Cornelia Funke - Inkheart

"I saw something like that once, " said Farid, "so it's all right for you to tell me about it. If the executioner is good with a sword it's all over quite fast. "

Silvertongue looked at him for a moment, astonished, and then shook his head. "It's not an executioner," he said. "At least, not a man with a sword. Not a man at all. "

Farid turned pale. "Not a man?"

Silvertongue shook his head. It was some time before he went on. "They call him the Shadow, " he said in an expressionless voice. "I don't remember the exact words describing him in the book. All I know is that I pictured him to myself as a figure made completely of burning ashes, red and gray. And without a face."

Farid stared at him. For a moment he wished he hadn't asked.

"They – they're all looking forward to this execution, " he said in a faltering voice. "Those Black Jackets are in a really good mood. They're going to kill the woman Dustfinger was visiting as well. Because she tried to find the book for him. " He burrowed his bare toes into the earth. Dustfinger had tried to get him used to wearing shoes because of the snakes, but when you wore shoes you felt as if someone was pinching your toes, so in the end he'd thrown them on the fire.

"What woman? One of Capricorn's maids?" Silvertongue looked at him with a gleam in his eyes.

Farid nodded. He rubbed his toes. They were covered with ant bites. "She can't talk. Dumb as a sand fly. Dustfinger has a photo of her in his backpack. She's probably helped him quite often. And I think he's in love with her. "

It hadn't been difficult for Farid to explore the village. There were lots of boys there no older than him. They washed the cars for the Black Jackets, cleaned their boots and their guns, delivered love letters. He'd delivered love letters himself in that other life. He hadn't had to clean boots, but weapons, yes – and he'd had to shovel camel dung. Polishing cars was much lighter work.

Silvertongue looked up at the sky. Tiny clouds were drifting by, pale as a heron's feathers, ruffled like acacia flowers. Clouds often passed across this sky. Farid liked that. The desert sky he had known before was always empty,

"Tomorrow, " murmured Silvertongue. "What am I to do? How am I going to get her out of Capricorn's house? Perhaps I can get in somehow by night. I'd need one of those black suits the -"

"I've brought you one. " Farid took first the jacket, then the pants out of the backpack. "Stole them off a clothesline. And a dress for Elinor."

Silvertongue looked at him with such obvious admiration that Farid blushed. "What an extraordinary fellow you are! Perhaps I should ask you how I'm going to get Meggie out of this village. "

Farid smiled awkwardly and looked at his toes. Ask him? No one had ever asked him for his ideas before. He had always been the scout, the tracker dog. Others had made the plans for robberies, raids, revenge. You didn't ask the dog's opinion. You beat the dog if he didn't obey. "There are only two of us, and there are at least twenty of them down there, " he said. "It won't be easy…"

Silvertongue looked over at their campsite and the woman asleep under the trees. "Aren't you counting Elinor? You should! She's much fiercer than I am, and just at the moment she is very, very angry. "

Farid had to smile. "All right, three!" he said. "Three against twenty. "

"Yes, I know, that doesn't sound good. " Silvertongue stood up, sighing. "Come on, let's tell Elinor what you've found out, " he said, but Farid stayed where he was in the grass. He picked up one of the dry branches lying everywhere. First-class firewood. There was any amount of it here. In his old life, people would have gone a long, long way for wood like this. They'd have given good money for it. Farid looked at the wood, rubbed his finger over the rough bark, and looked at Capricorn's village.

"We could get fire to help us, " he said.

Silvertongue looked at him blankly. "What do you mean?"

Farid picked up another stick, and another. He heaped them all up, all the dry twigs and branches. "Dustfinger showed me how to tame fire. It's like Gwin: It bites if you don't know how to handle it, but if you treat it properly it does as you want. That's what Dustfinger taught me. If we use it at the right time, in the right place…"

Silvertongue bent down, picked up one of the branches, and weighed it in his hand. "And how are you going to control it once you've got a fire going? It hasn't rained for ages. The hills will be ablaze before you know it. "

Farid shrugged. "Only if the wind blows the wrong way. "

But Silvertongue shook his head. "No, " he said firmly. "I won't play with fire in these hills unless I can't think of anything else. Let's steal into the village tonight. Maybe we can get past the guards. Maybe they know each other so little they'll think I'm one of them. After all, we managed to slip through their fingers once, so maybe we can do it again."

"That's a lot of maybes, " said Farid.

"I know!" replied Silvertongue. "I know. "

It took Fenoglio only a few words to persuade the guard outside the door that he had to speak to Basta at once. The old man was a gifted liar. He could spin stories out of thin air faster than a spider spins its web.

"What do you want, old man?" asked Basta when he was standing in the doorway. He had brought the tin soldier. "Here, little witch!" he said to Meggie, handing her the soldier. "I'd have thrown it on the fire, but nobody here listens to me these days."

The tin soldier started at the word fire. His mustache bristled, and his eyes looked so alarmed it touched Meggie's heart. When she put her hands protectively around him she thought she felt his heart beating. She remembered the end of his story: The soldier melted. The next day when the maid emptied the stove, she found a little tin heart, which was all that was left of him.

"That's right, no one listens to you anymore. I can see that for myself!" Fenoglio looked sympathetically at Basta, as a father might look at his son – which in a way he was. "And that's why I wanted a word with you. " He lowered his voice and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm offering you a deal. "

"A deal?" Basta scrutinized him with a mixture of wariness and arrogance.

"Yes, a deal, " repeated Fenoglio softly. "I'm bored here! I'm a scribbler, as you so aptly put it, I need paper to live on much as other people need bread and wine and so forth. Bring me some paper, Basta, and I'll help you to get those keys back. You remember – the keys that the Magpie took away from you."

Basta took out his knife. When he snapped it open the tin soldier began trembling so much that the bayonet slipped from his tiny hands. "How?" asked Basta, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of the knife.

Fenoglio bent down to him. "I'll write you a magic charm to put a hex on Mortola – a hex that will keep her in bed for weeks and give you time to show Capricorn you are the rightful keeper of the keys. Of course, that kind of charm doesn't work instantly, it needs time, but believe you me, when it does start to take effect…" Fenoglio raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

But Basta only wrinkled his nose in scorn. "I've already tried with spiders. And parsley and salt. The old woman's proof against them all."

"Parsley and spiders!" Fenoglio laughed quietly. "What a fool you are, Basta! I'm not talking about children's magic. I mean the magic of the written word. Nothing is more powerful for good or evil, I do assure you." Fenoglio lowered his voice to a whisper. "I made you yourself out of words and letters, Basta! You and Capricorn. "