The Vanishing Sculptor (26 page)

Tipper moved to a cage of exotic butterflies and stood transfixed. Beccaroon didn’t blame her. Dozens of species of various sizes and spectacular colors flitted about the floor-to-ceiling structure.

The minor dragons jumped out of Fenworth’s pockets.

The marione shopkeeper looked up from the clipboard he held and frowned. “None of that, now.” He spoke in an even tone. “They eat the merchandise, you know. And it’s a tangle to figure out who ate what and how much is owed.”

Fenworth gestured with his hand, and the four dragons came to roost on the wizard, the librarian, and the prince.

The man behind the counter stood, pushing a wooden stool out of his way. “I’m Rowser of Rowser and Piefer. What can I do to help you?”

Beccaroon caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Another man—a long, lanky emerlindian—crawled from behind one barrel to another. His tan skin and brown hair indicated he was older than Jayrus but much younger than Verrin Schope. He was also thinner than both men.

Wizard Fenworth advanced to the counter. “My friend is falling apart.”

Rowser held up one finger. “Nerves. I have just the thing.” He looked up at his stock and moved toward a ladder connected to a rail. With one push, the shop owner could move the steps to any section around the outer wall of the shop, providing access to the topmost shelves.

“No,” said Fenworth, “not nerves.”

“Falling apart?” Rowser snapped his fingers. “Dollopsy” He turned and walked the other direction, looking on the lower shelves.

“No, not dollopsy.” Fenworth picked up and examined a cloth bag from the counter. He read the label, then continued his response. “Glad of that actually.”

The crawling man came out from behind the barrel, slapped his hand against the wooden floor, and yelled, “Gotcha!”

“Good going, Piefer,” said Rowser. “How many does that make?”

“Eighty-six.”

“Only fourteen to go.”

The emerlindian shook his shaggy hair. “Unfortunately, that was a gross of grassbenders, not a hundred pack.” He began his search again, peering behind a stack of crates.

Fenworth looked down his nose at the bags on the counter. “Had a mishap with your grassbenders?”

“Yes,” said Rowser. “When we opened the shipment this morning, one of the bag clasps had come loose in transit.”

“Have you got a sugar lickick around?”

Rowser looked doubtfully at the old man. “We don’t sell lickicks that aren’t medicinal.” He pointed to a stand on the counter that held colored sugar globs on wooden sticks. “We have lickicks for oral pain, toothaches, and sore throats. We have lickicks for calming nerves, upset stomachs, and fierce headaches. Also lickicks to obliterate cravings and aid in the loss of weight.”

Wizard Fenworth held up his hand to stop the flow of information. “This would be a lickick for the sake of good taste, not good health. A red one, if you have it.”

Rowser looked at Piefer. The emerlindian sighed and pushed up from his crawling position but did not stand. Still on his knees, he poked around in his pockets. He came up with a blue lickick first.

“That’ll do,” said Fenworth, “if you don’t have a red.”

After producing a green, two yellows, and a broken orange, Piefer held out a red lickick.

Fenworth took it and turned to the other owner. “A small bowl of water, a pinch of salt, and straw from a broom, please.”

Rowser pulled the bowl from under the counter and a bag of salt from a shelf, and brought the broom from the back. Piefer got to his feet and stood with his hands on his hips, watching the old man.

Fenworth raised his eyebrows. “Water?”

Piefer leaned over the counter, his long arm easily reaching underneath, and retrieved a clear glass jug. “Water.” He put it down in front of the wizard.

Beccaroon edged closer to get a better look, as did the prince and Bealomondore. Librettowit had taken out a piece of paper, and as he roamed the store, he scribbled a list. Tipper pulled herself away from the butterflies and stood next to Beccaroon.

Fenworth poured water into the bowl. He took a pinch of salt from the bag and sprinkled it in, then stirred the concoction with the red lickick. When the water turned pink, he set the stick aside and pulled straws from the broom. He constructed a grid by placing the straws across the bowl from rim to rim.

“That’s so your grassbenders don’t drown,” Fenworth informed his audience.

He handed the broom to Piefer. Two green bugs landed on the straw topping the bowl, stuck their heads through the grid, and began drinking the beverage provided by the wizard. Piefer set the broom aside and scooped up the bugs. Another landed on the trap, and he collected it.

“Thank you,” he said, grinning. “This should save my knees.”

“Think nothing of it. A trick from Amara.”

Rowser plucked another bug from the top of the bowl and put it in Piefer’s bag. “Amara. That’s a far distance.”

“Yes. We’ve come on a quest, and one of our party is having trouble.”

“The one who falls apart?”

“Yes. Do you happen to have a
Fineet fineaurlais
in your stock?

Rowser looked up at his partner. “Piefer?”

The emerlindian scratched his head. “I don’t think so. But could you draw us a picture? Perhaps we call it something else.”

Fenworth shook his head, and a string of insects dropped onto the counter. The multitude sat for an instant and then charged the bowl.

“Oh, sorry.” The wizard plucked Hue off his shoulder and put him down. “Clean that up, would you? But don’t eat the gentlemen’s merchandise. Junkit, Zabeth, give a hand. Where’s Grandur?”

The healing dragon flew from Librettowit’s shoulder.

Fenworth grinned. “Ah, that should take care of the problem. Remember, don’t eat the grassbenders. Not ours, you know.”

Beccaroon watched with fascination as the dragons efficiently sorted the bugs. Using their front claws, they captured insect after insect. The dragons handed grassbenders to Rowser and Piefer and ate the others. Fenworth’s bugs were gobbled up until none remained. Beccaroon saw a couple he knew to be tasty but refrained from barging in on the minor dragons’ feast. A stray that fell to the floor was, however, a different matter. Tipper had no interest in the bugs and wandered around the shop.

Soon the little dragons rolled onto their backs, stomachs protruding in a very full state. Bec felt lighthearted, surprised by the pride he had for Junkit, Zabeth, Hue, and Grandur.

Piefer and Rowser exchanged puzzled looks.

Piefer cleared his throat. “Amaran dragons, I assume.”

Beccaroon chuckled. “Grandur is, but the other three were born in Chiril, either in or near the Indigo Forest.”

“They’re very intelligent,” said Rowser.

Hue lifted his head from the counter and winked at the marione, then collapsed again.

Wizard Fenworth coughed. “Well, getting back to the
Fineet fineaurlais
, I cant draw one, but I imagine my librarian can. Librettowit?”

“Got it.” The older tumanhofer came over, waving a paper from his tablet. “Knew you’d want it as soon as the young fellow asked for it.” He put a drawing on the counter.

Piefer and Rowser studied the black lines of a beetle.

“Cranicus batteran?”
asked Piefer.

“Cranicus albatteran.”

“Ah yes, the elongated thorax.”

“Is this your family?” asked Tipper.

All heads turned in her direction. Fenworth shook his head, very gently, only dislodging a couple of leaves from his beard.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “She’s excitable and sometimes doesn’t follow what’s going on. I’m sure she didn’t refer to phylum, classes, orders,
families
, genera, species. She’s been well educated and knows mariones and emerlindians are not classified in the same order as
Fineet fineaurlais”

Beccaroon wandered over to where Tipper studied a painting on the wall. “She means this family portrait. It appears to be Rowser, his wife, and many children. Piefer has a dog.”

“And a wife,” said the emerlindian.

“Do you have a dozen?” asked Librettowit. “Are they fresh?”

“Wives?” said Piefer. “It’s against the law.”

“Children?” said Rowser, at the same time. “Only nine.”

A moment of silence followed. Beccaroon closed his eyes. That this type of discussion was beginning to sound normal to him caused a certain amount of trepidation.

“Fineet fineaurlais,”
clarified Librettowit.

“Powdered and hermetically sealed,” said Rowser.

Piefer vaulted over the counter and pushed the ladder. “I’ll get the jar.” The old steps rattled and banged as they coasted along the rickety rail. Piefer stopped it and climbed up faster than a monkey. Beccaroon squinted, trying to read the words on the jars.

Piefer scanned the labels on one row, climbed a few steps to examine the next, pulled on the shelf to move the ladder, and finally located the container he wanted. “Here it is. We’ve only used this for closing wounds. What is it you need it for?”

“My friend has molecular malocclusion distress syndrome.”

As he climbed down, Piefer looked at Rowser.

Rowser shrugged. “How much do you need?”

“We’ll take the bottle,” said Librettowit, “and here’s a list of other insects. We are in short supply of medicinal bugs at this time.” He glanced at the four sated dragons and handed the paper to the marione shopkeeper.

Rowser’s eyebrows lifted. “This will take some time to fill.”

Librettowit took the bottle from Piefer. “We’ll pay for it now and ask you to deliver the rest to The Moon and Three Halves Inn. Can you have it ready by this evening?”

“We can,” said Piefer.

Librettowit waited for them to tally up the cost while Fenworth and the others left the shop.

Prince Jayrus grimaced. “I’m not sure I liked the odor in there, but we managed to escape without eating any bugs.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Beccaroon with a laugh. “I managed to snag one of Fenworth’s beetles that fled from the minor dragons.”

Bealomondore opened the carriage door, and Tipper gasped. Beccaroon hurried to her side. No one sat where her father should be.

Bec looked up at the driver. “Did Verrin Schope get out?”

“No sir, not that I saw.”

“Did you go anywhere?”

“Just to get a pint. I asked the gentleman if he wanted a drink, and he said no. I didn’t check on him when I came back.”

Tipper twisted one hand against the other. “Where can he be?”

Fenworth quietly stood by, rubbing his finger against his chin whiskers.

The door to the shop opened, and Librettowit stepped out. “What’s happened?”

“Verrin Schope is gone,” said the wizard. “We shall have to attempt a rescue.”

“A rescue?” Tipper screeched. “He’s been kidnapped? How? How can we help him? We don’t know where he is.”

Beccaroon put a wing around her shoulders.

Fenworth tapped the side of his nose. “There is the slight odor of the house we just left. I believe some of Bamataub’s men have been here.”

“Couldn’t we have carried the odor?” asked Bealomondore.

“We did! But I dissipated the scent before we passed out of Bamataub’s gates.”

“Let’s go.” Tipper jumped onto the coach’s step and stopped. “Oh no!”

Fenworth let out an exasperated sigh. “What is it now, child?”

“His board. His board is still here.”

“Well, that
is
cause for alarm. In his present state, he won’t be able to do any long distance incorporation.”

“You can do something, right?”

“Can’t say that I can. No, this could get messy.” Wizard Fenworth pushed her toward the carriage door. “Get in and don’t start hollering. We’ll work on the problem. Maybe even find an answer. Hopefully before your father finds himself floating on the wind.”

30
Plots and Plans

Tipper argued all the way back to the hotel, but the men around her proved stubborn and mule-headed. Even Beccaroon had crowded his tail into the coach so he could help hash out the probabilities. They talked around her, over her, and sometimes, she felt, even through her. None of them listened to her plea to go immediately to save her father. When they reached the hotel, Prince Jayrus picked up Verrin Schope’s piece of the closet floor and tucked it under his arm.

“What are you doing?” she shrieked.

Fenworth put his hands over his ears and muttered something. Tipper ignored him. She tried to grab the board and got a splinter for her trouble, but she held on and tugged.

“Calm down,” said Jayrus. Even irritated with her, his voice remained quiet and steady. “If you had been listening instead of scolding and wheedling and yakking a mile a minute, you would have heard the plan. I’m taking the board and the minor dragons to Bamataub’s. I’ll wait outside until dark. If your father comes apart, I should be close enough for him to reassemble on his focal point.”

“How do you know you’ll be close enough?”

“That’s why I’m taking the minor dragons. They can fly into the house unseen and report to me when they know which part of the house he’s in. I’ll situate myself and the board as close to him as I can.”

Tipper thought about it. Junkit and Zabeth could be very sneaky. And if what she’d learned about dragons was true, then Grandur, in particular, would know exactly where her father was hidden.

“It’s a good plan,” she said.

“I’m glad you think so,” said the prince.

“I’ll go with you.”

Outrage flared across his face. “What? You can’t go with me.”

Tipper bunched her hands into fists and planted them on her hips. “Why not? He’s my father.”

“Because one person is less likely to be seen than two.”

“I’m going.” Tipper glared at him, hoping her eyes would show her determination or perhaps drill holes in the know-it-all prince.

Beccaroon stood on the sidewalk watching them. He moved closer. “Tipper, you are not going. Your father would not allow you to go off alone with any young man. It is improper.”

She started to voice her opinion, but Beccaroon held up one wing. “Stop, Tipper. We must not be overheard. It is quite possible that one of Bamataub’s spies is nearby. We do not wish to expose our plan.”