The Vanishing Sculptor

  Jayrus frowned. “Fallen asleep at his post? That doesn’t sound like a very disciplined force to be up against. Still, remain alert. One lax guard does not guarantee an easy entry.”

  They slipped up to the front gate. Fenworth put his hand on the lock, and Beccaroon heard the latch disengage just as if the old man had used a key. The wizard stepped back, and the prince pushed open the large wrought-iron gate.

  He had a sword in his hand, and for the first time, Beccaroon wondered where that sword was kept. Prince Jayrus did not wear a sword belt, yet several times he’d produced his weapon. Did he have a hollow like the wizard? Why had he never mentioned it? Beccaroon had come a long way in trusting these comrades of the quest. He hoped he hadn’t been misled. In this dangerous situation, his judgment to follow this new paladin’s lead could end in disaster.

  Jayrus signaled for them to enter. They passed the guard slumped in a wooden chair. On the ground beside his chair, a plate held the remnants of a large piece of cake, and a dark bottle indicated he’d washed his dessert down with a potent ale. The scent of liquor penetrated Bec’s nostrils, and he stifled a sneeze.

  Sticking to the shadows, the group approached a side door. Zabeth, Junkit, and Hue waited for them.

  The prince whispered to the party of rescuers. “Junkit and the others say Lady Peg and Tipper were led to the gallery. The dragons know they didn’t come out of the gallery, but they can’t pinpoint where they are anymore.”

  “What do we do?” asked Bealomondore in a matching low whisper.

  Beccaroon detected a tremor of anxiety. He understood. A lot could go wrong here. Beccaroon shivered.

  Prince Jayrus seemed unaffected by the tension. “We go to the gallery and see what we find. But we go warily.”

  He tested the door. It didn’t budge. He stepped back and gestured to Wizard Fenworth. The old man came forward and placed his hand on the knob, and the latch clicked. Prince Jayrus led them into the mansion.

  Beccaroon thought what an odd bunch of burglars they must appear. He almost chortled, but the seriousness of the mission and his uncertainty of his comrades choked the laugh in his throat.

  Their leader, a young man dressed in clothing suitable for a fine dinner, stole through the unlit corridor, heading for a door at the end, beneath which a light shone. Next in line, Librettowit tiptoed. An old tumanhofer tiptoeing was an amusing sight. Beccaroon stifled a chuckle. He needed to get control of himself. His nerves must be making him giddy.

  Behind the old tumanhofer, the young tumanhofer pushed the peculiar chair apparatus, which now flickered an occasional light from the dissipating cloud underneath. Fenworth followed, silent and walking as if he were a much younger man. And bringing up the rear was a bright grand parrot, himself, trying not to step on the critters coming out of the wizard’s robes. He wasn’t dressed in dark clothes like those in the middle, so their procession led off with a prince in finery and ended with a bird in fine plumage.

  They would need more than luck to achieve their goal. Perhaps this Wulder would prove Himself trustworthy.

  No one offered any resistance to their advance through the elegant hallways of the mansion. That made Beccaroon more nervous. With Junkit and Zabeth sitting on his shoulders, the prince steadily pressed forward. Hue flew ahead and then returned, apparently scouting.

  The doors to the gallery stood open, the room half lit by lightrocks. Bealomondore wheeled Verrin Schope directly to his works of art. No remnant of the cloud remained.

  The emerlindian gazed thoughtfully at his statues. “What a strange arrangement they’ve made of them.”

  “A gateway.”

  Beccaroon turned at Librettowit’s words. The tumanhofer pointed beyond the statues.

  Wizard Fenworth took a few hurried steps forward.

  From all around them, a hiss disturbed the silence. Billows of white flowed across the floor.

  “Gas!” cried Fenworth. His hands twirled around each other, the motion gaining momentum. He threw them out toward the prince. A half sphere spread over the young man like a net. The device quickly expanded and completed a bubble around him, pushing the bad air away from his feet.

  Jayrus, sealed in the sphere, battered against the sides. Beccaroon assumed he had not seen who enclosed him.

  Wizard Fenworth’s hands worked again, but the gas cloud billowed upward. Beccaroon coughed. He saw the two shorter men fall and Verrin Schope slump in his chair. Fenworth’s movements slowed.

  Beccaroon looked up and saw the minor dragons flying in circles at the highest point in the room. Only wisps of the cloud reached that high, but the white mist was rising.

  Each breath Beccaroon inhaled tasted worse than the last and burned his throat. He moved a few steps, realizing he had been trying to escape ever since the first hiss warned of danger, but the heavy mist around his feet felt like thick mud. His muscles ached, and his head swam. He looked at Fenworth. The wizard had ceased spinning his arms around each other. Bec closed his eyes and fell into the poisonous gas.

  He made one last effort to spread his wings and move above the foul cloud. His last thought was of Tipper and Lady Peg. Where were his girl and her mother?

  Leatte Runan woke Tipper with a couple of rude jabs.

  “Get up. You and your mother are going back.”

  Through the fog of awakening, Tipper took in the strange bedroom. Her mother sat on the other side of the bed, her eyes huge and her complexion pale.

  “Back where?” Tipper asked.

  “Don’t be such a dullwit. You’re going wherever you were before.” Leatte stomped to the door. “I’ll send servants to help you get presentable. Don’t try to escape.”

  The door slammed behind their ungracious hostess. Tipper got out of the huge bed and walked over to put her arms around her mother. “It’ll be all right.”

  Both women wore their slips, having shed their dresses before climbing between the sheets the night before. Lady Peg’s hair hung around her shoulders. Her fingers fidgeted with the fringe on the coverlet.

  “We can get through this, Mother.”

  Her mother trembled. “I didn’t like going through that hole. It tried to squeeze the air right out of my lungs. And that woman! She grabbed me by the hair, Tipper. She locked me in here.”

  “I know, Mother.” Tipper rubbed her mother’s bare arm, surprised at how cold her skin felt and how fragile Lady Peg seemed. “Let’s see if there’s warm water to wash with.”

  The basin was empty, but soon a key turned in the locked door and two maids came in with warm water, towels, and breakfast.

  Leatte Runan came back too soon and rushed them out the door. She and two footmen escorted Tipper and her mother to a room at the back of the house. She pointed to a spot of rippling air. When Lady Peg held back, the two footmen picked her up and pushed her through. Tipper needed no prodding. Determination to stay by her mother’s side hurried her into the gateway.

  Tipper saw the statues first when she stepped back through the gateway. Morning Glory stood between Day’s Deed and Evening Yearns. Sun streamed in through the three floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall of the gallery and illuminated the beautiful forms. She heard her mother gasp.

  Her mother charged forward, pushing Tipper aside as she circled the display. Then Tipper noticed the peculiar smell and the fallen occupants of the room. Her mother hovered over her father, who sat in an odd wheeled chair. Bealomondore and Librettowit had fallen in two heaps. The four minor dragons looked bad, their skin mottled, each lying in a twist of legs, wings, and tail. Fenworth was stretched out on the floor, his robes spread out around him.

  But Paladin stood in the middle of a clear bubble. Angry, his arms crossed over his chest, he made no move to get out and kept his lips clamped in a thin line.

  She ran to his prison. “What happened?”

  He spoke, but she only saw his lips move.

  “What happened?” The scornful voice of Mushand assaulted her ears. He laughed. “Runan’s
plan succeeded. Your rescuers came. The gas subdued them. Runan was able to plunder the old man’s robes. That took a bit of doing, I must say. The wizard’s hollows did not like unfamiliar hands exploring their treasures.”

  Mushand came forward, looking extremely pleased with himself. He circled the globe that held Paladin. “This was the last act of your wizard before he succumbed.”

  Tipper whirled to examine the fallen men. “Are they dead?”

  “No. Runan still has need of them. They sleep.” Mushand indicated the bubble before them. “Runan says Fenworth cast a protective shield around this prince of yours. Our question is why would he save this man instead of himself? Runan suggests that the old wizard thought the gas would kill them all and chose to save one man’s life.”

  He turned to stare at Tipper. “Why would he do that, Mistress Tipper? How is this man so important that Fenworth would sacrifice his own life to assure this man’s survival?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mushand cocked his head. “I think that is a half truth. You don’t know for sure, but you have an inkling.” He gazed into her eyes for a long moment, then shrugged. “No matter. Runan will figure it out. And the act gave something away, didn’t it? A totally unnecessary strategic mistake since none of them were going to die from the gas.”

  Tipper straightened and looked the villain in the eye. “Just why do you need these people alive?”

  Mushand shook his head slightly. “I don’t, actually. I thought things would be simpler if they were all dead. But Runan decides such things. I believe we need only your mother.” He smiled the grimace that made Tipper feel as if spiders had been let loose on her skin. “We don’t need you.”

  Tipper glanced at her mother, who had laid her head in Verrin Schope’s lap and spoke to him through her tears. She couldn’t hear the words and knew they probably didn’t make much sense, but her heart ached for the pain her mother suffered.

  “What are you going to do?” She turned back to face the horrible man with his sneer and ever-present drink.

  “I am going to collect art,” he said. “Runan is going to take over the country.”

  46

  Amassing an Army

  Tipper sat with her mother. They’d moved her father onto the floor so they could elevate his leg. Along the wall stood a line of soldiers obscuring the art hanging behind them but, in a way looking like a display of fashion. Each wore a new uniform of dark green material with gold and purple trim.

  Every so often, the gateway crackled and opened. A hundred or more men entered each time, pushing through the lights and stepping into the room. Sometimes their eyes widened, but military discipline stifled their reactions. They didn’t stop in amazement as they found themselves in ostentatious surroundings. They marched, eyes forward, following their leader out the side door. During the long wait, she estimated possibly seven hundred soldiers came through the gateway.

  Her mother sat with Verrin Schope’s head in her lap. Tipper had found cushions on the benches around the room to prop up the injured leg and provide a bit of comfort for her mother. Lady Peg sat in silence, and that worried Tipper a great deal. She spoke soothingly to her mother but got no response. Standing, she searched the room for something she could do that would make her feel useful.

  She checked on each of her comrades. All of them breathed, and none showed any signs of waking up, not even when she prodded them, shook them, or called their names. Paladin sat on the floor of his odd chamber, and sometimes he looked like he might be singing. Occasionally, he got up and kicked the side of the bubble. The last time, Tipper thought she heard a twang, but when she came closer to examine the clear shell, she saw no dent. Waving a disappointed goodbye, she returned to sit with her parents.

  Fenworth groaned. Tipper sprang to her feet and ran to kneel beside him.

  He looked her in the eye. “Have you got a drink, girl?”

  She nodded and fetched a glass of water from the tray Mushand’s servants had provided. When she brought it back, the old man had managed to sit up. He held his head in his hands.

  After he sipped the cool water, he winced. “Breetham gas. Makes one thirsty. Comes with a nasty headache. But I have a powder.” He handed her the glass and reached into his robe. His eyes grew wide, and his eyebrows shot up. “I’ve been robbed. My hollows have been plundered.” His eyes narrowed. “Only a very talented wizard could pillage another wizard’s pockets.”

  Tipper nodded. “Runan.”

  Wizard Fenworth touched the side of his nose. “Now that explains a lot.”

  The gateway crackled, and the next stream of soldiers paraded through. While they passed, the old man sipped on his water and took in the surroundings. He only glanced at Paladin but studied from a distance each of the fallen questers.

  When the last man tromped out the door, Wizard Fenworth moved to get up. “Help me.”

  Tipper lent support as he rose, but once he was on his feet, he didn’t wobble. He walked over to Paladin’s enclosure and tapped the side, and the bubble dissolved.

  Paladin got to his feet, bowed, and said, “Thank you.”

  “You and the ladies will be the only ones without headaches for an hour or so.” Fenworth gestured. “Come, let’s see if we can rouse the others.”

  Tipper glanced at their guards. They made no move to confine their prisoners’ activities. Still, she was glad the usually loud wizard chose to speak softly. As long as those rugged men stood over them, she would whisper too.

  Fenworth went first to the healing dragons. He picked up Grandur, kissed him on his tiny green forehead, and cuddled him while he walked over to Verrin Schope. The gesture surprised Tipper, and she realized she liked the old man.

  He placed the dragon on the emerlindian’s chest and gently touched Lady Peg’s shoulder. She looked up, a distant air still claiming her expression.

  “It will be all right, Lady Peg. I promise you.” He turned to Paladin. “Let’s get them some water. A bowl and two glasses.”

  Tipper followed Paladin as he walked over to the water pitcher. She suspected he was gauging the security of the room as he performed this mundane task, and she expected him to cleverly rescue them. Would he pull out his sword and vanquish the guard? She’d counted them. Twenty-four. Two dozen seemed an excessive security against two women, a man in a bubble, and all the sleeping figures on the floor.

  Wizard Fenworth picked up Zabeth next, and after he had her rousing, he handed her to Tipper and told her to take the healing dragon to Beccaroon. “Place her on his neck and stroke the feathers on his back as he becomes conscious. Then get them drinks.”

  “He doesn’t like me to pet him.” She sniffed and tried to look like she hadn’t. She lifted her chin and batted her eyes against the tears.

  Wizard Fenworth cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand. The warmth and smoothness of his fingers comforted her. She detected a strength that she now realized the wizard took pains to mask. She looked into his eyes. A shifting cloud obscured the color. Could he see? Of course he could. How much of this mysterious man was a disguise, an act to shroud his powerful capabilities?

  He smiled. “Tender-hearted. I said you are tender-hearted, and you are. And astute. You’ll make a good ruler.”

  He left to tend to Librettowit. Tipper hugged Zabeth as she crossed to her old friend. The gateway crackled, and more soldiers trudged through, but she paid them no mind. She sat with Beccaroon until he could stand. He grumbled, shook his feathers, and complained of a parched throat and a splitting head. Paladin brought them water.

  “There were no bowls,” said Tipper. “Only glasses.”

  “I asked for them. The guard wasn’t friendly, but he got them.”

  By the time the next batch of incoming soldiers left the room, all of the questing party had roused from their stupor. Servants brought in tables and chairs, then dishes and silverware.

  Tipper concentrated on assisting those who had suffered from the gas.

  “
Noonmeal is served,” Paladin said at Tipper’s elbow.

  “You startled me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Do you have your sword?”

  “Yes, but I think it is more prudent to leave it concealed.”

  She glanced around at two dozen guards and the gateway crackling to allow another outpouring of armed men.

  “What are they up to?”

  “I would surmise they are going to take over the city, perhaps the country.”

  “Mushand said he would increase his art collection and Runan would rule with my mother as a figurehead.”

  “Well, there you have it.”

  His casual tone irritated her, but she kept her voice low. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

  He looked down at her, and she read the amused look in his eye. Still unruffled, he found her question entertaining.

  She turned away from him and surveyed the scene. Reinforcements poured out of the gateway. Again, the strong young men played follow-the-leader in military style. For the first time she realized they all had a foreign look about them. The hair! These men were all mariones, and mariones in Chiril had blond to sandy brown hair. Yet black hair crowned every one of these soldiers. Chiril men wore their hair longer than these men, some even sporting what she thought of as a mane. The soldiers’ hairstyles were not a uniform cut, but even in their individuality, the style was much shorter.

  Tipper wondered how far from home these young men were and if they wanted to be here.

  She sought out her mother and father. With Verrin Schope awake, Lady Peg smiled and chattered.

  “Eat,” said Wizard Fenworth, pointing to the two tables. “The food will help the headache go away, and I don’t believe our host allowed us to live last night to poison us today.”

  They settled around the two tables, and Verrin Schope addressed Wulder. “Thank You for this nourishment, and bless our endeavors to honor You.”