The Vanishing Sculptor (16 page)

“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 occasion 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.”

Bealomondore leaned toward Tipper. “We all knew that, didn’t we?”

“Oh yes.” She grinned at him. Since the dance last night, the wall between them had crumbled. She’d watched him be kind to old women and young, fair and not-so-fair. He danced with all, acting gallant to an old and rather smelly hag as well as to a gangly girl who wished very much to be counted as a young lady.

Tipper wanted that kindness to extend to her. The debonair tumanhofer’s approval became important. “Am I forgiven?” she asked.

He looked at her with one eyebrow quirked, but the twinkle in his eye relieved any apprehension she had.

“Yes. I admit there were extenuating circumstances.” His expression sobered. “But you understand that I will always examine what you say, wondering if circumstances are pushing against your ethics.”

Tipper pursed her lips. “That doesn’t sound like you’ve forgiven me.”

He picked a cluster of purple grassblooms and handed them to her. “Forgiven you? Yes. Forgotten the offense? No. I won’t act as if you lie at every opportunity but I won’t be caught again by any prevarication on your part.”

Tipper sniffed the flowers, giving herself a moment to absorb what Bealomondore said. “I guess I deserve that.”

“You do.”

He didn’t have to agree so quickly. Who was he to point out her shortcomings?

Words surfaced on her tongue. The words sprang from deep inside her. Sharp words, ready to wound. Strong words, tasting bitter in her mouth. She wanted to spit them out, but instead she swallowed, as if that would force them down. But these hateful words still clung to her lips. She swallowed again, but the action forced open her mouth. A hand gripping her elbow stopped the flow before it began.

“Tipper.” Her father pulled at her arm. “Come walk with me.” He nodded to Bealomondore. “Excuse us.”

The tumanhofer bowed and strolled up the hill toward the other members of their party, who led the advance.

Verrin Schope pulled his daughter closer and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. He gestured toward the grassblooms in her hand with his chin. “You’ve mangled the stems.”

Tipper gasped at the mashed leaves and slender stalks. The heads of the purple blossoms drooped over the outside of her fist. Unclenching her hand, she let them drop. She stared at her palm covered with green goo. Her father flicked a cloth into her hand, and they stopped while she scrubbed away the evidence of her anger.

When they resumed their walk, Verrin Schope patted her arm. “The Amarans have tomes written to record things that Wulder has proclaimed. Incidences in history, too, that reveal His wisdom. But I especially appreciate the pithy sayings that put into words exactly how things work—how we think and act and speak in a general sense. And how those processes influence our circumstances.”

Tipper nodded, not really interested in what her father meant to tell her. Her heart still thumped in uneasy resentment of the fancy-mannered tumanhofer.

“Here is one of the principles you almost acted out in your dealing with Bealomondore.”

He’d caught her attention, but she wouldn’t urge him on. Instead she looked down, concentrating on the rocky path as it narrowed. Her father let her proceed and followed.

Even from behind, his voice sounded warm and close, personal and kind. “ ‘My mouth says what I have told it not to. My tongue spits the poison I would not swallow. Later is remorse, but now is the sweetness of one barbed morsel after another.’”

They walked on in silence. Tipper tried to repeat Verrin Schope’s words in her head, but they didn’t come out right. “Say it again,” she requested reluctantly.

“ ‘My mouth says what I have told it not to. My tongue spits the poison I would not swallow. Later is remorse, but now is the sweetness of one barbed morsel after another.’”

“It means… ?”

“You tell me.”

She shook her head. She wouldn’t attempt rephrasing the quote. Warring feelings of resentment and chagrin ruled her answer. “I wanted to blast Bealomondore with words that would hurt him. At the same time, I didn’t want to allow those words out of my mouth. But I almost said them. You stopped me.”

“Yes, and another principle in Wulder’s Tomes is this: ‘I stand. I fall. Another and another stand together. We do not fall. I stand. I fall. Another and another raise me to my feet. We do not fall.’”

“That means…?” She glanced back at her father.

He winked. “Another principle: ‘The urge to do good blossoms in the company of those who also choose good. The urge to do bad can be multiplied by the influence of just one with evil intent.’”

Tipper laughed. “Do these people in Amara ever just say something like ‘don’t steal’ or ‘don’t lie’?”

Verrin Schope caught up with her and draped his arm over her shoulders. He squeezed. “Yes, but apparently Wulder prefers His people to puzzle over things and deepen their attachment to His truth.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

“If you consider pondering to be laborious, then yes.” He looked back over his shoulder and turned her to face the fertile valley behind them. “‘A field tilled, a seed planted, the ground tended—the harvest repays each moment of care.’ ”

“Let me guess. That’s in Wulder’s Tomes.”

“That’s in Wulder’s heart. Written as a promise and shared with His people.”

“Does it help to know these things presented this way, Papa? After all, we have similar sayings. ‘A cock crows to launch the day. A dove coos to ease the night.’ ”

“Yes, my dear. Truth exists in many Chiril sayings, but Wulder’s equivalent goes beyond the stating of truth and reveals wisdom. That is an important difference.”

At some point, as they climbed the steep hill, Tipper’s reluctance to engage in this conversation had flown. Eagerly she asked for more insight from these tomes. “And what is Wulder’s equivalent to the rooster and the dove?”