Dustfinger believed him. For a few gold pieces you can read the prince's own letters, that was what they used to say even in his own time. You just had to know someone who was good at forging broken seals, "How about our other friends?" Dustfinger looked at the pipers by the window. "What are they doing?"
Cloud-Dancer took a sip of wine and made a face. "Ugh! I should have asked for honey in this. The others, well" – he rubbed his stiff leg – "some are dead, some have just disappeared like you. Look over there, behind the farmer staring so gloomily into his tankard," he said, jerking his head at the counter. "There's our old friend Sootbird, with a laugh fixed on his face like a tattoo, the worst fire-eater for miles around, although he still tries to copy you and wonders why fire would rather dance for you than him."
"He'll never find out." Dustfinger glanced surreptitiously at the other fire-eater. As far as he remembered, Sootbird could juggle burning torches well enough, but fire didn't dance for him. He was like a hopeless lover rejected again and again by the girl of his choice. Long ago, feeling sorry for the man's futile efforts, Dustfinger had given him some fire-elves' honey, but even with its aid Sootbird hadn't understood what the flames were telling him.
"I've heard that he works with powders bought from alchemists now," Cloud-Dancer whispered across the table, "and that's an expensive pastime, if you ask me. The fire bites him so often that his hands and arms are quite red from it. But he doesn't let it get at his face. Before he performs he smears it with grease until it shines like bacon fat."
"Does he still drink after every show?"
"After the show, before the show, but he's still a good-looking fellow, don't you think?"
Yes, so he was, with his friendly, ever-smiling face. Sootbird was one of those entertainers who lived on the glances of others, on laughter and applause, on knowing that people will stop to look at them. Even now he was entertaining the others who were leaning against the counter with him. Dustfinger turned his back; he didn't want to see the old mixture of admiration and envy in the other man's eyes. Sootbird was not one of those he had missed.
"You mustn't think times are any easier now for the Motley Folk," said Cloud-Dancer across the table, low-voiced. "Since Cosimo's death the Laughing Prince doesn't let the likes of us into the markets except on feast days, and as for going up to the castle itself, that's only when his grandson demands entertainers loudly enough. Not a very nice little boy – he's already ordering his servants around and threatening them with whipping and the pillory. Still, he loves the Motley Folk."
"Cosimo the Fair is dead?" Dustfinger nearly choked on the sour wine.
"Yes." Cloud-Dancer leaned over the table, as if it wasn't right to speak of death and misfortune in too loud a voice. "He rode away scarcely a year ago, beautiful as an angel, to prove his princely courage and finish off the fire-raisers who were haunting the forest then. You may remember their leader, Capricorn?"
Dustfinger had to smile. "Oh yes. I remember him," he said quietly.
"He disappeared about the same time you did, but his gang carried on the same as ever. Firefox became their new leader. There wasn't a village nor a farm this side of the forest that was safe from them. So Cosimo rode away to put an end to their evil deeds. He smoked out the whole band, but he didn't come home himself. Since then, his father, who used to like eating so much that his breakfast alone could have fed three whole villages, has become known as the Prince of Sighs, too. For the Laughing Prince does nothing but sigh these days."
Dustfinger held his fingers in the dust motes dancing above him in the sun. "The Prince of Sighs!" he murmured. "Well, well. And what about His Noble Highness on the other side of the forest?"
"The Adderhead?" Cloud-Dancer looked around uneasily. "Hmm, well, I'm afraid he's not dead yet. Still thinks himself lord of the whole world. When his game wardens find a peasant in the forest with a rabbit he has the man blinded; he enslaves folk who don't pay their taxes and makes them dig the ground for silver until they're coughing up blood. The gallows outside his castle are always in use, and he likes to see a pair of Motley trousers dangling there best of all. Still, few speak ill of him, because he has more spies than this inn has bedbugs, and he pays them well. But you can't bribe Death," added Cloud-Dancer softly, "and the Adderhead is growing old. It's said that he's afraid of the White Women these days, and terrified of dying, so terrified that he falls to his knees by night and howls like a beaten dog. And they say his cooks have to make him calves' blood pudding every morning, because that's supposed to keep a man young, and he keeps a hanged man's finger bone under his pillow to protect him from the White Women. He's married four times in the last seven years. His wives get younger and younger, but still none of them has given him what he wants most dearly."
"So the Adderhead has no son yet?"
Cloud-Dancer shook his head. "No, but all the same his grandson will rule us some day, because the old fox married one of his daughters off to Cosimo the Fair – Violante, known to everyone as Her Ugliness – and she had a son by Cosimo before he went away to die. They say her father made her acceptable to the Laughing Prince by giving her a valuable manuscript to take for her dowry – and the best illuminator at his court into the bargain. Yes, the Laughing Prince was once as keen on written papers as on good food, but now his precious books are moldering away! Nothing interests him anymore, least of all his subjects. There are rumors that it's all gone exactly as the Adderhead planned, and that he himself made sure his son-in-law would never return from Capricorn's fortress, so that his grandson could succeed to the throne."
"The rumors are probably true." Dustfinger looked at the crowd in the stuffy room. Strolling peddlers, physicians, journeymen, craftsmen, players with darned sleeves. One man had an unhappy-looking brownie sitting on the floor beside him. Many looked as if they didn't know how they were going to pay for the wine they were drinking. There were few happy faces to be seen here, few faces free of care, sickness, and resentment. Well, what had he expected? Had he hoped that misfortune would have stolen away while he was gone? No. He had wanted to come back – that was all he'd hoped for in ten long years – not back to paradise, he'd just wanted to come home. Doesn't a fish want to be back in the water, even if there's a perch lying in wait for it?
A drunk staggered against the table and almost spilled the wine. Dustfinger reached for the jug. "And what about Capricorn's men? Firefox and the rest? Are they all dead?"
"In your dreams!" Cloud-Dancer laughed bitterly. "All the fire-raisers who escaped Cosimo's attack were welcomed to the Castle of Night with open arms. The Adderhead made Firefox his herald, and these days the Piper, Capricorn's old minstrel, sings his dark songs in the Castle of Silver Towers. He wears silk and velvet, and his pockets are full of gold."
"The Piper's still around?" Dustfinger passed his hand over his face. "Heavens, have you no good news at all to tell me? Something to make me glad to be home again?"
Cloud-Dancer laughed, so loudly that Sootbird turned and glanced at him. "The best news is that you're back!" he said. "We've missed you, Master of the Fire! They say the fairies sigh as they dance by night, since you left us so faithlessly, and the Black Prince tells his bear stories about you before falling asleep."
"So the Prince is still around, too? Good." Relieved, Dustfinger took a sip of the wine, although it really did taste vile. He hadn't dared to ask about the Prince, for fear he might hear something like Cosimo's sad story.