The Vanishing Sculptor

by Donita K. Paul

  Bamataub prodded the conversation toward the upcoming festivals that would be celebrated in Fayetopolis. Since he never addressed the women, Tipper and Orphelian did not participate. Several of the other members of their questing party remained very quiet, though the general talk during their refreshment covered an assortment of pleasant topics. Prince Jayrus spoke little, but Tipper thought he was studying the different speakers, especially their host. Her father didn’t join in the banter.

  Tipper watched Bamataub. He seemed interested in keeping the conversation directed toward his choice of topics and avoided conversing with her father. Several times, the dialogue would have naturally included Verrin Schope, but Bamataub deliberately drew someone else’s contribution instead.

  The servants came again and cleared away the remnants of their tea.

  Wizard Fenworth waited until the door shut behind the last servant and turned purposefully to their host. “Do you mind explaining how you knew us?”

  “I am a leader in the community.” Bamataub’s tight-lipped smile widened. “Of course I am kept informed of who comes and goes in Fayetopolis.”

  Fenworth did not return the smile. “Do you know why we have come?”

  Their host tilted his head and lifted his hands in a disarming gesture. “That I do not know.”

  Librettowit scooted forward on his chair. “We came to buy the Verrin Schope statue Morning Glory.”

  Bamataub sat back and placed his hands on his lean stomach. “I believe Morning Glory is one of three statues that belong together. Do you possess the other two?”

  The librarian’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

  “A shame.” He straightened. “I do not wish to sell my statue.”

  “We have not yet named a price,” interjected Prince Jayrus.

  Their host bestowed a look of scorn on the young emerlindian. “Price is irrelevant. I will not sell.”

  Tipper clutched the arm of the sofa. “But—”

  Verrin Schope held up a hand. “Tipper.”

  She fell silent.

  Her father rose to his feet and nodded to Bamataub. “We have no more business here. Thank you for your hospitality.” He came to stand before the ladies and bowed to Orphelian. “Thank you, Madam.” He gestured to Tipper, and she stood beside him. He placed her hand on his arm and started out. She heard the others behind them, shuffling as they made their farewells to host and hostess.

  “What are we going to do?” she whispered.

  Verrin Schope did not answer as they approached the front door and the butler rose from his seat and opened it for them. The carriage still stood in the drive.

  Tipper waited until they were all seated and the horses given the command to go. “What are we going to do?”

  Verrin Schope leaned his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes.

  “The evil was oppressive in that house,” said Prince Jayrus. “I couldn’t discern from where it came.”

  Bealomondore cast a glance upward to where the coachman and Beccaroon sat on the outside. He lowered his voice. “The rumor is that he deals in slaves.”

  “Surely not,” whispered Tipper. “No one owns slaves. That practice was forever banished when my great-great-grandfather was king.”

  Bealomondore nodded. “No one owns slaves in Chiril, but women and children and sometimes young men are kidnapped and sold in other countries.”

  Jayrus lifted an eyebrow at the tumanhofer. “Perhaps the dealing in fine art covers the transport of slave cargo.”

  “That would be my supposition.”

  Fenworth leaned forward and slapped the prince on the knee. “Again you astonish me, lad.”

  Jayrus looked at the toad that had hopped out of the old man’s sleeve and now sat on his leg.

  “Oh, sorry about that,” Fenworth scooped the critter into his hand, and it disappeared. “Rupert becomes confused easily.”

  “The toad?” asked Jayrus.

  “Yes. Shy, you know.” Fenworth patted his chest and butterflies poured out from under his beard. They flew out the window. “As I was saying, your acumen astonishes me.”

  A hint of pride colored the prince’s features. “Prince Surrus was a thorough teacher.”

  “Yes, well, ahem, tut, tut. He could have worked more on your humility.” He tapped Tipper’s leg. “Now as to what we are to do. We will come back and try again. Perhaps we will even go and acquire the other statues first, before we return.”

  His gaze fell upon Verrin Schope, who hadn’t moved since they entered the carriage. “Right now it is imperative to find a rare insect containing a certain property that will be beneficial to your father’s health. Beccaroon, Librettowit, and I discussed this earlier. Your feathered friend should have directed the coachman to take us to the nearest medicinal bug shop. He assures us that quality insects can be found in the larger cities of your Chiril. I hope he is correct. I don’t carry a Fineet fineaurlais on my person. And I haven’t had one in storage for ages.”

  “Interesting,” said Jayrus. “Even as a street urchin, I never visited the bug shop. I was afraid I’d be made to eat one.”

  “Nonsense.” Fenworth gave him a scouring look, making Tipper believe the young man had fallen out of the wizard’s good graces. “They come powdered. One does not eat bugs.”

  “In Chiril one does,” said Bealomondore.

  “Harrumph! Heathen country.”

  29

  The Bug Shop

  Beccaroon swayed on top of the coach as they came again to the thoroughfares marked by crowding and noise. He felt like the congestion of the city could permeate his feathers, and he’d instinctively fluffed up against his surroundings. He’d also scrunched his neck, pulling his head down. This would never do if he were to help spot the medicine shop Fenworth needed. He shook his feathers, straightened, and watched the signs ahead.

  With relief, he read “Insect Emporium” in big green letters, outlined in gold. A bit ostentatious to his way of thinking. Underneath, “Remedies for Common and Uncommon Ails” scrolled out in red on a brown background. A bit more tasteful. In even smaller letters, this time brown on red, the owners proudly displayed their names— Rowser and Piefer.

  Beccaroon nudged the coachman and nodded toward the shop.

  “I thought it was along here somewheres,” the man answered and edged his horses closer to the side of the street. The driver pulled to a stop and jumped down to help the passengers alight.

  “Wait here,” said Fenworth. “Verrin Schope is not coming in.”

  “Yes sir.” The driver tipped his top hat and peeked with curiosity into the coach.

  Bec flew to the sidewalk and stood beside his girl. He could feel tension radiating from her. He got a glimpse inside the carriage and understood why. As dark as Verrin Schope was, it was hard to see the ashen undertone of his black skin, but his eyes lacked luster. Beccaroon could not miss the lethargy, strong evidence of Verrin Schope’s state of health. His old friend looked like a wax reproduction of himself.

  Prince Jayrus opened the door to the emporium and stood back to let the others enter. Beccaroon followed right behind Tipper. As she passed the prince, he smiled down at her. She smiled up at him. Beccaroon put his forehead to the small of her back and pushed.

  “Close the door quickly,” ordered a man behind the counter.

  They hustled in, and Jayrus swung the door shut. Worn wood covered the floor of the old shop. Thankfully, the store was spacious enough for all of them. Several lamps hung from the ceiling, and shelves lined the walls. Bags, baskets, bottles, jars, jugs, boxes, and cages filled every nook and cranny. A strong but not unpleasant odor drifted about. Beccaroon decided it smelled like the forest floor after a heavy rain. A cricket chirped incessantly, and tiny feet scratched on paper surfaces. Bec looked around and saw that some of the cages, with their fine wire mesh, contained skittering bugs.

  Tipper moved to a cage of exotic butterflies and stood transfixed. Beccaroon didn’t blame her. Dozens of speci
es of various sizes and spectacular colors flitted about the floor-to-ceiling structure.

  The minor dragons jumped out of Fenworth’s pockets.

  The marione shopkeeper looked up from the clipboard he held and frowned. “None of that, now.” He spoke in an even tone. “They eat the merchandise, you know. And it’s a tangle to figure out who ate what and how much is owed.”

  Fenworth gestured with his hand, and the four dragons came to roost on the wizard, the librarian, and the prince.

  The man behind the counter stood, pushing a wooden stool out of his way. “I’m Rowser of Rowser and Piefer. What can I do to help you?”

  Beccaroon caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Another man—a long, lanky emerlindian—crawled from behind one barrel to another. His tan skin and brown hair indicated he was older than Jayrus but much younger than Verrin Schope. He was also thinner than both men.

  Wizard Fenworth advanced to the counter. “My friend is falling apart.”

  Rowser held up one finger. “Nerves. I have just the thing.” He looked up at his stock and moved toward a ladder connected to a rail. With one push, the shop owner could move the steps to any section around the outer wall of the shop, providing access to the topmost shelves.

  “No,” said Fenworth, “not nerves.”

  “Falling apart?” Rowser snapped his fingers. “Dollopsy” He turned and walked the other direction, looking on the lower shelves.

  “No, not dollopsy.” Fenworth picked up and examined a cloth bag from the counter. He read the label, then continued his response. “Glad of that actually.”

  The crawling man came out from behind the barrel, slapped his hand against the wooden floor, and yelled, “Gotcha!”

  “Good going, Piefer,” said Rowser. “How many does that make?”

  “Eighty-six.”

  “Only fourteen to go.”

  The emerlindian shook his shaggy hair. “Unfortunately, that was a gross of grassbenders, not a hundred pack.” He began his search again, peering behind a stack of crates.

  Fenworth looked down his nose at the bags on the counter. “Had a mishap with your grassbenders?”

  “Yes,” said Rowser. “When we opened the shipment this morning, one of the bag clasps had come loose in transit.”

  “Have you got a sugar lickick around?”

  Rowser looked doubtfully at the old man. “We don’t sell lickicks that aren’t medicinal.” He pointed to a stand on the counter that held colored sugar globs on wooden sticks. “We have lickicks for oral pain, toothaches, and sore throats. We have lickicks for calming nerves, upset stomachs, and fierce headaches. Also lickicks to obliterate cravings and aid in the loss of weight.”

  Wizard Fenworth held up his hand to stop the flow of information. “This would be a lickick for the sake of good taste, not good health. A red one, if you have it.”

  Rowser looked at Piefer. The emerlindian sighed and pushed up from his crawling position but did not stand. Still on his knees, he poked around in his pockets. He came up with a blue lickick first.

  “That’ll do,” said Fenworth, “if you don’t have a red.”

  After producing a green, two yellows, and a broken orange, Piefer held out a red lickick.

  Fenworth took it and turned to the other owner. “A small bowl of water, a pinch of salt, and straw from a broom, please.”

  Rowser pulled the bowl from under the counter and a bag of salt from a shelf, and brought the broom from the back. Piefer got to his feet and stood with his hands on his hips, watching the old man.

  Fenworth raised his eyebrows. “Water?”

  Piefer leaned over the counter, his long arm easily reaching underneath, and retrieved a clear glass jug. “Water.” He put it down in front of the wizard.

  Beccaroon edged closer to get a better look, as did the prince and Bealomondore. Librettowit had taken out a piece of paper, and as he roamed the store, he scribbled a list. Tipper pulled herself away from the butterflies and stood next to Beccaroon.

  Fenworth poured water into the bowl. He took a pinch of salt from the bag and sprinkled it in, then stirred the concoction with the red lickick. When the water turned pink, he set the stick aside and pulled straws from the broom. He constructed a grid by placing the straws across the bowl from rim to rim.

  “That’s so your grassbenders don’t drown,” Fenworth informed his audience.

  He handed the broom to Piefer. Two green bugs landed on the straw topping the bowl, stuck their heads through the grid, and began drinking the beverage provided by the wizard. Piefer set the broom aside and scooped up the bugs. Another landed on the trap, and he collected it.

  “Thank you,” he said, grinning. “This should save my knees.”

  “Think nothing of it. A trick from Amara.”

  Rowser plucked another bug from the top of the bowl and put it in Piefer’s bag. “Amara. That’s a far distance.”

  “Yes. We’ve come on a quest, and one of our party is having trouble.”

  “The one who falls apart?”

  “Yes. Do you happen to have a Fineet fineaurlais in your stock?

  Rowser looked up at his partner. “Piefer?”

  The emerlindian scratched his head. “I don’t think so. But could you draw us a picture? Perhaps we call it something else.”

  Fenworth shook his head, and a string of insects dropped onto the counter. The multitude sat for an instant and then charged the bowl.

  “Oh, sorry.” The wizard plucked Hue off his shoulder and put him down. “Clean that up, would you? But don’t eat the gentlemen’s merchandise. Junkit, Zabeth, give a hand. Where’s Grandur?”

  The healing dragon flew from Librettowit’s shoulder.

  Fenworth grinned. “Ah, that should take care of the problem. Remember, don’t eat the grassbenders. Not ours, you know.”

  Beccaroon watched with fascination as the dragons efficiently sorted the bugs. Using their front claws, they captured insect after insect. The dragons handed grassbenders to Rowser and Piefer and ate the others. Fenworth’s bugs were gobbled up until none remained. Beccaroon saw a couple he knew to be tasty but refrained from barging in on the minor dragons’ feast. A stray that fell to the floor was, however, a different matter. Tipper had no interest in the bugs and wandered around the shop.

  Soon the little dragons rolled onto their backs, stomachs protruding in a very full state. Bec felt lighthearted, surprised by the pride he had for Junkit, Zabeth, Hue, and Grandur.

  Piefer and Rowser exchanged puzzled looks.

  Piefer cleared his throat. “Amaran dragons, I assume.”

  Beccaroon chuckled. “Grandur is, but the other three were born in Chiril, either in or near the Indigo Forest.”

  “They’re very intelligent,” said Rowser.

  Hue lifted his head from the counter and winked at the marione, then collapsed again.

  Wizard Fenworth coughed. “Well, getting back to the Fineet fineaurlais, I cant draw one, but I imagine my librarian can. Librettowit?”

  “Got it.” The older tumanhofer came over, waving a paper from his tablet. “Knew you’d want it as soon as the young fellow asked for it.” He put a drawing on the counter.

  Piefer and Rowser studied the black lines of a beetle.

  “Cranicus batteran?” asked Piefer.

  “Cranicus albatteran.”

  “Ah yes, the elongated thorax.”

  “Is this your family?” asked Tipper.

  All heads turned in her direction. Fenworth shook his head, very gently, only dislodging a couple of leaves from his beard.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “She’s excitable and sometimes doesn’t follow what’s going on. I’m sure she didn’t refer to phylum, classes, orders, families, genera, species. She’s been well educated and knows mariones and emerlindians are not classified in the same order as Fineet fineaurlais”

  Beccaroon wandered over to where Tipper studied a painting on the wall. “She means this family portrait. It appears to be R
owser, his wife, and many children. Piefer has a dog.”

  “And a wife,” said the emerlindian.

  “Do you have a dozen?” asked Librettowit. “Are they fresh?”

  “Wives?” said Piefer. “It’s against the law.”

  “Children?” said Rowser, at the same time. “Only nine.”

  A moment of silence followed. Beccaroon closed his eyes. That this type of discussion was beginning to sound normal to him caused a certain amount of trepidation.

  “Fineet fineaurlais,” clarified Librettowit.

  “Powdered and hermetically sealed,” said Rowser.

  Piefer vaulted over the counter and pushed the ladder. “I’ll get the jar.” The old steps rattled and banged as they coasted along the rickety rail. Piefer stopped it and climbed up faster than a monkey. Beccaroon squinted, trying to read the words on the jars.

  Piefer scanned the labels on one row, climbed a few steps to examine the next, pulled on the shelf to move the ladder, and finally located the container he wanted. “Here it is. We’ve only used this for closing wounds. What is it you need it for?”

  “My friend has molecular malocclusion distress syndrome.”

  As he climbed down, Piefer looked at Rowser.

  Rowser shrugged. “How much do you need?”

  “We’ll take the bottle,” said Librettowit, “and here’s a list of other insects. We are in short supply of medicinal bugs at this time.” He glanced at the four sated dragons and handed the paper to the marione shopkeeper.

  Rowser’s eyebrows lifted. “This will take some time to fill.”

  Librettowit took the bottle from Piefer. “We’ll pay for it now and ask you to deliver the rest to The Moon and Three Halves Inn. Can you have it ready by this evening?”

  “We can,” said Piefer.

  Librettowit waited for them to tally up the cost while Fenworth and the others left the shop.

  Prince Jayrus grimaced. “I’m not sure I liked the odor in there, but we managed to escape without eating any bugs.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Beccaroon with a laugh. “I managed to snag one of Fenworth’s beetles that fled from the minor dragons.”