The Vanishing Sculptor

  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.”

  The smell didn’t bother Bec, but he held his breath anyway while they attached the false tail to his stump.

  “Now,” said Fenworth, “we need only wait three minutes, and the glue should be set.”

  Bec breathed out and stood still. Having so many people waiting for the results of this experiment unnerved him.

  “So,” he said into
the unnatural silence, “where is our next stop for securing the second statue?”

  “Hunthaven,” said Bealomondore.

  Beccaroon jerked, and Fenworth chided him to be still. “Don’t jiggle the glue until it sets up.”

  Bec bobbed his head, still staring at the wall before him, and addressed the younger tumanhofer. “The celebrated Hunts have a statue? That should make our transaction easier. They are known for generosity and goodwill.”

  Bealomondore shook his head. “Unfortunately, they only live next door to the manor where the statue resides. The owners of Runan Hill own Day’s Deed. I have an open invitation to Hunthaven but have never been on good terms with Allard Runan.”

  Librettowit checked his pocket watch. “Two more minutes.”

  Tipper quit staring at Beccaroon’s back end and turned to Bealomondore. “Does this man, Allard Runan, have an extensive collection?”

  The tumanhofer artist considered the question. “It’s hard to say what his purpose is. The home does not reflect a love of art, yet he has some astonishing pieces scattered around.”

  “Don’t twitch,” said Fenworth.

  “One minute,” said Librettowit.

  Verrin Schope sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed.

  “Papa?” Tipper came to his side.

  “Just a bit dizzy. I’ve been very well these last few days. I almost forgot the ailment.”

  Piefer came over and put a hand on the older emerlindian’s wrist. “Pulse is racing.”

  “A mud-meade moth,” said Rowser and reached for a pocket.

  “Is it still muddy?” asked Prince Jayrus, his nose wrinkled.

  Piefer laughed. “You must think we’re very primitive. Nothing in our shop would give offense to your sensibilities. The moth is dried, ground, and put in a lozenge. We use honey to cover the slight taste.”

  Rowser handed what looked like a wrapped candy to Tipper’s father. “Suck on this. Don’t chew.” He addressed his partner. “Not all of the things in our shop are pleasing to all people.”

  “You’re right.” Piefer nodded. “Gobbilious scrubbugs. ”

  Rowser returned with “Morticanicus virtos. ”

  “Awk! Stop!” screeched Beccaroon. “You forget I know what those are for.”

  “Proves the point,” said Rowser with a shadow of a smile.

  “What was the point?” asked Fenworth.

  Piefer put his hands on his hips and tilted his head to one side. “Not all of the things in our shop are pleasing to all people.”

  “Harrumph,” said the wizard. “I thought the point was to supply our friend here with sufficient tail feathers to help him toward graceful flight.”

  “And I thought,” said Beccaroon, “that the point was to get the tail on, test it, and get on with the quest.”

  “Time’s up!” said Librettowit.

  Beccaroon jumped down from the chair. “Finally!”

  “Where are we going to test Bec’s new tail?” asked Tipper.

  “In the country, where our riding dragons await.” Prince Jayrus picked up one of the bags ready to be taken downstairs. “I’ll procure transportation.”

  “No need,” said Rowser. “Piefer and I brought our delivery wagon. We would be honored to give you a lift.”

  “And see the bigger dragons,” said Piefer.

  Beccaroon strutted to the door, pleased with the way the new tail hung. The weight was a tad more than his old tail, but he’d grow accustomed to that. He moved the stump and found the feathers responded well. Hope put a skip in his step. He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had noticed. Only Tipper’s eyes met his, and she winked.

  35

  Boscamon Returns

  Their questing party strolled through the lobby of The Moon and Three Halves Inn as if they were in no hurry. Prince Jayrus had Tipper on his arm. Fenworth caused a stir. The minor dragons had decided to procure a snack by following the old wizard and snatching up bugs as they fell. Verrin Schope, Bealomondore, and Librettowit carried on a conversation as they walked.

  The two medicinal bug merchants had gone ahead to position their delivery wagon at the front door. Tipper giggled at the thought of the uniformed doorman and his stuffy attitude. He wouldn’t appreciate the Insect Emporium rig stopped before the grand mahogany and glass double doors.

  Tipper wore another new dress her father had purchased. The yellow color accented her fair skin, and the long trumpet skirt made her feel like royalty. It swished. She loved the swish. Normally she would have been proud to display the fancy dress among the haughty clientele of the hotel, but her mind was on her old friend.

  She watched Beccaroon as he exhibited poise and self-confidence among strangers. His strut looked natural, not unbalanced and not weighed down by the artificial tail. Sir Bec’s squared shoulders and lifted head warmed her heart. Her old mentor might be testy at times, but his ever-present dignity was something she counted on.

  In her pleasure, she squeezed the prince’s arm. Startled, he looked down at her. When she nodded toward the proud parrot, he beamed one of his dashing, dimpled smiles.

  As if the grand parrot could hear the silent exchange, his head swiveled almost completely around, and he latched one beady eye on the couple. He gestured with a nod, and Tipper came to his side.

  “Are you all right?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “Certainly, but I have a request.”

  “Anything.”

  “See if you and the prince can tone down the brilliance of those smiles. You’re blinding the assembly of rich and noble Fayetopolians.”

  Tipper giggled and stroked the feathers across the back of his neck.

  “Tipper!” He hissed.

  She pulled her hand back. “I’m sorry.”

  But happiness prevented her from wiping the grin from her face. To have Beccaroon chastise her for her overfamiliarity proved he was well.

  She looked up and saw a man rise from his chair and head toward them. Her smile evaporated. What did Sheriff Rog want with them? And he mangled his hat in his hand again. Was that a good sign or a bad sign?

  Prince Jayrus stepped forward and greeted the lawman. Verrin Schope joined them, and as Tipper realized he stood directly beside her, she also realized the others had stopped behind them.

  “What can we do for you?” asked the prince.

  “I thought you might like news of the mishaps on the night you were attacked.”

  Verrin Schope raised his eyebrows, which, on an emerlindian, made an upside-down V across the brow.

  Prince Jayrus nodded. “I would indeed appreciate your expounding upon the subject.”

  Tipper heard her father snort and refused to look his way. She didn’t want to join him in laughing over the prince’s odd choice of words.

  “Well.” The sheriff cleared his throat and rotated the hat in his hands. “Seems it’s most likely some of Bamataub’s men accosted you. It’s unknown whether your encounter with his henchmen happened before or after the man responsible for Bamataub’s death entered the house and scared the ruffians out. But whoever managed to penetrate Bamataub’s fortress has done the city a good deed. Apparently no one has stepped up to take over the lead of the evil ring the deceased operated.”

  Wizard Fenworth bunched his profuse eyebrows in a fierce scowl. “And his brand of evil was?”

  “Slavery.”

  “Aha! I knew it.” The wizard tapped his nose. “The house smelled of fear and violence.”

  The sheriff transferred his steady gaze to the old man. “And when were you in the house, may I ask?”

  “The day before. Wanted to buy a statue from the weasel.”

  “And he wouldn’t sell?”

  Tipper tensed. Would the sheriff turn on them if he learned a few more facts?

  Fenworth laughed. “No, he wouldn’t. But his wife gave it to us.”

  The sheriff looked down at his hat for a moment. “Bamataub’s gone, and that’s a good thing. I suspect Barrister Beladder
ant, the man who came with me the other day, was hoping to move up and take his place. Instead, he’s disappeared as well. Two self-important rats have left my territory, one way or another. That’s a good thing.”

  He put his hat on his head and snatched it back off, nodding to Tipper. “Sorry, miss.” He gestured with the hand that held his hat to include all of them. “I’m pleased to have made your acquaintance.”

  Once the general pleasantries of farewell were done, they left the sheriff and passed a very disgruntled doorman to climb into the waiting delivery wagon. Rowser handed Tipper up to the driver’s seat, where she settled next to Piefer. From that perch, she observed Beccaroon out of the corner of her eye. Prince Jayrus, Bealomondore, and her father stood by apparently in no hurry to board.

  Beccaroon studied the distance from where he stood to the edge of the wagon bed. A shiver coursed through his wing feathers. Then he swatted the air, gave a leap, and fluttered onto a barrel latched sideways to the inside of the cart.

  Tipper breathed a sigh of relief and turned toward the front. Rowser climbed up to sit on her other side, and the rest of the questing party took seats among the barrels and crates in the back.

  The doorman gladly waved them off, even stepping into the road to hold traffic a moment so they could enter the thoroughfare.

  At first, Tipper kept her lips sealed. She had many questions, but the city street echoed with a plethora of noises. When they reached quieter roads, she still held her peace. How freely could she talk with Rowser and Piefer listening?

  When they started passing cows instead of people and haystacks instead of houses, she could no longer contain her curiosity.

  “Why didn’t the sheriff arrest us? He had to know we were involved somehow.” She wiggled around to look at Fenworth. He sat behind her and, of course, slept. She poked him. “Why did you tell the sheriff all that about the statue?”

  She clamped her mouth shut. She had a whole lot more she could say, and none of it was very respectful to the elderly gentleman.