“Hopdin?” Bec’s voice sounded loud in the still night air. No answer brought another call, louder than the first. “Hopdin?”
Beccaroon thrust out his wings and took to the air. He could see more from that vantage point. Above the buildings, he batted back an onslaught of despair. He saw more shadows and dark alleys than patches of light. Nowhere did he see the marione magistrate.
The Grawl stood in the shadows of a mercantile, his victim at his feet. He preferred to dispose of the body outside city limits, in the woods, but he could do it here. He spent a moment watching the circling bird, quite sure Beccaroon had not spotted him. The radius of the grand parrot’s circle grew larger.
The Grawl pulled out a pouch from an inner pocket of his tunic. He frowned over the few capsules remaining in his supply. Groddenmitersay had ordered a new supply of the poison, and hopefully it would come soon. He could wait for hours to snare prey, but waiting for the tumanhofer’s shipment did not sit well with him.
Beccaroon altered his pattern to a figure eight. The Grawl sneered. If the man at his feet was the object of this search, the bird would not find him.
The Grawl opened the pouch and fingered three oblong capsules into his palm. He used his foot to turn Hopdin over. The man still breathed, and that was essential. The Grawl had not yet made the mistake of outright killing his victim. The potion worked only when a heart pumped it through the body.
He leaned over and pinched Hopdin’s cheeks, opening the marione’s mouth. He put all three capsules under his tongue, then poured in a liquid from a flask. He then held the man’s jaw closed. A bit of red foam dribbled out. The Grawl carefully avoided the liquid. After ten seconds, he released his grip and stood.
He sat on a barrel to count the remaining capsules. Eighteen. He looked down at the now dead and disintegrating man. He’d wait until the entire corpse dissolved, then scatter the sodden ash with his feet. By morning there would be no trace of Magistrate Hopdin.
Normally The Grawl wouldn’t commit two assassinations in the same town, but the bird annoyed him. He’d learned two days before that the grand parrot was a magistrate. He wouldn’t slay Sir Beccaroon just for being an annoyance, but he would do the deed for another gold coin. His hoard would weigh a great deal by the time he returned to his homeland.
16
Revelation
As Tipper changed her shoes for boots, she couldn’t help but look with trepidation at the rocky slope.
Bealomondore leaned against a huge boulder, taking advantage of the shade. “I’ll be right behind you, Princess.”
“I told you not to call me that.” She jerked on the laces to tighten the leather around her ankle.
Librettowit watched her. “Make it good and firm to protect your ankle from a sprain.”
She tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice but didn’t quite succeed. “I am!”
“This is steeper than the previous inclines we’ve faced,” Bealomondore explained.
“I can see that.” She started working on the other boot’s stiff cords that stood for shoelaces.
Taeda Bel and Maxon skidded into their presence. They’d already been up the slope and catapulted down with no trouble.
“Once we get to the top,” said Maxon, “it won’t be so difficult. A wide meadow stretches out to the River Hannit. We’ll be able to get a boat and travel with ease.”
Tipper stood and stamped her feet. The boots felt heavy and stiff, but Librettowit insisted she protect her feet. And so far, all his advice for traveling had been correct.
She resented being bossed around. No one had ever been in authority over her during her father’s absence. Sir Beccaroon had offered advice but never demanded she do things his way. She had enough good sense to know that Librettowit was the most experienced in trekking across an uncivilized section of land, but that didn’t make taking orders any easier.
Begrudgingly, she acknowledged that Bealomondore did a much better job of not complaining. Since the horrible realization that she was the whiner, she’d clamped her lips shut. Still, a steady stream of acerbic remarks threatened to flow from her with every aggravation. She admitted to herself that worry for her father caused her short temper.
“All right!” Librettowit rubbed his palms together. “I’ll lead, with Maxon and Taeda Bel flanking Tipper, then Bealomondore can bring up the rear.”
“Wait a minute,” objected Tipper. “I need to check on Rayn.”
Taeda Bel and Maxon crowded her sides. The minor dragon fascinated both kimens. Tipper opened a bag that hung loosely from her belt. Rayn’s head poked out. At the moment, his scales shone bluish gray in the sun. Without waiting for an invitation, he shot out and climbed Tipper’s arm to her shoulder.
She grinned. “He wants to ride outside.”
Librettowit nodded and turned to begin the trudge up the steep hill.
Tipper followed, and the constant encouragement from Rayn helped erase her gloomy mood. She used the mindspeaking between them to keep her thoughts off the hot sun on her back, the physical discomfort of hauling herself up the awkward terrain, and the general despair she felt over the unsettling situation in Chiril. She missed her parents, and more perturbing was the constant longing to see Paladin again.
But if the rumors of invasion were true, real trouble might keep her away from the ones she loved. She’d heard nothing of that possibility while in the kimen village. Now her comrades discussed little else. Maxon and Taeda Bel issued warnings about avoiding strangers and not talking to those they met at taverns and inns.
The dust kicked up by Librettowit landed in her face, and Tipper sneezed. She took a moment to rub her tickling nose.
Bealomondore rested his hand on her back. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“I tied on a handkerchief.”
She turned to see what he meant. A bandana covered the bottom of his face, and his kind brown eyes peered out at her.
He pulled out another large, soft linen square and folded it into a triangle. “Turn around. I’ll tie it on.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you coming?” Librettowit called.
“Just a minute,” answered the other tumanhofer. He tightened the cloth before tying a knot at the back of her head. “You worry too much, Tipper. Relax and allow someone else to bear the responsibility.”
In her mind, she heard Rayn laughing. She brushed aside the little dragon’s obvious reaction to Bealomondore’s advice and spoke to the artist. “That’s hard.”
“True, considering the burden you bore while your father was gone.”
They continued their struggle to conquer the slope. Bealomondore stayed beside her and huffed a bit as he spoke. “Librettowit said something the other day regarding Wulder that really stuck in my mind.”
“Hmm.” Tipper didn’t care to encourage this topic of conversation.
“Librettowit said that every person uses something as a plausible reason not to hand over his life to Wulder. Everyone has a core of willfulness that he doesn’t want to give up. These reasons, or excuses, are vastly different in nature for each individual but very similar in purpose.” He changed his voice to sound like he quoted someone. “ ‘No one else will love me as much as I love myself. I will do a better job of looking out for me.’ ” Bealomondore put his hand on her elbow to steady her over some loose gravel. “And that’s a lie. Wulder cares more.”
“Are you saying you’re beginning to believe all this about their Wulder?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“Not beginning. I’ve already decided to believe.” He paused, then went on in a tone that sounded like he wanted to justify his choice. “I’ve been puzzling over it for a long time, since I met your father in fact. And Librettowit’s assurance seemed to be the binding element.”
He paused to untangle his pant leg from a thorny twig. “I find it fascinating. That Someone, who made the sky and the sea, the land and everything
we see, would take time off from His daily concerns to take an interest in me.”
“Oh, now that is impossible. I know for a fact that one cannot watch the cooks in the kitchen and the workers in the field, the well digger, and the laundry maids all at the same time.”
Bealomondore didn’t seem to have an answer for that, and Tipper felt a strange sense of satisfaction in having silenced him … and a peculiar disappointment.
They reached the highest ridge of their climb and stood. Tipper rubbed the small of her back and surveyed the wide expanse of waving grass.
“Do you see the sky, Tipper?” asked Bealomondore.
She pulled the cloth down before she spoke. “Of course I do.”
“Do you suppose the creator of the sky is bigger than the sky? Wouldn’t that be logical?”
Tipper rested her fists on her hips. “Provided you believe that someone made our world.”
“As an artist,” Bealomondore countered, with a sweeping gesture that included the vista around them, “I have no doubt that someone created all you see. There is no picture without an artist.”
Rayn turned bright purple and opened his mouth. A song of joy poured forth. In the way of minor dragons, no words formed within the melody, but Tipper heard exclamations of praise and gratitude that she had heard on the lips of the kimens and Librettowit when they sang. Sadly, Tipper realized her own voice would not harmonize smoothly with her favorite dragon’s.
She chose to coldly ignore the prompting to join in his song and sat down to change her boots to more comfortable shoes.
17
Swordplay
Tipper welcomed the gentle breeze as they walked through the tall grass. She couldn’t see the river, but Maxon said it was there just beyond the horizon. He also said that a boat stop supplied those using the River Hannit for transport with a myriad of services—showers, meals, supplies, and a few hours of rest from the rigors of moving their cargo vessels up or down the river. Once Tipper’s comrades were on the banks, the small establishment would be only a mile or so downstream.
The group walked side by side. The two tumanhofers flanked Tipper, and the kimens took the outside positions, Maxon next to the artist and Taeda Bel next to the librarian. Rayn sat on Tipper’s head. She tried to persuade him to sit on her shoulder, but he preferred the higher perch.
“Stop!” The word came out of Tipper’s mouth before she heard it in her mind.
Everyone froze.
“What?” asked Bealomondore.
“Snake,” said Taeda Bel.
Librettowit’s head whipped back and forth. “Where?”
Maxon pointed, but Tipper didn’t see anything. Rayn hissed from his post, and she realized he had been the one to put the warning on her lips.
“Bealomondore,” said Maxon in a hushed and urgent voice, “where is the sword Wizard Fenworth gave you?”
“In a hollow.”
“I think it would serve us well in your hand.”
“I’m not a swordsman. I’ve no skill.”
Librettowit gave a choked chortle. “Get it out, son. Move with care. Don’t attract the snake’s attention.”
Tipper held her breath as Bealomondore carefully moved the cloak aside and reached into one of the inside hollows. He seemed to put his hand on the right object immediately. She heard him sigh and watched out of the corner of her eye.
As he pulled out the sword, a large snake raised its head above the two-foot-high grass. Black with a pattern of red and blue stripes, the reptile swayed as its eyes appeared to measure their group. With a hiss, the snake sunk to the ground.
Tipper stepped back at Rayn’s urging. Again she realized it was he who pointed out the slight disturbance across the top of the grass that displayed the snake’s movement.
“H-how long do you think that snake is?” she asked.
Librettowit pursed his mouth. “Nine feet? Ten?”
Rayn dashed down from his lookout point and dived inside her cape.
Tipper would have liked to have wings to fly or be small enough to fit in her own pockets.
Bealomondore stepped forward, but it looked like the sword pulled him. The snake’s head bolted into the air right in front of the tumanhofer. With one swing of the blade, the artist decapitated the snake.
Maxon jumped up and down. “Well done! Well done!”
Bealomondore gasped, and the hand holding the sword dropped to his side. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.
Tipper couldn’t help beaming at him. “I didn’t know you could wield a sword like that.”
“I can’t.” Bealomondore pointed at his shaking hand holding the weapon. “I can’t even hold it still. The sword killed the snake. I didn’t.”
Librettowit nodded sagely. “A weapon bestowed upon you by Wizard Fenworth is likely to have unusual properties.”
The younger tumanhofer thrust the sword hilt toward the librarian. “You take it.”
Librettowit raised his hands in front of him, palms forward. “No, the sword will work for you, not me. Do you have a sword belt in that cape?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Put it on.”
Rayn came out of hiding. He, Maxon, and Taeda Bel expressed enthusiasm by jigging around. Rayn danced on one of Tipper’s shoulders, prancing over her head to bounce on the other.
“He’s going to be a warrior,” said Maxon.
“No,” said Taeda Bel, “one of those fancy fencers.”
“No, no, no.” Bealomondore held the belt in a fist and shook it in the air above his head. “I am a painter, an artist. I have no intention of becoming a swordsman.”
Interrupting his wild shindig, Tipper caught Rayn and restrained him against her chest. “Are there more snakes?”
Taeda Bel and Maxon stood still, paying attention to their surroundings. Taeda Bel’s face took on an expression of wariness, and she scooted closer to her emerlindian.
“Dozens,” said Maxon. “Seems they’re having a get-together.”
Tipper frowned. “Snakes have get-togethers?”
“Mating season.”
“Really?” Tipper doubted him, wondering if he was taking advantage of her ignorance.
He tossed her a cheeky grin. “Let’s get moving.”
“You’re going to watch for snakes, aren’t you?” Tipper cringed. “I don’t want to step on one.”
“We won’t let you,” said Taeda Bel, “and Bealomondore can practice by dispatching the ones that are aggressive.”
Bealomondore deliberately sheathed the sword, then put the belt around his waist. Squaring his shoulders, he scowled and marched forward. Tipper placed Rayn on her shoulder and followed.
They hadn’t taken ten steps before another snake raised its head and threatened the tumanhofer in front. Bealomondore jerked on the sword hilt and brought his weapon out. Again the blade directed his arm. Tipper gasped as the snake lunged, but Bealomondore managed to lop off its head.
Librettowit came up beside him. “You might as well keep your weapon drawn. These snakes are mongers. At least they look and act like the snakes back home that populate our southern regions. Mongers will challenge any man or beast that crosses their territory.”
Tipper joined the two tumanhofers. “Are they poisonous?”
“Slightly venomous most of the year, but deadly during mating season.” Librettowit sighed. “I don’t suppose there is a way to go around this little patch of land they seem to claim as their own.”
Maxon and Taeda Bel looked behind them, paused for a moment, then shook their heads.
The male kimen indicated the land they had just crossed with a sweep of his hand. “They’ve closed in. We’re surrounded.”
Tipper glared his way. “Who was it who said that this would be easy? That once we got to the top of that horrible hill, the next part would be easy? I think the word you used was ‘easy,’ wasn’t it?”
Taeda Bel shook her head. “No, he said, ‘We’ll be able to get
a boat and travel with ease.’ I don’t think he said crossing the meadow would be easy.”
“Keep together,” said Maxon. “I think the snakes are tightening their circle around us. Let’s move.”
Tipper gave Bealomondore credit. He went ahead of the others, ready to protect them. The next snake gave him less than a second to react, yet the tumanhofer managed to behead it. She thought he handled the sword with a little more finesse.
By the time they finally reached the far edge of the field, where the land dropped to the riverbed, he looked much more comfortable in the role of champion. She’d lost count of how many mongers had challenged him and lost their lives.
The steep cliff would be difficult to descend, but enough rocks jutted from the face to provide steps, and astain bushes dotted the surface. These stubby plants thrust deep roots into the ground, and scrappy branches grew from a short, thick trunk. Tipper worried more about the snakes in the field than the climb they would have to make.
She couldn’t help hoping that the snakes had been dispatched before they’d had a chance to make babies. As far as she was concerned, the world didn’t need more poisonous, feisty snakes. Her mother used to fuss about the snakes Tipper might run into in the jungle next to their estate. Counting all she had seen throughout her life, the number was just a small fraction of the populace of this one field.
Librettowit clapped Bealomondore on the shoulder. “Good work. You’ll be able to face down any foe by the time the sword is finished training you.”
The artist’s shoulders drooped. “I have no desire to be a warrior.”
“A swordsman is quite a different prospect from your run-of-the-mill soldier fighting on a battlefield.”
Bealomondore grunted.
“Fencing is an art form akin to the dance. The intricacies of a sword fight display grace and fluidity of motion like a ballet.”
The tumanhofer artist cast the older man a look of interest. “Really? I’m a pretty accomplished dancer, quite in demand when hostesses need males to round out the numbers for a successful soiree.”