Laughter drifted up from outside again. Brianna joined Meggie at the window. "The boy's a very good fire-eater," she said.
"Really?" Her shortsighted mistress looked at her. "I thought you didn't like fire-eaters. You're always saying they're feckless folk."
"This one's good. Much better than Sootbird." Brianna's voice sounded husky. "I noticed him at the celebrations."
"Violante!" Fenoglio sounded impatient. "Could we forget about that fire-breathing boy for a moment? Very well, so Cosimo didn't like books. These things happen. But surely you can tell me a little more about him!"
"Why?" Her Ugliness raised the beryl to her eye again. "Let Cosimo rest in peace, he's dead! The dead don't want to linger here. Why won't anyone understand that? And if you want to know some secret about him – well, he had none! He could talk about weapons for hours on end. He liked fire-eaters and knife-throwers and wild rides through the night. He had the smiths show him how to forge a sword, and he fenced for hours with the guards down in the courtyard until he'd mastered every trick they knew, but when the minstrels struck up their songs he began yawning after the first verse. He wouldn't have cared for any of the songs you've written about him. He might have liked the robber songs, but as for the idea that words can be like music, making the heart beat faster… he had no ear for that! Even executions interested him more than words, although he never enjoyed them the way my father does."
"Really?" Fenoglio sounded surprised but by no means disappointed. "Wild rides through the night," he murmured. "Fast horses. Yes, why not?"
Her Ugliness wasn't listening to him. "Brianna!" she said. "Take this book. If I praise Balbulus enough for his new pictures, perhaps he'll leave it with us for a while." Her maid took the book from her, an abstracted expression on her face, and went to the window again.
"But the people loved him, didn't they?" Fenoglio had risen from his chair. "Cosimo was good to them… to the peasants, the poor… the strolling players."
Violante stroked the mark on her cheek. "Yes, they all loved him. He was so handsome that you just had to love him. You couldn't help it. But as for the peasants" – and she wearily rubbed her shortsighted eyes – "do you know what he always said about them? Why are they so ugly?' he asked. 'Ugly clothes, ugly faces…" When they brought their disputes to him he really did try to do justice fairly, but it bored him to tears. He could hardly wait to get away again, back to his father's soldiers, his horse and his hounds…"
Fenoglio said nothing. He looked so baffled that Meggie almost felt sorry for him. Isn't he going to make me read aloud after all? she wondered. And for a strange moment she felt something like disappointment.
"Come along, Brianna!" ordered Her Ugliness, but her maid did not stir. She was gazing down at the courtyard as if she had never seen a fire-eater before in her life.
Frowning, Violante went over to her. "What are you staring at?" she asked, squinting through the window with her shortsighted eyes.
"He… he's making flowers from fire," stammered Brianna. "They start like golden buds and then they unfold like real flowers. I once saw something like that… when I was very little…"
"Yes, very nice, but come along now." Her Ugliness turned and made for the door. She had an odd way of walking, with her head slightly bent, yet carrying herself very upright. Brianna took a last look out the window before hurrying after her.
Balbulus was grinding colors when they entered his workshop: blue for the sky, russet and umber for the earth. Violante whispered something to him. Presumably, she was softening him up. She pointed to the book that Brianna was carrying for her.
"I'll be off now, Your Highness," said Fenoglio.
"Yes, you can go!" she told him. "But next time you visit me don't ask questions about my late husband; bring me one of the songs you write for the minstrels instead. I like them very much, particularly those songs about the robber, the man who makes my father so angry. What's his name? Oh yes – the Bluejay!"
Fenoglio paled slightly under his sunburn. "How do you know I wrote those songs?"
Her Ugliness just laughed. "I'm the Adderhead's daughter, have you forgotten? Of course I have my spies! They're good, too! Are you afraid I'll tell my father who wrote the songs? Don't worry, we say only the bare minimum to each other. And he's more interested in what the songs are about than in the man who wrote them. Although if I were you I'd stay this side of the forest for now!"
Fenoglio bowed, forcing a smile. "I shall take your advice to heart, Highness," he said.
The door with brass letters on it latched heavily into place as Fenoglio pulled it shut. "Curse it!" he muttered. "Curse it, curse it."
"What's the matter?" Meggie looked at him with concern. "Is it what she said about Cosimo?"
"No, nonsense! But if Violante knows who writes the songs about the Bluejay, then so does the Adderhead! He has many more spies than she does, and suppose he doesn't keep to his own side of the forest much longer? Well, there's still time to do something about it… Meggie," he whispered, as they went down the steep spiral staircase. "I told you I had a model for the Bluejay. Do you want to guess who it was?" He looked expectantly at her. "I like to base my characters on real people," he whispered in conspiratorial tones. "Not every writer does that, but in my experience it makes them more lifelike. Facial expressions, gestures, the way someone walks, a voice, perhaps a birthmark or a scar – I steal something here, something there, and then they begin to breathe, until anyone hearing or reading about them thinks they can touch them! I didn't have a wide choice for the Bluejay. My model couldn't be too old, nor too young, either, and not fat or short, of course, heroes are never short, fat, or ugly – in real life, maybe, but never in stories… no, the Bluejay had to be tall and good-looking, attractive to other people -"
Fenoglio fell silent. Footsteps were coming down the stairs, quick footsteps, and Brianna appeared on the massive steps above them.
"Excuse me," she said and looked around guiltily, as if she had stolen away without her mistress's knowledge. "That boy – do you know who taught him to play with fire like that?" She looked at Fenoglio as if she wanted to hear the answer more than anything, and yet as if at the same time there was nothing she
feared hearing more. "Do you know?" she asked again. "Do you know his name?"
"Dustfinger," replied Meggie, speaking for Fenoglio. "Dustfinger taught him." And only when she spoke the name for the second time did she realize who Brianna reminded her of, her face and the shimmer of her red hair.
28. THE WRONG WORDS
If all you have of me is your red hair and my wholehearted laughter what else in me was good or ill may fare like faded flowers drifting in the water.
Paul Zech, after Francois Villon,
"The Ballade of Little Florestan"
Dustfinger was just chasing Jink out of Roxane's henhouse when Brianna came riding into the yard. The sight of her almost stopped his heart. The dress she wore made her look like a rich merchant's daughter; since when did maidservants wear such clothes? And the horse she was riding didn't suit this place, either, with its expensive harness, its gold-studded saddle, and the deep black coat that shone as if three grooms had spent all day brushing it. A soldier in the Laughing Prince's livery rode with her. He scrutinized the simple house and the fields, his face expressionless. But Brianna looked at Dustfinger. She thrust out her chin just as her mother so often did, straightened the comb in her hair – and looked at him.
He wished he could have made himself invisible. How hostile her glance was, her expression both adult and that of an injured child! She was so like her mother. The soldier helped her to dismount and then took his horse to drink at the well, acting as if he had neither eyes nor ears.