The Vanishing Sculptor

by Donita K. Paul

  “So good to meet you.” Madam Markezzee gestured for the gentlemen to return to their seats. “Sir Beccaroon, of course we’ve heard of you. The grand parrot Dalandoore lives in the extensive woods nestled against the base of the mountains west of Ohidae. He comes to town rarely but visits us when he does.”

  Beccaroon nodded his head. Dalandoore was somebody’s cousin. While he tried to remember who was related to whom, the conversation went on, and tea was served. Librettowit gave a brief account of his visit from Amara, not mentioning the importance of Wulder’s foundation stone and their dire need to reunite the three statues carved from that stone.

  Master Markezzee sent a runner with a message to Mushand as soon as Bealomondore expressed his wish to see the man’s collection again.

  “Verrin Schope’s daughter is traveling with us,” said the tumanhofer artist. “I would like her to see Evening Yearns in his magnificent display room.”

  Their host frowned. “If Mushand is in town, I’m sure he will oblige you. He’s proud of his art gallery. But you do realize, Bealomondore, that certain aspects of Mushand’s business dealings are questionable. He’s never been accused of anything in the courts, but rumors—”

  “Really, husband,” Madam Markezzee interrupted. “I find him charming. Why do people think he is a scoundrel?”

  “Scoundrel is too light a term, wife. Better to label him villain.”

  She made a face and stirred her tea.

  “Wife, when people vanish after a business meeting, when missing people are found dead, when money disappears from a reputable enterprise, and the common denominator is always Mushand, then there is reason for doubting his integrity.”

  “As you said, husband, ‘rumors.’ You should have invested in that transportation project he spoke of.”

  “No, wife, I should not have, and I will hear no more of it.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded, then sipped her tea.

  Bealomondore introduced another topic. He asked about mutual friends, and the tension in the room abated. An hour later, the messenger returned with an invitation for Bealomondore and his party to visit the Mushand house that evening.

  “I will go with you,” said Madam Markezzee, “to ease the discomfort of the young lady in a house full of men. Mushand has no wife.”

  Before her husband could voice his objection, Beccaroon reassured her. “Thank you. Our stay will be brief. Mistress Tipper will want to return to the hotel as quickly as possible to be at her father’s side. He is too ill to accompany us.”

  “Oh, how dreadful,” their hostess responded, her voice full of sincere concern. “Let me give you the name of our physician. I can have someone fetch him and deliver him to your hotel. How distressing to fall ill in an unfamiliar city.”

  Librettowit held up a hand in protest. “There’s no need, but thank you for your thoughtfulness. Verrin Schope has been ill for quite some time, and we travel with his physician.”

  “Really?” Madam Markezzee’s interest showed as she leaned forward and cast a speculative glance at the librarian. “He brings his own physician with him? There is gossip about Verrin and Peg Schope. I heard she is visiting her sister. Growder is not far from here, and I have friends there and at court. They say she does not remember her father’s instructions that she be confined to her property. They say her wits have perhaps…” She paused and took in the glower her husband directed at her. She rushed on. “Perhaps her thinking is permanently muddled by the shock of being rejected by her parents.”

  “Wife!” Master Markezzee’s voice boomed loud enough to cause his spouse’s cup to rattle as she set her saucer on the tray.

  She primly folded her hands in her lap and meekly bowed her head in silence. Beccaroon suspected there was not an ounce of repentance motivating the pose. She’d said what she wanted to say and would now act the part of a contrite woman, willingly submitting to her husband’s rule.

  As the magistrate of Indigo Forest, he knew exactly how difficult it was to deal with one who played such tricks. He liked the husband better for his composure—after all, he didn’t continue his tirade after his word of warning. And Beccaroon liked the woman less for her chicanery and the smirk she tried to conceal.

  An odd thought came to his mind. Would Verrin Schope have a principle from the Tomes of Wulder to address this situation? It seemed his Wulder had a great deal of wisdom concerning the vagaries of people.

  40

  Mushand’s Gallery

  Beccaroon rode on top of the carriage. The sun had gone down, and any sensible parrot would be roosting. They were late, but it had taken quite a bit of persuasion to get Tipper to stay at the hotel and not come with them to retrieve the last statue. Master Markezzee sent regrets that his wife would be unable to join them. Her failure to provide a chaperon gave them one more thing to use to dissuade Tipper from coming.

  Beccaroon stewed. His companions on this all-important journey were Bealomondore, Librettowit, and Wizard Fenworth.

  Of course, Bealomondore had to come. He was their contact, the one who knew Mushand, who’d already been in his house, who appreciated art, and, therefore, who had the art collector’s respect.

  Librettowit, the librarian, Beccaroon had begun to respect. He enjoyed both his conversation and his singing voice, and the librarian had an excellent stock of folk tales. Now that Bec was getting used to them, even the stories of Wulder were enlightening. Beccaroon didn’t see any reason why the old tumanhofer shouldn’t come. And perhaps he could temper the wizard’s shenanigans.

  The third person in the carriage was Wizard Fenworth. The man grew leaves! His complexion took on the appearance of bark while he slept. Critters scurried into his robes and more often dropped out. Or flew out. Or scrambled out. Or slithered out.

  The wizard’s social skills were nonexistent. He fell asleep in the middle of sentences, sometimes his own. His snores interrupted other people’s conversation.

  He talked nonsense, but not like Lady Peg. Tipper’s mother seemed to follow a jagged line of reasoning that skipped sideways into an unrelated topic. After weeks of being in the wizard’s company, Beccaroon had decided Fenworth’s words jumped over what others were still pondering. Fenworth landed at a place where the conversation might logically come, if allowed to take a normal course.

  Only one thing made the odd wizard more acceptable to the grand parrot. Fenworth, with the help of the two green dragons, had managed to set Verrin Schope’s broken leg. Librettowit said the bones would knit quickly now.

  Fenworth carried the two statues in the hollows of his cape. Beccaroon wondered if he planned to set up the three in their dancing circle as soon as he had them in his possession. The sooner the three embraced each other, the sooner this whole ordeal would be over.

  The prince had stayed to aid the dragons in the healing process. And Beccaroon had felt it was in Tipper’s best interest not to go to this notorious man’s house. He sighed. Hopefully she was in no danger at the hotel. After all, there were four minor dragons and her father to guard her against the handsome prince. He’d instructed Junkit to come between the two if Tipper and Jayrus became close.

  The carriage turned into a lane leading to a mansion. Lights glowed on posts lining the wide gravel path. Many of the windows on the first level of the sprawling house gleamed a golden glow. As they approached, two men came out of the house and two came running from the stable area. Four servants to greet them? It seemed a bit much.

  As they pulled up to the front door, Beccaroon got a gander at the greeters. The two from the house oozed sinister, backhanded evil. He could imagine them slitting a man’s throat and chuckling as the victim bled. The two from the stables had muscles bulging in their jackets. They’d be more inclined to pulverize their target with their fists. Bec wondered if the daytime crew looked as menacing.

  He flew down to an elaborate porch adorned with tall white columns and decorative urns overflowing with cascading flowering plants. The burly servants held t
he horses even though the coachman told them to leave his team alone. The sinewy house servants opened the carriage door, let down the steps, and waited to escort the visiting party into the house.

  Not one surly word was spoken, but Beccaroon’s skin quivered, shaking his feathers. Evil lurked in the shadows. Beccaroon examined the bushes, the dark corners, and the distant trees. Whatever watched them did so from secluded vantage points.

  The prince would have been a better choice as comrade on this venture. What could two old men, a fashion fop, and a bird do against these ruffians?

  They followed one servant into the house to a well-appointed library. At the open door, the servant announced their arrival and stepped back. He didn’t leave but stood guard in the hall.

  Mushand came forward. “Please, come in. I understand you wish to purchase Evening Yearns.”

  Bealomondore had warned them that their host would get right to the point and give them only a minimum amount of time.

  Beccaroon led the way into the library. Librettowit naturally studied the walls where rows and rows of books lined massive shelves.

  Bec studied the owner, a bony o’rant with sloping shoulders. A slender neck and narrow face gave the rich man an emaciated appearance. His arms and legs stretched too long from his short torso. With one more set of each, he’d resemble a spider.

  Bealomondore stuck to business. “Yes, Sir Mushand, we have come with the desire to make a purchase. Verrin Schope has traveled far to collect all three statues.”

  Sir Beccaroon squinted at the small o’rant and wondered what deed he had done to be given the title. The man’s mannerisms indicated that he loved his position of prominence and the ability to wield power. His pleasant form of address and the calm expression on his face did not conceal an underlying contempt for his guests. He had not offered them a seat, and although he held a drink in his hand, he had not asked if they required refreshment. He smiled as if posing for a picture. No warmth touched his eyes.

  Mushand moved his glass in a circular motion, swirling the contents. Ice clinked against the sides. “I do not easily part with pieces from my collection. I’ve chosen them carefully. They attract me, sustain me, invigorate me. Of course, this is what anyone with a true love of art encounters when viewing a masterpiece. But the added pleasure of owning such a work of art is beyond most people’s realm of experience.”

  Bealomondore clasped his hands behind his back. “We are willing to offer you a generous amount. Verrin Schope is ill, and he believes that when the three statues embrace, his health will return.”

  “If that is what he believes, then it doesn’t matter where the statues are displayed as long as they are together and performing their circular dance. I assume you have one of the other statues.”

  “We have two,” said Bealomondore.

  Mushand’s head tilted, and his eyes widened. “That is astonishing. I also have two of the statues.”

  Bealomondore shifted uncomfortably. “Which two, may I ask?”

  Mushand chortled, an unpleasant sound. “I shall show you.” He glided across the room with the grace of a dancer. “Monbull, go ahead of us and light the gallery.”

  One of the servants outside the room sprinted down the hall. Librettowit and Wizard Fenworth exchanged a look. Fenworth nodded, and they all followed their unusual host.

  Between large, heavy mahogany doors, paintings lined the walls of the corridor. Having been closely associated with Verrin Schope for many years, Beccaroon had a sense for what was quality art and what was second-rate. The landscapes in the hall showed well. Of course, he couldn’t distinguish who the artist might be, but he did recognize fine technique and subjects appealing to the eye. Exceptional craftsmanship, but inferior to Verrin Schope’s work.

  A few statues stood either on the floor or on pedestals. The ones cast in bronze all seemed to have been done by the same hand and were exceedingly well crafted. The style of one set looked to Beccaroon as if the artist had not completed his design, but since there were several, he thought perhaps the approach was an artistic statement of some kind.

  They came to the gallery, its door thrown open and the servant still scurrying from light fixture to light fixture, uncovering lightrocks of potent brilliance.

  In the center of the room on a raised platform, the kimen runner of Evening Yearns raced across the tips of tall grass. One arm reached backward, and her palm rested in the farmer’s hand that held sowing seeds.

  “Our Verrin Schope is indeed a genius,” said Wizard Fenworth as he came closer to examine the two statues. “She looks like an otherworldly being urging the earthbound gentleman to join her in her pursuit of life.”

  Librettowit nodded. “Clearly the two could be separated and still present a complete image, but together… together the beauty is stunning.”

  “And this,” said the old man, “before he knew Wulder.” He sniffed. “Odd that we have the farmer as well.”

  Bealomondore leaned closer to the statue. “We shall have to compare the two.”

  Fenworth opened his outer mantle and began to dig in his deep pockets. Beccaroon almost laughed at the horror on Mushand’s face as insects, lizards, rats, and birds came in a flurry out of the folds of the wizard’s robes. Fenworth located the hollow he wanted and the item within. He gestured to Librettowit and Bealomondore to come help. Between the three of them, they pulled from the opening the statue they had acquired from Allard Runan of Runan Hill.

  Beccaroon strutted over and peered at the farmer they displayed.

  Bealomondore turned the figure over in his hands. “This one is the fake.”

  “You’re sure?” said Beccaroon. They looked identical to him.

  “I am. I created this statue. See?” He pointed to one of the seeds. “Here is my mark.”

  Wizard Fenworth growled. “You commit forgery?”

  “No,” said Bealomondore calmly. “A forgery is not signed by the one doing the forgery. I always sign my work. The pay is good for replicas, and I have needed the money.”

  Irritation loosened Beccaroon’s tongue. “Why didn’t we notice this before?”

  The younger tumanhofer shrugged. “I didn’t look at this statue when it was on the Hunts’ table. I thought I knew where all my reproductions were. And remember, I’d seen Runan’s art collection on a previous occasion. At that time, his Verrin Schope statue was authentic. Apparently that changed.”

  Bealomondore tucked the fake under his arm. “At Hunthaven, Verrin Schope was too dizzy to examine Day’s Deed, and I doubt Tipper looked at it with an eye to determining its legitimacy.”

  Wizard Fenworth turned to Mushand. “It would seem we desire to purchase two statues from you.”

  “At an exorbitant price,” the villain said coolly.

  “We are prepared to pay the price you name.”

  Mushand laughed. Again the grating sound made Beccaroon’s feathers ruffle. “I make a counterproposal. I buy your statue. I assume you have Morning Glory? I display the three here in my gallery together as Verrin Schope desires. He regains his health.”

  Mushand’s eyes narrowed. “I possess the most astonishing sculptures of our modern age. Of any age!” His voice rose. “No, I will not sell Day’s Deed and Evening Yearns. But I will offer you a handsome sum for Morning Glory.”

  No one spoke.

  Mushand clenched his glass. His cold eyes swept over his visitors. “You may give me your answer tomorrow. I have other business to attend to. Monbull will see you to the door.”

  Beccaroon glanced once more at the two statues and noted that the unfavorable situation of being owned by a man of corruption did not dim the blissful expressions on their faces. Did it really matter where the three stones stood together?

  Monbull hustled them out of the room, down the corridor, and through the front door. Beccaroon climbed into the carriage cab with the others.

  Fenworth shook his walking cane. “The man’s a villain. His house stinks the same as Bamataub’s.”
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  Bealomondore’s head jerked. “Slavery?”

  “No doubt.”

  Librettowit rubbed his chin. “We’ll have to make calculations as to whether the three statues together, but far from their origin, will indeed influence the fluctuation that decimates our friend Schope.”

  “You’re thinking of selling Morning Glory to Mushand?” Beccaroon rocked from one foot to the other, uncomfortable in the cramped quarters and uncomfortable with the proposed solution to their problem. “I have to admit the possibility had crossed my mind as well.”

  Bealomondore leaned forward. “It might be for the best. Mushand’s pride would be scarred by losing his prized masterpieces. I don’t think he’s a reasoning man when it comes to the collection. I don’t want his wrath to fall on any of us.”

  The carriage slowed, and a horseback rider passed them going up the driveway they had just exited.

  “Tut, tut, oh dear.” Fenworth peered out the carriage window. “That was Runan.”

  “Allard Runan?” gasped Bealomondore.

  Wizard Fenworth glared at the artist. “I don’t know many of your countrymen, young pup. And I’m quite glad that I know only one of Runan’s ilk. One Runan is enough for any country. If Chiril boasts two, I’m going home.”

  “Can’t go home,” said Librettowit. “The gateway’s broken.”

  Fenworth’s glare shifted to his librarian. “Fish feathers! If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all!”

  41

  Falderal?

  Tipper listened to the men debate whether to sell Morning Glory to Mushand or try to acquire the two genuine statues in some other manner. A bell tolled at midnight, and still no feasible solution had presented itself.

  Tipper sat crosswise on the settee, her stocking feet resting on the arm of the chair. Beccaroon, without his artificial tail, perched next to her feet. Prince Jayrus sat on a chair. Librettowit lounged on the window seat, and Bealomondore sat by the second window. Wizard Fen-worth stood in the corner, which was odd since he usually sat.