Inkdeath by Cornelia Funke

the rooftops like that, with limbs that would smash if the stupid creature so much as fell off a table? A glass man certainly wasn’t the ideal spy, but then again their small size made them very inconspicuous — and, fragile as their limbs were, their transparency undoubtedly came in useful on secret reconnaissance missions.

    "Well, what’s he writing? Come on, out with it!" FenogliO picked up the jug and made his way over to the glass man barefoot. Rosenquartz demanded a thimbleful of red wine in return for his spying activities, which as he never tired of emphasizing -
    were not among the standard duties of a glass man, and thus called for extra payment. The thimble of wine wasn’t too high a price, Fenoglio had to admit, but then so far Rosenquartz hadn’t found out very much, and in addition the wine disagreed with him. It made him even more contrary than usual — and had him belching for hours on end.

    "Can’t I even get my breath back before making my report?" he snapped.

    That was Rosenquartz for you: contrary. And always so quick to take offense!

    "You’re breathing now, aren’t you? And you can obviously talk as well!" Fenoglio plucked the glass man off the thread that he had fastened to the skylight so that Rosenquartz could let himself down from it and carried him over to the table. He’d exchanged his writing desk for it in the marketplace.

    "I repeat," he said, giving Rosenquartz his thimbleful from the wine jug, "what is he writing?"

    Rosenquartz sniffed the wine and wrinkled his nose, which was now dark red. "Your wine is getting worse and worse!" he observed in injured tones. "I ought to ask for some other kind of fee!"

    Annoyed, Fenoglio removed the thimble from his glass hands. "You haven’t even earned this one yet!" he thundered. ‘Admit it, once again you haven’t found anything out. Not the least little thing."

    The glass man folded his arms. "Oh, haven’t I?"

    It was enough to drive a man crazy. And you couldn’t even shake him for fear of breaking off an arm or even his head.

    Looking grim, Fenoglio put the thimble back on the table.

    Rosenquartz dipped his finger in and licked the wine off it. ‘‘He’s written himself another treasure.--

    "What, yet again? For heaven’s sake, he goes through more silver than the Milksop!"
    It always annoyed Fenoglio that he hadn’t thought of that idea himself. On the other hand, he’d have needed someone to read his words aloud and turn them into jingling coins, and he wasn’t sure whether Meggie or her father would have lent their tongues to something so prosaic. "Right. A treasure. What else?"

    "Oh, he’s certainly writing something, but he doesn’t seem very pleased with it. Did I tell you before that he has two glass men working for him now? You remember the four-armed one he was boasting of all over town?" Rosenquartz lowered his voice as if his next words were too terrible to be spoken. "They say he threw him at the wall in a rage! Everyone in Ombra’s heard about it, but Orpheus pays well"—Fenoglio ignored the glass man’s reproachful gaze as he made this remark — "so now he has these two brothers working for him, Jasper and Ironstone. The elder brother’s a monster! He—"

    "Two? What does that fool want two glass men for? Is he so busy mucking about with my story that one isn’t enough to sharpen his quills for him?" Fenoglio felt anger turning his stomach, although it was good news that the four-armed glass man had come to grief. Perhaps it was beginning to dawn on Orpheus that his creations weren t worth the paper he wrote them on. "Good. Tell me more.

    Rosenquartz said nothing. He had folded his arms with an injured expression. He didn’t like being interrupted.

    "Good God, don’t be so coy about it!" Fenoglio pushed the wine a little closer to him. "What else is he writing? Exotic new prey for the Milksop to hunt? Horned lapdogs for the ladies at court? Or maybe he’s decided my world could do with some