Bluejay. They were whispering his name, their voices hoarse with terror. Who was he? The Prince had often wondered. Did he really come from the land where Dustfinger had spent so many years? And what kind of country was it? A land where songs came true?
Bluejay.
The bear roared him a welcome that made the horses rear, and the Jay drew his sword very slowly, as he always did, the sword that had once belonged to Firefox and had killed so many of the Black Prince’s men. The face beneath the dark hair seemed paler than usual, but the Prince could see no fear in it. Presumably you forgot what fear was once you visited Death.
"Yes, as you see, I’m really back from the dead. Even if I still feel Death’s claws in me." He spoke dreamily, as if a part of him were still with the White Women. "I’m willing to show you the way if you want. It’s entirely up to you. But if you do prefer to live a little longer," he added, flourishing his sword in the air as if he were writing their names, "then let him go. Him and the bear."
They just stared at him, and their hands, resting on their swords, trembled as if they were reaching out for their own deaths. Nothing is more terrifying than fearlessness, and the Black Prince went to the Bluejay’s side and felt that the words were like a shield for them, the words sung quietly up and down the country.., all about the White Hand and the Black Hand of Justice.
There’ll be a new song now, thought the Prince as he drew his sword, and his heart felt so foolishly young that he could have fought a thousand men. As for the Piper’s soldiers, they wrenched their horses’ heads around and fled — from just two men.
And the words.
When they had gone the Bluejay went over to the moss-woman, who was still kneeling in the grass with her hands pressed to her bark-brown face, and undid the rope from her neck.
"A few months ago one of you tended a bad wound I had," he said. "It wasn’t you, was it?"
The moss-woman let him help her up, but she looked at him suspiciously. "What do you mean by that? That we all look the same to human eyes?" she snapped. "Well, we feel the same about you. So how am I supposed to know if I ever set eyes on you before?"
And she limped away without another look at her rescuer, who stood there watching her go as if he had forgotten where he was.
"How long have I been away?" he asked when the Black Prince joined him.
"Over three days."
"As long as that?" Yes, he had been far away, very far away.
"Of course. Time runs differently when you meet Death, isn’t that what they say?"
"You know more about it than I do now," replied the Prince. The Bluejay made no comment on that. "Have you heard who I brought with me?" he asked at last.
"It’s difficult for me to believe such good news," said the Black Prince huskily, but the Bluejay smiled and ran a hand over the Prince’s short hair.
"You can let it grow again," he said. "The man you shaved it for is breathing again.
He’s left his scars with the dead, that’s all."
It couldn’t be true.
"Where is he?" His heart still ached from the night when he had kept watch with Roxane at Dustfinger’s side.
"No doubt with Roxane. I didn’t ask him where he was going. We were neither of us particularly talkative. The White Women leave silence behind them, Prince, not words."
"Silence?" the Black Prince laughed, and embraced him. "What are you talking about? They’ve left joy behind, pure joy! And hope, hope again at last! I feel younger than I’ve felt for years! As if I could tear up trees by the roots—well, maybe not that beech, but many others. By this evening, everyone will be Singing that the Bluejay fears Death so little that he seeks it out, and the Piper will tear the silver nose off his face in a rage. . ."
The Bluejay smiled again, but his look was still grave — very grave for a man who has just come back from the dead unscathed. And the Black Prince realized that there was bad news behind the good news, a shadow behind all the light. But they didn’t speak of that. Not yet.
"What about my wife and my daughter?" asked the Bluejay. "Have they.., have they already gone?"
"Gone?" The Black Prince looked at him in surprise. "No. Where would they go?"
Relief and worry were mingled equally in the other man’s face.
"Sometime I’ll explain all that to you, too," he said. "Sometime. But it’s a long story."
CHAPTER 29
A VISITOR TO ORPHEUS’S CELLAR
When Oss, gripping Farid firmly by the back of his neck, told him that Orpheus wanted to see him in his study at once, he took two bottles of wine with him.
Cheeseface had been drinking like a fish ever since their return from the graveyard of the strolling players, but the wine didn’t make Orpheus talkative like Fenoglio, just extremely malicious and unpredictable.
As so often, he was by the window when Farid entered the study. He was swaying slightly and staring at the sheet of paper that he’d studied over and over again these last few days, cursing, crumpling it up and then smoothing it out again.
"There it is in black and white, every letter perfect as a picture, and it sounds good, too, it sounds damn good!" he said thickly as his finger kept tapping the words. "So why, by all the infernal spirits, did the bookbinder come back again, too?"
What was Cheeseface talking about? Farid put the wine bottles on the table and stood there waiting. "Oss says you want to speak to me?" he asked.
Jasper was sitting beside the jug of pens, making frantic signals, but Farid couldn’t work out what they meant.
"Ah yes, Dustfinger’s angel of death." Orpheus put the paper down on his desk and turned to him with a nasty smile.
Why on earth did you come back to him? Farid asked himself, but he had only to think of the hatred on Meggie’s face in the graveyard to answer his own question.
Because you didn’t know where else to go.
"Yes, I sent for you." Orpheus looked at the door. Oss had followed Farid into the room, more silently than you would have thought possible for a man of his size, and before Farid had time to realize why Jasper was waving to him so frantically, Oss’s meaty hands had seized him.
"So you haven’t heard the news yet!" said Orpheus. "Of course not. If you had, I’m sure you’d have gone chasing straight off to him."
Off to whom? Farid tried to wriggle free, but Oss pulled his hair so hard that tears of pain came to his eyes.
"He really doesn’t know. How touching." Orpheus came so close to him that the smell of the wine on his breath made Farid feel sick.
"Dustfinger," said Orpheus in his velvety voice. "Dustfinger is back."
Farid jmrnediately forgot all about Oss’s rough fingers and Orpheus’s unpleasant smile. There was nothing in him but joy like a violent pain, too much for his heart to bear.
"Yes, he’s back," Orpheus went on. "Thanks to my words but the rabble out there are saying the Bluejay brought him back!" he added, with a dismissive gesture to the window. "Curse them. May the Piper make maggot flesh of them all!"
Farid wasn’t listening. His own blood was roaring in his ears. Dustfinger was back!
