The silence that had been weighing down so heavily on the marketplace was torn like rending cloth. Screams rose in its enclosed space. More and more horsemen rode in from among the houses around it, so heavily armed they looked like iron reptiles, their helmets drawn so far down that you could see only their mouths and their eyes between noseguard and rim. There was a clinking of spurs, a clashing of greaves, and breastplates so brightly polished that they reflected the crowd's horrified faces. Minerva pushed her children out of the way. Despina stumbled, and Meggie was going to her aid when she herself tripped over a couple of cabbages and fell flat. A stranger pulled her to her feet just before the Piper rode her down. Meggie heard his horse snorting above her, felt his gleaming spurs brush her shoulder. She took shelter behind a potter's overturned stall, although she cut her hands on his broken pots. Trembling, she crouched among the shards, surrounded by smashed barrels and sacks that had burst open, watching helplessly as others, less lucky, fell under the horses' hooves. The mounted men struck out at many in the crowd with their feet or the shafts of their spears. Horses shied, reared, and kicked at pots and people's heads.
Then, just as suddenly as they had come, the men-at-arms were gone. Only the sound of their horses' hooves could still be heard as they rode fast up the street to the castle. The marketplace was left looking as if a strong wind had blown through it, an ill wind breaking jugs and pots as well as human bones. There was a smell of fear in the air as Meggie crawled out from behind the barrels. Peasants were gathering up their trampled vegetables, mothers wiped tears from their children's faces and blood from their knees, women stood looking at the broken earthenware dishes they had hoped to sell – and all was quiet in the marketplace again. Very quiet. The voices cursing the horsemen did so in undertones, and even the weeping and groaning were muted. Minerva came over to Meggie, concern in her face, with the sobbing Despina and Ivo beside her.
"Yes, I think we have a new master now," she said bitterly, helping Meggie to her feet. "Can you take the children home? I'll stay here and see what I can do to help. There must be many broken bones, but luckily a few physicians can always be found here on market day."
Meggie just nodded. She didn't know how she felt. Afraid?
Angry? Desperate? There didn't seem to be any word to describe the state of her heart. Silently, she took Despina and Ivo by the hand and set off home with them. Her knees hurt, and she was limping, but nonetheless she hurried along the alleys so fast that the children could hardly keep up.
"Now!" She uttered just that one word as she hobbled into Fenoglio's room. "Let me read it now. At once." Her voice shook, and she had to lean against the bare wall because her grazed knees were trembling. Indeed, everything in her and about her was trembling.
"What's happened?" Fenoglio was sitting at his desk. The parchment lying before him was covered with words. Rosenquartz stood beside him with a dripping pen in his hand, looking at Meggie in astonishment.
"We must do it now!" she cried. "This minute! They just rode into the middle of the crowd – into all those people!"
"Ah, so the soldiers are here already. Well, I told you we must hurry. Who was leading them? Firefox?"
"No, it was the Piper." Meggie went over to the bed and sat down on it. Suddenly, she felt only fear, as if she were back kneeling among the toppled stalls again, and her fury had run out of steam. "There are so many of them!" she whispered. "It's too late! What could Cosimo do against them?"
"You just leave that to me!" Fenoglio took the pen from the glass man's hand and began writing again. "The Laughing Prince has many soldiers, too, and they'll follow Cosimo once he's back. Of course, it would have been better if you'd read him here while his father was still alive. The Laughing Prince was in too much of a hurry to die, but that can't be helped now! Other things can be, though." With his brow furrowed, he read through what he had written, crossed out a word here, added one there, and then waved his hand to the glass man. "Sand, Rosenquartz, hurry up!"
Meggie pulled up her skirt and looked at her injured knees. One of them was beginning to swell. "But are you sure it will really be any better with Cosimo?" she asked in a low voice. "From what Her Ugliness said about him, it didn't sound like it."
"Of course it will be better! What kind of question is that? Cosimo is one of the good characters and always was, never mind what Violante says. Anyway, when you read this aloud you'll be bringing a new version of him here. An improved version, we might say."
"But… but why does there have to be a new prince here at all?" Meggie passed her sleeve over her tearstained face. The clank of armor was still echoing in her ears, the snorting and whinnying, the screaming – the screams of people who wore no armor.
"What can be better than a prince who does what we want?" Fenoglio took another sheet of parchment. "Just a few more lines," he murmured. "I've almost finished. Oh, curse it, how I hate writing on parchment. I hope you ordered more paper, Rosenquartz."
"Of course I did, long ago," replied the glass man huffily. "But there haven't been any deliveries for ages. The paper mill's on the other side of the forest, remember?"
"Yes, a pity." Fenoglio wrinkled his nose. "Very inconvenient, to be sure."
"Fenoglio, listen to me, will you? Why don't we read that robber here instead of Cosimo?" Meggie pulled down her skirt over her knees again. "You know – the robber in your songs! The Bluejay!"
Fenoglio laughed out loud. "The Bluejay? Good heavens! I'd like to see your face if – but joking aside, no – absolutely not! A robber's not fit to rule, Meggie. Robin Hood didn't become king! Robbers are good for stirring up trouble, that's all. I couldn't even put the Black Prince on the throne here. This world is ruled by royalty, not robbers, entertainers, or peasants. That's the way I made it, and I assure you it's a royal prince we need."
Rosenquartz sharpened another quill and dipped it in the ink, and Fenoglio began writing again. "Yes," Meggie heard him whispering. "Yes, this will sound wonderful when you read it aloud. What a surprise for the Adderhead! He thinks he can do what he likes in my world, do exactly as he pleases, but he's wrong. He'll play the part I give him and no other!"
Meggie rose from the bed and limped over to the window. It had begun to rain again; the sky was weeping as silently as the people in the marketplace. And the Adderhead's banner was already being hoisted above the castle.
30. COSIMO
"Yes," said Abhorsen. "I am a necromancer, but not of the common kind. Where others of the art raise the dead, I lay them back to rest…"
Garth Nix, Sabriel
It was dark when Fenoglio finally put aside his pen. All was still in the alley below. It had been quiet there all day, as if the people had fled indoors like mice hiding from the cat.
"Have you finished?" asked Meggie, as Fenoglio leaned back and rubbed his weary eyes. Her voice sounded faint and afraid, not like a voice that could awaken a prince and bring him to life, but after all, she had already made a monster rise from Fenoglio's words, even if that was long ago – and Mo, not she, had read the very last words.
Mo. After what had happened in the marketplace, she missed him more than ever.
"Yes, I've finished!" Fenoglio sounded as pleased with himself as he had in Capricorn's village, when he and Meggie between them first planned a way to alter his story. All had ended well that time, but now… now she was in the story herself. Did that make Fenoglio's words stronger or weaker? Meggie had told him about Orpheus's rule – that it was better to use only words that were in the story already – but Fenoglio had just dismissed the idea. "Nonsense. Remember how we wrote a happy ending before for the Steadfast Tin Soldier? Did I stop to make sure I was using only words out of his own story? No, I didn't. Perhaps that rule applies to people like this man Orpheus, people who venture to mess around with other writers' stories, but surely not for an author setting out to change his own!"