As M0 clambered out of the sarcophagus, legs stiff from lying in its cramped space, he still had the knife in his hand.
The boy stared at it. "How many have you killed?" His voice SOunded almost awestricken. As if killing were a high art, like the Painting of Balbulus. How old would the lad be? Fourteen? Fifteen? He looked younger than Farid.
How many? What was he to say to that? Only a few months ago the answer would have been so simple. Perhaps he’d even have laughed out loud at such a ridiculous question. Now he just said, "Not as many as those who lie here," although he wasn’t sure that he was telling the truth.
The boy looked along the rows of the dead as if counting them. "Is it easy?"
Judging by the curiosity in his eyes, he really didn’t seem to know the answer, despite the sword at his side and his shirt of chain mail.
Yes, thought Mo. Yes, it’s easy. .. if you have a second heart beating in your breast, cold and sharp-edged as the sword you carry. A certain amount of hatred and anger, a few weeks of fear and helpless rage, and you’ll have a heart like that. It beats time for you when you come to kill, a wild, fast rhythm. And only later do you feel your other heart again, soft and warm. It shudders in time with the other one at the thought of what you did. It trembles and feels pain. . . but that’s only afterward.
The boy was still looking at him.
"Killing is too easy," said Mo. "Dying is harder."
Although Cosimo’s stony smile claimed otherwise.
"Didn’t you say we must hurry?"
The boy turned red under his shiny polished helmet. "Yes. . . yes, of course."
A stone lion kept watch in front of a niche behind the coffins, the emblem of Ombra on its breast — presumably the onlY example of the old coat of arms that the Milksop hadn’t had smashed. The soldier put his sword between the lion’s bared teeth, and the wall of the vault opened just far enough for a grown man to squeeze through it. Hadn’t Fenoglio described this entrance? Words that Mo had read long ago came back to his mind, about one of Cosimo’s ancestors who had escaped his enemies several times along the passage beyond. And words will save the Bluejay again, he thought. Well, why not? He’s made of them. All the same, his fingers passed over the stone as if they needed to reassure themselves that the walls of the vault weren’t just made of paper.
"The passage comes out above the castle," the boy whispered to him. "Violante couldn’t get your horse from the stables. It would have attracted too much attention, but there’ll be another waiting there. The forest will be swarming with soldiers, so be careful! And I’m to give you these."
Mo put his hand into the saddlebags that the boy handed him.
Books.
"Violante says I’m to tell you they’re a present for you, made in the hope that you will accept the alliance she offers you."
The passage was endless, almost as oppressively narrow as the sarcophagus, and Mo was glad when at last he saw the light of day again. The way out was little more than a crack between a couple of rocks. The horse was waiting under the trees, and he saw Ombra Castle, the guards on the walls, the soldiers pouring out of the gates like a swarm of locusts. Yes, he would have to be very careful. All the same, he undid the saddlebags, hid among the rocks — and opened one of the books.
CHAPTER 10
AS IF NOTHING HAD HAPPENED
Farid was holding Meggie’s hand. He let her bury her face in his shirt while he kept whispering that everything would be all right. But the Black Prince still wasn’t back, and the crow sent out by Gecko brought the same news as Doria, the Strong Man’s younger brother, who had been spying for the robbers ever since Snapper had saved him and his friend from hanging. The alarnI had been raised at the castle. The portcullis was lowered, and the guards at the gate were boasting that the Bluejay’s head would soon be looking down on Ombra from the castle battlements.
The Strong Man had taken Meggie and Resa to the robbers camp, although they would both have preferred to go back to Ombra. "That’s what the Bluejay would want" was all he had said, and the Black Prince set off with Battista to the farm they’d called borne for the last few weeks such happy weeks, so deceptively peaceful in the turmoil of Fenoglio’s world. "We’ll bring you your things" was all the Prince had said when Resa asked him what he was going there for. "You can’t go back."
Neither Resa nor Meggie asked why. They both knew the answer—because the Milksop would have the Bluejay questioned, and no one could be sure that a time wouldn’t come when Mo might reveal where he had been Liding during those recent weeks.
The robbers themselves moved camp only a few hours after hearing of Mo’s arrest.
"The Milksop has some very talented "Snapper remarked, and Resa sank down under the away from the others and buried her face in her arms.
Fenoglio had stayed in Ombra. "Perhaps they’ll let me see Violante. And Minerva’s working in the castle kitchen tonight; maybe she’ll find out something there. I’ll do everything I can, Meggie!" he had promised as he said good-bye.
"Like getting into bed and drinking two jugs of wine!" was all Farid said to that, but he kept remorsefully silent when Meggie began to cry.
Why had she let Mo ride to Ombra? If only she’d at least gone the castle with him, but she’d wanted to be with Farid so much. He saw the same accusation in her mother’s eyes: You could have ripped him, Meggie; no one else but you could have done it.
When darkness began to fall, Woodenfoot brought them something to eat. His stiff leg had earned him his name. Although not the fastest of the robbers, he was a good cook, but neither Meggie nor Resa could swallow a morsel. It was bitterly cold, and Farid tried to persuade Meggie to sit by the fire with him, but she just shook her head. She wanted to be alone with herself in the dark. The Strong Man brought her a blanket. His brother was with him, Doria. "Not much good at poaching, but he’s a first-class spy," the Strong Man had whispered to her when he introduced them. The two brothers were not very much alike, although they had the same thick brown hair and Doria was already strong for his age (something that filled Farid with envy). He wasn’t very tall. Doria only just came up to his elder brother’s shoulder, and his eyes were as blue as the skin of Fenoglio’s fairies, while the Strong Man’s eyes were acorn-brown. "We have different fathers," the Strong Man had explained when Meggie expressed her surprise at the difference between them. "Not that either of them’s worth a lot."
"You mustn’t worry." Doria’s voice sounded very grown-up.
Meggie raised her head.
He put the blanket around her shoulders and stepped shyly back when she looked up at him, but he did not avoid her eyes. Doria looked everyone in the face, even Snapper and most people looked away from Snapper.
"Your father will be all right, believe me. He’ll outwit them all: the Milksop, the Adderhead, the Piper. . . "
"After they’ve hanged him?" asked Meggie. She sounded as bitter as she felt, but Doria just shrugged his shoulders.
"Nonsense. They were going to hang me, too," he said. "He’s the Bluejay! He and the Black Prince will save us all, you wait and see." He made it sound as if it couldn’t turn out any other way. As if he, Doria, were the only one who had read to the end of Fenoglio’s story.
