The Vanishing Sculptor (25 page)

“I never go anywhere. You know that. But part of Prince Surrus’s instruction included political intrigue. The nature of government, commerce, and greed.”

Fenworth laughed out loud. “I would have liked to meet your mentor, boy. Prince Surrus sounds like a man of acute discernment.” He laughed again. “Lumping government, commerce, and greed together! Astounding insight.”

The driver of their carriage got down and spoke to a man behind the barred entry. As he climbed back up, the iron gate opened. The horses pulled them into a dark lane. Thick trees cut off the sunlight. The harnesses jingled harshly in an unnatural stillness.

Tipper peered out the window on her side and thought she saw hideous shapes dodging between the tree trunks in the surrounding forest. She swallowed and chastised herself for being the panicky, flighty alarmist Wizard Fenworth already claimed her to be. The shadows among the trees were merely that—shadows. The absence of sound only meant that the birds… She couldn’t think of a reason the birds would not chirp.

She took her father’s hand. His long fingers were cold and dry. Her father’s health was in real danger. She must concentrate on their quest, not on imagined terrors.

Wizard Fenworth growled in his throat. “This place holds evil.”

So much for convincing herself she had an overactive imagination.

From among the trees, a woman screamed in stark terror. Everyone in the carriage jumped.

“A bird,” said Fenworth. “A peacock. Wretched squawkers.”

Tipper let out a sigh of relief simultaneously with most of the other occupants of the coach.

The drive from the gate to the house continued. They passed out of the forest and obtained their first view of Bamataub’s mansion. The huge stone manor squatted like a massive, warty toad on the hillside.

“Well, Verrin Schope,” said Librettowit, “it is safe to say that it wasn’t good taste or an eye for beauty that led Bamataub to purchase your statue.”

Tipper’s impression of the house and its owner did not improve when a gnarly-looking marione opened the door. He dressed the part of a butler, but his mannerism reminded Tipper of those men she’d seen hanging around The Other Boot, a tavern in Soebin with a reputation for gambling and fistfights.

The man showed them to a large room decorated with dark purples, greens, and browns. The heavy curtains kept out the sun, and a thick rug muffled their steps.

“Master Bamataub will be with you in a moment.” The butler bowed stiffly and left.

Bealomondore walked to the center of the room and turned slowly, looking at the art on the walls. “Does anyone else feel like we were expected?”

“Yes,” said Verrin Schope. He walked to the nearest chair and sat down. “Our host needs some tips on displaying his collection.”

Prince Jayrus walked around the edge of the room, examining the many paintings. “A little light would be helpful.”

Beccaroon, Fenworth, and Librettowit stood together, talking in low voices. Tipper tried to hear but couldn’t and decided to move closer. She heard Librettowit say, “… with the proper medicine…”

Then the door opened and their host arrived.

“Hello, I am Bamataub, and this is my wife, Orphelian.”

Bamataub’s short legs brought him into the room swiftly, with his much shorter wife trailing behind. He approached the men standing together first, shook hands with Librettowit and Fenworth, and bowed to Beccaroon. “You are visitors from Amara? Extraordinary! Welcome. You, Sir Beccaroon, I understand, are from our own Indigo Forest. I’m pleased to meet you. Not many grand parrots deign to gift us with their delightful presence. I am honored to have you in my home.”

They muttered responses, but Bamataub was not interested. He whirled and advanced on Prince Jayrus and Bealomondore, who had reached a point where they both examined the same painting. “Bealomondore, I have heard of you, both of your talent and your obsession with the artwork of Verrin Schope. Welcome, welcome. Jayrus of Mercigon? Welcome.”

Again he ignored any comment they made and went on, swooping down on Verrin Schope, who rose to his feet to receive the man’s greeting.

“I hardly know what to say.” Bamataub pumped Verrin Schope’s hand. “The great Verrin Schope, a master of all that is acclaimed as art, a world-renowned authority on countless subjects, a confirmed recluse, and a member of the royal court, visiting my humble household. Amazing!”

Verrin Schope extracted his hand and gestured for Tipper to come forward. “My daughter, Tipper.”

Bamataub nodded in a perfunctory manner. “Yes, perhaps you would like to sit with my wife. We will have refreshments shortly”

He proceeded to steer his guests to chairs he designated, chattering all the while of his great honor in entertaining them. Tipper sat on the sofa next to Orphelian and took stock of their host.

He was a shorter emerlindian, quite dark, with close-cropped hair, an overly wide, thin-lipped smile, an ordinary nose, and small eyes. For all his overt congeniality, Tipper thought of a rat. Busy, busy, busy, but looking out for his own advantage.

Orphelian patted her hand. “Do you enjoy traveling, Mistress Tipper?”

“Oh yes.” She turned her attention to the plump woman sitting beside her.

Sad eyes gazed at her out of a typically square marione face. Tipper thought the matron of the house must have been a pretty young woman. Life in this gloomy mansion must have depleted the woman’s vivacity. Her lined face definitely showed years of strain. Tipper felt an urge to comfort the old soul and be a friend.

She smiled. “I do like traveling. But the reason we are on this journey is not too agreeable.”

Sympathy invaded the woman’s expression. “What is it, dear?”

“My father is ill, and we must buy back some of the statues I sold.”

Terror replaced sympathy. Orphelian’s eyes darted to her husband and then to Verrin Schope. “Is he very mad? Are you in danger?”

“No, no. I’m just worried about his health.”

“But you sold his art!”

“He understands.”

“Understands?” Her eyes flitted to her husband once more. “I see.” She turned back to Tipper. “His health?”

“The story is complicated, but my father desires to have the three statues carved from one stone back together as he meant them to be when he did the sculptures.”

Bamataub stood and gestured to his wife as the tea tray came into the room. Several servants followed Orphelian’s instructions to pass out the small cakes and cups of steaming tea. When her hostess duties were performed, she returned to her seat beside Tipper. All the servants save one slipped out of the room. Tipper eyed him. He had the look of a thug, not a refined manservant.

Bamataub prodded the conversation toward the upcoming festivals that would be celebrated in Fayetopolis. Since he never addressed the women, Tipper and Orphelian did not participate. Several of the other members of their questing party remained very quiet, though the general talk during their refreshment covered an assortment of pleasant topics. Prince Jayrus spoke little, but Tipper thought he was studying the different speakers, especially their host. Her father didn’t join in the banter.

Tipper watched Bamataub. He seemed interested in keeping the conversation directed toward his choice of topics and avoided conversing with her father. Several times, the dialogue would have naturally included Verrin Schope, but Bamataub deliberately drew someone else’s contribution instead.

The servants came again and cleared away the remnants of their tea.

Wizard Fenworth waited until the door shut behind the last servant and turned purposefully to their host. “Do you mind explaining how you knew us?”

“I am a leader in the community.” Bamataub’s tight-lipped smile widened. “Of course I am kept informed of who comes and goes in Fayetopolis.”

Fenworth did not return the smile. “Do you know why we have come?”

Their host tilted his head and lifted his hands in a disarming gesture. “That I do not know.”

Librettowit scooted forward on his chair. “We came to buy the Verrin Schope statue
Morning Glory.”

Bamataub sat back and placed his hands on his lean stomach. “I believe
Morning Glory
is one of three statues that belong together. Do you possess the other two?”

The librarian’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

“A shame.” He straightened. “I do not wish to sell my statue.”

“We have not yet named a price,” interjected Prince Jayrus.

Their host bestowed a look of scorn on the young emerlindian. “Price is irrelevant. I will not sell.”

Tipper clutched the arm of the sofa. “But—”

Verrin Schope held up a hand. “Tipper.”

She fell silent.

Her father rose to his feet and nodded to Bamataub. “We have no more business here. Thank you for your hospitality.” He came to stand before the ladies and bowed to Orphelian. “Thank you, Madam.” He gestured to Tipper, and she stood beside him. He placed her hand on his arm and started out. She heard the others behind them, shuffling as they made their farewells to host and hostess.

“What are we going to do?” she whispered.

Verrin Schope did not answer as they approached the front door and the butler rose from his seat and opened it for them. The carriage still stood in the drive.

Tipper waited until they were all seated and the horses given the command to go. “What are we going to do?”

Verrin Schope leaned his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes.

“The evil was oppressive in that house,” said Prince Jayrus. “I couldn’t discern from where it came.”

Bealomondore cast a glance upward to where the coachman and Beccaroon sat on the outside. He lowered his voice. “The rumor is that he deals in slaves.”

“Surely not,” whispered Tipper. “No one owns slaves. That practice was forever banished when my great-great-grandfather was king.”

Bealomondore nodded. “No one owns slaves in Chiril, but women and children and sometimes young men are kidnapped and sold in other countries.”

Jayrus lifted an eyebrow at the tumanhofer. “Perhaps the dealing in fine art covers the transport of slave cargo.”

“That would be my supposition.”

Fenworth leaned forward and slapped the prince on the knee. “Again you astonish me, lad.”

Jayrus looked at the toad that had hopped out of the old man’s sleeve and now sat on his leg.

“Oh, sorry about that,” Fenworth scooped the critter into his hand, and it disappeared. “Rupert becomes confused easily.”

“The toad?” asked Jayrus.

“Yes. Shy, you know.” Fenworth patted his chest and butterflies poured out from under his beard. They flew out the window. “As I was saying, your acumen astonishes me.”

A hint of pride colored the prince’s features. “Prince Surrus was a thorough teacher.”

“Yes, well, ahem, tut, tut. He could have worked more on your humility.” He tapped Tipper’s leg. “Now as to what we are to do. We will come back and try again. Perhaps we will even go and acquire the other statues first, before we return.”

His gaze fell upon Verrin Schope, who hadn’t moved since they entered the carriage. “Right now it is imperative to find a rare insect containing a certain property that will be beneficial to your father’s health. Beccaroon, Librettowit, and I discussed this earlier. Your feathered friend should have directed the coachman to take us to the nearest medicinal bug shop. He assures us that quality insects can be found in the larger cities of your Chiril. I hope he is correct. I don’t carry a
Fineet fineaurlais
on my person. And I haven’t had one in storage for ages.”

“Interesting,” said Jayrus. “Even as a street urchin, I never visited the bug shop. I was afraid I’d be made to eat one.”

“Nonsense.” Fenworth gave him a scouring look, making Tipper believe the young man had fallen out of the wizard’s good graces. “They come powdered. One does not eat bugs.”

“In Chiril one does,” said Bealomondore.

“Harrumph! Heathen country.”

29
The Bug Shop

Beccaroon swayed on top of the coach as they came again to the thoroughfares marked by crowding and noise. He felt like the congestion of the city could permeate his feathers, and he’d instinctively fluffed up against his surroundings. He’d also scrunched his neck, pulling his head down. This would never do if he were to help spot the medicine shop Fenworth needed. He shook his feathers, straightened, and watched the signs ahead.

With relief, he read “Insect Emporium” in big green letters, outlined in gold. A bit ostentatious to his way of thinking. Underneath, “Remedies for Common and Uncommon Ails” scrolled out in red on a brown background. A bit more tasteful. In even smaller letters, this time brown on red, the owners proudly displayed their names— Rowser and Piefer.

Beccaroon nudged the coachman and nodded toward the shop.

“I thought it was along here somewheres,” the man answered and edged his horses closer to the side of the street. The driver pulled to a stop and jumped down to help the passengers alight.

“Wait here,” said Fenworth. “Verrin Schope is not coming in.”

“Yes sir.” The driver tipped his top hat and peeked with curiosity into the coach.

Bec flew to the sidewalk and stood beside his girl. He could feel tension radiating from her. He got a glimpse inside the carriage and understood why. As dark as Verrin Schope was, it was hard to see the ashen undertone of his black skin, but his eyes lacked luster. Beccaroon could not miss the lethargy, strong evidence of Verrin Schope’s state of health. His old friend looked like a wax reproduction of himself.

Prince Jayrus opened the door to the emporium and stood back to let the others enter. Beccaroon followed right behind Tipper. As she passed the prince, he smiled down at her. She smiled up at him. Beccaroon put his forehead to the small of her back and pushed.

“Close the door quickly,” ordered a man behind the counter.

They hustled in, and Jayrus swung the door shut. Worn wood covered the floor of the old shop. Thankfully, the store was spacious enough for all of them. Several lamps hung from the ceiling, and shelves lined the walls. Bags, baskets, bottles, jars, jugs, boxes, and cages filled every nook and cranny. A strong but not unpleasant odor drifted about. Beccaroon decided it smelled like the forest floor after a heavy rain. A cricket chirped incessantly, and tiny feet scratched on paper surfaces. Bec looked around and saw that some of the cages, with their fine wire mesh, contained skittering bugs.