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there looking at her.
    "Capricorn can't bind books like your father," Dustfinger went on. "In fact, he's not much good at anything except terrifying people. But he's a master of that art. It's his whole life. I doubt if he himself has any idea what it's like to be so paralyzed by fear that you feel small and insignificant.
    But he knows just how to arouse that fear and spread it, in people's homes and their beds, in their heads and their hearts. His men spread fear abroad like the Black Death, they push it under doors and through mailboxes, they paint it on walls and stable doors until it infects everything around it of its own accord, silent and stinking like a plague." Dustfinger was very close to Meggie now. "Capricorn has many men," he said softly. "Most have been with him since they were children, and if Capricorn were to order one of them to. cut off your nose or one of your ears he'd do it without batting an eyelash. They like to dress in black like crows — only their leader wears a white shirt under his black jacket — and should you ever meet any of them then make yourself small, very small, and hope they don't notice you. Understand?"
    Meggie nodded. Her heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely breathe.
    "I can see why your father has never told you about Capricorn," said Dustfinger, looking at Mo.
    "If I had children I'd rather tell them about nice people, too."
    "I know the world's not just full of nice people!" Meggie couldn't keep her voice from shaking with anger and more than a touch of fear.
    18

    "Oh yes? How do you know that?" There it was again, that mysterious smile, sad and supercilious at the same time. "Have you ever had anything to do with a real villain?"
    "I've read about them." Dustfinger laughed aloud. "Yes, of course that almost comes to the same thing!" he said. His mockery hurt like stinging nettles. He bent down to Meggie and looked her in the face. "All the same, I hope reading about them is as close as you ever get," he said quietly.
    Mo was stowing Dustfinger's bags in the back of the van. "I hope there's nothing in there that might come flying around our heads," he said as Dustfinger got in the backseat behind Meggie.
    "With your trade I wouldn't be surprised."
    Before Meggie could ask what trade that was, Dustfinger opened his backpack and carefully lifted out an animal. It was blinking sleepily. "Since we obviously have quite a long journey ahead of us," he told Mo, "I'd like to introduce someone to your daughter."
    The creature was almost the size of a rabbit, but much thinner, with a bushy tail now draped over Dustfinger's chest like a fur collar. It dug its slender claws into his sleeve while inspecting Meggie with its gleaming beady black eyes, and when it yawned it bared teeth as sharp as needles.
    "This is Gwin," said Dustfinger. "You can tickle him behind the ears if you like. He's very sleepy at the moment, so he won't bite."
    "Does he usually?" asked Meggie.
    "Yes," said Mo, getting back behind the wheel. "If I were you I'd keep my fingers away from that little brute."
    But Meggie couldn't keep her hands off any animal, however sharp its teeth. "He's a marten or something like that, right?" she asked.
    "Something of that nature." Dustfinger put his hand in his pants pocket and gave Gwin a piece of dry bread. Meggie stroked his little head as he chewed — and her fingertips found something hard under the silky fur: tiny horns growing beside his ears. Surprised, she took her hand away.
    "Do martens have horns?"
    Dustfinger winked at her and let Gwin climb back into the backpack. "This one does," he said.
    Bewildered, Meggie watched him fasten the straps. She felt as if she were still touching Gwin's little horns. "Mo, did you know that martens have horns?" she asked.
    "Oh, Dustfinger stuck them on that sharp-toothed little devil of his. For his performances."
    "What kind of performances?" Meggie looked inquiringly, first at Mo, then at Dustfinger, but Mo just started the