#rainer strecker speaks very clearly but some of these italian names.... man

[schleierkauz]

The Color of Revenge: Chapter 4

Me: “This story is sooo interesting! Maybe we get to meet one of the witches next? Maybe a chapter from Roxane’s perspective? Maybe some insight into what exactly the Prince is up to? Maybe -” Cornelia Funke: “Anyway here’s Ironstone.”

(This is also your reminder to definitely listen to the official version once we get it because this chapter kinda kicked my ass. If any part of this just straight up makes no sense pls tell me. Enjoy!)

Chapter 4: An unpleasant Companion

Of course Ironstone had lied about his master. Orpheus was very much alive and healthy, aside from his chronically sensitive stomach and flights of migraine, which only served as an excuse to spend hours in bed. Meanwhile Rudolph washed his clothes, cooked, scrubbed the floors and worked himself to the bone with a thousand other tasks.

Orpheus had ordered him to visit Elinor. He had given very specific instructions regarding the order in which they were supposed to visit his old foes. Ironstone was almost done. Only Farid was still missing since he wasn’t in Ombra. He had hidden one of the wooden sticks that Orpheus had given him in the belongings of all the other people he’d visited – under the bed, inside of bags, shoes or clothes.

“What are those for?“ he’d asked as Orpheus had counted the small wooden sticks into the leather bag that had been strapped to Ironstone’s back like a backpack. “Do you want me to try my hand at arson? That’s hardly a good way to kill the Fire-Dancer.”

“It’s none of your concern what those sticks are for,“ Orpheus had answered with his usual air of importance. “Maybe they’ll catch you while you hide them and I don’t want you to be able to reveal my plan.”

Unsettling – but so far no one had caught him. And Ironstone was determined to keep it that way. Orpheus had impressed it upon him that the sticks had to stay with the person they were meant for for two nights. Under no circumstances were they to be discovered before then. So Ironstone had tried his best to find good hiding places. Orpheus could turn very nasty if his orders weren’t followed exactly as he wanted. He had almost drowned Ironstone in his ink once and a few times the glass man had had to visit the glazier for broken off limbs. Not to mention that fit of rage during which his master had chased him through his shabby chambers with a hammer. No glazier would have been able to fix that damage.

Ironstone couldn’t have explained why he stayed with Orpheus despite all of it. Maybe because it was nice to work for a master who was even more devious than he himself.

“Two nights, then you go to collect them again and give them to Baldassare so he can deliver them to their final recipient.”

Baldassare. The man on whose shoulder he’d travelled from Tyrola to Ombra was just as evil, devious and unprincipled as Orpheus himself. He would’ve sold him to the men who fed glass men to fighting dogs in order to sharpen their teeth had Orpheus not made it very clear that he needed Ironstone back unharmed.

Baldassare Renaldesci liked to brag that he’d been a master thief since his fifth birthday and since his eleventh also a very gifted murderer. He claimed to have sent over a hundred men and women to the afterlife – a place that was, according to him, similar to a giant pub, which meant he really just did his victims a favor. The wooden casket in which he kept buttons and belt buckles, cut from the clothes of his victims, was filled to the brim.

“It helps me to remember how many there were,“ he’d explained to Ironstone, obvious pride in his voice. “Most people have no idea how hard it is to kill a grown man and how fiercely some try to defend themselves.”

The casket also contained two gold teeth (Ironstone was grateful that Baldassare didn’t mention where they’d come from) – and a glass eye that was supposed to protect him from the evil eye.

Baldassare’s eyes were brown like those of a cow and most of the time they seemed so dull and disinterested that one might have mistaken them for glass as well.

But appearances could be deceiving.

Baldassare’s cow eyes didn’t miss anything, which made his claim that he’d once been a spy for the duke of Milan at least a little bit more believable.

Anyway – he didn’t bathe often enough, he liked lousy lodgings where the rats were bigger than Ironstone and he loved cheap prostitutes who thought glass men were adorable little pets. Plus, he enjoyed fighting, was constantly high on cheap wine, elf dust and cinderella lentils and wrote bad verses to worse melodies which he considered to be an expression of his untamable genius. To make it short: Ironstone was counting the days until they finished Orpheus’ tasks and he could get off of Baldassare’s filthy shoulder.

At least the weather was a lot more pleasant in Ombra than it was in Bruneck – and there were glass women. And a lot of troubadours and rich merchants who needed glass men. There had been moments when Ironstone had seriously considered not going back to Orpheus. But he had gotten used to him and his black heart. And it wouldn’t be easy to find another master who was so thoroughly supportive of his desires to do evil.

The abandoned house that Baldassare had claimed as their home still had the sign of the Black Death painted on the brittle door, even though it had been 20 years since the plague ravaged Ombra. The empty rooms behind it smelled like mold and rat dung and the glassless windows let in every biting smell that came from the dye baths of the tanners nearby. Flayed skin… Quite appropriate. Orpheus probably had something similar in mind for those who had foiled his plans, even though he kept the specifics a secret.

Baldassare was snoring on a bearskin he’d stolen from the tanners, his fingers white with elf dust. He was a tall, strong man who wore the blurred remains of past beauty on his puffy face. His black hair was a little too black (he dyed it with the foul-smelling liquid the tanners used for their skins) and you could always deduct his last meal by looking at his clothes.

Ah, the world was so unfair! Baldassare would receive a bag of gold for his services while Orpheus’ own loyal (well… somewhat loyal) glass man had to content himself with dry bread, hard cheese and sour wine.

Ironstone tiptoed closer to Baldassare’s sleeping form and pushed his tiny hand into the bag tied to his belt. Ah yes… A few coins were still in there. Surely he wouldn‘t miss just one. Judging by how he wrote down his verses, his skills for counting probably weren’t much better than his spelling. But Ironstone had only just closed his hand around the coin when dirty fingers grabbed him.

“And what do you think you’re doing there, Shard Head?” Baldassare slurred and held Ironstone up in front of his bloodshot eyes. His voice sounded like oil. Warm, rancid oil.

“Should I sell you to one of the travelling merchants who export glass men to Persia and Mauritania, where they have you fight snakes and scorpions? I hear there’s a great demand. Because there’s usual nothing left of your kind but a few splinters.”

Oh yes. Baldassare Renaldesci had a black heart. Maybe it was even darker than that of Orpheus. Ironstone knew that there were a few things Orpheus valued in this world. But he had yet to find anything that inspired such feelings in Baldassare. Except maybe himself, louses and all. And his bad verses.

“I haven’t had a proper meal since yesterday!“ Ironstone shrieked. “I have a right to at least one meal a day! And the sun is already setting!”

“It is?“ Baldassare scratched his paunch and struggled to get on his feet. ”Damn. The Black Prince is holding an audience for all troubadours who want to join him. I want to recite one of my verses.”

“Your verses? You have something else to deliver him, did you forget that?“

They had split Orpheus‘ list up between the two of them. The dead-and-buried-list, as Ironstone liked to call it. Of course Baldassare had made sure that he only had to deal with six of the 14 names on it. His argument had been that Dustfinger, the Black Prince and the young firebug were far more dangerous tasks than the bookworm woman or the old Inkweaver.

Ridiculous.

After all, the split made the Bluejay and his daughter Ironstone’s responsibility. But Baldassare had just given him a slimy smile and pushed eight of the wooden sticks towards Ironstone.

“Come on, Ire – you attract way less attention than I do“ he’d purred.

Ire, Shard Heard, Pipsqueak, Fog Face (a reference to Ironstone’s foggy gray limbs) – Baldassare had many names for Ironstone and he didn’t like any of them. But he consoled himself with the fact that the nicknames he used for Baldassare were even less flattering.

“Forget? I forget nothing and no one, Shard Head.“ Baldassare pulled the round silver mirror out of his pocket that he treated it with more care than any of his other belongings. “Baldassare,” he murmured as he spat into his hand and smoothed back his dyed hair. “You’re still one handsome devil.”

The silver offered a blurry improvement on reality and the elf dust probably did the rest – there was no other explanation for this judgement. Ironstone was continuously surprised how much vanity hid behind Baldassare’s sleazy appearance. He even owned an ivory comb and a brush for his teeth.

“Oh no, no,“ he said just as Ironstone was about to get comfortable on the bearskin. “You’re coming with me. It looks good when a troubadour has his own glass man.”

Wonderful. Ironstone had been up and about for almost four days and nights to finish his portion of the list.

“The Black Prince doesn’t like me at all!“ he protested when Baldassare grabbed him. “He won’t even want to listen to your verses once he sees me! And then what? Do you want to sacrifice your future fame for Orpheus’ old rivalries?”

Baldassare was usually a very suspicous man but when it came to his stilted verses he believed even excuses as absurd as this one.

“That would be too bad, yes. Ah, va bene, you’re staying here – but get me some new strings for my lute.”

Of course. It wasn’t enough that he tortured the ears of everyone around him with bad verses, he had to follow it up with even worse lute melodies.

“Get them? How?“ Ironstone held his hand out to Baldassare, hoping he would get the hint, but the man just sneered at him.

“How? Steal them!“

Ironstone glanced up to the worryingly fat spider that was lurking in its net under the moist ceiling. He decided to dedicate the rest of the evening not to Baldassare’s or Orpheus’ desires but his own. The street in which Ombras instrument makers worked was south of the tannery streets but Ironstone turned north, towards the seamstresses who made clothes for the wealthier citizens of Ombra… assisted by countless glass women.

(Next chapter)