The Vanishing Sculptor (35 page)

Finally they could see Ohidae in the distance. They landed with the intention of setting up camp one last time. Beccaroon flew to the ground and strutted over to have a word with Tipper. She’d become quite an accomplished rider in the past weeks and no longer complained of being sore at the end of the day.

Beccaroon waited as the beautiful dragon with the odd name of Gus folded her wings and legs to the dismounting position. Tipper threw her leg over the saddle horn and slid down the creature’s shoulder to the ground. She immediately smoothed the feathers on the back of Beccaroon’s neck, and although he enjoyed the touch, he reminded her with a loud tsk not to get too familiar.

She laughed and ignored his sense of propriety. She leaned over to kiss the top of his head. Would she never behave with the decorum he had worked so hard to instill in her?

“Propriety!” he reminded her.

She made a face that was not as contrite as it was mischievous, although he knew she meant to show repentance.

Behind them, Verrin Schope descended from the back of the dragon. Beccaroon heard a snap as his friend slid down in the same manner as all the riders. Bec turned to see that Verrin Schope had slammed into the ground, and one of his legs lay crumpled, twisted at an odd angle.

“Papa!” Tipper rushed to his side.

The minor dragons flocked to the fallen man, and Prince Jayrus appeared beside them, kneeling.

“Papa! Your leg is broken.”

“Hush now, my dear.” Verrin Schope’s smile barely lifted the corner of his mouth. “It’s only those shifting particles again.”

39
Ohidae Grand Hotel

Tipper paced back and forth in the sitting room of their hotel suite. Wizard Fenworth, Grandur, and Zabeth attended to her father. The dragons had relieved the pain of his injury, but the prince reported that each time he and Fenworth maneuvered the broken pieces of the bone into place, the bone refused to bind. Librettowit, the prince, and Bealomondore kept her company as they waited for something to change.

“This should be an easy procedure,” Jayrus told her.

She threw her hands into the air. “Then why isn’t it?”

“Fenworth says there are a lot of factors at play here.”

“What does Papa say?”

“He doesn’t say anything, my girl,” said Beccaroon. “The dragons have him sedated so that he doesn’t feel the pain involved in maneuvering the bones.”

“Is it shattered?”

Librettowit stepped into her path and placed a hand on her arm, bringing her to a stop. “You know that would be a much more serious injury. You’re a smart young lady, so I won’t try to soften any of the details. Your father’s thigh has a clean break in two places. The lower leg is fractured in three. But the bone is not crushed.”

He directed her to a chair, and once she sat down, he put an arm around her shoulders. “Fenworth is a skilled physician. It’s part of a wizard’s job. He’s doing his best, and we’re fortunate to have a good supply of medicinal bugs.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Tipper saw Prince Jayrus shudder. His expression grew serious. “We must not delay in finding the statue.”

Tipper glanced around the room at her companions. “I thought we knew exactly who has the third statue.”

Bealomondore looked directly into her eyes. “It’s been more than a year since I saw the masterpiece in Mushand’s collection. He could have sold it.”

The seriousness in his tone and expression panicked Tipper. “How are you going to find out? Are you going there?”

Bealomondore’s eyes shifted to Beccaroon and back. Librettowit stood and moved toward the door. Jayrus came and stood behind her, placing his hand on her shoulder.

The younger tumanhofer straightened the sleeve of his jacket by giving the cuff a tug. “Mushand’s a very rich and influential man. One doesn’t just go up to his house and knock on the door.” He fidgeted with the lace that edged his shirt at the neck. “I’m going to visit the family who introduced me to Mushand the last time I was in Ohidae. They’ll know whether or not he still has
Evening Yearns.
If he does, they may be able to get us an appointment.”

Bealomondore took his hat from a side table next to the door. “We’ll go now, Mistress Tipper. We’ll come back with good news.”

He smiled as he put on his hat, but Tipper knew the tumanhofer now, and his expression did not inspire confidence. She nodded and tried to look calm but feared her face froze in a stiff, noncommittal expression. Librettowit, Beccaroon, and Bealomondore each bowed to her as they left the room.

“How odd,” she said as the door closed.

Prince Jayrus sat in the chair next to her. “What’s odd, Tipper?”

“The way they left.” She shifted in her seat to face him. “Sometimes dignitaries come to visit my mother. She gets very royal during their stay. Fortunately, they usually leave after a day or two.”

Jayrus tilted his head and watched her, not saying anything but not looking puzzled by this bit of family history that was apparently not connected to anything.

Tipper sighed. “When these men and ladies from Ragar’s royal court take leave of my mother, they always bow like our three friends just did.”

“Perhaps this action was due to my eminence.”

Tipper took in his sincere expression and began to laugh. She tried to talk between giggles but had to wait. Each time she thought she had command of her voice, his puzzled brow set her off again.

“First,” she managed to say, “they were taking leave of me, not you.”

“I was there.”

“Yes, but they were looking at me, and they just nodded to you.”

Words didn’t come to his lips, but his demeanor shouted, “That can’t be right!”

Tipper just shook her head. The prince she admired so very much sometimes acted like he had no clue about the normal world. Perhaps it was a sovereignty thing. Her mother had lost the ability to perceive her surroundings and respond accordingly. She hoped the prince’s faculties would not deteriorate in the same manner.

Jayrus touched her arm. “Tipper, have you gone ruminating?”

Her attention snapped back to his face. “And where do you get those words?”

His eyes focused on her, but his befuddlement deepened. “Words? Which words?”

“Ruminating, eminence, a-dither, expounding…you’re always using words as if you were part of a book, talking in terms used in Papa’s stuffy textbooks.”

His eyebrows shot up, but the unruffled calm she expected of him remained. “But, Tipper, books are what I conversed with all the time I lived with Prince Surrus. Of course Surrus talked to me, but he spoke in a similar manner. The only other source I could have emulated is the dragons, and their words are more often pictures. It would be hard to speak aloud the language of their minds.”

He stood up. “It is time to attempt an adjustment of your father’s leg. Do you wish to help us?”

Tipper nodded and followed the strange young man who flustered her, made her laugh, and confused her.

Beccaroon liked the home of Bealomondore’s friends. The large windows almost eliminated the walls that held them and, in some cases, even extended into the roof. Some of the first floor rooms jutted out from the main house. These solariums gathered light from the outside and exposed those inside to the magnificence of crowded trees and bushes growing close together right up to the house.

In the conservatory where he and the two tumanhofers waited for the host and hostess, plants grew in pots. This foliage reminded him of his beloved Indigo, even though the vegetation outside had no resemblance to the tropical plants of his home.

Master and Madam Markezzee entered with servants bearing trays of refreshment. Bealomondore introduced Librettowit and Beccaroon.

“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.