The Vanishing Sculptor

  “You have more at stake and are therefore more motivated to achieve.”

  “I don’t want to go with those crazy old men.”

  “And you think I do? Three hours in my forest convinced me I didn’t want to travel to the neighbor’s fruit stand with those two.” He bristled. “If you play your cards right, you can have Bealomondore come along.”

  “I don’t want to go with two crazy old men and one fanatical artist.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “You go. You know how to discern the proper behavior appropriate to any given situation.”

  “Don’t throw words of encouragement and instruction back in my face, you ungrateful whelp.”

  Tipper relaxed as a wonderful idea blossomed. “Rolan.”

  “Rolan?”

  “Let’s send Rolan.”

  Beccaroon clicked his tongue against his beak. “Now that’s an idea. We can stay here and pretend our secure little life hasn’t been bopped with a rolling pin.”

  Tipper shook her head and waved her hands in the air in protest, but the bird continued. “I can see plainly that Rolan will be able to talk Bealomondore into aiding in the search for the three statues. He has a smooth way about him.”

  “Oh, do stop.”

  Beccaroon flew the short distance to another good perch and stared down at her. Sarcasm laced his words. “Also, Rolan is loyal and trustworthy. I can’t think of a better person to be an emissary for Verrin Schope. Our neighbor, at least, looks the part.” He shook his head. “Tipper, be reasonable. Rolan looks like what he is—a farmer.”

  She lifted her chin. “True, but a gentleman farmer.”

  “He’d be uncomfortable in crowded city streets.”

  “He’s a valiant man. He’d cope.”

  “His harvest would suffer while he was away.”

  “You could offer to take over the management of his farm.”

  An unladylike snort escaped as Tipper remembered the withering of her father’s productive land under her guiding hand. The crops had dwindled from a thousand acres to a garden plot. The grand parrot magistrate might solve disputes among the neighbors, make judgments on behalf of the less fortunate, and order changes made for the safety of the population, but he was not gifted with agricultural wisdom. Sir Bec had not provided wise counsel in this area. If it weren’t for Gladyme, the garden would be thistles.

  She sighed. “We can’t send Rolan.”

  “Then you should resign yourself to going. You must save your father. And perhaps even save our world from whatever happens to a world that dissipates and then regroups in a closet.”

  “I can’t do this, Bec. You try to make me believe I have done a good job taking care of my mother and our estate.” She gestured as if evidence sprang up around her, illustrating her speech. She flung one hand out, pointing. “Ruined crops.” Her other hand waved. “Destitute peasants.” With her arms spread, she turned in a circle. “Can’t you see it, Bec? Be honest!”

  She clenched one fist and shook it at an unseen list detailing her ineptitude. “Mother is more flighty than ever. Her behavior is a direct reflection of the security she does not feel. Our once-beautiful home is falling into disrepair. The former staff of eighty servants now consists of two old people who stay because they love me. I’ve put scores of people out of work by not being able to maintain the crops and industry that was derived from the land.”

  She paused, all the fire going out of her argument. “I’m not suitable for a quest to find lost treasure, to save a man’s life, to save the world. Someone else will have to do it.”

  “Someone like me?” Beccaroon asked.

  “Someone exactly like you.”

  “Fine, I’ll do it.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes. I’ve never saved the world before. Such an accomplishment will look good on my gravestone. ‘Here lies Beccaroon, a worthy steward of the forest, a steadfast friend, a considerate and honest neighbor, and saver of the world’”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Yes, but I will go on this quest.” He shuddered. “With Fenworth and Librettowit.”

  “You are a good friend, Bec.”

  “On one condition.”

  Tipper stiffened. “There’s a condition? What is it?”

  “That you go too.”

  “I thought we established that I am good for nothing.”

  “Never, my dear.” He cocked his head in a gesture that always warmed Tipper’s heart. “I would never acquiesce to such an idea. You are undoubtedly good for something.”

  Oh, the doubt again. Tipper struggled to keep a firm hold on the positive. She managed to speak without sounding defensive. “What?”

  “A buffer. The one person who will keep me from deserting the worthy wizard and the gloomy librarian. You may keep me out of jail for pecking them when their constant nonsensical patter drives me mad. You might even save me from the hangman’s noose should I be trapped in a room with them for more than an hour.”

  Her heart lightened. Bec’s presence would make everything all right. She kept her somber tone. “In a quiet room, there’s always the possibility that the wizard will sleep.”

  “And what will crawl out of his clothing while he snoozes?”

  She shrugged and let a smile escape the control she had maintained to be serious.

  Beccaroon pointed a wingtip at her and shook it. “We both go on this quest, or your father scatters one time too many to be put back together. The quest is imperative.”

  The smile deserted her face. “On that I agree.”

  12

  Boss Inn

  Tipper stepped down from the back of Rolan’s wagon onto a busy street in the center of Temperlain. She had been to the larger town twice in her life, but never to this corner of affluence. Surely this section of Temperlain rivaled Ragar, the capital city of Chiril, for cosmopolitan sophistication. The bustling atmosphere, with men dressed to impress fellow merchants and women dressed to impress each other, made Soebin seem like a backwoods hamlet. Even the hawkers and errand boys were better dressed than the average citizen of her hometown. On the other side of the cobblestone street, the Boss Inn loomed large and elaborately elegant.

  Backwoods. Tipper would have giggled if her throat had not been so tight with apprehension. Soebin did inhabit the edges of a tropical forest. Not exactly backwoods, but close enough. Yes, she was definitely out of her element and with an unpleasant task ahead of her as well.

  On the wall behind her, a town bulletin board displayed sketches of young people. Curious, Tipper moved closer to read them. The posters depicted those who might have been abducted by slave traders. She scanned the faces and saw strong, healthy males and females. If the posters were right in their assumptions, then those happy faces were happy no more. She turned away.

  On top of that unsettling discovery, the constant movement of goat-pulled carts, quick pedestrians, and hawkers with their wooden trays jarred her nerves. A boy bumped into her.

  He turned, walking backward at what she deemed a dangerous pace, doffed his soft, flat hat, and grinned at her. “Sorry, miss.” He slapped his cap back on his head and trotted off

  Beccaroon left his perch beside Rolan on the driver’s seat and landed next to her. Several passersby slowed long enough to take a second look at the grand parrot. Few of the great birds came into cities.

  Wizard Fenworth and Librettowit remained on the sofa situated in the wagons hauling bed. Junkit and Zabeth lay on the wizard’s shoulders. He’d surprised Tipper by insisting that the minor dragons come along. He said they were eager to see Temperlain and scolded her for being neglectful of the little beasties’ desires. Tipper listened now as the wizard spoke to her dragons. Junkit and Zabeth did appear to be listening. But then, all animals seemed to listen when the wizard spoke.

  Fenworth tilted his head up and peered down his nose as he took in the surrounding area. “There’s a predominance of wood in their architecture, isn’t there?”

  Rolan looked ov
er his shoulder. “What do you build with?” he asked.

  “Wood, lumber, timber, and hewn boards.”

  “I see.” Rolan nodded and quirked an eyebrow. “Then our homes and buildings are constructed much like your own?”

  “Different!” proclaimed Fenworth, loud enough to turn the heads of those in the street.

  Tipper fixed her attention on the wizard, waiting for him to elaborate on the difference in buildings. He didn’t continue but began gathering town birds, pigeons, sparrows, and grackles around him. The variety of birds soon covered the wagon. Junkit and Zabeth flew to sit with Rolan. More townspeople stared.

  Fenworth smiled at Tipper. “I have an owl at home. I do believe I miss the placid fellow.”

  Beccaroon reclaimed her attention by nudging her with his wing. “Shall we go into the hotel?”

  Tipper looked into her friend’s beady eyes and then up at Fenworth.

  “I’m staying here,” said the wizard. “I find dealing with disgruntled tumanhofers to be tiring.”

  “Horsefeathers,” grumbled the librarian. He climbed down from the wagon. His weight tipped the vehicle dangerously to one side. He took Tipper’s elbow in a firm hand and steered her across the street. “Always confront a tumanhofer head on. Don’t beat around the bush. We don’t like wishy-washy ways.” They paused to let a dogcart pass. “Tumanhofers are solid folk who like to deal with facts, not emotion.”

  The temptation to inform Librettowit of Bealomondore’s disposition parted Tipper’s lips, but before she could utter a word, the steps to the front of the inn loomed before them. She held back, and Librettowit pushed harder against her arm.

  “You’ll get us run over in the streets, young girl. Let’s get this meeting with the artist behind us.”

  Beccaroon’s wing came around her back. He tsked. “Your home is much grander than this. Quit dragging your feet.”

  With Librettowit on one side and Bec on the other, the two ushered Tipper up the painted white stairs. She felt trapped, and the urge to escape increased. If she focused on something minor, perhaps she could make it. If she could explain…

  “It’s not the pomposity of the building that’s bothering me,” she said. “It’s the bombastic attitude of the man I must humble myself to.”

  “Don’t,” said Librettowit, stopping before the elaborate wooden door of the inn and staring seriously into her eyes. “Don’t ever end your sentences with prepositions.”

  Beccaroon clicked his tongue. “Before. I believe the preposition she should not have ended that sentence with would be before instead of to. One humbles oneself before another person, not to.”

  Tipper glared at her friend. “Have you gone mad?”

  “No.” The parrot’s skin lifted in a ridge above one eye, like an eyebrow arching. “I think I have caught on to the rhythm of our guests’ conversational pattern.”

  Librettowit patted her arm and propelled her gently toward the door. “He ended two sentences with the preposition to. Two prepositions incorrectly positioned.” He reached forward with his free hand and twisted the brass knob. “I must confess, in the past I’ve committed the two to transgression too.”

  A ripple of laughter quivered in Tipper’s stomach and rolled up to her throat. “You’re doing it on purpose to make me relax.”

  “Yes, my dear,” said Beccaroon, “and here we are.”

  They proceeded to the front desk at a quick pace. Obviously, her escorts did not want her to have time to devise a means of escape.

  An o’rant commanded a position of authority behind the wide, highly polished, wooden counter. “Welcome to the Boss Inn, Temperlain’s most prestigious hotel. May I be of service?”

  Beccaroon cleared his throat. “We’re looking for the artist Graddapotmorphit Bealomondore.”

  The clerk drawled, “He’s here.” He returned to his task.

  Bec tilted his head forward. “May we see him?”

  “If you take a room.” The clerk turned a heavy book with lined pages so that it faced the three.

  Librettowit examined the register. “Why do we need a room?”

  “Bealomondore is an employee of the Inn. He does not render his services to anyone outside our patronage.”

  The tumanhofer picked up the pen and scratched in his name. “We’ll take three rooms. One for the young lady and two for myself and three traveling companions.”

  The o’rant bowed slightly and pulled three sets of keys from a board on the wall.

  Librettowit took the offered keys. “Now, where is Bealomondore?”

  The man pointed a long finger to a hallway. “Last door on the left. You’ll make your payment for the artist’s work through the front desk.”

  “Payment?” Tipper whispered as they moved away from the desk.

  Librettowit jingled the keys in his hand. “Thought you said this man’s family is well-to-do.”

  “He dressed well,” said Tipper. “He spoke like a gentleman. He said he was Graddapotmorphit Bealomondore from Greeston in Dornum. He sounded like his family held a position of prestige.”

  Beccaroon clicked his tongue against his beak. “And he supplied all the knowledge we have of him.”

  “Papa knew of him. Mother said so.”

  “Now, how is that?” asked the bird, turning an eye to the tumanhofer.

  Librettowit paused in the hall. “For quite some time, we made attempts to return Verrin Schope to your country. Seven out of ten times, he landed in his own home. On the other three occasions, he popped up in the most unusual places. We often worried whether he would return to us. During these misplacements, he explored cities, mountains, isolated grasslands, and islands.”

  Tipper gasped. “He could have landed in the ocean.”

  Librettowit shook his head. “Highly unlikely. The mechanism, even when faulty, is strongly attracted to solid objects. He was in no danger of drowning.”

  “But you had to wait longer for him to return?”

  “Yes.” The librarian rubbed his fingers over his mustache. “The longest he was gone was nine days. By then we’d given him up entirely. Each time he visited your mother at the original entry of the gateway, he was gone from Amara for only six or seven hours.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We tested theory after theory and could only surmise that the weave of the gateway burst in places, and he could not be readmitted until that rip had repaired itself.”

  “Awk!” Beccaroon halted. “This gate fixes itself?”

  Librettowit resumed walking, and Tipper and Beccaroon followed. “It’s not made out of brick and mortar, you see. Not even wood or thread. But time! Strands of flowing time and light. I’ve said mechanism, and that has given you a poor picture in your mind. I apologize.”

  He tapped a finger against his chin. “The product of our manipulation of strands of light and time is more like a living thing than a watch that merely counts minutes and hours. The gateway flows constantly.”

  He abruptly stopped, and Bec and Tipper had to retrace their steps to where he stood.

  The tumanhofer changed from finger tapping to mustache stroking. “Ah! If you toss a rock into a stream, the water is only momentarily disturbed.” He shook his head. “Bah! Another bad example.”

  He thought, his eyes squinted, then held up his finger. “If you scratch your skin, the abrasion allows blood to escape, but shortly thereafter, the small wound closes and eventually heals.” A grin parted the mustache and beard.

  To Tipper his smile looked more like a grimace. “The gateway is like that.”

  Beccaroon stared for a moment, then began walking once more. “That doesn’t make a bit of sense. If this theory of putting three bits of stone back together is based on the same type of logic, Verrin Schope is doomed.”

  Tipper scampered to catch up. “Oh, Bec, please don’t say such a thing.”

  His pace slowed. “Now, Tipper, don’t fret. If this wizard and librarian were the ones we rely on, I’d be worried. But throw your father into the mix, and
I have more confidence that all will turn out as it should.”

  “Wulder,” said the tumanhofer, again walking by their sides. “Wulder is for us, as well.”

  Beccaroon didn’t answer. Neither did Tipper. Trusting for aid someone who was like the fable of Boscamon didn’t seem something to rejoice about. According to her father, this Wulder was real. But what did that mean? A real juggler was not much improvement over a storybook juggler.

  They came to the door on the left at the end of the hall. Librettowit knocked.

  “Come in.” It was Bealomondore’s voice.

  Tipper allowed Librettowit and Beccaroon to lead the way. She hung back in the doorway to see what their reception would be. The much shorter bird and tumanhofer afforded her no shield, and they didn’t block her view either.

  Bealomondore sat with his back to them. An easel before him bore a black-on-white sketch of a marione. This person, apparently a businessman, raised his eyebrows at the intrusion, but when the artist made a hissing noise, he composed his expression with a flinch.

  “I’m almost finished here,” said the artist without turning his gaze. “Sit down. Shouldn’t be long.”

  Bec remained standing, but Tipper and Librettowit sat on the soft sofa along the wall.

  Tipper watched as Bealomondore’s charcoal scraped lines across the paper. Occasionally, he stopped to deliberately smudge an area, creating shadows. The likeness to the man posing was remarkable, almost breathtaking, considering the artist worked only with black.

  Bealomondore signed his name with a flourish, put down the charcoal, and stood. “Done!” He turned the easel with an ostentatious gesture and beamed when his patron exclaimed his astonishment.

  “Marvelous! Incredible! You’re a genuine genius.”

  Bealomondore nodded without a trace of humility. He then frowned as the man pulled out his leather purse. He shook his head. “You pay at the front desk, then the portrait will be mounted, framed, and delivered to your room.”

  “Yes, yes. I remember now.” He gestured toward his likeness. “I can hardly take my eyes off it. My wife will be very pleased. Thank you, young man.”