Cornelia Funke - Inkdeath

The Hall of a Thousand Windows had no windows anymore. Thumbling had had them draped with black cloth, and only half a dozen torches gave light in the darkness, just enough of it to show the Adderhead the face of his worst enemy.

When they pushed Mortimer in, Violante's haughty mask cracked, but she quickly pulled herself together. Orpheus saw, with satisfaction, that they had not treated the Bluejay particularly gently, but he could still stand, and the Piper had certainly made sure his hands were unharmed. They could have cut out his tongue, though, thought Orpheus, thus putting an end to all the fulsome praise of his voice once and for all. But then it occurred to him that Mortimer still had to tell him where Fenoglio's book was, since Dustfinger hadn't given its whereabouts away.

The torchlight fell only on Mortimer. The Adderhead sat in darkness. He clearly didn't want to give his prisoner the satisfaction of seeing his bloated body. Anyone could smell it, though.

"Well, Bluejay? Did my daughter describe this meeting of ours rather differently to you? Very likely." The Adderhead's breath rattled in his throat like an old man's. "I was very glad when Violante suggested this castle as our meeting place, although the journey here wasn't easy. The castle gave me happiness once before, if not for very long. And I was sure that her mother hadn't told her about the secret passage. She told her daughter a great deal about this castle, but little of it had anything to do with reality."

Violante's face remained expressionless. "I don't know what you're talking about, Father," she said. What an effort she was making not to look at Mortimer. Touching.

"No, you don't know anything, that's the point." The Adderhead laughed. "I often had people posted to overhear what your mother told you in the Old Chamber. All the stories about her happy childhood days, the sweet lies told to make her ugly little daughter dream of a place so different from the castle where she really grew up. Reality isn't usually much like what we say about it, but you always confused the words with the truth. Just the same as your mother – you could never distinguish between what you want and the way things really are, could you?"

Violante did not reply. She simply stood there, as upright as ever, staring into the darkness where her father was concealed.

"When I met your mother for the first time in this hall," the Adderhead went on in his hoarse voice, "she wanted nothing but to get away from here. She'd have tried to run away if her father had given her any chance. Did she tell you that one of her sisters fell to her death climbing out of one of these windows? Or that she herself was almost drowned by the water-nymphs when she tried swimming across the lake? Presumably not. Instead, she made out that I forced her father to give me her hand in marriage and took her away from here against her will. Who knows? Perhaps she even believed that story herself in the end."

"You're lying." Violante was trying very hard to sound composed. "I don't want to hear any more."

"But hear it you will," said the Adderhead, unmoved. "It's time you stopped hiding behind pretty stories and heard the facts. Your grandfather was only too inclined to make sure that any suitors of his daughters disappeared. So your mother showed me the tunnel – the one that enabled the Piper to get into the castle entirely unnoticed. She was madly in love with me at the time, whatever she may have said to you."

"Why are you telling me these lies?" Violante still held her head high, but her voice was trembling. "It wasn't my mother who showed you the tunnel. It must have been one of your spies. And she never loved you, either."

"Believe what you like. I assume you don't know very much about love." The Adderhead coughed, and rose with a groan from the chair where he was sitting. Violante retreated as he stepped into the torchlight.

"Yes, see what your noble robber has done to me," said the Adderhead as he slowly approached Mortimer. It was getting more and more painful for him to walk, Orpheus had seen that often enough on the endless journey to this bleak castle, but the Silver Prince still stood as straight as his daughter.

"But let's not discuss the past anymore," he said when he was so close to Mortimer that his prisoner had the full benefit of the odor he gave off, "or about the way my daughter may have envisaged this bargain. Convince me that it really doesn't make sense for me to flay you alive at once – and do the same to your wife and daughter. Yes, you left them with the Black Prince, but I know about the cave where they're hiding. I assume that my useless brother-in-law has captured them by now and will be taking them to Ombra."

Ah, that really got through to Mortimer. Guess who told the Adderhead about the cave, noble robber, thought Orpheus, smiling broadly when Mortimer looked at him.

"So now…" The Adderhead drove his gloved fist into his prisoner's chest just where Mortola had wounded him. "What are the prospects? Can you reverse your own trick? Can you cure the Book you so craftily used to deceive me?"

Mortimer hesitated for only a moment. "Of course," he replied. "If you give it to me."

Very well. Orpheus had to admit that Mortimer's voice still sounded impressive, even in these dire straits (although his own sounded far, far better). But the Adderhead wasn't to be beguiled this time. He struck Mortimer in the face so hard that he fell to his knees.

"Do you seriously expect to fool me again?" he snarled. "How stupid do you think I am? No one can cure this Book! Dozens of your fellow craftsmen have died to give me that information. No, it's past saving, which means that my flesh will rot for all eternity, and every day I'll be tempted to write the three words in it myself and put an end to all this. But I have thought of a better solution, and I'll require your services for it once more after all, which is why I am truly grateful to my daughter for taking such good care of you. Because, of course," he added, glancing at the Piper, "I know what a hot temper my silver-nosed herald has."

The Piper was going to say something, but the Adderhead merely raised his hand impatiently and turned back to Mortimer.

"What kind of solution?" The famous voice sounded hoarse. Was the Bluejay afraid now after all? Orpheus felt like a boy enjoying a particularly exciting passage in a book. I hope he's afraid, he thought. And I hope this is one of the last chapters he appears in.

Mortimer's face twisted when the Piper pressed his knife against his ribs. Oh yes, he's obviously made the wrong enemies in this story, thought Orpheus. And the wrong friends. But that was high-minded heroes for you. Stupid.

"What kind of solution?" The Adderhead scratched his itching flesh. "You'll bind me another book, what else? But this time you won't go unobserved for a single second. And once this new book with its spotlessly white pages protects me from Death again, we'll write your name in the other one – so that you can know for a while how it feels to be rotting alive. After that I'll tear it to pieces, page by page, and watch as you feel your flesh tearing and you beg the White Women to come for you. Doesn't that sound like a solution satisfactory to all parties?"

Ah. A new White Book. Not a bad idea, thought Orpheus. But my name would suit its brand-new pages so much better! Stop dreaming, Orpheus, he told himself.

The Piper had his knife to Mortimer's throat. "Well, what's your answer, Bluejay? Want me to carve it into you with my knife?"

Mortimer said nothing.

"Answer!" the Piper snarled at him. "Or shall I do it for you? There's only one answer, anyway."

Mortimer still said nothing, but Violante appointed herself to speak for him. "Why should he help you if you're going to kill him in any case?" she asked her father.