The Vanishing Sculptor (11 page)

“Don’t,” said Librettowit, stopping before the elaborate wooden door of the inn and staring seriously into her eyes. “Don’t ever end your sentences with prepositions.”

Beccaroon clicked his tongue. “Before. I believe the preposition she should not have ended that sentence with would be
before
instead of
to.
One humbles oneself before another person, not to.”

Tipper glared at her friend. “Have you gone mad?”

“No.” The parrot’s skin lifted in a ridge above one eye, like an eyebrow arching. “I think I have caught on to the rhythm of our guests’ conversational pattern.”

Librettowit patted her arm and propelled her gently toward the door. “He ended two sentences with the preposition
to.
Two prepositions incorrectly positioned.” He reached forward with his free hand and twisted the brass knob. “I must confess, in the past I’ve committed the two
to
transgression too.”

A ripple of laughter quivered in Tipper’s stomach and rolled up to her throat. “You’re doing it on purpose to make me relax.”

“Yes, my dear,” said Beccaroon, “and here we are.”

They proceeded to the front desk at a quick pace. Obviously, her escorts did not want her to have time to devise a means of escape.

An o’rant commanded a position of authority behind the wide, highly polished, wooden counter. “Welcome to the Boss Inn, Temperlain’s most prestigious hotel. May I be of service?”

Beccaroon cleared his throat. “We’re looking for the artist Graddapotmorphit Bealomondore.”

The clerk drawled, “He’s here.” He returned to his task.

Bec tilted his head forward. “May we see him?”

“If you take a room.” The clerk turned a heavy book with lined pages so that it faced the three.

Librettowit examined the register. “Why do we need a room?”

“Bealomondore is an employee of the Inn. He does not render his services to anyone outside our patronage.”

The tumanhofer picked up the pen and scratched in his name. “We’ll take three rooms. One for the young lady and two for myself and three traveling companions.”

The o’rant bowed slightly and pulled three sets of keys from a board on the wall.

Librettowit took the offered keys. “Now, where is Bealomondore?”

The man pointed a long finger to a hallway. “Last door on the left. You’ll make your payment for the artist’s work through the front desk.”

“Payment?” Tipper whispered as they moved away from the desk.

Librettowit jingled the keys in his hand. “Thought you said this man’s family is well-to-do.”

“He dressed well,” said Tipper. “He spoke like a gentleman. He said he was Graddapotmorphit Bealomondore from Greeston in Dornum. He sounded like his family held a position of prestige.”

Beccaroon clicked his tongue against his beak. “And
he
supplied all the knowledge we have of him.”

“Papa knew of him. Mother said so.”

“Now, how is that?” asked the bird, turning an eye to the tumanhofer.

Librettowit paused in the hall. “For quite some time, we made attempts to return Verrin Schope to your country. Seven out of ten times, he landed in his own home. On the other three occasions, he popped up in the most unusual places. We often worried whether he would return to us. During these misplacements, he explored cities, mountains, isolated grasslands, and islands.”

Tipper gasped. “He could have landed in the ocean.”

Librettowit shook his head. “Highly unlikely. The mechanism, even when faulty, is strongly attracted to solid objects. He was in no danger of drowning.”

“But you had to wait longer for him to return?”

“Yes.” The librarian rubbed his fingers over his mustache. “The longest he was gone was nine days. By then we’d given him up entirely. Each time he visited your mother at the original entry of the gateway, he was gone from Amara for only six or seven hours.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We tested theory after theory and could only surmise that the weave of the gateway burst in places, and he could not be readmitted until that rip had repaired itself.”

“Awk!” Beccaroon halted. “This gate fixes itself?”

Librettowit resumed walking, and Tipper and Beccaroon followed. “It’s not made out of brick and mortar, you see. Not even wood or thread. But time! Strands of flowing time and light. I’ve said
mechanism
, and that has given you a poor picture in your mind. I apologize.”

He tapped a finger against his chin. “The product of our manipulation of strands of light and time is more like a living thing than a watch that merely counts minutes and hours. The gateway flows constantly.”

He abruptly stopped, and Bec and Tipper had to retrace their steps to where he stood.

The tumanhofer changed from finger tapping to mustache stroking. “Ah! If you toss a rock into a stream, the water is only momentarily disturbed.” He shook his head. “Bah! Another bad example.”

He thought, his eyes squinted, then held up his finger. “If you scratch your skin, the abrasion allows blood to escape, but shortly thereafter, the small wound closes and eventually heals.” A grin parted the mustache and beard.

To Tipper his smile looked more like a grimace. “The gateway is like that.”

Beccaroon stared for a moment, then began walking once more. “That doesn’t make a bit of sense. If this theory of putting three bits of stone back together is based on the same type of logic, Verrin Schope is doomed.”

Tipper scampered to catch up. “Oh, Bec, please don’t say such a thing.”

His pace slowed. “Now, Tipper, don’t fret. If this wizard and librarian were the ones we rely on, I’d be worried. But throw your father into the mix, and I have more confidence that all will turn out as it should.”

“Wulder,” said the tumanhofer, again walking by their sides. “Wulder is for us, as well.”

Beccaroon didn’t answer. Neither did Tipper. Trusting for aid someone who was like the fable of Boscamon didn’t seem something to rejoice about. According to her father, this Wulder was real. But what did that mean? A real juggler was not much improvement over a storybook juggler.

They came to the door on the left at the end of the hall. Librettowit knocked.

“Come in.” It was Bealomondore’s voice.

Tipper allowed Librettowit and Beccaroon to lead the way. She hung back in the doorway to see what their reception would be. The much shorter bird and tumanhofer afforded her no shield, and they didn’t block her view either.

Bealomondore sat with his back to them. An easel before him bore a black-on-white sketch of a marione. This person, apparently a businessman, raised his eyebrows at the intrusion, but when the artist made a hissing noise, he composed his expression with a flinch.

“I’m almost finished here,” said the artist without turning his gaze. “Sit down. Shouldn’t be long.”

Bec remained standing, but Tipper and Librettowit sat on the soft sofa along the wall.

Tipper watched as Bealomondore’s charcoal scraped lines across the paper. Occasionally, he stopped to deliberately smudge an area, creating shadows. The likeness to the man posing was remarkable, almost breathtaking, considering the artist worked only with black.

Bealomondore signed his name with a flourish, put down the charcoal, and stood. “Done!” He turned the easel with an ostentatious gesture and beamed when his patron exclaimed his astonishment.

“Marvelous! Incredible! You’re a genuine genius.”

Bealomondore nodded without a trace of humility. He then frowned as the man pulled out his leather purse. He shook his head. “You pay at the front desk, then the portrait will be mounted, framed, and delivered to your room.”

“Yes, yes. I remember now.” He gestured toward his likeness. “I can hardly take my eyes off it. My wife will be very pleased. Thank you, young man.”

The marione businessman tore himself away from admiring his face on paper and scurried out of the room, evidently eager to pay the commission.

Bealomondore wiped his hands on a gray cloth as he turned to his waiting subjects. His eyes popped open at the sight of Beccaroon. He squinted and glared as his gaze swept over the tumanhofer and came to rest on Tipper.

“You,” he thundered and pointed a blackened digit. “You are the cause of this humiliation. You have stripped me of my pride. You have reduced me to such circumstances.”

Tipper couldn’t see how she had caused anything. “Me?”

His nostrils flared. His head reared back, and he looked down his nose with exaggerated indignation. But he spoke with subdued rage. “Yes. You.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Librettowit as he jumped to his feet. “Is there no normalcy in this confounded country?” He shook a finger at the offended artist. “You’re a tumanhofer, aren’t you? Act like one.”

“I am an artist first,” said Bealomondore, but the stab to his ego by a fellow tumanhofer had diminished his huff to a whisper.

Librettowit walked over to the younger man and put his arm around his shoulders. “You are a great artist, it is true.”

Bealomondore perked up.

“But you are a lousy tumanhofer.”

Bealomondore drooped.

“Never fear.” Librettowit squeezed the artist’s shoulders and shook him. “You have before you the opportunity to win fame and recognition, not only for your own talent but also for your acumen in the recognition of another.”

Confusion wrinkled Bealomondore’s face.

Librettowit continued. “Because you had the foresight, the ingenuity, the sagacity to seek out the work of the acclaimed sculptor and artist Verrin Schope, you are in the position to retrieve three priceless works of art. In doing so, you will save not only the artist’s life but also the world.”

Tipper managed to feel sorry for the man. He looked totally obfuscated by the charge to save his icon, Verrin Schope, and the world.

“Me?” asked one tumanhofer.

“Yes,” said the other. “You.”

13
Unexpected Alliances

“I’ll do it!”

Tipper gasped at Bealomondore’s proclamation. “What?”

He frowned at her. “I said I’d do it. Did you expect me to refuse to come to your father’s aid just because you treated me shabbily?” He straightened his back, appearing to stretch at least an inch. “I consider myself above petty retaliation.”

Librettowit nodded sagely as he stroked his beard. He turned to Tipper with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I see what you meant in your earlier assessment.”

Tipper hid her smile. Sometimes she liked the librarian very much.

To Bealomondore, Librettowit said, “Fine, fine. I’m glad you wish to join us.”

Tipper arched her eyebrows. They would have no direction at all if the fanatical artist chose not to cooperate. That “glad you wish to join us” was an understatement.

Librettowit cleared his throat. “What will it take to get you out of your obligation to the hotel?”

The young tumanhofer seemed to consider his answer, then sighed, all the stiffness leaving his posture. “Four hundred mikers.”

Librettowit arched his eyebrows. “I’m unfamiliar with your money system. That sounds like a lot.”

“It is,” said Tipper, trying not to stare at Bealomondore. She’d be able to keep the household finances afloat for three months on that much money.

Bealomondore shrugged. “I stayed here for several weeks before I followed through on my plan to seek Verrin Schope’s benefaction.”

“You waited until you were broke,” said Tipper.

He hung his head. “A combination of motives. Empty pockets stoked my nerve to approach your father.”

“So,” said Beccaroon, “we need to pay the bill you ran up with the hotel, and you will be free to join our quest.”

With narrowed eyes, Bealomondore studied Tipper. “Is this her plan? Is her father still inaccessible?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Is he truly in danger?” He turned slightly away from Tipper and addressed Beccaroon and Librettowit. “Forgive me if I want proof that I will be engaged in an endeavor for Verrin Schope.”

The grand parrot nodded. “That’s understandable. We’ll take you back to Byrdschopen and introduce you to the man you will save.”

“Bec,” Tipper objected.

He cocked his head at her. “It will be a while before the young man trusts you.”

“But I didn’t ask him to help. I didn’t explain things to him. Why is he doubting Librettowit?”

A rare chuckle escaped her friend’s throat. “Librettowit and I are painted by the same brush with which the artist depicts you. We walk in with you, and therefore we are as untrustworthy as you.”

The parrot eyed Bealomondore and laughed again. “Wait until you meet the wizard, sir. I’m fighting my better judgment to trust this team of world savers. A fuddy-duddy, eccentric old man who says he is a wizard. We have no wizards in Chiril, and I am quickly learning that is a good thing.” He nodded to Librettowit and winked. “The librarian seems steady but is prone to grouchiness.”

Beccaroon suddenly sobered. “But I’ve seen evidence with my own eyes as to the seriousness of Verrin Schope’s situation. We’d best join forces and set forth to find the three statues.”

“What three statues?” asked Bealomondore.

Tipper placed her hand on Beccaroon’s back. “I believe we forgot to tell him about the quest and Papa’s need for the statues.”

“Can we do that over dinner?” asked Librettowit. “I’m starved.”

Tipper couldn’t bring herself to blow out the candle. She’d never slept in a hotel room. Hostels, yes. Roadside taverns on the way to visit her mother’s sister, yes. In the homes of people her parents knew, yes.

Of course, it had been years since she had traveled at all. Back then, she’d had some experience in sleeping places other than her own home. Their travels had been clandestine and therefore all the more adventuresome in spirit. Technically her mother was exiled to Byrdschopen.

Tipper had traveled some, but never alone. Never in the middle of a noisy town.

Junkit and Zabeth perched on the four-poster’s footboard like sentinels. The light from one candle did not reach the shadowy corners. A town clock struck two. Even at this hour, carts rattled through the back street. Their rooms were at the side of the hotel, near the rear, and three stories up.