The Vanishing Sculptor

by Donita K. Paul

  “Mother, give me Zabeth.”

  “Are you feeling unwell?” Lady Peg unwrapped the dragon from around her neck. “Verrin Schope says she’s becoming quite good at the healing arts.”

  “No.” Tipper took the dragon and cuddled her close for a moment. “I want her to take a message to Paladin.”

  “It’s very confusing for that nice young man to have two names.”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it? Zabeth, I hope you can find the hotel. I know you can find the hotel. Fly there and tell them what’s happened. Tell Paladin or Fenworth or someone to come get us.”

  She kissed Zabeth on the head and put her out the window. To her dismay, the dragon flew up into the closest tree and perched as if that was all the farther she was willing to go.

  The two doors jerked open, and rough hands dragged her and her mother out.

  “You’re coming with us,” growled the one holding Tipper.

  She looked around and saw their driver lying beside the road. She gasped.

  “That could happen to you if you don’t start walking.”

  “I need my shoes,” said Lady Peg.

  “That’s tough, lady.”

  “Then you’re going to carry me? I don’t think that is proper.”

  “Get her shoes,” said the man holding Tipper. “She’ll slow us down if’n you don’t.”

  The man hustled Lady Peg back to the open door. She reached in, retrieved her slippers, and brushed off each foot before slipping the shoe on.

  “Is there dinner where we are going?” asked Lady Peg.

  “I don’t rightly know,” growled the man who was most given to speaking. The other grunted.

  “It would be quite all right,” said Lady Peg, “if we could eat the dinner that is left.”

  Tipper bit her lip, hoping these ruffians wouldn’t get annoyed by her mother’s skipping conversation. But apparently they were too dense to pick up the right-left reference.

  With a shove from behind, Tipper walked through the gates.

  “Things have changed so much,” said Lady Peg. “An invitation to dinner used to come in an envelope.”

  44

  Help!

  Beccaroon saw Zabeth sitting on the outside sill of the closed window at the same time as the prince. Jayrus jumped up and raced to open the window. Zabeth flew in and sat on his shoulder, chittering wildly.

  “Here’s our answer.” Jayrus nodded toward the dragon. “She knows what happened to our ladies.” Paladin gently took the frantic dragon off his shoulder and cradled her in his arms. “Slow down.” He calmed her with his voice and by stroking her sides. “It’s all right. I’m sure you came in time. We’ll go rescue them.”

  He turned to the others in the room, Wizard Fenworth, Verrin Schope, Beccaroon, Librettowit, and Bealomondore.

  “The ladies followed Runan to Mushand’s mansion and were captured by his henchmen. They are inside his house now.”

  Beccaroon shook his head. “I would wager that was Tipper’s idea.”

  Paladin focused on Zabeth. “Excellent idea. Take Hue and Junkit with you.”

  He took her to the open window. Three of the four dragons left in a flurry of wings. Grandur stayed on Verrin Schope’s shoulder.

  “They’re going to scout the house,” Paladin explained.

  “Help me stand,” said Verrin Schope.

  Librettowit and Bealomondore came to his aid.

  As soon as he was steady, Bealomondore started for the door. “I’ll go down and get a carriage.”

  Paladin eyed their invalid as if assessing his strength. “My dragons will be faster.”

  Verrin Schope nodded. “I can ride.”

  “Everyone dress in dark clothing.” Paladin surveyed their group. “Meet me on the roof in fifteen minutes.”

  Beccaroon glanced down at his bright plumage. He had no change of clothing, but he wasn’t staying behind!

  Paladin left the room, followed by Bealomondore, Librettowit, and Wizard Fenworth.

  The wizard had a spring in his step. “What’s a quest without a rescue of a damsel in distress? And by the silent stars and singing salamanders, we’ve got two to rescue.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. Critters scattered as they escaped his robes. “Can’t say I like questing on the whole, but a rescue! Now there’s excitement for you. I just hope that girl hasn’t jumped into the excitable nonsense before we even get there.”

  Tipper sat across the table from her mother in a shadowy little anteroom on the first floor of Mushand’s mansion. The meal they had been served was tasty but a bit cold. Tipper nibbled while her mother ate with a subdued appetite. In the shadows next to the door, one of Mushand’s big oafs watched them.

  Lady Peg took one bite after another, chewing and swallowing but not talking. Tipper knew the signs. She’d taken care of her mother for years. Soon her mother would complain of a headache. Her eyes would lose focus. Exhaustion. Deep fatigue. Once her mother’s energy drained to the last ounce, a weariness akin to illness enveloped her. Nothing but sleep would restore her.

  Tipper turned to their guard. “If we are staying the night, we will need a bedchamber. My mother is not well and must rest.”

  Lady Peg glanced up at Tipper but did not contradict her. She folded her napkin and placed it beside her plate. “Yes, I would like to retire.”

  “Ah, but that will not be necessary.” An odd man stood in the door. Backlit from the lights in the hall, his silhouette resembled a round ball for a head, an oval for a body, and legs and arms too long for his frame. He held a drink in each hand. “I am your host, Sir Greystone Mushand. I have a glass of refreshing tonic for you, Lady Schope.”

  He swirled a goblet, clinking the ice. “I have one of these excellent reenergizers every evening.” He gestured with his head. “Come, I wish to show you how your husband’s work is favorably displayed in my gallery.”

  Lady Peg rose. When she reached the door, she took the drink offered her and stepped out into the brighter light. As Mushand turned, Tipper stood and followed. With the light on his face, Tipper thought Mushand repugnant. Straight black hair framed his pallid face. Dark eyebrows slashed across his forehead. His eyes glittered like onyx, with too much white surrounding the pupils and black eyelashes thickly accenting the unusual eyes. He headed down the corridor, her mother trailing behind, sipping her beverage and admiring the paintings.

  Tipper caught up with her mother and leaned close. “Don’t drink that, Mother.”

  Lady Peg smiled at her. “It’s quite good, Tipper. I don’t know why he didn’t offer you a glass. Perhaps he thinks you are too young to need a tonic.”

  Tipper glanced over her shoulder at the guard who walked a few feet behind them. “This is a bad man,” she whispered. “We must not trust him.”

  “He does have very poor manners.”

  Tipper gave up and followed Mushand. She hoped fervently that the drink was not a potion that would do her mother harm. Mushand drank from his goblet, and the drinks looked the same.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” she muttered.

  “Don’t mumble,” warned her mother, “or we will have to do mouth-stretching exercises. And they hurt.”

  They entered the gallery, and Tipper couldn’t help being impressed. Not only did Mushand own incredible artwork, but he also knew how to display it for the best presentation.

  Lady Peg walked immediately to the two statues. “These belong to my husband,” she said.

  “They were executed by your husband, Madam, but I purchased them. They are mine.”

  Lady Peg’s eyes widened in horror. “My husband did not execute these people. How bizarre is that? They were never alive, so they couldn’t be executed. You have strange beliefs, Mister Mushand.”

  Tipper examined her mother’s face. The lines of weariness had vanished, and since she carried on in her usual style of conversation, the drink must have revived her. Tipper wondered about her mother’s use of Mister. Mushand had int
roduced himself as Sir Mushand. Mister, as a form of address, was below Master, and far below Sir.

  Mushand’s lips pressed in a firm line. He didn’t like the slight, whether it was intentional or not.

  Tipper’s mother pointed to Evening Yearns. “You’ve got her in the wrong place. She’s supposed to be in front of the farmer, not behind. You should have put her hand behind her, touching the farmer’s outstretched hand, leading him. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  Mushand’s expression relaxed into a sneer as Lady Peg talked.

  Tipper’s mother frowned. “She’s touching his shoulder, and I’m sure that’s not right.” Lady Peg shook her head and took another swallow from the glass goblet. “It looks like she’s trying to get his attention. I don’t like this at all.”

  Mushand smirked. “At first, I thought as you, dear lady, and had them in the other order. But I have a remarkably intelligent friend— a genius, in fact—and he saw the right of it. I switch them back and forth, but when they are set thusly the portal opens.”

  Tipper jerked. Did he mean gateway? The wizard’s gateway? She didn’t like the smile on Mushand’s face. Evil and smug, his grimace made her skin crawl. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw odd lights glimmering in the air just beyond the two statues.

  In another moment, Runan stepped out of nowhere, or so it seemed to her.

  She blinked. A subtle difference made her unsure if she really did see the Hunts’ neighbor and not someone else.

  Runan laughed. “Yes, I am the man you met at Hunthaven. At the time, I had to cloak my person so that your nosy wizard would not discover I am his equal.”

  “Equal?” Mushand’s tone dripped with scorn. “You far surpass that clumsy, befuddled wizard. You are brilliant, as you have proven over and over.”

  The statement inflated Runan. The man looked larger than he had at Hunthaven. Perhaps it was his posture and the arrogant swagger.

  Tipper blinked and stared harder. This vibrant personality in no way resembled the unresponsive man who had sat in the Hunts’ music room. Even his varied facial expressions demonstrated an incredible contrast to the shell of a man who’d ignored the social interaction around him.

  Now he stood as if posing, his hands clasped before him and held at chest level. “It’s a nuisance to hide one’s true nature. But the rustics would have been overwhelmed by my talents. It was best for them to think I was not only ordinary but perhaps below their level of understanding.”

  His lips stretched into an unpleasant grin. “And when the wizard appeared… well, there was no sense in revealing my identity until I chose the convenient time.”

  Runan swaggered across the room, around the statues, and stood before Lady Peg.

  He bowed. “Your Highness.”

  She shook her head. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

  “You are Princess Peg Yellat Schope, and as soon as the king and queen are dead, you will rule.”

  Her lips twisted in annoyance. “I don’t know where you get your information.”

  “I make my information, Your Highness, and I will direct your reign for you. You will find it most convenient to have me as your first advisor.”

  “I would like to go home now, thank you.” Lady Peg put on her most regal stance and looked down her nose at Runan.

  “That is no problem.” He held out his arm, and she took it.

  “Mother,” Tipper objected.

  “Come along, Tipper.”

  Runan guided Lady Peg to the spot where he had first appeared. He disengaged his arm and, without preamble, pushed her into the lights. Tipper heard her mother’s gasp just before she disappeared. Tipper charged around the statues, only to be intercepted and held by the big oaf of a guard.

  “No reason to be alarmed,” said Runan. “Your mother is now in the gentle care of my dear wife at the peaceful halls of Runan Hill.”

  “What happened?”

  “The portal,” crowed Mushand. “Right now it only allows one person to travel, but Runan assures me that when we get the third figure in place, we can send armies wherever we please.”

  He turned around slowly with his arms extended as if he would embrace the whole room. “This collection will be nothing compared to what my army will procure for me. And Runan.” He gestured toward his cohort. “Runan will maneuver your mother onto the throne and smooth the way for whatever brilliant plans he concocts. He’s an alchemist.”

  He paused to give Tipper a quizzical stare. “Did you even know alchemists still exist? He and his wife are both geniuses, and they won’t have to play the boring, nondescript couple hidden away at Runan Hill much longer.” Mushand held his goblet aloft. “We have plans.”

  Tipper saw the disgusted look Runan cast Mushand before he masked it with a polite smile. “And the next part of our wonderful plan is to allow your comrades to break into the gallery. Shall we depart so that their valorous attempts to rescue you are not thwarted by our presence?”

  Tipper raised her chin. “How do they know where we are?”

  Runan sneered. “You sent word by the green dragon, did you not?”

  Tipper tried to think of something to delay the man, upset his scheme, save the day. She could think of nothing, and the oaf who held her too tightly stank. Her stomach roiled.

  “Come.” Runan gestured, and Mushand’s thug dragged her closer to him.

  “We must hurry. My wife is to slit your mother’s throat if we don’t join them at the appointed time.”

  With that threat dissolving any intention she had of resistance, Tipper allowed the guard to sling her into the portal.

  45

  Invasion

  Beccaroon fumed over the time it took to get ready. Only one riding dragon at a time could land on the hotel rooftop. While one was outfitted with riding gear, the other three hid on the tops of nearby buildings.

  Paladin called Caesannede to the hotel last. Beccaroon had come to know the young emerlindian during the long hours of flight as he shared the back of Caesannede. The prince had saddled his dragon only once, when he hoped to persuade Tipper to ride with him. After her father put an end to that idea, he never bothered with the riding apparatus again. Therefore, instead of throwing the pile of saddle and straps over Caesannede’s back, the young dragon keeper ran up his tail, along the back ridge, and sat at the base of his neck.

  He called to those waiting. “Gus, Ketmar, and Kelsi will land in that order. I’ll head on to Mushand’s. Your mounts will follow Caesannede.”

  Beccaroon didn’t wait to see the tumanhofers help Verrin Schope onto Gus’s saddle nor Fenworth onto Ketmar’s back. He flew with Prince Jayrus.

  “Do we have a plan?” he asked the prince.

  “The minor dragons will be able to tell us where the ladies are. Once we know that, we can decide what to do.”

  Bec looked over his shoulder. The other three riding dragons followed at a short distance. The flight across the city took much less time than riding through the streets in a carriage. Prince Jayrus chose to land on the grounds of a large house where no light shone.

  Beccaroon saw the wisdom of his choice. Hopefully the family had gone on vacation, or perhaps the place was deserted for some other reason. A house for sale? Renovation?

  They made a silent descent and soon stood on the extensive lawn.

  “We’re going to need something for Verrin Schope,” said Fen-worth, rummaging around in his hollows.

  “I’m fine. Let’s go get my wife and daughter.” Verrin Schope swayed, and Bealomondore reached him before he fell. The short tumanhofer lent his assistance to the tall emerlindian, helping him stand as he waited. He was a convenient height for leaning on. Grandur fussed and wrapped himself around Verrin Schope’s neck.

  Fenworth snorted. “You can’t walk as fast as I want you to go.”

  “Give me crutches, then. I’ll move as fast as need be.”

  “Tut, tut, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I seem to have forgotten crutches, canes, scoote
rs, and—aha!”

  He pulled out four wheels, each about twenty inches in diameter. Next he put pieces of a chair on the lawn. Librettowit kneeled on the ground and started assembling the device, which turned out to be an ill-proportioned wheelchair.

  “You’re going to push me in that thing?” Verrin Schope exclaimed. “Over this uneven surface?”

  “Shh! Need for secrecy,” whispered Fenworth.

  Beccaroon watched as the last nuts and bolts were screwed together. Prince Jayrus stood over to the side, gazing in the direction of Mushand’s mansion. Fenworth’s assessment of the emerlindian artist’s strength had been accurate. He’d never have been able to walk the distance to the wall that surrounded them, let alone traverse the quarter mile to their destination.

  Librettowit stood and pushed the chair toward Verrin Schope. A loud squeal ripped through the quiet night.

  “Oil, oil,” said Fenworth, patting his robes as a man pats his pockets to find a set of keys. He returned to poking around the inside pockets and came out with an oil can. The slight noise of the flexing metal as he pumped drops of lubricant sounded like extra-loud hiccups.

  Finally they were on their way. Beccaroon was not surprised that Fenworth’s contraption, when outside, floated on clouds. He hoped they would not have to deal with lightning. Grandur settled in Verrin Schope’s lap. Bealomondore pushed the wheelchair. Prince Jayrus led. Fenworth brought up the rear behind Librettowit.

  The wizard looked very much like he was out for an evening stroll. His lively step, inquisitive, alert demeanor, and pleasant expression belied his usual shuffle and grumbly ways. Perhaps the prospect of a rescue had rejuvenated the old curmudgeon. In general, Beccaroon felt less unsettled by the wizard, but he wasn’t ready to accept him and his foreign ideas.

  Bec took to the air and scouted, looking for dogs that would bark, people who would object to their skulking through their alleys, and obstacles of any kind. Mushand’s house was dark, with only a few lights piercing the darkness.

  He landed outside the wall, beside the other men. “The guard at the gate looks like he’s asleep. There’s a guardhouse, but he’s outside the door, in a chair.”