Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [3]
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