The Vanishing Sculptor (12 page)

Tipper sat in the large bed with the covers pulled up to her chin and the pillows stacked behind her. Her weight on the soft mattress made a dent big enough for a bird of Beccaroon’s size to nest in. If she stretched out, would the stuffing swell over her and bury her alive? She envisioned being pushed down into risen dough and disappearing like her fist did when she punched down the yeast dough for kneading.

A shout from the alley jerked her attention to the window.

“I wonder if that window’s locked.” She turned her head. “I locked the door.” She reassured herself that the chair wedged under the doorknob hadn’t fallen. “Oh, I need company. My mother. Gladyme. Somebody!”

Junkit flapped his wings, but Zabeth turned her head away and lifted her chin as if she had taken offense.

Tipper let the abundant covers drop into a pile in her lap. “Oh, I know you’re here, but you can’t talk to me. And I don’t know if you really know what I’m saying.”

Zabeth glared over her shoulder, then resumed pointedly staring out the window.

“Now don’t get your feelings hurt,” begged Tipper. “It’s just that I can’t expect…” She stopped to study the two animals. Zabeth clearly ignored her. Junkit returned her gaze as if waiting for her to continue.

Tipper blinked. The two minor dragons remained in their positions, one offended, the other alert and paying attention. “If my words hurt Zabeth’s feelings, then she must understand what I say. Papa was right!”

Junkit flew from his perch and landed on the mountain of covers in front of her.

Tipper scrutinized his small, intelligent face. “You do understand me, don’t you?”

His mouth didn’t open. His lips did not move. But as clear as if the word had formed on his tongue, she heard
“yes”
in her mind. She pulled back, eyes wide and mouth open.

Old Junkit jumped into the air. Chittering, interspersed with squeaks, accompanied his rather clumsy airborne dance of glee. Zabeth flew to sit in front of Tipper. The minor dragon eyed Tipper just as warily as Tipper eyed Zabeth.

“Are you going to speak to me?” Tipper asked.

Zabeth whipped her tail from side to side. From Junkit Tipper received the impression that Zabeth was “talking.”

“But I don’t
hear
her.”

The dragons chittered, squeaked, twittered, and cheeped back and forth. Tipper recognized a conversation when she saw one. She realized she had seen this many times before and just dismissed it as the same type of noise birds make. Even when her father had made it clear that the dragons were capable of communication, she had dismissed the idea. “Just because talking dragons are something I didn’t accept as a reality, I ignored what I could see. Hmm… Bec would say there is a life lesson here.”

Junkit clambered over the blankets and sat in her lap.

Tipper stroked his blue back. “I understand you, Junkit, but not Zabeth.”

The green dragon unfurled her wings and snapped them shut. Her head bobbed and her tongue flicked out.

Tipper held Junkit to her chest. “She’s going to bite me!”

The blue dragon scolded her.

“Well, I thought she was going to.”

Zabeth sat back and looked pleased with herself

“I understand.” Tipper gasped. She understood. She really understood the female dragon. She wanted to prove it to Junkit. “Zabeth was thinking she would like to nip me because I’m so—” She glared at Zabeth. “I am
not
dense.”

Zabeth collapsed and rolled over on her back. She clicked deep in her throat and quivered, her small arms crossed over her front.

“Is she all right?” Tipper leaned closer.

Junkit popped out of her arms and went to his companion. He unceremoniously poked her with his foot.

“Laughing? She’s laughing?” Tipper picked up the squirming Zabeth and set her on one of her knees. “Stop that.” She shook her finger in the small creature’s face. “Here you tell Wizard Fenworth we never talk to you, and now that I attempt communication, you laugh!”

Zabeth stiffened, pulled a straight face, then fell apart in another fit of giggles.

Tipper put her down on the covers. “I’m going to sleep.”

She wallowed around in the mushy bed until she got to the edge. With one big puff, she blew out the lone candle, probably splattering wax on the stand. But Tipper didn’t care. She threw herself back on the bed, sinking deep enough to give her a moment of panic. When she knew she wasn’t going to be submerged in mattress, she yanked up the blankets.

Zabeth still chortled.

“Good night!” Tipper whispered between clenched teeth.

In a moment, silence permeated the room. A lone set of footsteps passed by the hotel. The man whistled a slow tune as he walked away.

Junkit came to lie on the pillow next to her head.

“You’ve never done that,” she said.

She squeezed her eyes against tears when she understood he’d never felt welcome before. With a finger, she rubbed the top of his head.

Zabeth crawled to her shoulder and settled down in the covers.

Tipper giggled in response to the dragon’s concern. “Don’t worry. I won’t roll on you.”

She sighed and closed her eyes.

The clomping of heavy boots passing her room in the hall jerked Tipper out of a sound sleep. Rattling, banging, clattering, and loud voices drifted up from the street behind the hotel. Bealomondore had said the rooms facing the front were quieter because the genteel people used the main street. Tradespeople used the side streets and alley.

“Delivering milk makes noise,” he’d said.

Evidently, friends of the artist did not rate the best rooms.

Tipper sat up. The dragons perched on the windowsill, watching the city chaos below.

“Good morning,” she called as she rolled onto her stomach and wiggled loose from the heavy blankets and off the edge of the bed.

They greeted her with silence.

“What are you looking at that’s so interesting?”

Stretching, she crossed the room and looked over their heads. A man lifted bags out of a cart and hauled them into the hotel’s back entrance.

“Is that all?”

She picked Junkit up and cuddled him under her chin. “Did you get enough sleep?”

He chirred and responded with a friendly nudge against her cheek, but no thoughts came into her mind that she could identify as his.

She held him out and studied his face. “I can’t hear you,” she said.

Junkit’s expression changed to one of woe.

“What happened?” she asked. She didn’t get an answer.

14
Transportation

Beccaroon circled the sky above Rolan’s overcrowded vehicle. The wizard and Tipper chose the sofa. Junkit and Zabeth settled on Fenworth. Librettowit sat on the front seat with Rolan. The tumanhofer artist balanced on a couple of bags of grain, the most comfortable arrangement among the supplies the farmer had purchased.

Beccaroon glided in a lazy circle back toward his companions. If all the passengers of the wagon could fly he’d be roosting in his home tree by now. However, his obligation to keep pace with the group did not mean he must keep them company. He chose to meditate high in the air rather than be shaken to pieces riding on that glorified farm cart.

He tsked at the clumsy vehicle below. “Listening to blather as well. Watching that wizard sleep. Counting the varmints escaping from his clothes.” He shuddered and looked for somewhere else to spend his time.

He landed in a boskenberry tree and nibbled a snack while he watched the horses clump across the wooden bridge, pulling the creaking wagon. Bealomondore looked bored. The wizard was asleep. Librettowit had twisted in his seat to talk to Tipper. Beccaroon saw her smile and felt a lifting of his concern. She’d been pensive and withdrawn all morning. He hoped Verrin Schope would have good news when they got back to Byrdschopen. His old friend had been spinning theories through his head, trying to solve his problem of being tied to a closet.

Bec chortled. Verrin Schope could always find a fix to get in. But he was equally capable of getting out of it. This predicament continued to try the artist-inventor-explorer’s mettle, but Beccaroon knew he’d solve the problem.

The wagon passed under his tree, and Tipper waved to him.

“I know you’re anxious to go home, Bec. We’re all right. Go on and check your territory and how things are progressing at Byrdschopen.” Her smile didn’t shine with its full brilliance, and an unsettled expression hung in her pale blue eyes.

Beccaroon nodded his agreement and launched into the air. If she didn’t tell him over breakfast what was troubling her, she wasn’t going to blurt it out on a country road in a wagonload of farm supplies and strangers.

He flew straight to the location where he’d seen the vagabonds’ encampment, the ones who had convinced Helen the cow to go for a stroll. The rangers had arrested or dispersed them. Some of the villains, he knew, were in jail in Temperlain since the smaller towns did not hold prisoners. He made a careful inspection of his borders, then zigzagged from east to west, gradually working his way south to where Verrin Schope’s mansion nestled against his forest.

The peaceful atmosphere ruffled his feathers. By appearances, he could take off and no disaster would disrupt his home ground. He pondered the issue. He’d contemplated how to avoid the discomfort and inconvenience of leaving. His chief excuse for backing out of this quest caved in on itself with the revelation that life went on smoothly without his direct supervision. Served him right for organizing his underlings in a tight-knit network and enlisting dependable allies.

He landed on Verrin Schope’s roof and entered by way of the cupola. As soon as he opened the door to the third level, he heard hammering. He followed the sound and a few minutes later entered Lady Peg’s chambers. Her dresses and cloaks covered the bed. A pile of shoes occupied a chair. Paneling, elegant trim, rough boards, and the door to the closet lay on the floor, along with a good deal of dust and splintered wood.

“As long as I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you destroy anything,” he called to Verrin Schope, who wielded a hammer inside the spacious clothes cabinet. “I honestly expected to find you sitting in a chair, thinking.” When his friend issued no answer, Beccaroon tried harder to draw his attention. “Awk! What are you doing?”

“Searching for the spot.” The sculptor hammered against an upright board, loosening it from the frame of the wall.

“What spot?”

“The exact spot where the center of the gateway is focused.”

Beccaroon flapped his wings. “Why?”

“If my theory is correct, the anchor is portable.”

“Ah,” said Bec, nodding his head. He strolled forward and peered into the partially dismantled room. “And if you locate this portable anchor to a nonfunctioning gateway, you can go with us on this preposterous journey?”

“Yes.”

Beccaroon took a turn around the bedroom. “Then there would really be no need for me to go. And every reason for me to stay here and continue to employ a vigilant eye toward the safekeeping of your estate.”

Verrin Schope stopped hammering. He leaned against the door-jamb, his breath heavy from exertion, his shirt-sleeves rolled up, and sweat dripping down the side of his dark face. “There’s not much left of the estate to supervise. I would prefer that you join us but will understand if the quest is too much of an imposition.”

He straightened and let out a loud sigh. “Good! I’m fading. When I reassemble, old Bec, take careful heed of the exact location where you first catch a glimmer of my return.”

By the time Beccaroon ambled forward, Verrin Schope had disappeared. The bird stuck his head through the closet door and saw a spot on the wooden floor darken as if something cast a shadow there. In the next moment, Verrin Schope stood before him.

“Ah yes,” he said. “Here I am again. Always in this corner.” He took a step forward, turned, and surveyed the area from the ceiling to the floor. “Tell me, old friend, what did you see first?”

“A shadow.”

Verrin Schope frowned. “Here?” He pointed to the disassembled wall.

Beccaroon shook his head. “On the floor.”

“Odd.” He cupped his hand over his chin and peered down. “I expected to come forward, not upward. I had even thought I might descend.” He glanced at the ceiling. “But I think ascending might prove to be a better circumstance to deal with.” He clapped his hands together. “It will be some time before I fade again. Shall we call Gladyme to bring refreshments? I’m curious, of course, to know if you have attained the cooperation of Graddapotmorphit Bealomondore.”

“I’m not hungry, but I could use a drink.”

Verrin Schope arched an eyebrow. “And the fanatic artist?”

“He’ll come with us.”

“Us? You are coming?”

“Awk!” Beccaroon shook, sending his feathers into a quivering display of indignation. “You wouldn’t let me rest if I said no. And besides, the last time you went off without me, you got yourself in this impossible condition.”

The tall emerlindian went down on one knee so that he was at eye level with his friend. The grin on his dark face dispelled any notion that he had a serious thought to relay.

“It will be like old times, Bec.”

“Old times were before you married. Before we both had responsibilities.”

The smile disappeared, and Beccaroon wished he hadn’t spoken.

Verrin Schope nodded with rapid, sharp jerks of his head. He pressed his lips together as if to squelch the strength of his emotion. “We have responsibilities, my friend. To Chiril. To our world. To Wulder. I’ve been given a task, and I appreciate that you are one of those who will help me fulfill my duty.”

After Verrin Schope had a substantial lunch and Beccaroon sipped frissent juice from a wide goblet, the artist again attacked the closet. He brought out the floorboard Bec had identified as the spot where the shadow first appeared.

The artist held the one-by-eight-inch plank in his hands. He’d sawed it to a length of only eighteen inches.

Beccaroon shifted from one foot to the other. “What if you’ve made your base too small? That’s hardly enough for a man your size to stand on.”