Wasn’t that kind of her? I had to make some changes, of course — move a few words here, a few more there. Fenoglio is very kind to the Bluejay, but I was able to put that right."

Fenoglio’s Bluejay songs. All neatly written down by Balbulus. Mo closed his eyes.

"And, by the way, the water isn’t my doing!" Orpheus called down to him. "The Adderhead has had the sluices to the lake opened. You won’t drown, it doesn’t rise high enough for that, but it won’t be pleasant."

At the same moment Mo felt the water rising up his legs as if the darkness had turned liquid, so cold and black that he fought for breath.

"No, the water isn’t my idea," Orpheus went on, sounding bored. "I know you too well by now to think that fear of that kind would change your mind. I suppose you’re hoping your obstinacy may yet mollify Death, now that you haven’t kept your part of the bargain. Oh yes, I know about the deal you did with Death, I know everything.. .

but however that may be, I’ll drive the obstinacy out of you. I’ll make you forget your high-minded virtues. I’ll make you forget everything except the fear, because the White Women can’t protect you from my words."

Mo wanted to strike the man dead. With his bare hands. But they were bound, he reminded himself.

"At first I was going to write something about your wife and daughter, but then I said to myself: No, Orpheus, that way he won’t feel the words himself!" How the moonfaced creature was enjoying every syllable he spoke. As if he had dreamed of this moment. There he is up above, thought Mo, and here I am down in a black cell, helpless as a rat that he could kill at any moment.

"No," Orpheus went on. "No, I said to myself. Let him feel the power of your words for himself Show him that from now on you can play with the Bluejay like a cat plays with a mouse. Except that your claws are made of letters!"

And Mo felt the claws. It was as if the water were seeping through his skin and straight into his heart. So black. Then came the pain. As violent as if Mortola had shot him a second time, and so real that he pressed his hands to his chest, thinking he would feel his own blood between his fingers. Although the darkness blinded him, he saw it stain his shirt and his hands and felt his strength fading away as it had before.

He could hardly stand upright; he had to brace his back against the wall to keep from slipping into the water that was already up to his waist. Resa. Oh God. Resa, help me.

Despair shook him like a child. Despair and helpless rage.

"I wasn’t sure at first what would work best." Orpheus’s voice cut through the pain like a blunt knife. "Should I send a few unpleasant water-monsters to visit you? I have the book here that Fenoglio wrote for Jacopo. It has some rather nasty creatures in it. But I decided on another, far more interesting way! I decided to drive you mad with beings out of your own head, come to haunt you with old fears, old anger, and old pain all dammed up in your heroic heart, locked away but not forgotten. Bring it all back to him, Orpheus! I told myself With some added images that he’s always been afraid of: a dead wife; a dead child. Send them all down to him in the darkness, let him drown in his own anger. Who feels like a hero when he’s trembling with fright and knows it comes from nowhere but himself? How does the Bluejay feel when he dreams of bloody slaughter? How does it feel to doubt your own sanity?

Yes, I told myself, if you want to break him, that’s the way. Let him lose himself, let the Bluejay howl like a mad dog, let him trap himself in his own fear. Let loose the Furies who can kill him so cleverly from the inside."

Mo felt what Orpheus was describing even as the other man spoke, and he realized that Orpheus had already read the words aloud some time ago, with a tongue as powerful as his own. Yes, it was a new Bluejay song. Telling how he lost his mind in a damp, black cell, how he nearly drowned himself in his despair, and how at last he begged for mercy and bound the Adderhead another White Book, his hands still shaking from hours in the dark.

The water had stopped rising, but Mo felt something brush past his legs. Breathe slowly, Mortimer, breathe very steadily. Shut out the words; don’t let them in. You can do it. But how, when a gunshot had just entered his breast again, when his blood was mingling with the water and everything in him cried out for revenge? He felt feverish again, feverish and yet so cold. He bit his lip to keep Orpheus from hearing him groan, pressed his hand to his heart. Feel it; there isn’t really any blood there.

Meggie isn’t dead, even if you see that image as clearly as Orpheus could write the scene. No, no, no! But the words whispered: Yes! And he felt as if he were breaking into a thousand tiny shards.

"Throw your torch down, guard! I want to see him."

The torch fell. It dazzled Mo, and drifted on the dark water for a moment before going out.

"Well, well, so you do feel them! You feel every single word, don’t you?" Orpheus looked down at him like a child looks at a worm he has put on a hook, fascinated to see it writhe. Mo wanted to put his head under the water until he couldn’t breathe anymore. Stop it, Mortimer, he told himself What is he doing to you? Defend yourself But how? He felt like sinking into the water just to escape the words, but he knew that even there they would be waiting for him.

"I’ll be back in an hour’s time!" Orpheus called down. "Of course, I couldn’t resist reading at least a few nasty creatures into the water for you, but don’t worry, they won’t kill you. Who knows, perhaps you’ll even find them a welcome diversion from what your mind shows you? Bluejay. . . Yes, you really ought to be careful when you choose what part to play. Get them to call me as soon as you realize that your high-minded approach is out of place here. Then I’ll write you a few words to save you.

Along the lines of: But morning came, and the Bluejay’s madness left him. . . . "

Orpheus laughed and went away. Leaving him alone with the water and the darkness and the words.

Bind the Book for the Adderhead. The sentence formed in Mo’s mind as if written in perfect calligraphy. Bind him another White Book and all will be well.

Again pain shot through him so violently that he cried out. He saw Thumbling taking his fingers in a pair of pincers, saw the Milksop dragging Meggie out of a cave by her hair, saw the dogs snapping at Resa. He was shivering with fever, or was it from the cold? It’s only in your mind, Mortimer! He struck his forehead against the stone.

If only he could have seen something, anything but Orpheus’s images. If only he could have felt something other than the words. Press your hands on the stone, go on, dip your face in the water, strike yourself with your fists, that’s all that’s real, nothing else. Oh yes?

Mo sobbed, and pressed his bound hands to his forehead. He heard a fluttering above him. Sparks sprang up in the blackness. The dark retreated as if someone were removing a blindfold from his eyes. Dustfinger? No, Dustfinger was dead. Even if his heart refused to believe it.

The Bluejay is dying, the voice inside him whispered. The Bluejay is losing his mind. And he heard fluttering again. Of course. Death was coming to visit him, and she wasn’t sending the White Women to protect him again. This time she was coming herself to take him away, because he had failed. Death would take first him, then Meggie. . . but perhaps even that was better than the words Orpheus had written.