The Vanishing Sculptor (29 page)

Tipper had no weapon. She dropped to her knees and came up with the first stick she could find. Waving it like a sword, she kept the men at bay on her side.

Beccaroon dove again, and another ruffian screeched as parrot claws tore at his face. One of the thugs grabbed the umbrella, pulled Bealomondore close, and punched him in the face. The tumanhofer went down. Another brute rushed Tipper. Her stick broke against his chest. He captured her, pinning her arms tightly to her sides.

“Get the bird,” ordered the leader.

On his next dive, Bec aimed for the man clutching Tipper. She ducked, and he delivered a good blow to the man’s head. Wet feathers encumbered his flight. As he flapped away, two men swung their swords. The first one landed a glancing blow to Beccaroon’s leg. The other struck the base of his tail.

With a shriek, the bird flailed against the rain, then fell into the bushes. The two men crashed into the shrubs with swords raised.

“Beccaroon!” Tipper cried.

“Move!” ordered the man holding her, and he dragged her toward the front gate.

Tipper struggled, trying to get loose, trying to get back to Beccaroon. Another man pulled Bealomondore along behind her, but she hardly noticed.

They entered through the gate and marched between the sinister trees. The man hauling Tipper lost his grip once, grabbed her arm, and walloped her across the face before throwing her over his shoulder and trudging on.

She grunted, stunned by the blow. She hurt in so many places that she couldn’t focus.

“Somebody grab her legs,” he grumbled. “She weighs a ton and is way too long to carry alone.”

Another of the short thugs hoisted her legs onto his shoulder and walked behind her captor.

Someone else opened the front door of the mansion, and the henchmen tramped through the foyer to the same room in which Tipper and her friends had been served refreshments. Her captor abruptly dumped Tipper on the floor. Bealomondore landed beside her.

She heard a gasp and looked up into the eyes of Orphelian. Bamataub’s wife clutched the arms of her chair but did not move to aid the prisoners. Tipper turned her head and, through her tears, saw the master of the house, standing beside a roaring fire and laughing down at them.

“I do like gifts on stormy nights. To break the monotony, you know. Orphelian was just reading to me about a man whose life was fraught with trials. So boring. He didn’t have the gumption to rid himself of those who amounted to little more than pests.”

His wife whimpered, closed the book, and stared down at her hands.

“Now,” said Bamataub, “if I could only show the writer of this insipid tale”—he gestured toward the book in his wife’s lap—“how a true man of decision deals with irritation, perhaps his next book would be an improvement.”

He pulled a poker from the tools beside the fire. “Killing is not difficult. Bloody, of course, but you’ve already dampened my rugs with rainwater and mud.”

“Please, husband,” whispered Orphelian, “may I leave?”

A look of disgust flashed across Bamataub’s face. “Yes.”

She stood, dropping the book, and rushed to the door. She flung it open and stepped through, and a whirlwind entered, flashing two swords. Three of the henchmen fell to the floor before Tipper realized Prince Jayrus wielded the weapons that still blazed through the air and cut down the enemy.

Movement caught her eye, and she saw Bamataub approach Bealomondore with the poker raised above his head. She screamed as the bludgeon descended. The tumanhofer rolled to one side, and the iron rod hit the floor.

Bamataub roared and turned to attack Jayrus. One sword pierced the tyrant through the stomach, and another entered his chest. The prince pulled back, taking his weapons with him. Bamataub sank to his knees, then keeled forward.

Tipper turned away from the bloody scene. Her stomach lurched. She squeezed her eyes shut. Was she sick from her own pain or from the sight of someone else bloodied and killed?

A rustle of skirts at the door brought all eyes to the widow clutching the frame. “He’s dead?”

Jayrus put the sword in his left hand down on a table as he went to Orphelian’s side. He clasped her arm. “He is.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, then turned to go. “I must leave this place quickly. He has associates, and I will fare no better with them now than when he was alive. I will be gone before they know of this.”

She took a few steps toward the stairs but returned.

“You came for a statue. I am his widow and should own everything in this house. I want none of it, but I give you the statue. It’s in the display room. There.” She pointed across the hall. “You’d best be quick about taking it and getting out. I assume you’ve come for the old emerlindian?”

“We have, Madam, and he is already safe.”

She nodded, vaguely, as if too many thoughts raced through her mind. “Good, good. Excuse me. I must not tarry. I have only a few things to gather.” She lifted her skirts and ran for the stairs leading to the upper level.

Prince Jayrus called after her. “Do you wish to go with us? We will offer you safe journey to your destination.”

“No!” She stopped halfway up and stared at him. “They will be looking for you. It is best for me to have nothing more to do with you and your friends. Again, I thank you for my freedom.” She sighed. “And I regret, for your sakes, that my chances are much better than yours. Farewell.” She dashed up the remaining steps.

Jayrus surveyed the hall. He stood quietly for a moment.

Bealomondore had regained his feet and came to help Tipper. “Can you stand?”

She nodded and allowed him to assist her. The smell of blood nauseated her, and she stumbled toward the door. No one appeared from the many halls to harass them.

She touched the prince’s sleeve. “My father is safe?”

“He’s in the carriage with Fenworth and the dragons. Librettowit is driving it to the front door.”

“Beccaroon is—” She choked on her words.

“We’ll not leave until we’ve located him.” Jayrus took her other arm and, with Bealomondore, guided her to the entryway

Librettowit entered with an empty bag over his shoulder and a short sword in his hand. He looked around and nodded.

“I see you took care of things. I was coming in to help.”

“Orphelian has given us the statue,” said Jayrus, pointing toward one of the doors. “It’s in there.”

The librarian nodded. “I’ll get it and meet you in the carriage.”

Tipper bolted from her two escorts and charged the carriage she could see through the open entry. The rain had stopped, but she splashed through puddles inches deep. She tore open the carriage door and plunged in, wrapping her arms around her father. “Papa, Papa,” was all she managed to say. She laid her head on his chest and sobbed.

Her father’s hand stroked her back. His voice cooed in her ear. “Here, here. Everything will be all right.”

Fenworth harrumphed. “Still a bit dramatic, but not quite so loud in her hysteria.”

She ignored him. “Beccaroon?”

Her father patted her shoulder. “I’ve sent the minor dragons to find him.”

Librettowit appeared at the door and climbed in, the limp bag still over his shoulder.

Tipper’s heart wrenched with disappointment. “You didn’t find the statue?”

“I found it,” he said as he sat down next to Fenworth. “It’s in the bag.”

“Another hollow,” explained Bealomondore as he entered the coach.

Prince Jayrus came out of the house. He looked inside, his eyes moving over each of the occupants. “I’ll drive.” He closed the door and mounted the coachman’s seat.

“Do you think he knows how?” asked Fenworth.

“If he doesn’t now,” said Librettowit, “I’m willing to say he’ll know how by the end of the drive.”

33
Injury

Tipper raised her head off her father’s chest. “Why have we stopped?” She started to sit up, but her father tightened his hold. She could see that his face was lined with fatigue.

“Stay with me.”

The coach swayed as Prince Jayrus descended. A few moments passed, and he opened the door.

“Librettowit, Bealomondore, I need some assistance.”

Tipper jerked, but her father’s arm remained around her shoulders. “Stay with me.”

She could barely see the prince’s face in the dark of the cold night. “Jayrus?”

“We’ve found Beccaroon. He’s alive. We’ll bring him to you in just a moment.”

“I like that bird,” said Fenworth and followed the two tumanhofers out of the carriage.

Again Tipper wanted to leave. She leaned toward the door.

Her father breathed deeply. “Stay with me.”

“Are you going to be all right, Papa?”

“I don’t know. I am more concerned for you and your mother now.”

“Why?”

“I assumed I would have time to share with you all I have learned while away.” The last words came out in gasps, but he continued. “I’ve spoken to Peg on my visits, but it takes a long time for her to assimilate something new.”

Tipper patted his chest. “Rest. Tell me later.”

Bealomondore returned, bringing Tipper’s clothes from the baby buggy. Junkit and Hue entered the coach. “They’re cold,” said the tumanhofer. “Jayrus sent them back to warm up. Can you dry them with these?”

He handed Tipper the trousers she’d bought for the prince. She sat up, and the two dragons landed in her lap, ready to be rubbed dry. Bealomondore draped the peach-colored cape over her father.

Verrin Schope whispered, “Beccaroon?”

“The healing dragons are helping. Librettowit and Fenworth applied some of the powder they got from that bug shop. It looks like those thugs took his tail as a trophy and left him to bleed to death.”

Tipper gasped and unconsciously pulled the two dragons into a smothering embrace. They chittered in protest, and she relaxed her grasp.

Bealomondore gently squeezed her arm. “I’ll go back and see if they are ready to bring him to the carriage.”

Tipper wiped tears from her cheeks and went back to warming the shivering dragons in her arms.

“Put them under this blanket with me.” Her father made an effort to move the cape.

She tucked the dragons underneath. “It’s my cape.”

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Is it, dear? That’s nice.”

The door rattled and opened. Bealomondore ducked in, turned, and reached to receive Beccaroon as Librettowit and Jayrus passed his unconscious form through the door. He sat with Beccaroon’s head and shoulders cradled in his lap. Librettowit climbed in next and scooted under the lower half of the parrot’s body. As Fenworth entered, he carefully folded Beccaroon’s limp wings so they wouldn’t be damaged. A massive, elaborate dressing wrapped the stub where his tail had been. Fenworth sat next to Tipper.

The door closed, obliterating all light.

“Why is it so much darker?” Tipper whispered.

“I’m sitting on something,” grumped the wizard. He leaned forward, dug around on the seat, and pulled out a small cylinder-shaped lightrock. The faint glow spread through the gloomy interior of the cab. “So that’s where I left that.”

They entered the hotel through the back. It took a good bit of Prince Jayrus’s charisma to smooth the way. The night clerk had “no authority” to allow guests to enter the establishment other than by way of the customary front entrance. Jayrus offered to escort his mud-splattered, rain-drenched, battle-scarred companions through the elegant grand foyer, and the night clerk relented.

Two bedrooms branched off a sitting room in Verrin Schope’s suite. Jayrus put Tipper’s father in one room and Beccaroon in the other. Tipper could sleep on the couch, but that night no one slept, not even the wizard.

Fenworth and Librettowit sat with the grand parrot, easing his discomfort with the aid of the healing dragons and bathing his wound with a soothing solution that contained powdered
Fineet fineaurlais
from the Insect Emporium.

Tipper curled up in a chair beside Verrin Schope’s bed. The tonic of
Fineet fineaurlais
had also worked well on his ailment, taking hold of his unstable condition sometime during the night. In the morning, Tipper’s father sat up, smiled, and offered to help nurse Beccaroon.

Tipper left the room to see how their bird friend fared and found Bealomondore and Prince Jayrus camped in the sitting room.

“You’ve been here all night?” she asked when they came to their feet.

Jayrus stretched as he stood, then bowed to her. “Yes. We thought we might be needed.”

She stared at him for a moment, taking in how, even in a disheveled state, the prince’s appeal remained strong. Then his words registered. “Bamataub’s men? You were on guard. Orphelian said they would be looking for us.”

“Well,” said Bealomondore, “they didn’t find us last night.” He picked up his jacket, which had been draped over a chair. “I’m going to clean up and find some breakfast. Would you like me to bring yours to the room? Does your father feel up to eating?”

“I do.” Verrin Schope spoke from the door. “But let’s check on Beccaroon first.”

Fenworth came out of the bedroom as they approached.

“He’ll do,” said the wizard, pulling his beard. “He’s awake now and not receptive to visitors quite yet. Tut, tut, oh dear. He won’t fly, you see. Needs his tail for that.”

“Oh, poor Bec.” Tipper tried to pass Fenworth, but her father held her arm.

“Give him a little time, my dear.”

“Yes,” said Fenworth. “He doesn’t need sympathy as much as he needs time to deal with his emotions. But something in his stomach would be good. Have Rowser and Piefer made their delivery yet?”

A knock sounded on the door.

“Perhaps that’s them.” Fenworth started for the door and stopped. “No, it’s not. One person, not two. Bent on interrogating our prince.” He walked back to Bec’s room. He nodded at Jayrus as he passed. “Don’t worry over much. The man doesn’t want to arrest you if he can help it. Figures you did the city a service, but he has to ask all the right questions. Duty. Procedure. Tut, tut. Botheration.”

He took a few more steps, stopped, and groaned. “Oh dear, oh dear. Now there are two. The man who’s just joined the first man in the hall is an entirely different sort. He wants you hanged.” He sighed and continued on his way. “I do hope the first man prevails. Our prince has turned out to be useful.” He opened the bedroom door and walked through, making one more comment before he closed it again. “Quests are uncomfortable things but a bit more tolerable when shared with useful individuals.”