Inkdeath Read Online Free PDF Page A

the god of books, what a wretched story!"
    Fenoglio had cried when Farid told Minerva’s children about it. "The slushy notions churning around in that fellow’s mind! He hasn’t a single fresh idea in his slimy brain — all he can do is mess about with other people’s stories!"

    But while Fenoglio was spending his days and nights feeling sorry for himself, Orpheus had leisure to put his own stamp on this story — and he seemed to know more about it than the man who had originally made it up.

    "When you love a book so much that you read it again and again, do you know what it makes you wish?" Orpheus had asked Farid as they stood outside the city gate of Ombra for the first time. "No, of course you don’t. How could you? I’m sure a book only makes you think how well it would burn on a cold night. But I’ll tell you the answer all the same: You want to be in the book yourself. Although certainly not as a poor court poet. I’m happy to leave that role to Fenoglio though even there he cuts a sorry figure!"

    Orpheus had set to work the third night after he arrived, in a dirty inn near the city walls. He had told Farid to steal him some wine and a candle, and from under his cloak had produced a grubby piece of paper and a pencil — and the book, the thrice-accursed book, Inkheart. His fingers had wandered over the pages collecting words, more and more words, like magpies in search of glittering baubles. And Farid had been fool enough to believe that the words Orpheus was so busily writing on his sheet of paper would heal the pain in his heart and bring Dustfinger back.

    But Orpheus had very different ideas in mind. He sent Farid away before reading aloud what he had written and, before dawn the next morning, ordered him to dig up his first treasure from the soil of Ombra, in the graveyard just beyond the infirmary.
    The sight of the coins had made Orpheus as happy as a child. But Farid had stared at the graves, tasting his own tears in his mouth.

    Orpheus had spent the silver on new clothes for himself, hired two maids and a cook, and bought a silk merchant’s magnificent house. Its previous owner had gone away in search of his son, who had ridden with Cosimo to Argenta and never come back.

    Orpheus made claim that he himself was a merchant, one who sold the granting of unusual wishes—and soon it had reached the Milksop’s ears that this stranger with the thin fair hair and skin as pale as a prince’s could supply bizarre things: spotted brownies, fairies as brightly colored as butterflies, jewelery made of fire-elves’
    wings, belts set with the scales of river-nymphs, gold-and-white piebald horses to draw princely coaches, and other creatures previously known in Ombra only from fairy tales. The right words for all sorts of things could be found in Fenoglio’s original book of Inbheart — Orpheus just had to fit them together in a slightly different way. Now and then one of his creations would die after taking only a few breaths, or would turn out vicious (the Chunk often had bandaged hands), but that didn’t bother Orpheus. Why would he mind if a few dozen fire-elves died of starvation in the forest because they had no wings, or a handful of river-nymphs drifted dead in the water without their scales? He pulled thread after thread out of the fine fabric that Fenoglio had spun and wove patterns of his own, adding them to the old man’s tapestry like brightly colored patches and growing rich on what his voice could entice out of another man’s words.

    Curses on him. A thousand and one curses. This was too much.

    "I won’t do anything for you anymore! I won’t do anything at all!" Farid wiped the moist earth from his hands and tried to climb out of the hole, but one gesture from Orpheus, and Oss pushed him roughly back again.

    "Dig!" he grunted.

    "Dig yourself!" Farid was trembling in his sweaty tunic, though whether with cold or rage he couldn’t have said. "Your fine master is just a fraud!