Before she reached Bamataub’s manor, one patch of road passed under some trees. From here, no one would be able to see her from the distant mansion. Tipper pushed the hood off her head and slowed down to savor the shade. A movement above made her look up just as the prince dropped off a branch onto the road beside her.
Tipper jumped and screeched. “Jayrus!”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to save my father.”
“By walking back and forth, pushing a baby?” He peeked into the baby carriage. “Pushing a bundle of your clothes?”
“I’ve got clothes for you too.”
“Me?”
Tipper could not decipher the expression on the prince’s face. Amused? Astonished? Annoyed? She lifted her bundle of clothes as if cradling a baby and revealed the stack of tunic and trousers beneath.
“I thought your clothes would be too fine for climbing walls and too visible in the dark, so I bought something else at the same time I got this outfit for me.”
Now Tipper was sure amusement had won out over the other emotions. She prepared to trounce him with as many words about ingratitude as she could muster.
He held up his hand. “I appreciate the thought, Tipper, but the kimens make my clothes out of fiber from a special plant. I won’t be seen.”
Tipper’s eyes narrowed as she examined his jacket of finely woven threads. The material looked soft and had a sheen that enhanced the intriguing color, a green-tinged off-white. She touched his sleeve, which felt smooth and cool, much nicer than her heavy, hot cape.
She shook her head. “How is it special?”
“You didn’t see me watching you from the tree, did you?”
“No. You were watching me?”
“I wasn’t sure it was you until you put the hood down.”
He smiled, and his enchanting demeanor almost distracted her from her purpose. Irritation at herself spiked her questions. “Where’s my father? Aren’t you supposed to be watching for any sign of him? Where’s his board? You’re too far away from that despicable man’s house to do any good. Where are Junkit and Zabeth and the others?”
Prince Jayrus took the bundle of clothes from her arms and put them back in the baby buggy. “Your father’s in an upstairs bedroom, which makes it simpler to rescue him. The board is on the soil outside the grounds’ wall closest to the bedroom. Zabeth and Grandur are with your father, healing him. Or at least trying to keep him stable. Junkit is watching the front of the mansion. Hue is watching the back.”
“Could we wait until Papa fades and reforms on the board?”
A look of concern passed over the prince’s face. He placed a hand on her arm. “Grandur is not sure your father is strong enough to pass through one of his fadings safely.”
Tipper swallowed the panic and willed herself to ask a sensible question. “Why is it easier to rescue Papa from an upstairs room?”
“Because I’ll be going in on a dragon.” Prince Jayrus flattened his hand and used it to demonstrate a dragon gliding in over the house. “From above.”
Tipper nodded. “We’ll be going in on a dragon.”
“You are the most exasperating woman I’ve ever known.”
Tipper grinned. A white dragon in an area where no dragons were known to exist. A man, probably standing to show off, riding the white dragon where no one ever rode on dragons. This prince must believe the world wore blinders. She shook her head the tiniest bit, afraid she’d burst out laughing. “And you won’t be seen?”
“While we’re flying in, I won’t be seen because I am careful. In the house and on the grounds, I won’t be seen because of my apparel.”
She tilted her head and eyed his clothing.
“Watch.” He walked a few feet into the woods, between several slender trunks, and turned around, placing his hands behind his back.
Tipper blinked. It was as if she saw right through him. The colors of his clothing matched perfectly the foliage around him. His head appeared to float over nothing.
She frowned. “That’s… I don’t know what that is. Eerie?”
“Practical,” said Jayrus as he returned to her side, all of him visible as he moved. “Are you hungry? thirsty?”
“Oh yes.”
He bowed. “Mistress Tipper, may I escort you to afternoon tea?”
She curtsied. “Yes, Prince Jayrus.”
Tipper kept sneaking glances at the handsome man walking beside her. One part of her gladly trusted him. Another part reacted with the same cautious emotion that sprang to her throat when she witnessed his uncanny disappearance. This man could unsettle her whole world if she let him.
Jayrus accompanied her to a point just outside the manor’s line of sight.
“Keep walking,” he instructed, “and when you get to the turnoff that is the service lane to Bamataub’s house, follow that path a dozen feet, and I’ll rejoin you there.”
“You don’t want to be seen with me?”
“Definitely not.” He backtracked and disappeared into a copse.
His words didn’t upset her. In fact, she pushed the perambulator around the bend in the road with an extra-light step. She now guessed why Beccaroon didn’t want her going off with the prince on her own. He was altogether too charming. One minute she wanted to flee his presence for her sanity’s sake, and the next she was willing to depend on him no matter what. Realizing this was not a good state of affairs, she determined to proceed with caution.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Tipper sat cross-legged on the ground while the prince served her sandwiches and juice. A hedge as tall as the wall grew along this side of the manor. In a hidden bower between the shrubs and the bricks, Jayrus had set up a comfortable blind from which he ventured out to observe the house. Jayrus left her there with strict orders not to move.
The evening chorus of insects and birdsong created a restful background as Tipper leaned against the wall and slowly chewed her meal. She didn’t feel peaceful. Now that she sat in the shadow of the villains fortress, the seriousness of their undertaking gripped her heart. If they failed, her father might die. If they were discovered, injury or death for one of the rescuers was a possibility.
Before he left the enclosure, Jayrus had sent Zabeth to the hotel to inform the others of Tipper’s whereabouts. She was grateful he didn’t take the opportunity to lecture her about her thoughtlessness, but she’d read the displeasure on his face. As the time approached for them to risk life and limb to rescue her father, he became less social. Tipper watched as confidence replaced charm. She thought a self-assured champion was more to be desired than a debonair companion. The prince’s composure did much to bolster her assurance that all would go well.
He and Junkit were making a tour of the grounds as darkness set in. Tipper sat waiting, wanting to talk to someone. She realized she wanted her father there so she could confide her concerns. Her father had been absent for many years, and she had not had the luxury of his support and guidance. The hole seemed darker now that she’d had a taste of his presence. She wanted Beccaroon beside her for the same purpose. He had experience as her stalwart advisor.
To voice her expectations for the evening and apprehension over the problems that might arise to someone she knew to be constant and wise would ease her tension. In the absence of advice from her father or Beccaroon, steady reassurance from Prince Jayrus would be welcome. The urge to reach out and connect with someone trustworthy overwhelmed her. She quit eating and put the sandwich in its wrapper and back in the basket.
She remembered Beccaroon saying he often regretted that he could not voice his gratitude for his beautiful forest to whoever created it. Now she groped for some entity who was the guardian behind those she could see with her eyes.
Shadows deepened. A cool wind rattled the leaves around her. Tipper crawled to an opening and looked out at the countryside. Great clouds billowed in a menacing sky. A streak of lightning revealed a threatening storm rolling in from the west. She shivered and
retreated to the haven within the hedge. She’d been sitting on her blue cape, but now she wrapped it around her as the air became colder and wet. A rumble of thunder accompanied the soft patter of raindrops on the leaves overhead. She pulled the hood over her hair.
“Where is that prince?”
32
Nefarious Affairs
“I will explain how I am going to arrive on the roof of the house, and then maybe you will concede that I best go alone.”
Jayrus spoke patiently and Tipper wanted to run away leaving him to yammer on about his plans. She could bolt and find her father on her own. But that was a ridiculous plan that would end in disaster. It would only make her look foolish. And both Beccaroon and Bealomondore huddled between her and the means to get away from the obnoxious dragon-keeper prince. The perambulator also stood in the way.
Librettowit and Wizard Fenworth whispered together, trying to work out the details of a “keeping dry” spell. Her cape was far beyond any hope of being dry again without a couple of days hanging in the sunshine. What did it matter if they were wet or dry? They needed to get on with the business of rescuing her father. Instead, Jayrus droned on about his plan.
“I summoned Caesannede, and he is nearby. He will glide over the mansion.” He demonstrated with his hand. He put a rock on his fingers. “I will be lying on one wing. At a precise moment, he will tilt, and I will slide onto the rooftop.” He tilted his hand, and the rock fell to the ground.
Tipper did not comment.
“Grandur has located an unlocked window on the top floor and will be waiting for me there.”
“How are you going to get from the roof to the window?” asked Bealomondore.
“I have a rope.” He seemed to think that was an adequate response.
Tipper admitted to herself that she did not relish the idea of sliding onto a roof. “What will we be doing?”
“Waiting outside. I’ll bring your father to you or send one of the dragons for help if I need it.”
Tipper hunched down in her sodden cape. At least the prince acknowledged that he might need help.
She looked up at him and caught him watching her. “Be careful,” she said.
“I will.”
After his departure, the wizard brought out umbrellas from one of his hollows and passed them around.
Beccaroon declined but took over leadership and gave each of them a post at a different location around the wall. “The idea is to be ready when Prince Jayrus brings Verrin Schope out. Right now we have no way of knowing what avenue they will use to escape the house, so we will have help located on each side. We’ll get Verrin Schope to the coach as quickly as possible and spirit him away.”
Tipper followed Bealomondore to the northwest corner, where they could watch both directions at once. A tree grew inside the grounds, and a large branch hung over the wall.
Tipper put down her useless umbrella and took off her cape. “Boost me up,” Tipper commanded.
Bealomondore didn’t move.
“I’m sorry,” said Tipper. “Would you please give me a boost?”
“It’s not that,” explained the tumanhofer. “I’m not sure it’s safe for you to be up there.”
“Why?”
“Rain. Lightning. Tree.”
As if to accentuate the logic of Bealomondore’s thinking, a flash quickly followed by a crack of thunder made Tipper jump and cringe. When the tingle left her skin, she opened her eyes.
Bealomondore pointed. She followed his finger and saw the white dragon approaching, gliding noiselessly through the rain. He passed directly over them.
Bealomondore sighed. “I wish we could see Prince Jayrus make his landing on the roof.”
Tipper sighed as well, but said nothing.
A dog barked within the grounds. Then another. A frenzy of barking erupted.
Tipper wrung her hands. “Nobody said anything about dogs.”
“It’s too soon for Jayrus to be leaving the house with your father. Something else must have disturbed them.”
“Perhaps they see the prince dangling from a rope next to the unlocked window.”
The tumanhofer rubbed his chin. “That could be.”
“Well, I hope it isn’t!” Tipper snapped.
“No need to get testy.”
Thunder rolled, and the skies let loose with a torrent of rain. Tipper looked down at the black mass that once was her nanny cape— clean, dry, and respectable.
“You’re cold,” said Bealomondore. “Take my coat.”
He handed her his open umbrella and peeled off his outer jacket. He took the umbrella back and handed her the coat. She shivered and plunged her arms into the sleeves, then gathered the material close around her front. “Thank you.”
They stood close under their inadequate shelter.
“I don’t hear the dogs anymore,” said Tipper.
“I can’t see beyond the waterfall coming off the umbrella.”
“Prince Jayrus should be inside by now.”
The tumanhofer shifted and held the umbrella up a bit higher. His height made it a stretch for him to keep it from knocking Tipper’s head. “He’ll probably wait a bit for the rain to let up.”
“That would be sensible.” She grasped the handle. “I’ll hold the umbrella for a bit.”
“It’s sopping wet and leaking.”
“I know.”
They stood in silence for a long while.
“Did you hear something?” asked Tipper.
“I think the rain is abating.”
“I did hear something.”
“Probably an animal.” But Bealomondore glanced around.
“Aren’t animals likely to be holed up, waiting for the storm to pass?”
“Just keep still, and be quiet.”
A scuffling noise indicated something large moving through the bushes. Tipper’s hand tightened on the umbrella handle.
Bealomondore leaned closer. “Perhaps we better move.”
“Where?”
“To a better hiding place.”
A male voice, gruff and commanding, interrupted the constant drone of the rain. “You will come with us. Do not try to escape.”
Through the curtain of rain, Tipper saw a half circle of men closing in on them. Some of them brandished swords. One stepped forward with a lantern in his hand. Scars distorted his tumanhofer features, twisting what would never be a smile into a menacing sneer.
Tipper and Bealomondore didn’t resist. There didn’t seem to be much point. Tipper fumed. Her companion darted glances one way and another.
“Don’t try to run,” she whispered. “Once we’re inside the house, maybe we can help rescue Papa.”
“Be quiet!” barked the man with the light.
A flutter of wings, the thud as Beccaroon struck one man from above, and a shout sent the men scattering. Bealomondore grabbed the umbrella and closed it, then used it to bash and batter those men who barreled toward them.
Tipper had no weapon. She dropped to her knees and came up with the first stick she could find. Waving it like a sword, she kept the men at bay on her side.
Beccaroon dove again, and another ruffian screeched as parrot claws tore at his face. One of the thugs grabbed the umbrella, pulled Bealomondore close, and punched him in the face. The tumanhofer went down. Another brute rushed Tipper. Her stick broke against his chest. He captured her, pinning her arms tightly to her sides.
“Get the bird,” ordered the leader.
On his next dive, Bec aimed for the man clutching Tipper. She ducked, and he delivered a good blow to the man’s head. Wet feathers encumbered his flight. As he flapped away, two men swung their swords. The first one landed a glancing blow to Beccaroon’s leg. The other struck the base of his tail.
With a shriek, the bird flailed against the rain, then fell into the bushes. The two men crashed into the shrubs with swords raised.
“Beccaroon!” Tipper cried.
“Move!” ordered the man holding her, and
he dragged her toward the front gate.
Tipper struggled, trying to get loose, trying to get back to Beccaroon. Another man pulled Bealomondore along behind her, but she hardly noticed.
They entered through the gate and marched between the sinister trees. The man hauling Tipper lost his grip once, grabbed her arm, and walloped her across the face before throwing her over his shoulder and trudging on.
She grunted, stunned by the blow. She hurt in so many places that she couldn’t focus.
“Somebody grab her legs,” he grumbled. “She weighs a ton and is way too long to carry alone.”
Another of the short thugs hoisted her legs onto his shoulder and walked behind her captor.
Someone else opened the front door of the mansion, and the henchmen tramped through the foyer to the same room in which Tipper and her friends had been served refreshments. Her captor abruptly dumped Tipper on the floor. Bealomondore landed beside her.
She heard a gasp and looked up into the eyes of Orphelian. Bamataub’s wife clutched the arms of her chair but did not move to aid the prisoners. Tipper turned her head and, through her tears, saw the master of the house, standing beside a roaring fire and laughing down at them.
“I do like gifts on stormy nights. To break the monotony, you know. Orphelian was just reading to me about a man whose life was fraught with trials. So boring. He didn’t have the gumption to rid himself of those who amounted to little more than pests.”
His wife whimpered, closed the book, and stared down at her hands.
“Now,” said Bamataub, “if I could only show the writer of this insipid tale”—he gestured toward the book in his wife’s lap—“how a true man of decision deals with irritation, perhaps his next book would be an improvement.”
He pulled a poker from the tools beside the fire. “Killing is not difficult. Bloody, of course, but you’ve already dampened my rugs with rainwater and mud.”
“Please, husband,” whispered Orphelian, “may I leave?”
The Vanishing Sculptor Page 22