“Hearing them again, are you?” asked Dustfinger, as Farid pressed close to him. “How many times do I have to tell you? There aren’t any spirits in this world. One of its few advantages.”
He stood there leaning against an oak tree, looking down the lonely road. At a distance, a single streetlamp cast its light on the cracked asphalt where a few houses huddled by the roadside. There were scarcely a dozen of them, standing close together as if they feared the night as much as Farid did. The house where Cheeseface lived was the first on the road. There was a light on behind one of its windows. Dustfinger had been staring at it for more than an hour. Farid had often tried standing motionless like that, but his limbs simply would not keep still.
“I’m going to find out where he is!”
“No, you’re not!” Dustfinger’s face was as expressionless as ever, but his voice gave him away. Farid heard the impatience in it … and the hope that refused to die, although it had been disappointed so often before. “Are you sure he said ‘Friday’?”
“Yes, and this is Friday, right?”
Dustfinger just nodded, then pushed his shoulder-length hair back from his face. Farid had tried growing his own hair long, but it was so curly, tangled, and unruly that in the end he cut it short again with his knife.
“‘Friday outside the village at four o’clock,’ that’s what he said. While that dog of his growled at me as if it really craved a nice crunchy boy to eat!” The wind blew through his thin sweater and he rubbed his arms, shivering. A good warm fire, that’s what he’d have liked now, but Dustfinger wouldn’t let him light so much as a match in this wind. Four o’clock … Cursing quietly, Farid looked up at the dark sky. He knew it was well past four, even without a watch.
“I tell you, he’s making us wait on purpose, the stuck-up idiot!”
Dustfinger’s thin lips twisted into a smile. Farid was finding it easier and easier to make him smile. Perhaps that was why he’d promised to take Farid, too … supposing Cheeseface really did send Dustfinger back. Back to his own world, created from paper, printer’s ink, and an old man’s words.
Oh, come on! thought Farid. How would Orpheus, of all people, succeed where all the others had failed? So many had tried it … the Stammerer, Golden Eyes, Raventongue. Swindlers who had taken their money.
The light went out behind Orpheus’s window, and Dustfinger abruptly straightened up. A door closed, and the sound of footsteps echoed through the darkness: rapid, irregular footsteps. Then Orpheus appeared in the light of the single streetlamp. Farid had privately nicknamed him Cheeseface, because of his pale skin and the way he sweated like a piece of cheese in the sun. Breathing heavily, he walked down the steep slope of the road with his hellhound beside him. It was as ugly as a hyena. When he saw Dustfinger standing by the roadside, he stopped, smiled broadly, and waved to him.
Farid grasped Dustfinger’s arm. “Look at that silly grin. False as fairy gold!” he whispered. “How can you trust him?”
“Who says I trust him? And what’s the matter with you? You’re all jittery. Would you rather stay here? Cars, moving pictures, canned music, light that keeps the night away —” Dustfinger clambered over the knee-high wall beside the road. “You like all that. You’ll be bored to death where I want to go.”
What was he talking about? As if he didn’t know perfectly well that there was only one thing Farid wanted: to stay with him. He was about to reply angrily, but a sharp crack, like boots treading on a twig, made him spin around. Dustfinger had heard it, too. He had stopped, and was listening. But there was nothing to be seen among the trees, only the branches moving in the wind, and a moth, pale as a ghost, that fluttered in Farid’s face.
“I’m sorry, it took longer than I expected!” cried Orpheus as he approached them.
Farid still couldn’t grasp the fact that such a beautiful voice could emerge from that mouth. They had heard about Orpheus’s voice in several villages, and Dustfinger had set out at once in search of it, but not until a week ago had they found the man himself in a library, reading fairy tales to a few children. Obviously, none of the children noticed the dwarf who suddenly slipped out from behind one of the shelves crammed with well-thumbed books. But Dustfinger had seen him. He had lain in wait for Orpheus, approaching him just as he was about to get into his car again. And finally, he’d shown him the book — the book that Farid had cursed more often than anything else on earth.
“Oh, I know that book!” Orpheus had breathed. “And as for you —” he had added almost devoutly, looking at Dustfinger as if to stare the scars from his cheeks “— I know you, too! You were the best thing in it. Dustfinger! The fire-eater! Who read you here into this saddest of all stories? No, don’t say anything! You want to go back, don’t you? But you can’t find the door, the door hidden among the letters on the page! Never mind! I can build you a new one with words made to measure! For a special price, between friends — if you’re really the man I take you for.”
A special price between friends? What a laugh! They’d had to promise him almost all their money, and then wait for him for hours in this godforsaken spot, on a windy night that smelled of ghosts.
“Is the marten in there?” Orpheus shone his flashlight on Dustfinger’s backpack. “You know my dog doesn’t like him.”
“No, he’s off finding something to eat.” Dustfinger’s eyes wandered to the book under Orpheus’s arm. “Well? Have you … done it?”
“Of course!” The hellhound bared its teeth and glared at Farid. “To start with, the words were rather hard to find. Perhaps because I was so excited. As I told you at our first meeting, this book, Inkheart —” Orpheus stroked the volume “— was my favorite when I was a child. I was eleven when I last saw it. I kept borrowing it from our run-down library until it was stolen. I hadn’t been brave enough to steal it myself, and then someone else did, but I never forgot it. This book taught me, once and for all, how easily you can escape this world with the help of words! You can find friends between the pages of a book, wonderful friends! Friends like you. Fire-eaters, giants, fairies …! Have you any idea how bitterly I wept when I read about your death? But you’re alive, and everything will be all right! You will retell the story —”
“I?” Dustfinger interrupted him with an amused look. “No, believe me, that’s a task for others.”
“Well, perhaps.” Orpheus cleared his throat as if he felt embarrassed to have revealed so much of his feelings. “However that may be, it’s a shame I can’t go with you,” he said, heading for the wall beside the road with his curiously awkward gait. “But the reader has to stay behind, that’s the iron rule. I’ve tried every way I could to read myself into a book, but it just won’t work.” Sighing, he stopped by the wall, put his hand under his ill-fitting jacket, and brought out a sheet of paper. “Well — this is what you asked for,” he told Dustfinger. “Wonderful words, just for you, a road of words to take you straight back again. Here, read it!”
Hesitantly, Dustfinger took the sheet of paper. It was covered with fine, slanting handwriting, the letters tangled like thread. Dustfinger slowly ran his finger along the words as if he had to show each of them separately to his eyes. Orpheus watched him like a schoolboy waiting to be told the grade his work has earned.
When Dustfinger finally looked up again, he sounded surprised. “You write very well! Those are beautiful words …”
Cheeseface turned as red as if someone had spilled mulberry juice over his face. “I’m glad you like it!”
“I like it very much! It’s all just as I described it to you. It even sounds a little better.”
Orpheus took back the sheet of paper with an awkward smile. “I can’t promise that it’ll be the same time of day there,” he said in a muted voice. “The laws of my art are difficult to understand, but believe me, no one knows more about them than I do. For instance, I’ve discovered that if you want to change or continue a story, you should only use words that are already in the book. Too many new words and n
othing at all may happen, or, alternatively, something could happen that you didn’t intend. Perhaps it’s different if you wrote the original story …”
“In the name of all the fairies, you’re fuller of words than a whole library!” Dustfinger interrupted impatiently. “How about just reading it now?”
Orpheus fell silent as abruptly as if he had swallowed his tongue. “By all means,” he said in slightly injured tones. “Well, now you’ll see! With my help, the book will welcome you back like a prodigal son. It will suck you up as paper absorbs ink.”
*Margaret Atwood lines from “Orpheus 2” from Selected Poems 1966-1984 (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1990), reprinted by kind permission of Oxford University Press, Canada, and Houghton Mifflin Company, New York.
About the Author
The Thief Lord was the first of CORNELIA FUNKE’S novels to be translated from her native German into English, and was awarded the prestigious Mildred L. Batchelder Award for Outstanding Translated Book when it was published in 2003. Funke’s other bestselling novels include Dragon Rider and the Inkheart trilogy: Inkheart, Inkspell, and Inkdeath. She is also the author of several picture books and chapter books for younger readers. Funke lives with her family in Los Angeles, California, in a house filled with books. Visit her at www.CorneliaFunkeFans.com.
Praise for Cornelia Funke’s THE THIEF LORD
“[A] radiant novel…. Today’s young readers will probably love this book as they love the Harry Potter series, for its zany plot and well-defined characters … splendid.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“[An] exquisitely told tale of adventure and intrigue … display[s] the kind of zest that makes you inhale a book in as few sittings as possible.”
—USA Today
“A darn good yarn—the charming tale of a band of urchin-thieves, a magical carousel, and two orphaned brothers.”
—Newsweek
“Funke’s deft exploration of a timeless theme—the longing of kids to grow up and of grown-ups to relive their youth—should engage both young and old.”
—People
* “[A] fantasy/mystery/adventure, all rolled into one spellbinding story.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
* “A compelling tale, rich in ingenious twists, with a setting and cast that will linger in readers’ memories.”
—School Library Journal, starred review
“The Venetian setting is ripe for mystery, and the city’s alleys and canals ratchet up the suspense in the chase scenes.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[A] masterly work.”
—The Guardian
New York Times Bestseller
USA Today Bestseller
Book Sense Bestseller
New York Times Notable Book
ALA Notable Book
School Library Journal Best Book of the Year
Child Magazine Best Book of the Year
Parenting Magazine Book of the Year
Winner of the 2003 Mildred L. Batchelder Award for
an outstanding translated book
Winner of the Zurich Children’s Book Award
Winner of the Book Award from the Vienna House of Literature
Winner of the Swiss Youth Literature Award
Teaser
Once the story comes
alive, it never ends….
“The story…seems to have been sprinkled with some magical fairy dust.”
—The New York Times Book Review
One cruel night, Meggie’s father reads aloud from Inkheart, and an evil ruler named Capricorn escapes the boundaries of the book, landing in their living room. Suddenly, Meggie’s in the middle of the kind of adventure she thought only took place in fairy tales. Somehow she must master the magic that has conjured up this nightmare. Can she change the course of the story that has changed her life forever?
The New York Times
bestselling trilogy from
Cornelia Funke
A BOY. A DRAGON. A QUEST.
“Marvelous stuff for dreaming adventurers of any age.”
—Clive Barker
The #1 New York Times Bestseller
by Cornelia Funke
Firedrake, Ben, and their furry friend, Sorrel, are in search of the mythical land where dragons can live in peace forever. Along the way, they discover allies in odd places, a ruthless villain, and a hidden destiny that changes everything!
Copyright
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Original text copyright © 2000 by Cornelia Funke
Cover design by butterworthdesign.com
English translation copyright © 2001 by Oliver Latsch
Original German edition published © 2000 by Cecilie Dressler Verlag, Hamburg, Germany
First published in the United Kingdom in 2002 by The Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset, BA11 1DS
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. by arrangement with The Chicken House. THE CHICKEN HOUSE is a registered trademark of Chicken House Publishing Limited. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Cover illustration copyright © 2008 by Emile Facey
Interior illustrations copyright © 2000 by Cornelia Funke
Venice map copyright © 2000 by Lothar Meier
This edition first printing, May 2010
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
eISBN: 978-0-545-41510-1
Cornelia Funke, The Thief Lord
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