The Vanishing Sculptor Page 12

  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 t
urn 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.

  “Botheration,” muttered Fenworth. “I hate it when that happens.”

  Tipper held on to his sleeve. “Can’t you put it out with the water in the cloud?”

  The wizard’s eyes widened. “You have potential, my dear. Something I’d expect from Verrin Schope’s daughter.”

  She tightened her grip of his sleeve and gave it a little shake. “The cloud. Water. Fire.”

  He patted her hand. “Yes, of course, but the cloud is under the coach, not on top. Rain doesn’t fall up. You see the problem, no doubt.”

  “Buckets!” yelled a man.

  The bailiff added his voice to the order. “The mayor’s called for buckets. Step lively folks.”

  Villagers scattered and returned to form a water line, passing buckets from the well to the fire. The coachman and Tipper’s father joined the line. Tipper and Bealomondore looked at each other, nodded, and jumped into small openings between villagers.

  Tipper noticed when Beccaroon joined the dragons on the rooftop. The townspeople saw him as well and pointed out the grand parrot to their friends. Everyone was too busy to stop and gawk.

  With teamwork, they put out the fire, but not before the tinder-box coach caved in on itself and the four wheels folded, leaving charred circles of wood. A cheer greeted the last sizzle when the mayor himself poured out a bucket and proclaimed the emergency over.

  The hired coachman stood between Tipper and her father. Sweat dripped down from his brow. He pulled a rag from his back pocket and mopped his gloomy face. “This is going to be hard to explain.”

  Verrin Schope clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You are a valiant man. We thank you for your heroic efforts to save our belongings. We will pay for the coach. Wizard Fenworth has the coins to pay for your service and to take back to your employers.”

  The whoosh of a relieved sigh changed the coachman’s anxious demeanor. “You’ve been a strange crew to cart from one place to another, I’ll say. But it’s been an adventure I’ll be recounting to my kids for years to come.” He grinned.

  Tipper giggled at Verrin Schope’s expression, but her father chose not to take offense and changed his gasp of surprise to a congenial laugh.

  The coachman walked off to see to his horses.

  Tipper touched her father’s arm to draw his attention. “Where did the wizard get money? Surely he can’t spend coins from Amara in Chiril?”

  “The wizard’s hollows are full of marketable merchandise.”

  She smiled. “More than bugs and birds?”

  “Yes. He said he sold all manner of things at a shop in Temperlain while you went in to discuss the journey with Bealomondore.”

  Now a sigh escaped Tipper.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been worried about expenses. I’m used to worrying about expenses.”

  Verrin Schope kissed the top of her head. “I know, my dear, and I am truly sorry.”

  To Tipper’s surprise, no one left to go back to their beds. A party sprouted out of the aftermath of excitement. Women brought sandwiches and drinks, men appeared with tables, boys came running with wooden chairs, and a group of musicians gathered with their instruments and began to play The old and young villagers, in their nightgowns, robes, slippers, and in some cases nightcaps, danced through the street. Tipper drank a sweet juice she couldn’t identify and tapped her foot to the music.

  She glanced at her father and saw him blink out, disappearing so suddenly that she doubted anyone noticed. Her eyes sought out the pile of luggage, and sure enough, he appeared, sitting on the trunk that held his piece of closet flooring. A sudden rush of gratefulness swelled in her heart. She was thankful the coachman had helped remove the trunks.

  A muscled young marione pulled her cup from her hand and set it on a table. He caught her by the arm and dragged her into the merriment. She had never been to a dance, though her mother had taught her the most common steps. She whirled around with the exuberant young man and didn’t mind a bit that he hadn’t bowed before her first and asked, “May I have the honor of this dance?”

  Bealomondore stole her from her first partner, and she soon realized this was a game played by all the men dancing in the street. She’d be whirled away and, when she finished the turn, would find a different partner greeting her. Sometimes the young man who had spun her lay in a heap, suggesting he had been forcefully removed. But no one was hurt, and Tipper thought she had never spent such a happy hour. She looked up and grinned at her parrot friend. He nodded his approval.

  The bailiff sounded a horn, and the festivities came to an abrupt end. Tipper’s father stood on a barrel and thanked the people for their aid in putting out the fire and for the fine food and dance. He thanked the music makers in particular. The villagers gave a last cheer, then set to work putting all to rights. A group of men shoveled up the coach debris.

  “Come this way,” said the mayor to Tipper and her father. “You may spend the night with my family.”

  “Thank you,” said Tipper, suddenly exhausted and almost too weary to walk. Fortunately the mayor’s house stood on one of the four corners of the crossing.

  She opened the window of the room given to her as soon as the mistress of the house closed the door to the hall.

  “Here,” she called softly.

  Hue, Junkit, Zabeth, and Grandur flew in the open window and found comfortable perches. She knew Beccaroon preferred to be out in the night.

  Tipper scrubbed the smell of smoke off her skin and put on a fresh gown. She crawled between the sheets and barely noticed as the minor dragons settled on the bed around her.

  “Questing is a wonderful occupation. I wish I’d started sooner,” she whispered. Only the snores of four dragons answered her.

  A small crowd of villagers marched along beside them as they hiked toward the Dragon Valley of the Mercigon Range. Each of the questing party carried a knapsack provided by the Amaran wizard. The bags were hollows, and Tipper had marveled as she transferred all her belongings from her large trunk to the small knapsack.

  Fenworth declared as they left the town that this was “the beginning of the proper quest.” Tipper felt a thrill of excitement, especially since the townspeople celebrated the occasi
on by trooping along.

  Midmorning, the questers reached a ridge that provided a natural borderline between farmland and the mountains beyond.

  “A break!” declared the mayor. “The women have brought refreshment, and then I’m afraid the people of Tallion will have to return and allow our esteemed visitors to resume their journey alone.”

  Enough rocks jutted out from the grassy ridge to provide seats and make-do tables. The village women produced a meal from their knapsacks.

  “Enjoy this,” said Librettowit. “Food on a quest can sometimes be a hit-or-miss ordeal.”

  “Harrumph.” Wizard Fenworth glared at the librarian. “I’ve brought provisions. You’d think I didn’t know what to pack for a quest. I’ve been on a few, you know.”

  “And I’ve been with you. Your idea of a tasty dinner is sometimes different from my own.”

  Tipper caught sight of a brilliant bird approaching and ran to greet Beccaroon with a hug when he landed.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said into his neck feathers.

  “We left Tallion two hours ago. How have you had time to miss me?”

  “I wish you’d stay with us.”

  “I am a more valuable companion in the air.”

  “But I’m more comfortable with you than with any of the other companions.”

  Beccaroon’s gaze passed over the villagers and examined the questers. “Awk! Against my natural inclination, I’ve decided to mingle with you unfortunates restricted to walking.”

  Tipper offered him food and drink, and they enjoyed the conversation of the people from Tallion. The villagers enthusiastically offered advice and warnings. She decided that most would have enjoyed joining the quest, and she couldn’t blame them. Tending crops and livestock could not be as pleasant as seeking dragons to ride and visiting intriguing cities to find lost art.

  After a substantial noonmeal and a few speeches by the mayor, the Tallion citizen escort bade the questers farewell, replete with even more suggestions, cautionary counsel, and well wishes.

  “No fire,” said Wizard Fenworth as they waved to the last stragglers descending the hill. “None of the villagers remember ever seeing a dragon scorch a field. And we all know dragons love braised corn.”