The Vanishing Sculptor (15 page)

She cupped her hand to her mouth. “Papa, are you coming?”

Verrin Schope waved at her. As she watched, he faded and reappeared in less than ten seconds. Was it right to say he was getting better? Could one get better at limping, or coughing, or this physical disposition of coming apart and reforming?

Bealomondore joined her. She shifted her attention away from her father. He and the coachman didn’t seem worried about their predicament. She smiled at the young tumanhofer. Her nose crinkled against a disagreeable odor. “Their smell is a bit strong.”

Wizard Fenworth labored up the incline. “I told you quests were unpleasant. Odors. Beasties carrying odors. Not exactly wild beasties, however.”

The din from bleating sheep increased.

He covered his ears. “Noise. Raucous. Beasties or not, the bleating is bothersome.” He frowned at Tipper. “Better than bellowing or roaring, I suppose.”

Bealomondore straightened and peered around. “It seems to me that the cacophony is coming from more than one direction.”

He turned toward the crest of the knoll, and Tipper followed his gaze.

Dozens of fluffy heads appeared first. The heads were, of course, attached to heavy bodies. At the bottom of each wooly leg was a dark, hard hoof. From directly in their path and looking up, Tipper decided these animals were huge.

The sheep charged down the hill.

She grabbed her skirt with one hand and Fenworth’s sleeve with the other. “Run!”

17
Baa-Baa-Boom!

With a strong grip and a jerk, the wizard pulled Tipper next to his chest. She gasped but was so surprised that she didn’t struggle. He wrapped his arm around her so that the wizard’s cape he wore enveloped her.

“Steady, girl.” His voice rasped in her ear. “None of your theatrics.”

Before she could protest the slur against her character, air began to circulate as if a wind wound itself around them. The little she could see dimmed to darkness. She smelled biscuits and the flowering vine outside her bedroom window. She heard whistling and water pouring into a glass.

“There, there now.” The wizard patted her arm. “We’re almost there. Hold on a second, and we’ll make a grand landing.”

With a start, she realized her feet did, indeed, dangle into nothingness. The wind ceased, and she dropped with the wizard. A hard surface jarred her soles, and she sat down hard. Her vision cleared, and she found herself on top of the carriage, seated on a trunk, behind her father and the coachman.

“What are we doing back here?”

The wizard sat beside her on another trunk. He patted her back. “Better here than under the hoofs of rampaging sheep.”

Shock registered on the hired mans face, but her father smiled a greeting. “Rampaging?” He frowned at Fenworth. “Do sheep rampage?”

Fenworth nodded decisively.

Tipper looked back to where she had just been standing. Bealomondore struggled to stay on his feet as the sheep plunged down the hill around him.

“Tut, tut, oh dear,” said the wizard. “I seem to have forgotten something.”

A large ram clouted Bealomondore’s side. He spun and lost his balance, toppling forward. A full-coated ewe broke his fall. The tumanhofer wrapped his arms around her middle and kept himself from falling beneath the hoofs of the throng of sheep.

“Do something!” Tipper pulled on the wizard’s sleeve.

“Something besides sitting?” asked Fenworth.

She let go of his robe and growled, “Oh, you!” She grabbed her father’s shoulder. “Bealomondore is in trouble!”

Verrin Schope nodded. “I see that.”

The minor dragons screeched and hopped into the air, batting their wings but doing nothing helpful.

Tipper stood and peered around. The carriage swayed under her. She spotted Librettowit, sitting on a round boulder at the top of another hill. With his hands folded between his knees, he calmly watched the drama being played out on the adjacent slope.

A shepherd and a younger version of himself came over the top of the hill, and for a moment, a surge of relief flowed through Tipper. But when the shepherd spotted the ewe plodding down the hill with Bealomondore clinging to her back, he dropped his staff and bent over double, laughing and slapping his knees. The son fell on the ground, rolling back and forth. Two dogs bounced beside the shepherd.

The herd reached the bottom of the hill. With the encouragement of another herding dog, the sheep turned toward the narrow way through which the road passed. In a moment, they would sweep past the carriage.

Tipper pounded her fist on the closest part of her father’s anatomy. She could only reach his head from where she stood among the trunks. “Do something! Do something!”

“Excitable child,” barked the wizard.

Verrin Schope ducked away from the onslaught and grabbed his daughter’s hand. “He’ll be all right as long as he stays on top of the ewe, Tipper. Danger awaits under the sheep, not on top.”

“What if he falls?” she wailed.

Fenworth cupped his hand next to his mouth. “Hold tight!” he yelled.

The coachman joined in with further encouragement. “Hold on, man!”

While the uproar of cheering erupted from her companions, Tipper collapsed, sitting back down on the trunk strapped to the roof of the carriage. She refused to watch. Covering her eyes, she moaned over the fate of poor Bealomondore. The bleating of the sheep rose in volume, and their pungent odor increased as the matted, field-dirty animals swarmed around the carriage and pushed on toward their destination. They bumped against the vehicle, jostling the passengers.

“Tut, tut, oh dear.”

She peeked at the wizard.

He shook his head. “This is not good.”

She bit her lip, angry that the strange old man worked up concern for himself but callously ignored the tumanhofer’s more precarious situation.

“Hurrah!” exclaimed Verrin Schope. “Here comes Beccaroon.”

Tipper looked in the direction her father pointed. Her parrot friend approached and swooped down on the sheep.

The herd must have sensed an attack from above. Panic raised the volume of their grating voices. The forward flow of their charge broke into a mad dash for safety. Disorder multiplied in the narrow pass between cliffs, and the sheep thrashed against one another, trying to escape.

Beccaroon caught up with the flock. His claws snatched and held the fabric of Bealomondore’s jacket. The tumanhofer had the presence of mind to release his death grip on the ewe. Bec delivered him to safety, setting him gently on the hilltop next to Librettowit and then landing a few feet beyond.

The shepherds, all mariones like Rolan, appeared. One came from ahead, and the man and his son descended the hill to offer direction from the rear. Several herding dogs contributed to compacting the panicked herd into the small natural pen provided by the pass in the road. The shepherds and dogs set to work restoring order to their flock.

Tipper covered her ears against the torrent of orders from the shepherds, barks from zealous dogs, and bleats from worried sheep. She looked down and saw that Wizard Fenworth had clapped his hands against the sides of his head as well. She jerked her arms down and frowned.

The man was useless in an emergency.

Reason poked a hole in her criticism. The wizard had whisked her out of harm’s way. And he was a very, very old man. Perhaps she needed to adjust her attitude to include some gratitude and forbearance.

The clamor from the flock subsided, and Tipper contemplated what words she could say to express thanks for her rescue. Bealomondore sat on the hill, drinking from a flask Librettowit must have provided. Beccaroon stood beside them. She knew her guardian would expect her to quickly fulfill her obligation. She turned to the wizard and found him observing her with a gleam in his eye.

She drew in a breath, but before she could speak, the old man chortled. He clapped his hand on her father’s shoulder.

“You’ve a good girl, Verrin Schope. Good heart. Loyal. Dutiful.” He winked at Tipper. “You’re welcome, child.” He slapped her father’s back. “You squeeze that tendency toward hysteria out of her, and she’ll be a good comrade on our quest.”

Tipper bristled, but Wizard Fenworth paid her no mind.

“Excitable!” he exclaimed. “Prone to exasperation.”

Tipper tamped down the words of vexation that perched on her lips, ready to explode.

“Impatient too. Ought to wait a minute to see how things are going to unfold. The quest is just the thing to knock some of that impetuousness out of her. Uncomfortable things, quests are, but great for training the young.”

His gaze shifted, leaving those who sat on the carriage. “Tut, tut, oh dear. I imagine this fellow is ill-pleased.”

The oldest shepherd approached. Tipper tried to read his expression. The minor dragons slipped behind her father and Fenworth.

“Greetings, friend!” Her father jumped down and extended his hand.

The dragons scrambled to find cover behind Tipper.

The marione took Verrin Schope’s offered handshake.

“You’re on the road to Tallion,” the shepherd said with a grunt. “Did you know that?”

“Yes, we did.”

“There’s nothing beyond Tallion except the Mercigon territory of the Sunset Mountains.”

“We know that too.”

The shepherd glowered. “You’ve business in Tallion, then?”

“No,” answered her father, shaking his head as if to express his regret.

“I thought not.” The shepherd examined each of the travelers in turn, even the three on the hill, before he spoke again. “The road stops at Tallion. There is no road beyond.”

“Ah,” returned her father, this time nodding sagely. “We know that as well.”

“There’re dragons in the mountains, fierce dragons. Occasionally they pillage our crops and herds.” He eyed Tipper. “Now it hasn’t happened in centuries, mind you, but in the days of old, dragons captured fair maidens and took them off.”

“Tut, tut, how rude.” Fenworth patted Tipper’s arm. “Perhaps they’ve learned some manners.” He peered over the edge of the carriage top. “Do they breathe fire, young man?”

The shepherd snorted and turned to leave. “You’ll find out, now, won’t you?”

Fenworth’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Perceptive man. Of course we will.” He clapped his hands together. “Sort yourselves out. Who’s in the coach? Who’s on top? We’ve a quest to undertake.”

Fenworth decided to ride with the luggage on top, and Tipper chose to sit right behind her father. The wizard from Amara amazed her once more by wedging himself between two trunks and falling asleep. The minor dragons came out. Tipper delighted in being able to decipher bits and pieces of their outrage over the shepherd’s slur on dragons. Bealomondore and Librettowit trudged down the hill and reluctantly climbed into the coach. The air had cleared of the odor of sheep but not of the disgruntled attitude of the two tumanhofers.

The sun began its descent behind the distant mountains, tinting the sky with pink and orange.

Tipper sighed as she observed a large bird circling above one snowcapped peak. An eagle? No, too large from this distance to be a bird. Her breath caught in her throat. A dragon! Dragons
did
fly over the Sunset Mountains.

She put her hand on her father’s shoulder.

He patted it, and she looked his way to see that he, too, had spotted the dragon.

“You are in for an adventure, my dear.”

A laugh bubbled up and poured forth. “I know. I know!”

18
A Little Trouble Here

They reached their destination after dark and came to a halt at the crossing of the only two streets in Tallion. A bailiff came out to meet them, holding a torch aloft. He had no official badge but announced his position as he approached the carriage.

“Bailiff Tokloaman here. State your business.”

Verrin Schope nodded to the fellow. “We need accommodations for the night and supplies for a quest tomorrow.”

“We’ve got no inn, but the mayor will put up two of your people. Master Stone will put up the rest.” He paused. “Do you know there’s a light flickering under your coach?” He scratched his head with his free hand. “And there’s rumbling, even though your wheels aren’t turning. Maybe you should get down from that contraption and unhitch your horses.”

Librettowit opened the door and hopped out in a hare’s breath. Bealomondore scrambled out next but had the courtesy to turn around and offer Tipper assistance. She stepped down and peered beneath their carriage. Miniature bolts of lightning flashed through the cloud. After each glimmer, thunder vibrated the chassis and wheels. With every flicker, the resulting atmospheric growl grew louder. Several villagers appeared to gawk at the sight.

The minor dragons flew up to perch on the gable of the tallest building, a two-story home. They hopped up and down, screeching a stream of alarm. Her father and the coachman passed the luggage down to villagers on the ground.

Tipper gestured to the old gentleman who had ensconced himself in the carriage at the first sign of nightfall. “Do come on, Wizard Fenworth.”

He grumbled and moved toward the door. A scattering of old leaves fell from his beard and robes. Both Tipper and the tumanhofer artist helped Fenworth negotiate the small steps through the cloud and onto solid ground. He groused about unnecessary panic as they urged him to hurry.

A crowd gathered in the cross streets. Every villager—man, woman, and child—must have turned out of their beds to see the phenomenon. They pressed their backs against the buildings but stared with fascination at the now empty carriage and the storm cloud beneath it. With the luggage piled at a safe distance, Tipper’s father and the coachman helped the two lads unhitching the horses. As the boys led the tired sister mares away, a flurry of lightning crackled under the coach.

Through the open coach door, Tipper watched tiny bolts pierce the floor of the carriage and dance among the leaves left by the wizard. In the wild swirl of activity, one of the dry leaves ignited, then two. The lightning disappeared, a series of thunderclaps echoed through the street, and the burning leaves set aflame the others. The fire flowed across the floor and licked up the seats. With a pop, the vehicle flared into a bonfire blaze.