"The Bluejay?" The landlord stared in amazement. "You have the Bluejay on that cart?" When Firefox cast him a warning glance, he quickly put his fat fingers to his mouth. "Not a word!" he uttered. "No one will hear a word of it from me."
"I should hope not," growled Firefox, and looked around as if to make sure that no one else had heard what he said.
When the soldiers lifted Mo off the cart, Meggie instinctively took a step forward, but Farid dragged her back. "Meggie, what's the matter with you?" he hissed. "If you carry on like this they'll shut you up, too. Do you think that will help anyone?"
Meggie shook her head. "He really is still alive, Farid, isn't he?" she whispered. She was almost afraid to believe it.
"Yes, of course. I told you so. Don't look so sad. Everything will turn out all right, you wait and see!" Farid caressed her forehead and kissed the tears from her eyelashes.
"Hey, you two lovebirds, get away from the horses!"
The Piper was standing before them. Meggie bent her head, although she was sure he wouldn't recognize her. She had been just a girl in a dirty dress when he almost rode her down in the Ombra marketplace. Today he was once again more splendidly clothed than any of the strolling players Meggie had yet seen. His silken garments shimmered like a peacock's tail, and the rings on his fingers were genuine silver, like the nose on his face. Obviously, the Adderhead paid well for songs that pleased him.
The Piper looked hard at them again, and then strolled over to Firefox. "Well, so you're back from the forest!" he called from some way off. "And with rich booty, so I've heard. Looks as if one of your spies wasn't lying for a change. Good news for the Adderhead at last."
Firefox replied, but Meggie wasn't listening. The snotty-nosed boy came back with the moss-woman, a short little creature who hardly came up to his shoulder. Her skin was gray as beech bark, her face as wrinkled as a shriveled apple. Moss-women, healers… Before Farid realized what she meant to do, Meggie had slipped away from him. The moss-woman would know how Mo really was. She made her way as close as she could to the little woman, until only the boy stood between them. The moss-woman's smock was stained with meat juices from the spit, and her feet were bare, but she inspected the men standing around her with fearless eyes.
"Sure as I live, a genuine moss-woman," growled Firefox, while his men retreated from the tiny woman as if she were as dangerous as the Black Prince's bear. "I thought they never came out of the forest. But yes, apparently they know something about healing. Don't folk say that old witch Nettle's mother was a moss-woman?"
"Yes, but her father was useless." The little woman scrutinized Firefox as intently as if she were trying to find out what kind of blood flowed in his veins. "You drink too much," she observed. "Just look at your face. Carry on like this and your liver will soon burst like an overripe pumpkin."
A ripple of laughter ran through the onlookers, but a glance from Firefox silenced them. "Listen, you're not here to give me advice, she-gnome!" he snapped at the moss-woman. "I want you to look at one of my prisoners. He has to reach the Adderhead's castle alive."
"Yes, I know all that," replied the moss-woman, still examining his face with disapproval. "So that your master can kill him by all the rules of the executioner's trade. Fetch me water. Hot water and clean towels. And I want someone to help me."
Firefox nodded to the boy. "If you want a helper, pick one for yourself," he growled, and surreptitiously felt his stomach, where he presumably supposed his liver was located.
"One of your men? No, thank you." The moss-woman wrinkled up her little nose scornfully and looked around until her eye fell on Meggie. "That one will do," said the little creature. "She doesn't look too stupid."
And before Meggie knew it, one of the soldiers took her roughly by the shoulder. The last thing she saw before she stumbled into the stable after the moss-woman was the expression of alarm on Farid's face.
42. A FAMILIAR FACE
Believe me. Sometimes when life looks to be at its grimmest, there's a light hidden at the heart of things.
Clive Barker, Abarat
Mo was conscious as the moss-woman kneeled down beside him. He sat leaning back against the damp wall, his eyes searching all the prisoners crouching in the dimly lit stable, looking for Resa's face. He didn't see Meggie until the little woman impatiently beckoned her over. Of course he realized at once that even a smile would have given her away, but it was so hard for him not to take her in his arms, so hard to hide the joy and fear that struggled for his heart at the sight of her.
"What are you standing around for?" the old woman snapped at Meggie. "Come here, you stupid thing!" Mo could have shaken her, but Meggie just kneeled down quickly beside her and took the bloodstained bandages that the old woman was none too gently cutting away from his chest. Don't stare at her, thought Mo, forcing his eyes to look anywhere else: at the old woman's hands, at the other prisoners, not at his daughter. Had Resa seen
her, too? She's all right, he thought. Yes, definitely. She wasn't any thinner than usual, and she didn't seem to be sick or injured, either. If only he could at least have exchanged a word with her!
"By fairy spit, what's the matter with you?" asked the little woman roughly as Meggie almost spilled the water she was handing her. "I might just as well have taken one of the soldiers." She began feeling Mo's injuries with her barklike fingers. It hurt, but he clenched his teeth so that Meggie wouldn't notice.
"Are you always so hard on her?" he asked the old woman.
The little moss-woman muttered something incomprehensible without looking at him, but Meggie ventured a quick glance, and he smiled at her, hoping she wouldn't notice the concern in his eyes, his alarm at seeing her again in this of all places, among all the soldiers. Be careful, Meggie, he tried to tell her with his eyes. How her lips were quivering, probably with all the words that she couldn't say aloud, any more than he could! But it was so good to see her. Even in this place. In all those days and nights of fever, he had so often felt sure that he would never see her face again!
"Hurry up, can't you?" Suddenly, Firefox was standing right behind Meggie, and at the sound of his voice she quickly bowed her head and held out the bowl of water to the little old woman again.
"This is a nasty wound!" remarked the moss-woman. "I'm surprised you're still alive."
"Yes, strange, isn't it?" Mo was as much aware of Meggie's glance as if it were the pressure of her hand. "Perhaps the fairies whispered a few words of healing in my ear."
"Words of healing?" The moss-woman wrinkled up her nose. "What kind of words would those be? Fairies' gossip is as stupid and useless as fairies themselves."
"Well, then someone else must have whispered them to me."
Mo saw how pale Meggie turned as she helped the moss-woman rebandage his wound, the wound that hadn't killed him. It's nothing, Meggie, he wanted to say, I'm fine – but all he could do was look at her again, only in passing, as if her face meant no more to him than any other.
"Believe it or not," he told the old woman, "I did hear the words. Beautiful words. At first I thought it was my wife's voice, but then I realized it was my daughter's. I heard her voice as clearly as if she were sitting here beside me."
"Yes, yes, folk hear all kinds of things in a fever!" replied the moss-woman brusquely. "I've heard of those who swore the dead spoke to them. The dead, angels, demons… A fever will summon up whole troops of them." She turned to Firefox. "I have an ointment that will help him," she said, "and I'll brew up something for him to drink. I can't do any more." When she turned her back on them, Meggie quickly put her hand on Mo's fingers. No one noticed, nor did they notice the gentle pressure he gave her hand in return. He smiled at her again, and only when the moss-woman turned again did he quickly look aside. "You ought to look at his leg, too!" he said, nodding toward the strolling player lying asleep beside him on the straw, exhausted.