
"Nettle? Resa told me about her!" Meggie interrupted him. "She's a healer, a very good one… She'll make Mo better, won't she?"
"Of course," said Dustfinger, but he still didn't look at her.
Farid's gaze moved from him to Meggie in confusion. "Mortola shot Silvertongue?" he stammered. "Then the root's for him! But you said it was dangerous!"
Dustfinger cast him a warning glance, and Farid fell silent.
"Dangerous?" whispered Meggie. "What's dangerous?"
"Nothing, nothing at all. I'll take you to them right away." Dustfinger slung the backpack over his shoulder. "Go to Fenoglio and tell him you'll be away for a few days. Tell him Farid and I will be with you. I don't suppose the news will relieve his mind very much, but that's too bad. Don't say where we're going, and don't say why! News travels fast in these hills, and it would be better," he added, lowering his voice, "if Mortola doesn't find out that your father is still alive. The camp where he is now is known only to the strolling players, and they've all had to swear an oath never to let anyone who isn't one of us know about the place. But all the same…"