Dragons of the Valley

  “We’re in the East.”

  “And so is The Grawl.”

  Bealomondore tossed several brushes, pencils, and charcoal sticks into a box and closed the lid. “Does Tipper know of her father’s illness?”

  “Taeda Bel has gone to tell her.”

  Maxon hoisted a small tablet of paper to his shoulder and took it to Bealomondore’s open door. The artist followed with his newest sketch and the easel.

  The kimen folk reminded the tumanhofer of ants. They could carry objects that appeared to be too heavy or cumbersome for them. Between Bealomondore and Maxon, they toted all his belongings into the safety of his bower.

  A light rain chased them into his enclosure with the last of his painting gear in their arms.

  After storing his supplies, Bealomondore offered his kimen refreshment. He searched through piles of stuff. “I brought some daggarts back from lunch. If we can find them, we’ll eat them. And we’ll ask Tipper over for tea to see how she is doing.”

  Maxon grinned and began his own search.

  A gush of wind fluttered the branches that made up his closely woven walls. A moment later, Tipper called from outside, “Let me in, Bealomondore. We must talk.”

  He sprang to the door and opened it quickly. A spray of raindrops flew in with the wind. He shut the door as soon as Tipper and Taeda Bel passed him.

  Rain spots dotted Tipper’s apparel. She shivered, and Bealomondore hurried to his bedroom and brought back a blanket to wrap around her.

  “You heard about my father?”

  Bealomondore nodded as Tipper plunged ahead. “We must do something!”

  Maxon and Taeda Bel whispered in the corner. Bealomondore drew Tipper’s attention to the two kimens with a gesture.

  He patted her arm and turned to the little people. “Ahem, I think Tipper and I would like to discuss this matter in private. You will excuse us, won’t you?”

  Maxon looked surprised. “You’d turn us out in the rain?”

  He chortled as he opened the door. “I’ve never seen a wet kimen. I assume you run between the raindrops.”

  The kimens laughed good-naturedly and bowed before they left.

  Bealomondore reached for a chair and placed it next to his guest.

  Tipper clutched the blanket closer as she sat. “Why did you send them away?”

  “I don’t believe they would be in favor of any plan we make.”

  “Why?”

  “I am remembering the way we arrived in this village. Much care was taken to keep us from knowing the exact location. If we are to leave, they might impose some rigorous falderal to keep from revealing their secret.”

  “Then you think we should go to my father and mother?”

  Bealomondore sat on a stool. “No, I don’t think we should. We were charged with protecting the statues. We are safe, and therefore, the statues are safe.”

  Tears welled in Tipper’s eyes. “Bealomondore!”

  He held up a hand. “That is what my reason tells me. In truth, I don’t see how we can sit securely in this sanctuary while your father is in peril.”

  “We’ll go?”

  “Yes.” He slapped his palms down on his thighs and stood. “Fenworth left me a pile of useless goods. Useless if one is going to stay and paint pretty pictures. Now, I think it would be wise to pack this paraphernalia in that cape Winkel brought me.”

  Tipper moved to the side of the room, peering in and around the many stacks. “What color is it?”

  “That’s hard to say. It is made of moonbeam cloth.”

  Tipper turned abruptly, her eyes wide. “Jayrus has one of those. Well, not exactly. He has an outfit made by the kimens. Did you ever see it?”

  Bealomondore grinned. “Yes, I have, and that may be one of the reasons I’m willing to trek all over the countryside with you. Imagine being invisible when you stand still.”

  Tipper reached behind a closed-up box. “Here it is.”

  “Let’s fill the pockets.” Bealomondore took the cloak as she offered it to him, then turned slowly. “I put it all in one place, so it shouldn’t be hard to find. But that was months ago, and things tend to shift down to the bottom of piles as time goes by.”

  “I never would have suspected you to be so untidy.” Tipper tsked as she nosed around the periphery of the crowded room.

  “Disorder occurs only when I am at work. The more creativity I exhibit, the more clutter collects. Surely it is a sign of genius.” He pulled a drop cloth off a pile. “Here.”

  Tipper knelt on the floor with the blanket still wrapped around her. Bealomondore spread the cape inside out with the hollow pockets available. They began packing.

  “No, no, no, Bealomondore. Put all the things that are used together in one pocket. Put your art supplies in this one, eating utensils and the like in here, and we can use this one for weapons.”

  “And the last one?”

  “Food and money.”

  “We don’t have any food or money.”

  Tipper sat back on her heels. “I have some money. We’ll have to get food in the first town we come across.”

  “Wait, I remember a bag of food and a bag of money that Wizard Fenworth gave me. We’ll have to find that.”

  He began to search and found a bowl filled with crackers and a handful of daggarts. He also lifted up a plate of cheese and showed it to Tipper.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Ew! How old is that? There must be an inch of mold on it.”

  “We could scrape the mold off. The cheese underneath is probably good.”

  “You scrape it off, and you eat it. I want to find the food provided by Fenworth.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, put the plate down, and transferred the crackers and daggarts to a small box. Tipper found the two bags they needed and poked them in a hollow.

  After a few more minutes, he declared they were ready to go.

  “I’ll have to stop by my tent and get a few things,” Tipper said.

  “We’d best try to look as if we are not doing anything unusual. I’ll go to the stream and wait for you. Perhaps no one will notice we’re leaving.” Bealomondore opened the door. “It’s stopped raining.”

  He motioned for Tipper to precede him. She stepped through the door and stopped. Bealomondore managed to look around her.

  Taeda Bel and Maxon stood on the doorstep with big grins on their pert faces.

  “We’re going with you,” said Maxon.

  Taeda Bel held up a flat bag. “I packed your things, Tipper.”

  Bealomondore frowned. “Who said you could come along?”

  The kimens turned surprised faces toward each other and said in unison, “We did!”

  Bealomondore and Tipper exchanged exasperated looks. Tipper walked out of the house and looked down at the two friends. “I don’t—”

  Winkel bustled into the clearing with a huge folded garment on her head. “I just finished it, Princess Tipper. Your moonbeam cape. You can’t go questing without one.”

  “Oh,” cried the pretty emerlindian as she reached for her gift. “Oh, thank you.”

  “Not a quest,” boomed Librettowit as he arrived in the commons with a dozen kimens following. “I don’t like quests.”

  More kimens, mostly children, scuttled out of the trees and from behind bushes.

  “You don’t need to come,” said Tipper. “I know you’d prefer to finish your discourse on the kimen lifestyle. And you still have the ropmas to study.”

  “I know my duty, young lady. Your father would be most upset if his daughter went gallivanting around Chiril with a bachelor tumanhofer. I will go along as chaperone.”

  “I don’t think—” Bealomondore began.

  Winkel patted his leg. “Yes, dear. It is necessary.” She gestured toward those crowding around the departing adventurers. “We’ve brought food for your hollows.”

  It took a few moments to store bread, cheese, jars of soup, dried berries and nuts, and bars of delicious yumber into their clothing.
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  “Take care,” said Winkel, “and don’t mess with that growling thing.”

  “We won’t,” said Tipper and leaned over to kiss the kimen matriarch’s cheek.

  That started a round of hugs and kisses and advice giving from the villagers.

  Finally, Librettowit cleared his throat and made a pronouncement. “We’re leaving now, before the sun sets and the moon rises. Any more advice can be forwarded through Chiril’s excellent postal system. Thank you for your hospitality, dear kimens of the Starling Forest. I hope to return to finish my studies.”

  “There’s just one more thing,” said Winkel. She pulled out a large sack, presumably from a hollow in her clothing. She waved it at those about to depart. “Blindfolds.”

  15

  Disappearing

  A soft knock on the door brought a satisfied twitch of Sir Beccaroon’s tail, or at least a twitch of the stump under the artificial contraption that passed for his tail.

  He tilted his head and heard Lady Peg’s muffled voice.

  He called, “Come in.”

  The door opened, and Verrin Schope and his lady entered. Lady Peg carried a board and a jar of salve. Her husband carried a bucket and two sponges. Their four minor dragons fluttered into the room as well and proceeded to explore before taking up roosts.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get here right after supper,” explained Lady Peg. “We had to wait until the hall was clear, and a very improper lady stood outside her door for the longest time having a conversation with a gentleman. It is, of course, improper for a lady to talk to a man who is not her relative unless they are in a public place. I suppose the man could have been her brother, but I don’t think so. Finally Verrin Schope had to suggest to the man that he was very, very thirsty, so he left. But don’t ask me how my husband convinced him he was thirsty. He just did.”

  Verrin Schope placed a towel on the seat of a wooden chair and the bucket on top of the towel. He then put a heavy foot on one of the rungs underneath, and Beccaroon flew to perch on the back of the chair.

  Lady Peg continued to natter on as both she and her husband used the sponges to soak the prosthesis, softening the special glue invented by Wizard Fenworth and his associates. When the rounded bowl disguised with feathers came off, Beccaroon gave his backside an undignified shake.

  Grandur and Zabeth flew in to examine his irritated skin. They aided the two emerlindians as they soaked and peeled off the remnants of sticky glue. Verrin Schope unscrewed the lid on the salve, and both he and his wife dipped their fingers into it.

  “I know you think this is beneath you, to have your skin taken care of this way,” said Lady Peg. “But I want you to know that I like doing it. Your poor rump was injured protecting my daughter after all. You were so brave to fly in and attack her attackers, and those bug men at the Insect Emporium were clever enough to devise a tail. Actually I don’t mean they were clever because I assume they are still being clever, so I should say are clever instead of were clever.”

  Verrin Schope cleared his throat. “We must be quiet, my dear. We don’t want someone passing in the hall to hear us. It would be difficult to explain why we are in the room of the grand parrot. And it would be even more cumbersome to explain why we’ve de-tailed him.”

  If he could have rolled his eyes, Beccaroon would have. The mischief in his old friend’s expression did make him laugh.

  Lady Peg’s eyes grew wide, and she whispered, “Verrin Schope, we certainly have a right to help our friend. And how can we help him if we aren’t in his room?”

  Verrin Schope smoothed the ointment over the tender skin, and Lady Peg joined in the ritual that kept Beccaroon’s wound site free of the complications of wearing a prosthesis.

  Beccaroon turned his head and peered over his shoulder. The dragons resettled themselves close enough to keep watch over the proceedings.

  “But we are not supposed to know him.” Verrin Schope winked at Bec.

  Lady Peg continued her hushed meanderings. “Oh, now that’s not right. We do know him, so you can’t change that. What you must mean is that others we meet aren’t supposed to know that we know him. That’s a big difference. It isn’t logical to say we don’t know him when we do, but it is possible to fool others into believing we don’t know him.”

  “Just so,” Beccaroon said. “A very logical point, Lady Peg.”

  She smiled at Beccaroon, then frowned at her husband. “And if some come to know we know Sir Bec, it won’t be because of burrs in his feathers. Wherever did you get such a notion?”

  Beccaroon tried to puzzle that one out but gave up with a shrug of his shoulders. Verrin Schope checked to see that his wife was not watching and mouthed the word “cum-bers-ome.” Bec nodded his understanding. Lady Peg had moved on to “de-tailed.”

  After four of his self-appointed attendants left for their own beds, Beccaroon pushed a chair over to the open window and perched there to enjoy the cloudless night. The two healing dragons stayed. As he sat on the arm of the chair, his backside rested in the cushioned seat. Grandur and Zabeth curled up next to the tender stump.

  From his window the next day, Beccaroon could see Verrin Schope in the town square. He’d set up his easel and dabbed paint on a canvas. He stood on a familiar piece of flooring. With the board from his wife’s closet beneath his feet, Verrin Schope’s body would dissipate and reform within the blink of an eye. No one should notice the phenomenon. Without the centering board that somehow connected with a portal to another continent, the artist could scatter to the corners of the world.

  The wizard artist interacted with townspeople as they passed by him on their daily business. Bec knew Verrin Schope extracted more facts from their minds than he did from their words. Along with mind reading and subliminal suggestion, the wizard could delve into a person’s mind as easily as flipping the pages of a book.

  Lady Peg sat in a comfy chair confiscated from the inn. She wore a large floppy hat to protect her skin. Much to the delight of the children, the minor dragons frolicked in the grass and did tricks in the air. Beccaroon watched for a while, then turned back to his book.

  Hours later, Beccaroon sat in the tavern with his tail restored. He enjoyed his evening meal and eavesdropped on the conversations at tables nearby. The urge to compete with Verrin Schope in the collection of useful rumors kept him attentive to all around him.

  He picked up only a few nuggets of information. The bisonbecks had come to the inn weeks earlier and met with another foreigner. The region had fewer problems with kidnappings by slave traders this year, but the farmers had lost livestock to some marauders who left no tracks. They were fearful of blaming the bisonbecks. No one wanted to confront such brawny thugs. But the worst of the rumors he overheard was the disappearance of so many men in authority. Mayors, legislators, councilmen, magistrates, military officers, and powerful landowners had gone missing.

  A local band set up to play at one end of the room, and Beccaroon decided to retire. He wouldn’t be able to hear much over whatever music they played. He signaled for his waitress to bring the check, but instead the serving maid brought a marione over and introduced him as the local magistrate, Hopdin.

  “Join me.” Beccaroon nodded to the chair at his corner table. “I’m the magistrate in my region. We should be able to think of something to talk about.”

  Hopdin laughed as he pulled out the chair and took a seat. Three hours later, the two were fast friends.

  “Tell me about these disappearances,” said Bec.

  “Ah yes. That is a sinister puzzle. Odd really. Those who disappear are those who have the responsibility of keeping order in one way or another.”

  Beccaroon clicked his beak. “If we could figure out who’s behind these actions and what’s achieved by this ploy, we’d be closer to putting our finger on the culprit.”

  “Or culprits.”

  “Indeed. Aren’t these officials replaced as soon as it is determined they are more or less permanently absent from their p
osts?”

  Hopdin nodded and sipped his ale before he spoke. “Word came from the palace this week that any foreign traveler is to be kept under surveillance and his movements cataloged and reported to Ragar. Obviously, the king thinks the influx of strangers has something to do with it. And the rumors of war brewing with Baardack make me think the disappearances are serving to disrupt our organization if a war actually breaks out.”

  “I concur.” Beccaroon nodded toward the three men sitting around a table. “So you have someone keeping tabs on those bisonbecks?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that creature?”

  “The Grawl? His comrades call him The Grawl. He almost never comes into the village, and when he’s in the woods, it’s impossible to keep track of him.”

  “I’d like to know exactly where he came from and what he is.”

  Hopdin stood. “You and everyone else in this town.” He pushed in his chair. “I’ve got to get home. It was nice meeting you, Sir Beccaroon. If you’re staying a few days, maybe we can do this again.”

  Bec nodded, and the marione magistrate made his way to the door, speaking to several people along the way. The grand parrot glanced around the room and noticed that most people were on friendly terms with their magistrate. If they didn’t call out a farewell, they gave a wave. All except the bisonbecks. They did not acknowledge his departure. But why should they?

  Hopdin went out the front door.

  Beccaroon studied the three bisonbeck men. He again noted their indifference, but this time a frisson of alarm chilled him. Their disregard appeared too pat, too studied. Beccaroon hopped down from his perch and pushed through the crowded tavern to follow his new friend.

  Outside, he saw Hopdin approaching a corner, whistling as he walked. Beccaroon walked after him, listening to the tune that echoed the last one played in the inn. He came to the corner, but before he turned in the same direction, the cheerful whistle came to an abrupt end. Bec peered into the dim street. The main road behind him had lamps at intervals. This side street did not.