The Vanishing Sculptor (30 page)

Prince Jayrus addressed Bealomondore. “Would you go and procure our breakfast? Also, please see to baths for everyone. I think we’ll all feel better with this grime washed away.”

“I agree wholeheartedly, but do you want me to leave?” Bealomondore nodded toward the door.

“I don’t think this will be a problem. Go take care of the more important things, if you will.” The prince moved forward and opened the door. “Welcome, sir.” He bowed. “Prince Jayrus, at your service. What can I do for you?”

“A bit of your time?” said a gray-haired marione. He removed his hat.

“Of course.” Jayrus ushered the two men in, and Bealomondore slipped out.

The second man, a tumanhofer, moved as if to stop him, but after a brief glaring match, he stepped aside. The antagonistic stranger turned speculative eyes on the prince.

Tipper looked down at her ragged pants and muddied shirt. None of them presented well this morning, but Prince Jayrus carried an air of dignity and appeared half decent even in his mussed attire.

“Please, have a seat.” He gestured toward the couch. “I’m afraid we are still a-dither this morning.”

Tipper’s eyebrows went up, and she turned to her father. His ears twitched. She mouthed the word. “A-dither?”

Verrin Schope choked on a laugh and turned away. “Excuse me,” he said, clearing his throat. “Caught a bit of a chill last night.”

“Yes, about last night,” said the marione, who had seated himself and relaxed into the cushions. He didn’t seem threatening, but the man next to him looked like he’d growl at the slightest provocation. “I’m Sheriff Rog, and I’m investigating a disturbance last night. This is Barrister Beladderant. He represents the estate that suffered loss.”

“Most interesting,” said Jayrus, frowning. “We were attacked last night by a group of ruffians. I had no idea crime ran rampant in Fayetopolis.”

Sheriff Rog narrowed his eyes. “We have the same share as most big cities.” He fidgeted with his hat. “In a moment, I’d like the details of your encounter. First, let me tell you the reason behind my visit. The home of a prominent citizen was broken into last night, art stolen, the wife kidnapped, and the master of the house murdered.”

Tipper did not have to fake the gasp that escaped her lips as she sank onto a nearby chair. Murder was not a crime she wanted any of them to be associated with. “How dreadful,” she murmured.

“Yes, miss, it is.” The sheriff turned his hat over as if pondering the phrasing of his next question. “The servants say the party of thieves consisted of a gentleman dressed quite well and brandishing lethal swords—two, in fact. Fighting with two swords.” He shook his head slowly. “A young lady dressed as a boy a very ill and elderly emerlindian, two tumanhofers, a kind of o’rant, and a grand parrot.” He sighed. “That sort of describes you and your company.”

Verrin Schope stood very straight and looked down his nose at both men. “A very ill and elderly emerlindian? I admit to being old, but not elderly. And I am certainly not ill, except for a tickle in my throat from being out in the rain last night.”

Prince Jayrus furrowed his brow. “I’m a little confused by your descriptions. ‘A kind of o’rant’? Wizard Fenworth is an o’rant, but what does it mean, ‘a kind of o’rant’?”

“Apparently one of the servants tried to stop the man as he moved down the lane outside the manor. The servant grabbed the man’s arm, and it broke off. He found he was holding a branch of a tree instead of a flesh-and-blood arm.”

Amusement lightened the prince’s countenance. “First, this servant tries to stop a man walking down the lane. Why bother a man passing the house, no doubt trying to hurry home to get out of the rain? Then he claims this oddity about an arm that is a wooden branch? I think I would toss that witness’s story to the side.”

“Yes,” said Sheriff Rog. “I’ve already come to that conclusion.”

The tumanhofer beside the sheriff growled just as Tipper suspected he might. He leaned close to Rog and whispered something.

The sheriff frowned. “Then there is the matter of the gentleman breaking into the house.”

“This was last night, during that dreadful storm?” asked Jayrus.

“Yes.” Sheriff Rog ducked his head and wiped a hand through his hair. At the prodding of his neighbor, he continued. “According to the groundskeeper, who’d gone out to silence the dogs, the thieving murderer rode in on a white dragon, landed on the roof, and entered through an upstairs window.”

Prince Jayrus sat for a moment, a blank look on his face. “He flew through torrential rain and lightning, and he and this dragon landed on the roof.”

“No, the man slid off, and the dragon flew away.”

“I’ve never seen a man slide off a dragon,” said Jayrus. “Have you?”

The marione sighed heavily. “No sir, I have never even seen a dragon. Not a riding one, I mean. I’ve seen the minor ones that hang about from time to time. They live in the alleys if they live in town at all.”

“I see. Well, may I tell you of our misadventure, Sheriff? I believe you will find solid evidence to investigate. Our ordeal occurred on the ground, very muddy ground.” He looked ruefully down at his clothing.

Tipper thought the mud had not stuck to him nearly as badly as it clung to everyone else. Only her father was decently attired.

Jayrus smiled. “And our mishap involves ordinary thieves who did no more than jump out from behind trees and waylay us. No risky dragon flights.”

He proceeded to spin his tale, and Tipper marveled at how close he stuck to the truth. He mentioned the road and the carriage. He talked about the men who surrounded Tipper and Bealomondore, but neglected to say they surrounded only Tipper and the young tumanhofer. He described Beccaroon’s brave defense. He talked of his struggle with the ruffians but failed to mention he used swords.

He ended by describing his friend Beccaroon’s injury which made Tipper break down and sob.

Authority braced the prince’s voice. “Find the men who have that tail as a trophy and you will have found the culprits, Sheriff.”

Tipper wiped her eyes at that moment and happened to look at the rough man beside the sheriff. Why did he look uncomfortable? Had he been part of the horrors of last night?

As Prince Jayrus showed the two men out, he looked straight into the official’s eyes and said, “I wouldn’t be at all surprised, Sheriff Rog, if these two incidents were related and the evil perpetrated sprang from the same source.”

When the sheriff agreed, Tipper felt like something else had been said between the two men and she had missed it.

34
Flight?

Beccaroon chafed against the confines of his recovery. Verrin Schope irritated him, and the artist insisted on keeping him company. He sat in the chair beside Bec’s bed and sketched or played with a small lump of clay but he never showed Beccaroon the results of his labors. And his old friend talked and talked. The talk was about Amara and Paladin and Wulder. In Amara, they did such and such. Paladin did this. Wulder did that. Unwillingly, Beccaroon learned about the role of this Paladin—not a king but definitely a leader. Apparently someone who always knew right from wrong and didn’t mind sharing his wisdom. Yes, Verrin Schope’s talking grated on Beccaroon’s nerves.

The two pesky healing dragons constantly slept on him or played around the bed. Tipper read to him. Bealomondore told him stories of the houses he had visited. Librettowit and Hue sang to him. Fen-worth would sit down to keep him company and then fall asleep. That was preferable to talking, playing, reading, and singing. But the wizard snored. The snoring drove Beccaroon crazy.

The prince, however, left him alone. And if Tipper chose to leave him alone, as well, Beccaroon stewed over whether they were leaving him alone together, in each other’s company, without supervision. He warned Verrin Schope. Verrin Schope said his daughter had a good head on her shoulders. Bec wasn’t worried about her head. He was worried about her heart.

Beccaroon had to admit that the frequent visits from Rowser and Piefer amused him. They discussed bugs. Beccaroon knew almost as many varieties as the learned medicinal suppliers did. He enjoyed learning the scientific terms. He taught them the more common names used among the people.

Sometimes he stumped them. Sometimes they stumped him.

And speaking of stumps… the pain didn’t hurt as much as the indignity. The indignity did not hurt as much as the future without flight. Beccaroon thought perhaps he’d be able to manage somehow. He’d never regain his grace in the air, but he’d manage to fly at least as well as some of the chickens that roosted in trees. His real desire was to leave this quest, return home, and learn to cope.

But Verrin Schope still needed him—so he said—and Tipper definitely needed him. Her eyes lit up when the prince entered the room, and neither the scoundrel nor Tipper’s father seemed aware of the girl’s infatuation. Yes, Tipper needed him.

He had to reiterate a thousand times that he was ready to travel before they listened to him. With the help of the healing dragons, his skin had regenerated over the stump, but, of course, it was unsightly. A few of his back feathers dangled down, but not enough to hide the bald spot.

He was ready to face the world with a hole in his plumage. In fact, if he didn’t get the initial reentry into society over with soon, he would jump out a window.

When Verrin Schope said one more day, Beccaroon tossed a seedcake at him. The emerlindian wisely retreated from the room, and neither he nor Bealomondore showed their faces for twenty-four hours.

The next morning, both men appeared. They walked in and stood side by side, occasionally glancing out the door to the sitting room. Wizard Fenworth followed them a few seconds later, grinning and clapping his hands together more often than usual. The old man even bounced on his toes as he stood waiting, and he also kept an eye on the other room.

Beccaroon suspected something was up. “I thought we were leaving this morning. Why aren’t you packing?”

“Tut, tut. Finished. Packing, you say? Not that. The project. I designed the glue. I think it’ll work more than adequately. I predict you will be amazed at the comfort.”

Verrin Schope nudged the old man, and he fell silent.

Beccaroon heard scuffling noises from the other room.

“Thank you so much,” Tipper said, apparently to someone at the door. “Do you want to stay?”

He heard a voice and thought it sounded like Rowser.

Tipper answered the mutterer. “Yes, we hope to have a celebration if all goes well.”

Beccaroon strained to hear. People moved around in the other room but had stopped talking. He stood.

Bealomondore actually jumped in front of the door. “Where are you going?”

“To see what they’re doing.”

“Umm…” The tumanhofer looked to Verrin Schope for guidance.

Verrin Schope chuckled and winked at Bealomondore. “It’s all right.” He held up a hand to his friend. “Hold on, old Bec. We have a surprise for you, and if you go rushing out there, you’ll spoil it.”

Bealomondore stepped aside as Prince Jayrus and Tipper entered, arm in arm and grinning. Beccaroon took small consolation in the fact that they were not staring at each other and grinning, just grinning. Still, they looked as if a secret bubbled inside them.

What was this surprise? Was it worth another delay of their journey? His injury had put the quest on hold. They needed to get on with it before Verrin Schope began to show more adverse effects, before more signs of the world crumbling showed up. And the sooner they got the three statues back together, the sooner he could hide in his forest.

Rowser came through the door, holding a bowl-like apparatus covered with red feathers. Piefer followed close behind, supporting the tail—

It
was
a tail! The whole thing was a tail.

Beccaroon hopped across the room to look at it more carefully. The magnificent feathers fanned out from the base perfectly. Glue? The old wizard had said glue. Did they mean to glue this… this… ?

“Who made this?” asked Beccaroon.

Verrin Schope stepped forward. “Bealomondore and I designed it. Rowser and Piefer obtained the materials. Then we crafted it between us all.”

Beccaroon peered into the bowl. A cloth lined it. He poked it with his beak and found padding underneath.

His friends had worked hard. He looked at the shopkeepers and the wizard. These men didn’t even claim longstanding friendship, and they had dedicated hours to make this “thing” a success.

Beccaroon tried not to appear ungrateful. He worked to keep his eyes from squinting and his voice from betraying his doubts. “Fen-worth said glue. You’re going to glue this on my stump?”

The wizard stepped forward, rubbing his hands, shedding leaves and small creatures. “Yes, a fine glue. It will hold well, then after two or three days, we apply a solvent, right through the porous base. The tail comes off for cleaning and adjusting, and just to give your skin a breather. Then we glue the tail back on when you want it.”

Bec looked at the bowl-like foundation, the squishy inside of the base, the long red feathers, and the outstanding craftsmanship and still tried to hide a skepticism he could not eradicate. “It looks longer.”

Verrin Schope put a hand on his shoulder. “We can adjust it. But I think it only looks longer because you are viewing it from the side. You’ve never done that before.”

Beccaroon’s head bobbed. “Right. Well, let’s try it. We’ve got a quest to resume.” He crossed the room, hopped up on a chair, and turned his back to the others.

First, Wizard Fenworth smeared the glue into the cavity of the base. The glue smelled like some sweet fruit. It took Beccaroon a minute to recognize the fragrance.

“Bananas?” he asked.

“Essence of banana bug,” said Rouser. “We tried
fractal appleorreal icknickeous
, commonly known as the apple worm, but the nice odor soured within a couple of hours and was not suitable. Strange that, because the odor remains pleasant when we concoct lickicks for arthritis.” He shrugged. “We chose banana bug as the base ingredient.”