"I repeat," he said, giving Rosenquartz his thimbleful from the wine jug, "what is he writing?"

Rosenquartz sniffed the wine and wrinkled his nose, which was now dark red. "Your wine is getting worse and worse!" he observed in injured tones. "I ought to ask for some other kind of fee!"

Annoyed, Fenoglio removed the thimble from his glass hands. "You haven’t even earned this one yet!" he thundered. ‘Admit it, once again you haven’t found anything out. Not the least little thing."

The glass man folded his arms. "Oh, haven’t I?"

It was enough to drive a man crazy. And you couldn’t even shake him for fear of breaking off an arm or even his head.

Looking grim, Fenoglio put the thimble back on the table.

Rosenquartz dipped his finger in and licked the wine off it. ‘‘He’s written himself another treasure.--

"What, yet again? For heaven’s sake, he goes through more silver than the Milksop!"

It always annoyed Fenoglio that he hadn’t thought of that idea himself. On the other hand, he’d have needed someone to read his words aloud and turn them into jingling coins, and he wasn’t sure whether Meggie or her father would have lent their tongues to something so prosaic. "Right. A treasure. What else?"

"Oh, he’s certainly writing something, but he doesn’t seem very pleased with it. Did I tell you before that he has two glass men working for him now? You remember the four-armed one he was boasting of all over town?" Rosenquartz lowered his voice as if his next words were too terrible to be spoken. "They say he threw him at the wall in a rage! Everyone in Ombra’s heard about it, but Orpheus pays well"—Fenoglio ignored the glass man’s reproachful gaze as he made this remark — "so now he has these two brothers working for him, Jasper and Ironstone. The elder brother’s a monster! He—"

"Two? What does that fool want two glass men for? Is he so busy mucking about with my story that one isn’t enough to sharpen his quills for him?" Fenoglio felt anger turning his stomach, although it was good news that the four-armed glass man had come to grief. Perhaps it was beginning to dawn on Orpheus that his creations weren t worth the paper he wrote them on. "Good. Tell me more.

Rosenquartz said nothing. He had folded his arms with an injured expression. He didn’t like being interrupted.

"Good God, don’t be so coy about it!" Fenoglio pushed the wine a little closer to him. "What else is he writing? Exotic new prey for the Milksop to hunt? Horned lapdogs for the ladies at court? Or maybe he’s decided my world could do with some spotted dwarves?"

Rosenquartz dipped his finger in the wine again. "You’ll have to buy me new trousers," he remarked. "I tore these with all that horrible climbing about. They’re worn out anyway. It’s all right for you to go around however you please, but I didn’t come to live with humans just to be worse dressed than my cousins in the forest."

There were days when Fenoglio would gladly have snapped the glass man in half

"Trousers? Why would I be interested in your trousers?" he asked tartly.

Rosenquartz took a deep draught from the thimble and spat the wine out on to his glass feet. "Pure vinegar!" he said crossly. "Did I get bones thrown at me for this?

Did I make my way through pigeon droppings and over broken tiles for this? Don’t look so skeptical. That Ironstone threw chicken bones at me when he caught me looking at Orpheus’s papers! He tried to push me out the window!"

Sighing, he wiped the wine off his feet. "Very well. There was something about horned wild boar, but I could hardly decipher it, and then something else about singing fish — pretty silly stuff, if -- you ask me — and quite a lot about the White Women. Four-Eyes is obviously collecting everything the strolling players sing about them—"

"Yes, yes, all Ombra knows! Did it take you so long just to find that out?" Fenoglio buried his face in his hands. The wine really wasn’t much good. His head seemed heavier every day. Damn it!

Rosenquartz took another mouthful, even though he made a face as he swallowed it.

That glass idiot! He’d have another bellyache by tomorrow, if not sooner. "Well, never mind that. This is my last report!" he announced between belches. "I’m never going spying again! Not as long as that Ironstone works there. He’s as strong as a brownie, and they say he’s already broken the arms off at least two glass men!"

"Yes, yes, all right. You’re a terrible spy anyway," muttered Fenoglio as he staggered back to his bed. "Admit it, you’re far keener to chase the glass women in Seamstresses’ Alley. Just don’t think I don’t know about it!"

With a groan, he lay down on his straw mattress and stared up at the empty fairies’

nests. Was there any more wretched existence than the life of a writer who had run out of words? Was there a worse fate than having to watch someone else twist your own words, adding colorful touches — in very bad taste — to the world you’d made?

No room in the castle for him now as court poet, no chest full of fine clothes, no horse of his own — no, he was back in the little room in Minerva’s attic. And it was a marvel that she’d taken him in again, considering that his words and songs had made sure she had no husband now, and no father for her children. All Ombra knew what part Fenoglio had played in Cosimo’s war. It was amazing they hadn’t hauled him out of bed yet and killed him, but no doubt the women of Ombra had their hands too full keeping starvation at bay. "Where else would you go?" was all Minerva had said when she opened her door to find him standing there. "They don’t need a poet up at the castle now. I suppose they’ll be singing the Piper’s songs in future." And there, of course, she was right. The Milksop loved the silver-nosed man’s bloodthirsty verses — when he wasn’t composing a few poorly rhymed lines himself, all about his hunting prowess.

Luckily, at least Violante sent for Fenoglio now and then, never guessing, of course, that he brought her words stolen from poets in another world. But Her Ugliness didn’t pay particularly well. The Adderhead’s own daughter was poorer than the new governor’s court ladies, so Fenoglio also worked as a scribe in the marketplace, which naturally had Rosenquartz telling anyone who would listen how low his master had sunk. But who paid any attention to a glass man’s chirping little voice?

Let the silly transparent fellow talk! Fenoglio had forsworn words forever, no matter how invitingly Rosenquartz laid a blank piece of parchment on the table every evening. He was never going to write a single word again — except those he stole from others and the dry, bloodless twaddle he had to put down on paper or parchment for wills, sales agreements, and similar stuff. The time for living words was over.

They were deceitful, murderous, bloodsucking monsters, black as ink and bringing nothing but misfortune. He wasn’t going to help them do it anymore, not he. A walk through the streets of Ombra, empty of men these days, and he needed a whole jug of wine to keep off the gloom that had deprived him of any zest for life since Cosimo’s defeat.

Beardless boys, decrepit old men, cripples and beggars, traveling merchants who hadn’t yet heard that there wasn’t a copper coin to be made in Ombra now, or who did business with those leeches up in the castle — that was what you saw these days in the once lively streets. Women with eyes reddened from weeping, fatherless children, men from beyond the forest hoping to find a young widow or an abandoned workshop here.. . and soldiers. Yes, there were plenty of soldiers in Ombra. They took what they wanted, day after day, night after night. No house was safe from them. They called it compensation for war crimes, and they had a point. After all, Cosimo had been the attacker — Cosimo, his most beautiful and innocent creation (or so, at least, Fenoglio had thought). Now he lay dead in a sarcophagus in the crypt beneath the castle. Minerva claimed that Violante went down there every day, officially to mourn her dead husband but really — so people Whispered — to meet her informers. They said Her Ugliness didn’t even have to pay her spies. Hatred of the Milksop brought them to her by the dozen. Of course. You had only to look at the fellow that perfumed, pigeon-breasted hangman, governor only by the grace of his brother-in-law, the Adderhead. If you painted a face on an egg, it would bear a striking resemblance to him. And no, Fenoglio hadn’t made him up. Once again, the story had produced the Milksop entirely by itself.