The Vanishing Sculptor Page 23

  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. Fenw
orth 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.”

  Prince Jayrus addressed Bealomondore. “Would you go and procure our breakfast? Also, please see to baths for everyone. I think we’ll all feel better with this grime washed away.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly, but do you want me to leave?” Bealomondore nodded toward the door.

  “I don’t think this will be a problem. Go take care of the more important things, if you will.” The prince moved forward and opened the door. “Welcome, sir.” He bowed. “Prince Jayrus, at your service. What can I do for you?”

  “A bit of your time?” said a gray-haired marione. He removed his hat.

  “Of course.” Jayrus ushered the two men in, and Bealomondore slipped out.

  The second man, a tumanhofer, moved as if to stop him, but after a brief glaring match, he stepped aside. The antagonistic stranger turned speculative eyes on the prince.

  Tipper looked down at her ragged pants and muddied shirt. None of them presented well this morning, but Prince Jayrus carried an air of dignity and appeared half decent even in his mussed attire.

  “Please, have a seat.” He gestured toward the couch. “I’m afraid we are still a-dither this morning.”

  Tipper’s eyebrows went up, and she turned to her father. His ears twitched. She mouthed the word. “A-dither?”

  Verrin Schope choked on a laugh and turned away. “Excuse me,” he said, clearing his throat. “Caught a bit of a chill last night.”

  “Yes, about last night,” said the marione, who had seated himself and relaxed into the cushions. He didn’t seem threatening, but the man next to him looked like he’d growl at the slightest provocation. “I’m Sheriff Rog, and I’m investigating a disturbance last night. This is Barrister Beladderant. He represents the estate that suffered loss.”

  “Most interesting,” said Jayrus, frowning. “We were attacked last night by a group of ruffians. I had no idea crime ran rampant in Fayetopolis.”

  Sheriff Rog narrowed his eyes. “We have the same share as most big cities.” He fidgeted with his hat. “In a moment, I’d like the details of your encounter. First, let me tell you the reason behind my visit. The home of a prominent citizen was broken into last night, art stolen, the wife kidnapped, and the master of the house murdered.”

  Tipper did not have to fake the gasp that escaped her lips as she sank onto a nearby chair. Murder was not a crime she wanted any of them to be associated with. “How dreadful,” she murmured.

  “Yes, miss, it is.” The sheriff turned his hat over as if pondering the phrasing of his next question. “The servants say the party of thieves consisted of a gentleman dressed quite well and brandishing lethal swords—two, in fact. Fighting with two swords.” He shook his head slowly. “A young lady dressed as a boy a very ill and elderly emerlindian, two tumanhofers, a kind of o’rant, and a grand parrot.” He sighed. “That sort of describes you and your company.”

  Verrin Schope stood very straight and looked down his nose at both men. “A very ill and elderly emerlindian? I admit to being old, but not elderly. And I am certainly not ill, except for a tickle in my throat from being out in the rain last night.”

  Prince Jayrus furrowed his brow. “I’m a little confused by your descriptions. ‘A kind of o’rant’? Wizard Fenworth is an o’rant, but what does it mean, ‘a kind of o’rant’?”

  “Apparently one of the servants tried to stop the man as he moved down the lane outside the manor. The servant grabbed the man’s arm, and it broke off. He found he was holding a branch of a tree instead of a flesh-and-blood arm.”

  Amusement lightened the prince’s countenance. “First, this servant tries to stop a man walking down the lane. Why bother a man passing the house, no doubt trying to hurry home to get out of the rain? Then he claims this oddity about an arm that is a wooden branch? I think I would toss that witness’s story to the side.”

  “Yes,” said Sheriff Rog. “I’ve already come to that conclusion.”

  The tumanhofer beside the sheriff growled just as Tipper suspected he might. He leaned close to Rog and whispered something.

  The sheriff frowned. “Then there is the matter of the gentleman breaking into the house.”

  “This was last night, during
that dreadful storm?” asked Jayrus.

  “Yes.” Sheriff Rog ducked his head and wiped a hand through his hair. At the prodding of his neighbor, he continued. “According to the groundskeeper, who’d gone out to silence the dogs, the thieving murderer rode in on a white dragon, landed on the roof, and entered through an upstairs window.”

  Prince Jayrus sat for a moment, a blank look on his face. “He flew through torrential rain and lightning, and he and this dragon landed on the roof.”

  “No, the man slid off, and the dragon flew away.”

  “I’ve never seen a man slide off a dragon,” said Jayrus. “Have you?”

  The marione sighed heavily. “No sir, I have never even seen a dragon. Not a riding one, I mean. I’ve seen the minor ones that hang about from time to time. They live in the alleys if they live in town at all.”

  “I see. Well, may I tell you of our misadventure, Sheriff? I believe you will find solid evidence to investigate. Our ordeal occurred on the ground, very muddy ground.” He looked ruefully down at his clothing.

  Tipper thought the mud had not stuck to him nearly as badly as it clung to everyone else. Only her father was decently attired.

  Jayrus smiled. “And our mishap involves ordinary thieves who did no more than jump out from behind trees and waylay us. No risky dragon flights.”

  He proceeded to spin his tale, and Tipper marveled at how close he stuck to the truth. He mentioned the road and the carriage. He talked about the men who surrounded Tipper and Bealomondore, but neglected to say they surrounded only Tipper and the young tumanhofer. He described Beccaroon’s brave defense. He talked of his struggle with the ruffians but failed to mention he used swords.

  He ended by describing his friend Beccaroon’s injury which made Tipper break down and sob.

  Authority braced the prince’s voice. “Find the men who have that tail as a trophy and you will have found the culprits, Sheriff.”

  Tipper wiped her eyes at that moment and happened to look at the rough man beside the sheriff. Why did he look uncomfortable? Had he been part of the horrors of last night?

  As Prince Jayrus showed the two men out, he looked straight into the official’s eyes and said, “I wouldn’t be at all surprised, Sheriff Rog, if these two incidents were related and the evil perpetrated sprang from the same source.”