Dragons of the Valley (2 page)

Bealomondore nodded. “I think that’s a reasonable choice.”

The kimen sighed. “I was told this would be a difficult assignment.”

They stood in silence. Bealomondore considered returning to his spacious chambers, warm bed, and pleasant dreams.

Maxon snapped his fingers. “Compromise!”

Bealomondore lifted one eyebrow. “We look out the windows, see if danger lurks, then forget this whole outlandish idea. That’s the only compromise I’m interested in.”

The kimen ignored his ill humor and tugged on the tumanhofer’s pants once more. “Right! Let’s go look at the statues. I want to see them up close.”

“Looking is all right.” Bealomondore smoothed the material of his sleeves and stepped into the hushed hall. “Taking is not.”

His footsteps tapped on the marble floor as they approached the carpet centered in the hall.

“Shh!” said Maxon, who didn’t make a sound as he glided toward the display of the revered sculptor Verrin Schope’s famous
Trio of Elements
.

The three statues had been carved out of one stone, the brilliance
of the artist depicted in the layered symbolism. The most obvious interpretation would be of morning, day, and night. But the trio also represented air, earth, and water. Kimen, emerlindian, and marione figures depicted three of the fourteen races that populated the world.

Recently brought to the attention of the royal court, the statues had not yet been expounded upon by critics. Bealomondore felt more symbolism would be exposed with time. Master sculptor Verrin Schope layered his work with meaning. With uncanny skill, he could almost coax life into the cold stone.

The craftsmanship alone made the art valuable. The depth of the imagery would place the art among the most famous classics. Bealomondore’s pride in being under Verrin Schope’s tutelage puffed out his chest. And he, a humble but aspiring artist, was privy to the backstory of these magnificent pieces. The history and intrigue surrounding the importance of the original stone … 
That
would become the material of legends.

And perhaps humble Graddapotmorphit Bealomondore of Greeston in Dornum would be mentioned for his part in the fantastic quest. He patted his chest, a smile tugging at his lips.

As he and Maxon passed a pillar, the entire display came into sight. Bealomondore stopped and gasped at the vacant spot in the circle of three statues.

“One’s already gone,” whispered Maxon. “See? I told you we had to act quickly.”

Bealomondore whipped his head around, searching the shadows, hoping to spy some thief tiptoeing out of the hall.

Nothing stirred.

“Take it,” urged Maxon. “Take
Day’s Deed
before the thief comes back for it.”

“I don’t understand your reasoning. I don’t understand why I’m supposed to believe your Wulder would urge me to steal.”

The kimen vibrated. His already shrill voice screeched up a notch. “Not stealing! Protecting! We can’t let a wicked force get hold of all three statues. You don’t want to be responsible for the evil consequences, do you?”

That caught his attention. The
Trio of Elements
had been rescued from the hands of a nefarious wizard. If someone plotted to steal all three, then having one in Bealomondore’s possession would thwart the evildoer’s plans.

“Why do we have to leave the city?”

“Because,” answered Maxon, prodding Bealomondore closer to the two figures in stone, “we don’t know who the perpetrator is, and getting as far away as possible is critical.” Maxon turned away from Bealomondore, braced his back against the tumanhofer’s leg, and pushed. “And if the thief is here in the palace, we won’t be able to keep him from stealing another piece of the
Trio.
”

“Fine!” Bealomondore picked up the statue of a marione farmer. “Where’s that sack you brought along?”

Maxon jumped away and did a little skip. “Hollow. It’s a hollow bag, given to our clan by your honored wizard friend, Fenworth.”

“Friend? More like acquaintance. He’s an odd man, and even after questing with him, I don’t claim to know him well enough to say ‘friend.’ ”

Maxon put his hand between the folds of his tunic and pulled out a limp cloth bag. He held it open as Bealomondore lowered the statue. The neck of the hollow bulged, but as the stone figure disappeared, the material returned to a flaccid state.

The kimen thrust the bag toward the tumanhofer. “You take it.”

Bealomondore clenched his fists. “Why? It certainly is not too heavy for you to tote.”

“My orders say for you to take it. Not me.”

Bealomondore hesitated while Maxon thrust the empty-looking
sack at him. The image of a mercenary army marching through a gateway created by villains using the three stones made his stomach tighten. He had no desire to repeat that event in the near future.

He sighed and took the bag, rolling it into a tight cylinder, then stuffed it in his stylish shoulder satchel. “At least in this form the bulky statue won’t ruin the lines of my attire.” He looked down at his mismatched jacket, trousers, vest, and crumpled cravat.

The kimen’s light laughter echoed in the hall. Maxon clamped his hand over his own mouth.

Bealomondore studied the little man’s face. Bright, cheerful eyes twinkled at him. With wispy hair and no eyebrows, kimens always looked surprised. Their clothing was an odd substance, both beautiful and as disorderly as their topknot. In Chiril, the little people did not mix with the other six high races, and this added to their mystique. The artist in Bealomondore wanted to capture Maxon’s expression of delight.

Maxon lowered his hand. “You wear very nice clothes. But we don’t have time to pack a bag.”

That statement jerked the tumanhofer out of any appreciation for the comeliness of his companion.

He growled his disapproval. “You expect me to travel to who-knows-where with only the clothes on my back?”

Maxon nodded vigorously. “Indeed, I do. But it isn’t as bad as you might think. If I’m right, we’ll be directed to a kimen village in the Starling Forest. They’ll have adequate accommodations and clothing you’ll admire.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

He shook his head, wild hair lashing the air. “You like to worry.” He turned and headed for the far end of the great hall. “Come on. Let’s sneak out and find our contact.”

Bealomondore stepped softly behind the kimen, who moved with
such grace that he appeared to be floating. No one challenged them as they skulked by the guard stations. The tumanhofer glowered at their lack of alertness. He wouldn’t be stealing this statue if they were more conscientious in their duties.

He and the kimen reached the courtyard, lit with torches, and walked boldly to the massive gate.

Two soldiers stood sentinel. They saluted as the king’s guests left the castle grounds at three o’clock in the morning. The tumanhofer nodded but disapproved.

After they entered the deserted street, Bealomondore whispered to his short companion, “Someone should do something about the lax security of the castle.”

“Why?” Maxon turned quickly, with a puzzled air. “No one has challenged the king of Chiril for centuries.”

“I seem to remember a wicked wizard and a delusional gentleman farmer attempting to take over the kingdom less than a week ago.”

“Yes, that unfortunate circumstance disturbed our calm a bit. But you must agree that rebellion is a very rare occurrence and, once it has happened, is not likely to be repeated any time soon.”

“The law of probability?”

Maxon nodded. “Exactly.”

“I’m not sure that applies to nefarious deeds. It seems to me that once evil permeates the air, more evil mushrooms out of the dark recesses of society.”

“But that proves my point. We aren’t likely to have another paid army run by Chirilian madmen running amuck in our land. Odds are this is an entirely different foe we must look out for.”

“I’d rather be on the lookout for spring showers, buds swelling to full blossoms, birds serenading the earth’s renewal, and breezes ushering the fragrance of rich loam from the newly plowed fields.”

The kimen stopped, again planted his fists on his hips, and tilted
his head to look up at Bealomondore. “I thought you were an artist. You sound like a poet.”

“I am indeed an artist. But the sensitive soul requires a more sophisticated language to express profound observations.”

The kimen giggled and resumed his march to whatever destination he’d chosen. Bealomondore followed, fuming over lackadaisical guards, impertinent kimens, and the dubious honor of protecting a magnificent piece of art.

Just before dawn they reached a small cookery at the outskirts of the city. Wonderful aromas filled the air. Bealomondore’s stomach rumbled. Red letters proclaimed, “Good Food—Cheap Cheep.”

Maxon waved toward a big building down the lane. “This place opens the day by serving breakfast to workers from a nearby weaving facility.”

The small print under the name of the establishment said, “Eggs and such for breakfast. All things poultry for noonmeal. No dinner served.”

Maxon ducked down an alley and headed to the back of the bustling business. He spoke over his shoulder. “You’d like the work done at the mill, real art in cloth. Meals here at Cheap Cheep are included as part of the artisans’ wages.”

“I’m familiar with the quality of Ragar Textile.” Bealomondore followed Maxon through the back door. He glanced down at his inappropriate attire and sighed deeply.

A marione wearing an apron over his plain clothes waved a ladle at them in greeting. “Maxon, you have kimens waiting for you,” he said. “They’re in the back room.”

“Wait here,” the kimen ordered Bealomondore and disappeared through a rough-hewn door.

The tumanhofer twisted his lower lip in displeasure.

“Hungry?” asked the cook.

“Starving.”

The marione gestured toward a table. “Have a seat, and I’ll bring you today’s special.”

In only a moment, he placed a steaming bowl of krupant and thick slices of bread in front of Bealomondore.

“Bring it in here,” Maxon called from the doorway. “My friends want to meet you.”

Bealomondore picked up the plate and spoon and ducked through the wooden door. He saw no lighting in the room other than the shine of the kimens’ apparel. He counted five besides Maxon and nodded as he was introduced. They sat with empty plates before them, obviously having already enjoyed a hearty meal.

Maxon pointed to a chair made for a larger person, and Bealomondore joined them. He placed his food before him and considered taking his satchel holding the hollow bag off his shoulder. Between his feet below the table might be safe, but he decided to keep it on his person. The Verrin Schope statue would receive his wholehearted protection.

“I’m Winkel. We’ll be taking you to our village,” said the kimen sitting at the head of the table. She poured liquid from a large pitcher into a tankard and pushed it across the table.

“Thank you.” Bealomondore took a swig and found the substance unfamiliar to him but very soothing to his dry throat. He dug into his meal with gusto as the little people talked among themselves.

The more he ate, the more content he felt. Winkel refilled his drink as soon as Bealomondore drained it.

Kimens were known to be courteous, friendly people, but it niggled at his brain that the depth of his comfort among them seemed unnatural. He was ordinarily cautious and observant, necessary skills in navigating the waters of high society, where friend could become foe with the turn of a phrase. In unfamiliar circumstances, he paid attention to detail and unobtrusively gathered information about strangers.
But as the tension eased out of his shoulders, he let go of all worries, and the high voices around him became a tune of good cheer.

He ate and drank and mellowed to the point of drowsiness. When he found he had to work to keep his eyes open, he caught Maxon watching him with an expectant expression.

An alarming thought rose to the top of his muddled mind as he sagged toward the empty plate before him. The kind kimens had drugged him.

Tipper Schope tiptoed through the wet, nasty tunnel. She stepped in a cold puddle and gasped. For a moment her eyes flashed from the little light dancing ahead of her to the uneven floor. She clutched to her chest a sack that looked empty but held one of her father’s most interesting statues.

She hugged the limp cloth tighter, wishing she had a shawl or coat to wrap around her shoulders. She wiggled her toes. Her face scrunched in reaction to the repulsive squishy feeling of wet stockings in the heavy boots. Closing her eyes, she sighed and summoned courage. Her father had said to trust him, to follow his instructions precisely, and all would be well.

He’d told her to wear britches, boots, and a warm shirt and tunic. Perhaps she wasn’t so much chilled as terrified.

The air stirred. She heard, rather than saw, the kimen approach. The small creature moved quickly, and the fluttering of her clothes sounded like bird wings beating the spring air. But this was no sunny day in a glade. Tipper shivered and opened her eyes.

The kimen cocked her head, a mixture of concern and impatience on her face. “Are you all right?”

Tipper’s teeth chattered. “I’m cold but otherwise fine. Please don’t go so far ahead of me, Taeda Bel.”

The kimen’s sudden bright smile dazzled Tipper. “I understand. I forget you don’t carry your own light.”

The tiny being bent at the waist in a bow that would have done a footman in Tipper’s grandfather’s castle proud.

Tipper giggled, partly from nerves but also because the very feminine kimen looked way too girlish for the formal masculine gesture. Her gleaming though ragged gown of delicate pink shimmered as the miniature guide moved.

Taeda Bel straightened with grace. The arm that had been swept before her bow extended high over her head in an elegant pose. She twirled and took off down the dank tunnel as if she danced across a ballet stage.

Taeda Bel flitted forward and then returned closer to Tipper. Tipper smiled at the kimen’s consideration. Their passage through the underground corridor made Tipper’s skin crawl. By her estimation, their mission was unnecessary. But she had promised to take the statue out of the castle.