Inkdeath by Cornelia Funke Page B

invitingly Rosenquartz laid a blank piece of parchment on the table every evening. He was never going to write a single word again — except those he stole from others and the dry, bloodless twaddle he had to put down on paper or parchment for wills, sales agreements, and similar stuff. The time for living words was over.
    They were deceitful, murderous, bloodsucking monsters, black as ink and bringing nothing but misfortune. He wasn’t going to help them do it anymore, not he. A walk through the streets of Ombra, empty of men these days, and he needed a whole jug of wine to keep off the gloom that had deprived him of any zest for life since Cosimo’s defeat.

    Beardless boys, decrepit old men, cripples and beggars, traveling merchants who hadn’t yet heard that there wasn’t a copper coin to be made in Ombra now, or who did business with those leeches up in the castle — that was what you saw these days in the once lively streets. Women with eyes reddened from weeping, fatherless children, men from beyond the forest hoping to find a young widow or an abandoned workshop here.. . and soldiers. Yes, there were plenty of soldiers in Ombra. They took what they wanted, day after day, night after night. No house was safe from them. They called it compensation for war crimes, and they had a point. After all, Cosimo had been the attacker — Cosimo, his most beautiful and innocent creation (or so, at least, Fenoglio had thought). Now he lay dead in a sarcophagus in the crypt beneath the castle. Minerva claimed that Violante went down there every day, officially to mourn her dead husband but really — so people Whispered — to meet her informers. They said Her Ugliness didn’t even have to pay her spies. Hatred of the Milksop brought them to her by the dozen. Of course. You had only to look at the fellow that perfumed, pigeon-breasted hangman, governor only by the grace of his brother-in-law, the Adderhead. If you painted a face on an egg, it would bear a striking resemblance to him. And no, Fenoglio hadn’t made him up. Once again, the story had produced the Milksop entirely by itself.

    As his first official act, he had ordered a document to be hung up by the castle gates, listing the punishments that would be meted out in Ombra for various crimes from now on with pictures, so that those who couldn’t read would know what threatened them, too. The loss of an eye for this offense, the loss of a hand for that one, whippings, the pillory, branding, blinding. Fenoglio looked away whenever he passed that notice, and when he was out with Minerva’s children he put his hand over their eyes if they had to cross the marketplace, where most of the punishments were inflicted (although Ivo always wanted to peek). Of course they could still hear the screams.

    Luckily, there weren’t too many offenders left to be punished in this city without men. Many of the women had left with their children, traveling far away from the Wayless Wood that no longer protected them from the prince who ruled on the other side of it, the immortal Adderhead.

    And yes, Fenoglio thought, that had undoubtedly been his idea. But more and more rumors were being heard all the time, whispering that the Adderhead took little pleasure in his immortality.

    There was a knock at the door. Who could that be? Oh, the devil, was he forgetting everything these days? Of course! Where was the damn note that crow had brought yesterday evening? Rosenquartz had been scared to death when he’d suddenly seen the bird perching on the skylight. Mortimer was coming to Ombra. Today! And wasn’t he, Fenoglio, supposed to meet him outside the castle gates? This visit was a reckless notion. There were "Wanted" posters up for the Bluejay on every street corner. Fortunately, the picture on them didn’t look the least like Ivlortimer, but all the same. . . Another knock.

    Rosenquartz stayed where he was, beside his thimble. A glass man wasn’t even any good at opening doors!