The Vanishing Sculptor (10 page)

Tipper shook a stray lock of fine hair away from her face. “Perhaps, but we don’t know where the artist went. Probably back home, and that is too far away to even consider.”

“He’s in Temperlain, staying at the Boss Inn.”

Tipper dragged her foot in the dirt and came to an abrupt stop. “How do you know that?”

Beccaroon lifted one shoulder in an understated shrug. “I am a respected leader of the community. Most people treat me as such and take the time to keep me informed.”

Tipper reacted to a tangent thought. Her mentor again brought up how people usually regarded him. He did it to point out her shortcomings. “Your veiled allusions to my impertinence are annoying. I’m never sure if you mean what I think you mean. Couldn’t you just be blatant about it and shake a wingtip in my face?” Tipper hopped out of the swing and put her hands on her hips. “And besides, I treat you with respect. At least I think I do.”

“Awk! You treat me with affection.” He gave her a disgruntled look. “Affection suitable to a doddering old uncle. At times your conduct is extremely flippant.”

Her heart seized up as she studied his demeanor. Her old friend truly resented the manner in which she loved him. “Is that so bad, Sir Bec? You practically raised me, and many times you’ve been the only one to give me comfort.” She cocked her head. “Does it wound your pride for an emerlindian girl to dote on you?”

“It is not that you bruise my dignity, my dear. I have enough self-confidence to be able to sustain a few callous blows.” Bec sidled along the branch. “But you act as if I am not worthy of your regard. Your offhandedness reflects on you, showing a lack of discernment.” He tossed his head and looked into the rich green canopy above them. “I thought I had taught you to be more adept at judging the appropriateness of any chosen behavior.”

Tipper twisted in the corner of her mouth and bit her lip. Having a grand parrot as her guardian for all these years had been as much a trial to her as it had been to him. At times she could not seem to please the fussy bird, even though she loved him dearly. And that was the problem. He accepted her love, but not the demonstration of it. He was not a father who would hold her in his lap or swing her up in his arms. She missed that. But if she could reason out why their relationship scraped along a bumpy road from time to time, why couldn’t he? Why did she always have to be the one to apologize and make adjustments?

Beccaroon hopped off his perch and landed in front of her. His beady eyes narrowed as he gazed into her face. “Perhaps it is your lack of social interaction with the outside world. Perhaps it would be good for you to travel with this wizard and his librarian and be exposed to a more sophisticated population.”

As if he’d punched her, Tipper’s answer whooshed out in a shriekish whisper.
“What?”

“Your father can’t go. You would benefit from an introduction to the world outside your secluded niche. And you need to make peace with Bealomondore.” He smoothed the feathers on his chest with his beak. “You should go.”

“I can’t leave.” She found her arms flailing in the air, emphasizing her objection. She pinned them to her sides. “Who would run the estate?”

“Your father.”

“From a closet?”

“He isn’t always in the closet.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from his absurd suggestion. “I don’t want to go.” She pointed her chin at him. “Why don’t you go?”

Beccaroon wagged his head back and forth. “I don’t want to go.”

“You’re Father’s best friend.”

“You are your father’s daughter.”

Tipper stiffened. “I’m tired of being his daughter. I’m tired of responsibility and impossible circumstances.”

“Then run away from home and have an adventure.”

She growled in her throat but not loud enough for her mentor to hear. “You taught me not to run away from my obligations.”

“Then go with Wizard Fenworth and Librettowit and fulfill your obligations.”

She whirled, stomped away, then turned back. “You’re more suited to accomplishing tasks of great importance.”

“You have more at stake and are therefore more motivated to achieve.”

“I don’t want to go with those crazy old men.”

“And you think I do? Three hours in my forest convinced me I didn’t want to travel to the neighbor’s fruit stand with those two.” He bristled. “If you play your cards right, you can have Bealomondore come along.”

“I don’t want to go with two crazy old men and one fanatical artist.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “You go. You know how to discern the proper behavior appropriate to any given situation.”

“Don’t throw words of encouragement and instruction back in my face, you ungrateful whelp.”

Tipper relaxed as a wonderful idea blossomed. “Rolan.”

“Rolan?”

“Let’s send Rolan.”

Beccaroon clicked his tongue against his beak. “Now that’s an idea. We can stay here and pretend our secure little life hasn’t been bopped with a rolling pin.”

Tipper shook her head and waved her hands in the air in protest, but the bird continued. “I can see plainly that Rolan will be able to talk Bealomondore into aiding in the search for the three statues. He has a smooth way about him.”

“Oh, do stop.”

Beccaroon flew the short distance to another good perch and stared down at her. Sarcasm laced his words. “Also, Rolan is loyal and trustworthy. I can’t think of a better person to be an emissary for Verrin Schope. Our neighbor, at least, looks the part.” He shook his head. “Tipper, be reasonable. Rolan looks like what he is—a farmer.”

She lifted her chin. “True, but a gentleman farmer.”

“He’d be uncomfortable in crowded city streets.”

“He’s a valiant man. He’d cope.”

“His harvest would suffer while he was away.”

“You could offer to take over the management of his farm.”

An unladylike snort escaped as Tipper remembered the withering of her father’s productive land under her guiding hand. The crops had dwindled from a thousand acres to a garden plot. The grand parrot magistrate might solve disputes among the neighbors, make judgments on behalf of the less fortunate, and order changes made for the safety of the population, but he was not gifted with agricultural wisdom. Sir Bec had not provided wise counsel in this area. If it weren’t for Gladyme, the garden would be thistles.

She sighed. “We can’t send Rolan.”

“Then you should resign yourself to going. You must save your father. And perhaps even save our world from whatever happens to a world that dissipates and then regroups in a closet.”

“I can’t do this, Bec. You try to make me believe I have done a good job taking care of my mother and our estate.” She gestured as if evidence sprang up around her, illustrating her speech. She flung one hand out, pointing. “Ruined crops.” Her other hand waved. “Destitute peasants.” With her arms spread, she turned in a circle. “Can’t you see it, Bec? Be honest!”

She clenched one fist and shook it at an unseen list detailing her ineptitude. “Mother is more flighty than ever. Her behavior is a direct reflection of the security she does not feel. Our once-beautiful home is falling into disrepair. The former staff of eighty servants now consists of two old people who stay because they love me. I’ve put scores of people out of work by not being able to maintain the crops and industry that was derived from the land.”

She paused, all the fire going out of her argument. “I’m not suitable for a quest to find lost treasure, to save a man’s life, to save the world. Someone else will have to do it.”

“Someone like me?” Beccaroon asked.

“Someone exactly like you.”

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

“You will?”

“Yes. I’ve never saved the world before. Such an accomplishment will look good on my gravestone. ‘Here lies Beccaroon, a worthy steward of the forest, a steadfast friend, a considerate and honest neighbor, and saver of the world’”

“You’re joking.”

“Yes, but I will go on this quest.” He shuddered. “With Fenworth and Librettowit.”

“You are a good friend, Bec.”

“On one condition.”

Tipper stiffened. “There’s a condition? What is it?”

“That you go too.”

“I thought we established that I am good for nothing.”

“Never, my dear.” He cocked his head in a gesture that always warmed Tipper’s heart. “I would never acquiesce to such an idea. You are undoubtedly good for something.”

Oh, the doubt again. Tipper struggled to keep a firm hold on the positive. She managed to speak without sounding defensive. “What?”

“A buffer. The one person who will keep me from deserting the worthy wizard and the gloomy librarian. You may keep me out of jail for pecking them when their constant nonsensical patter drives me mad. You might even save me from the hangman’s noose should I be trapped in a room with them for more than an hour.”

Her heart lightened. Bec’s presence would make everything all right. She kept her somber tone. “In a quiet room, there’s always the possibility that the wizard will sleep.”

“And what will crawl out of his clothing while he snoozes?”

She shrugged and let a smile escape the control she had maintained to be serious.

Beccaroon pointed a wingtip at her and shook it. “We both go on this quest, or your father scatters one time too many to be put back together. The quest is imperative.”

The smile deserted her face. “On that I agree.”

12
Boss Inn

Tipper stepped down from the back of Rolan’s wagon onto a busy street in the center of Temperlain. She had been to the larger town twice in her life, but never to this corner of affluence. Surely this section of Temperlain rivaled Ragar, the capital city of Chiril, for cosmopolitan sophistication. The bustling atmosphere, with men dressed to impress fellow merchants and women dressed to impress each other, made Soebin seem like a backwoods hamlet. Even the hawkers and errand boys were better dressed than the average citizen of her hometown. On the other side of the cobblestone street, the Boss Inn loomed large and elaborately elegant.

Backwoods. Tipper would have giggled if her throat had not been so tight with apprehension. Soebin did inhabit the edges of a tropical forest. Not exactly backwoods, but close enough. Yes, she was definitely out of her element and with an unpleasant task ahead of her as well.

On the wall behind her, a town bulletin board displayed sketches of young people. Curious, Tipper moved closer to read them. The posters depicted those who might have been abducted by slave traders. She scanned the faces and saw strong, healthy males and females. If the posters were right in their assumptions, then those happy faces were happy no more. She turned away.

On top of that unsettling discovery, the constant movement of goat-pulled carts, quick pedestrians, and hawkers with their wooden trays jarred her nerves. A boy bumped into her.

He turned, walking backward at what she deemed a dangerous pace, doffed his soft, flat hat, and grinned at her. “Sorry, miss.” He slapped his cap back on his head and trotted off

Beccaroon left his perch beside Rolan on the driver’s seat and landed next to her. Several passersby slowed long enough to take a second look at the grand parrot. Few of the great birds came into cities.

Wizard Fenworth and Librettowit remained on the sofa situated in the wagons hauling bed. Junkit and Zabeth lay on the wizard’s shoulders. He’d surprised Tipper by insisting that the minor dragons come along. He said they were eager to see Temperlain and scolded her for being neglectful of the little beasties’ desires. Tipper listened now as the wizard spoke to her dragons. Junkit and Zabeth did appear to be listening. But then, all animals seemed to listen when the wizard spoke.

Fenworth tilted his head up and peered down his nose as he took in the surrounding area. “There’s a predominance of wood in their architecture, isn’t there?”

Rolan looked over his shoulder. “What do you build with?” he asked.

“Wood, lumber, timber, and hewn boards.”

“I see.” Rolan nodded and quirked an eyebrow. “Then our homes and buildings are constructed much like your own?”

“Different!” proclaimed Fenworth, loud enough to turn the heads of those in the street.

Tipper fixed her attention on the wizard, waiting for him to elaborate on the difference in buildings. He didn’t continue but began gathering town birds, pigeons, sparrows, and grackles around him. The variety of birds soon covered the wagon. Junkit and Zabeth flew to sit with Rolan. More townspeople stared.

Fenworth smiled at Tipper. “I have an owl at home. I do believe I miss the placid fellow.”

Beccaroon reclaimed her attention by nudging her with his wing. “Shall we go into the hotel?”

Tipper looked into her friend’s beady eyes and then up at Fenworth.

“I’m staying here,” said the wizard. “I find dealing with disgruntled tumanhofers to be tiring.”

“Horsefeathers,” grumbled the librarian. He climbed down from the wagon. His weight tipped the vehicle dangerously to one side. He took Tipper’s elbow in a firm hand and steered her across the street. “Always confront a tumanhofer head on. Don’t beat around the bush. We don’t like wishy-washy ways.” They paused to let a dogcart pass. “Tumanhofers are solid folk who like to deal with facts, not emotion.”

The temptation to inform Librettowit of Bealomondore’s disposition parted Tipper’s lips, but before she could utter a word, the steps to the front of the inn loomed before them. She held back, and Librettowit pushed harder against her arm.

“You’ll get us run over in the streets, young girl. Let’s get this meeting with the artist behind us.”

Beccaroon’s wing came around her back. He tsked. “Your home is much grander than this. Quit dragging your feet.”

With Librettowit on one side and Bec on the other, the two ushered Tipper up the painted white stairs. She felt trapped, and the urge to escape increased. If she focused on something minor, perhaps she could make it. If she could explain…

“It’s not the pomposity of the building that’s bothering me,” she said. “It’s the bombastic attitude of the man I must humble myself to.”