The Vanishing Sculptor

by Donita K. Paul

  Tipper felt a buzz in her head. She concentrated. “Oh! Oh! Grandur says to bend our legs and flex our ankles to help speed the recovery.”

  “You heard him?”

  “I did.” She paused to listen to her father’s healing dragon. “He says Papa is much weaker than he is letting us know.”

  Bealomondore struggled to his feet. “Then we should hurry. I’ll go to that building over there. It looks like a tavern. Perhaps I can procure a conveyance to take us the last mile or so into town.”

  By the time the young tumanhofer got back with a volunteer, Beccaroon and the dragons had made themselves scarce. The big dragons would certainly cause a stir in the neighborhood. Prince Jayrus felt more comfortable leaving them when they promised to stay out of sight. And Sir Beccaroon had no desire to spend the night in a noisy city. A wooded area nearby would provide shelter from prying eyes for the night and for as much of the next day as the questers needed to secure the first statue. The minor dragons would accompany the party that went to town but stay hidden in the pockets of Fenworth’s cape.

  “They can go into your hollows?” Tipper felt a tremor of fear. “Couldn’t they get lost or hurt?”

  “Nonsense,” said Fenworth. “She picks sheer nonsense out of the air and panics over it. I do have normal pockets, flighty girl. Try not to get flustered over every little thing. Going to pieces on a quest is most undesirable.”

  The jolting of the wagon proved ten times more uncomfortable than gliding through the air on a dragon. Tipper had felt the muscles of the creature flex beneath her, but the motion was never jarring. She thought she might break her teeth in the back of the large farm cart if she was not careful.

  The marione driver stopped in front of The Moon and Three Halves Inn. Prince Jayrus, Wizard Fenworth, and Librettowit jumped down immediately, but Tipper stretched out her legs and wiggled her feet to be sure they were ready to support her. Bealomondore cautiously climbed down, then turned to help her father.

  Tipper craned her neck to look up at the building they would sleep in that night. The Boss Inn had impressed her, but this edifice left her speechless. Carved wood emphasized every line of the hotel. Gilding accentuated most of the windows.

  Numerous patrons went in and out through the door. She saw a sign that gave dining hours and realized they had arrived at the peak of that busy time. Then she saw the placard that displayed the words “The Moon and Three Halves Inn.”

  “What an odd name,” she said.

  Fenworth scowled and pulled his beard. “Should have named it Two and a Half Moons. Would have made more sense.”

  Librettowit stamped his feet, knocking bits of hay from his trousers. “I don’t see that either name makes sense. We’ve only one moon on any given night. Why mention more?”

  Fenworth tapped his shoulder and pointed to the front window of the establishment. “A bow window sticks out. That one is backward, sticks in. But look in the three panes of glass.”

  “By my list of great ancestors, I wonder how often that occurs.”

  Tipper hopped off the wagon and came to see what they were looking at. The single moon in the sky reflected off a window nine feet above the front porch. One moon gleamed in each of the first two panes. The last section angled in such a way that the glass only revealed half the reflection.

  Bealomondore stepped closer with his head tilted back to scrutinize the window. He started to laugh. “It’s a painting. A very clever painting. If we’d seen this in the full light of day, we would not have been fooled.”

  Tipper and Prince Jayrus clambered up the stairs, their boots making a racket in the quiet evening.

  Jayrus, with his emerlindian height, had no trouble reaching up and touching the picture. “The wall isn’t even curved in. The surface is perfectly flat. Could you draw something like that, Bealomondore?”

  “Yes, and I have many times. This type of false impression is all the rage in Greeston. Many times this was the reason behind my being invited to stay. The hostess wanted something clever on the walls, something different from the art collected by her friends.”

  “Two and a Half Moons is still a better name,” grumbled Librettowit. “Fenworth is right. Three half moons would be a half moon, a half moon, and a half moon, separated. Not two halves making a whole.”

  “Now, Wit,” said Fenworth, “don’t get too melancholy over the folly of these Chiril citizens. We’ve already noted that their quirks and idiosyncrasies are abundant. Must tolerate the natives, after all. We are the guests in their fair land, and to point out the silliness of some of their ways would be discourteous. Who’s got the money to pay this farmer for the ride?”

  Librettowit pulled out his coin purse and shook out the coins acquired in Temperlain. As he reached up to put a sum in the driver’s outstretched palm, the man leaned over to speak.

  “Seems to me,” he said in quiet tones, “that these guests are the ones with the quirks.”

  The librarian looked around at the questing party. Only Beccaroon was missing. Librettowit raised an eyebrow at the farmer. “I agree,” he said. “Bealomondore and Jayrus are odd, but these quirky ones are yours. We didn’t bring them from Amara.”

  The driver frowned, sat up, and tucked his pay into a small pocket in his vest. Snapping the reins lightly, he called to his horses to get a move on.

  Wizard Fenworth led the way into the inn. A crowd of milling people obstructed their way in the foyer. Off to one side, double doors opened into the dining area. Tipper rose up on her toes and looked over the heads of most of the people. The restaurant appeared to be filled to capacity. The sound of quiet conversation, music, and dishes clinking floated from the dimly lit room. The smell of meat roasting and savory spices awakened a ravenous hunger in Tipper.

  She squeezed her father’s arm. “How do we get in that room and seated at a table?”

  “We ask,” answered Prince Jayrus.

  Fenworth made for the restaurant, and people stepped aside to let him pass. Bealomondore put Tipper’s hand on his arm and managed to stay behind Fenworth.

  “Must be a wizard thing,” he said. “I don’t think they’d part for us, so let’s follow in his wake.”

  They reached the door, and a man in a fancy suit stood in their way. Tipper looked down at her clothes. She still wore the riding clothes Fenworth had pulled from his hollow. The loose fit looked rumpled. She reached up and touched her head. Stray hair blown from her braid stuck out around her face. She tried to smooth it down.

  “Are we expecting you?” asked the door guardian with a skeptical smile.

  “You should be,” said Fenworth.

  “Your name?”

  “Fenworth.”

  The man looked at a list in the book at his side. “No Fenworth is listed.”

  Prince Jayrus stepped forward. He greeted the man with one of his most charming smiles. “Hello. You are?”

  “Sabatin, sir.”

  “Sabatin, from Little Liscover?”

  “Why, yes.” The man’s tone warmed.

  “Sabatin, my guests are from a great distance, and I would like to show them the best of our country. Naturally, we arrive at your doorstep. Where else would we go?”

  The guardian nodded.

  “There are five of us. While you are preparing a table, would you send someone to acquire rooms for the night?”

  “Oh, sir, I would like to oblige, but—”

  Prince Jayrus looked the man in the eye. “That’s fine, Sabatin. I know you will do your best. Travel-weary though they be, the dignitaries from Amara are first of all gentlemen. I have no doubt they will wait for you to work wonders on their behalf.”

  “Yes, yes.” Sabatin turned, raised a hand, and snapped his fingers. Another well-dressed man appeared. “Calros, mind my station.” He turned to Prince Jayrus. “Right this way, sir.”

  Tipper transferred from Bealomondore’s arm to her father’s. She stood on tiptoe to speak in his ear. “Was that the mesmerizing thing you spoke o
f?”

  “It had some of the trappings of mesmerization, but I can’t be sure. It certainly isn’t the way I influence a person’s mind. Too much talking for my taste.”

  Tipper realized her father leaned on her. She started to say something but glanced up at his face. She read more than fatigue. Her father was in pain. She shifted her arm to support him and guided him to the table where they would eat.

  28

  Bamataub

  Fenworth decided he was too tired to find and visit the owner of Morning Glory that night. Tipper saw him cast a glance at her father and wondered if the wizard aimed to protect Verrin Schope from becoming overtired.

  At breakfast the next morning, Beccaroon strutted through the door in time to sip from a cup of amaloot. The hot, sweet beverage usually calmed Tipper’s nerves, but today her anticipation was beyond taming.

  They rented a carriage to take them to Bamataub’s estate. Beccaroon rode on top, but the other six in their party fit comfortably in the spacious carriage.

  Their driver maneuvered through the busy city streets. The noise and confusion bothered Tipper, and she wondered about Beccaroon on his perch above. He wasn’t fond of hustle and bustle either. He’d probably fluffed himself up, pulled his head down, and closed his eyes. For a moment, she wanted to be up there with him, but a harsh exclamation from someone in the road reminded her of the safety the carriage provided.

  Eventually they reached a less crowded area, where other vehicles no longer jockeyed for the right of way. Businesses gave way to homes. Modest homes gave way to larger houses. Bamataub lived in an affluent part of town where all the residences sat back from the road, massive lawns and groomed flower beds showing off their wealth. The branches from tall trees arched over the lane, creating a pleasant shade. Breezes rippled the leaves, creating an ever-changing, lovely dappling on the fine gravel road.

  Tipper’s nerves prickled as they moved farther out of the city. Wider spaces separated the homes. The trees thinned, and glaring sunlight beat on the carriage. The atmosphere became stifling, hot, dry, and still. Bealomondore and Jayrus opened the windows on either side.

  Tipper tried unsuccessfully to squelch an uneasy feeling that had begun when Bamataub’s name had first been mentioned. When they stopped before a heavy wrought-iron gate in a high brick wall, she wanted to tell the driver to turn back. The atmosphere of their destination contrasted with the sunny estates they had passed.

  “No one else lives in a fortress,” she pointed out.

  Bealomondore shifted in his seat. “He has his reasons. Although everyone in Fayetopolis respects him, it’s a respect born out of fear, not admiration.”

  Tipper remembered the look on the concierge’s face when they asked for a vehicle to take them to Bamataub. “So that’s what was behind the concierge’s expression? I sensed he didn’t approve, but I thought he didn’t approve of us, not Bamataub.”

  Prince Jayrus’s blue eyes looked thoughtful. “This would be a circumstance when those who have no power are very careful to guard themselves from incurring the wrath of he who is in power. Those who work at the hotel dare not voice a warning or disapproval of any kind.”

  “You are correct,” said Bealomondore.

  Tipper eyed the prince. “How did you know that? Do you come here often?”

  “I never go anywhere. You know that. But part of Prince Surrus’s instruction included political intrigue. The nature of government, commerce, and greed.”

  Fenworth laughed out loud. “I would have liked to meet your mentor, boy. Prince Surrus sounds like a man of acute discernment.” He laughed again. “Lumping government, commerce, and greed together! Astounding insight.”

  The driver of their carriage got down and spoke to a man behind the barred entry. As he climbed back up, the iron gate opened. The horses pulled them into a dark lane. Thick trees cut off the sunlight. The harnesses jingled harshly in an unnatural stillness.

  Tipper peered out the window on her side and thought she saw hideous shapes dodging between the tree trunks in the surrounding forest. She swallowed and chastised herself for being the panicky, flighty alarmist Wizard Fenworth already claimed her to be. The shadows among the trees were merely that—shadows. The absence of sound only meant that the birds… She couldn’t think of a reason the birds would not chirp.

  She took her father’s hand. His long fingers were cold and dry. Her father’s health was in real danger. She must concentrate on their quest, not on imagined terrors.

  Wizard Fenworth growled in his throat. “This place holds evil.”

  So much for convincing herself she had an overactive imagination.

  From among the trees, a woman screamed in stark terror. Everyone in the carriage jumped.

  “A bird,” said Fenworth. “A peacock. Wretched squawkers.”

  Tipper let out a sigh of relief simultaneously with most of the other occupants of the coach.

  The drive from the gate to the house continued. They passed out of the forest and obtained their first view of Bamataub’s mansion. The huge stone manor squatted like a massive, warty toad on the hillside.

  “Well, Verrin Schope,” said Librettowit, “it is safe to say that it wasn’t good taste or an eye for beauty that led Bamataub to purchase your statue.”

  Tipper’s impression of the house and its owner did not improve when a gnarly-looking marione opened the door. He dressed the part of a butler, but his mannerism reminded Tipper of those men she’d seen hanging around The Other Boot, a tavern in Soebin with a reputation for gambling and fistfights.

  The man showed them to a large room decorated with dark purples, greens, and browns. The heavy curtains kept out the sun, and a thick rug muffled their steps.

  “Master Bamataub will be with you in a moment.” The butler bowed stiffly and left.

  Bealomondore walked to the center of the room and turned slowly, looking at the art on the walls. “Does anyone else feel like we were expected?”

  “Yes,” said Verrin Schope. He walked to the nearest chair and sat down. “Our host needs some tips on displaying his collection.”

  Prince Jayrus walked around the edge of the room, examining the many paintings. “A little light would be helpful.”

  Beccaroon, Fenworth, and Librettowit stood together, talking in low voices. Tipper tried to hear but couldn’t and decided to move closer. She heard Librettowit say, “… with the proper medicine…”

  Then the door opened and their host arrived.

  “Hello, I am Bamataub, and this is my wife, Orphelian.”

  Bamataub’s short legs brought him into the room swiftly, with his much shorter wife trailing behind. He approached the men standing together first, shook hands with Librettowit and Fenworth, and bowed to Beccaroon. “You are visitors from Amara? Extraordinary! Welcome. You, Sir Beccaroon, I understand, are from our own Indigo Forest. I’m pleased to meet you. Not many grand parrots deign to gift us with their delightful presence. I am honored to have you in my home.”

  They muttered responses, but Bamataub was not interested. He whirled and advanced on Prince Jayrus and Bealomondore, who had reached a point where they both examined the same painting. “Bealomondore, I have heard of you, both of your talent and your obsession with the artwork of Verrin Schope. Welcome, welcome. Jayrus of Mercigon? Welcome.”

  Again he ignored any comment they made and went on, swooping down on Verrin Schope, who rose to his feet to receive the man’s greeting.

  “I hardly know what to say.” Bamataub pumped Verrin Schope’s hand. “The great Verrin Schope, a master of all that is acclaimed as art, a world-renowned authority on countless subjects, a confirmed recluse, and a member of the royal court, visiting my humble household. Amazing!”

  Verrin Schope extracted his hand and gestured for Tipper to come forward. “My daughter, Tipper.”

  Bamataub nodded in a perfunctory manner. “Yes, perhaps you would like to sit with my wife. We will have refreshments shortly”

  He proceede
d to steer his guests to chairs he designated, chattering all the while of his great honor in entertaining them. Tipper sat on the sofa next to Orphelian and took stock of their host.

  He was a shorter emerlindian, quite dark, with close-cropped hair, an overly wide, thin-lipped smile, an ordinary nose, and small eyes. For all his overt congeniality, Tipper thought of a rat. Busy, busy, busy, but looking out for his own advantage.

  Orphelian patted her hand. “Do you enjoy traveling, Mistress Tipper?”

  “Oh yes.” She turned her attention to the plump woman sitting beside her.

  Sad eyes gazed at her out of a typically square marione face. Tipper thought the matron of the house must have been a pretty young woman. Life in this gloomy mansion must have depleted the woman’s vivacity. Her lined face definitely showed years of strain. Tipper felt an urge to comfort the old soul and be a friend.

  She smiled. “I do like traveling. But the reason we are on this journey is not too agreeable.”

  Sympathy invaded the woman’s expression. “What is it, dear?”

  “My father is ill, and we must buy back some of the statues I sold.”

  Terror replaced sympathy. Orphelian’s eyes darted to her husband and then to Verrin Schope. “Is he very mad? Are you in danger?”

  “No, no. I’m just worried about his health.”

  “But you sold his art!”

  “He understands.”

  “Understands?” Her eyes flitted to her husband once more. “I see.” She turned back to Tipper. “His health?”

  “The story is complicated, but my father desires to have the three statues carved from one stone back together as he meant them to be when he did the sculptures.”

  Bamataub stood and gestured to his wife as the tea tray came into the room. Several servants followed Orphelian’s instructions to pass out the small cakes and cups of steaming tea. When her hostess duties were performed, she returned to her seat beside Tipper. All the servants save one slipped out of the room. Tipper eyed him. He had the look of a thug, not a refined manservant.