The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  Or so his attitude indicated. If he knew the waters better than the machine, why risk having the machine at all?

  “What does that beeping mean?” Bessel asked.

  “The machine does not concern you, Magician.” Raanald spat the last word as if it fouled his mouth.

  Distrust of the man and the machine rose in Bessel. Maybe that was just his stomach protesting the constant and uneven movement of the barge.

  A wave lifted the shallow-bottomed vessel several feet, then dropped it into the trough. Ambassador Smeetsch spun in place, heaving his luncheon over the side.

  Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse from Rossemeyer slapped his Jihabian counterpart heartily on the back, making a joke of his squeamishness.

  Bessel might have laughed if his own meal rested more easily. Or if the depth-finding machine would stop beeping. It seemed to be getting louder and faster, warning of unseen submerged obstacles. The sandbar that ran parallel to the coastline changed dimensions every spring as the River Coronnan dumped tons of silt into the Bay. It changed again after every storm. Why was Raanald so certain they had navigated beyond it?

  He edged closer to the black box, needing to read the arcane symbols and know what dangers it saw beneath the barge.

  He ached to tap a ley line and let it fuel his magic senses. Then he’d know for certain what transpired.

  No! Bessel reminded himself sternly. That would make him a rogue, an outcast, alone. He’d lose more than just his mother if he succumbed to the allure of rogue magic.

  “Three degrees starboard,” Raanald called again to the helmsman. Puzzlement creased his brow and clouded his eyes.

  Another big wave caught the passenger vessel. The barge had been designed for negotiating very shallow water in calm weather and didn’t have enough keel to stabilize it in rough seas.

  “S’murghin’ magicians, can’t leave the weather alone!” Raanald glared hard at Bessel as he kicked the machine’s black box housing.

  The journeyman magician wanted to defend the Commune of Magicians, loudly and vehemently. The Commune didn’t mess with the weather. They knew better than to upset the natural balances. The pilot was as ignorant and prejudiced as Bessel’s father.

  “Is there a problem, Master Pilot?” Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse asked. He stood nearest to Raanald among the passengers milling about the luxury barge.

  “Storm coming in. One we didn’t know about.” The surly pilot looked at Bessel again, affronted. “It’s upsetting the tide and wind predictions.” One of the duties of the Commune was to keep the local boatmen accurately informed of weather forecasts and changes.

  “Pop up storms are not uncommon in spring and autumn,” Bessel said. “No one can predict them. They do not last long and tend to hit small areas, leaving the coast a few miles away dry and clear.” Could the coming storm have changed something in the water to upset the machine?

  “Will we reach the docks before this storm hits?” asked the representative from Jihab. He looked over the side of the barge as if the little left in his stomach might want to join his luncheon.

  “I’ve weathered a lot of these mage—spring storms,” Raanald lectured, covering his word slip with grand gestures. “Especially during the wars.” He glared at Bessel as if he were personally responsible for the generations of civil war as well as every storm. “They’re tricky. Might pass us altogether and only ruffle the water a little. Like now.” He kicked the waist-high black cylinder of the depth finder again.

  The machine settled back into its normal calm beep. One every ten heartbeats.

  Bessel raised his eyes to the sky in search of some trace of a coming storm. The sky had darkened perceptibly with a complete cloud cover that thickened by the moment.

  Dragon magic told him the weather patterns easily, when he had reason to pay attention. Pressure dropped in the air to the immediate east. A rapid change of temperature. Wind rising, driving the storm cell toward land. Right over the top of the barge.

  “You gentlemen had best take a seat inside the pavilion.” Raanald sniffed the air. His eyes opened wide in alarm. The machine started beeping again, erratically.

  Bessel peered over the man’s shoulder, eager to know for himself what dangers awaited them.

  “Get out of my way, you s’murghin’ meddler. Wouldn’t have anything to worry about if you had kept your weather spells to yourself.”

  “I did nothing,” Bessel finally said in his own defense. He’d had enough of keeping his mouth shut, though he knew his role as diplomatic observer required nothing more of him.

  “Maybe not you, but your kind is always messing with the weather. Especially that scar-faced bastard.” The pilot spat on the deck at Bessel’s feet. “The Guild of Bay Pilots don’t need you clogging up our channels and changing our tides. We got machines to take care of us. Royal machines. Five degrees to port,” he corrected his previous course changes back to their original path.

  If the machine is so important, why don’t you trust it? Bessel kept his thoughts to himself.

  The ambassadors and their ladies took seats on the benches fixed to the deck beneath an awning. The rising wind sent the cloth shelter flapping. Bessel remained at Raanald’s shoulder, observing the flashing red lights across the bubble face of the black box. At first he couldn’t make sense of the constantly changing display. Then he picked out stylized numbers in red beside the carefully printed words in white against a black background. The words meant nothing to him. Yet.

  The numbers decreased on the left and piled up on the right at an alarming rate.

  “I said, sit down, Magician,” Raanald shouted with curled lip. But the anxiety in his eyes as he looked back to the beeping black box kept Bessel rooted in place. “Hard a port!” Raanald shouted.

  The rudder and pole men in the rear quarter of the barge struggled with their tools.

  A wave caught them crosswise. The deck tilted sharply to the left. Bessel grabbed the machine housing to brace himself. His staff tangled with his feet. He crossed his ankles to keep his most essential tool within reach.

  The dignitaries slid down their benches into the flimsy railing of the luxury barge. Hard wood cracked and splintered. Fine silk gowns and robes flew in the rising wind. Limbs tangled. Ladies screamed and men gasped.

  “I said hard a port,” Raanald screamed.

  The rudder man shoved his tiller, hard. Wood snapped as the rudder grounded in the bar. The tiller moved freely, disconnected from the rudder.

  The barge swung sideways and leveled. The awning whipped away from its supports, flying toward shore in the rising wind. Another wave slapped across the deck, drenching the tangled passengers. They screamed again. Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse muttered a curse in his desert warrior language.

  Bessel didn’t need to know the words to understand the meaning. He closed his eyes and concentrated, breathing deeply. At the first deepening of his trance, he sent his magic into the damaged rudder. The wooden mechanism resisted his control. He concentrated harder. His stomach growled with hunger. His legs and back ached from the strain. Sweat broke out on his brow, washed away by the spray of the next huge wave that roared toward shore from the open sea.

  If only he could tap a ley line to fuel his magic, he could handle the storm, the rudder, and the passengers. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He had to rely on his weak dragon magic.

  Help! he called telepathically to any magician who might hear him. I need help saving these people.

  A long pause of nothing. Sweat streamed from his brow and down his back as he wrestled with several options. None of them acceptable. He ached for permission to tap the forces he knew could help him. He knew it would never come.

  Whatever happens, don’t let anything happen to Jorghe-Rosse, Master Scarface returned to him when Bessel thought the emptiness in his head would last forever. Peace depends upon Rossemeyer’s goodwill. They are looking for excuses to invade us again. You must save their ambassador at all costs!

  His master’s autho
ritative tone calmed Bessel a little. Concentration came a little easier. He had to get the barge back under control and into the deeper channel.

  The strident beeping of the black box interrupted his thoughts.

  “Stay off the bar. Hard a port, you s’murghin’ swabbies. I said HARD!” Raanald dashed from his station by the precious machine to the rudder. “I knew there was a bar here, but the machine said it was ten yards to port!”

  An onerous shudder passed through the barge followed by a jerking halt. The deck canted wildly to the left, upsetting the already disoriented and disgruntled dignitaries again. They landed in a heap against the damaged railing. More of the slender wooden staves that formed the decorative fence broke. Several pieces of wood fell into the churning bay, swirled in the obstacle’s eddies, and sank.

  Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse bent over his lady, protecting her with his body. The next wave sent him crashing through the decorative wood into the thrashing waves.

  Chapter 14

  Early evening, on the royal passenger barge in the Great Bay

  Bessel cast aside his formal magician’s robe and heavy boots as he dove after the ambassador. He kept his staff pointed ahead of him, channeling his senses along it for greater awareness.

  All of his instincts told him to stay aboard and solve the problem with dragon magic. Nimbulan had taught him problem solving. But he knew he’d not be able to tap enough communal magic to dissipate the obstacle that held the barge, calm the waves, and rescue the ambassador.

  A mundane rescue first. Then he’d worry about the other dangers. Thank the Stargods he could swim.

  Cold water enfolded him, numbing his thoughts and turning his limbs to jelly. He scanned the turbulent water for any trace of the ambassador’s black robe.

  Nothing.

  With all of those layers of clothing and hidden weapons common to the desert dwelling mercenaries of Rossemeyer, Jorghe-Rosse could easily get dragged to the bottom and stuck in the mudflats.

  Bessel dove deep. He forced his eyes open despite the salt sting. Murky water obscured his vision. Crosscurrents assaulted his already heavy limbs. He pushed his concentration into strong strokes that took him toward the obstacle. His planetary orientation kicked in and he “knew” where the buildup of mud, sand, and drifted debris trapped the barge and snared the ambassador.

  A year and a half ago, Nimbulan and King Quinnault had fended off an invasion fleet from Rossemeyer by filling the inner bay with felled trees and other obstacles. Now, the rotting remains of one of those defensive trees trapped the ambassador. The barge had grounded on the bar to the side of the snag.

  Bessel’s lungs burned for air. He’d been down too long.

  He poked at the assorted tree limbs and mud with the staff. A long white arm appeared before his red-hazed vision. The currents flattened Jorghe-Rosse against the snag, pining him more effectively than a boulder. Bessel reached out with his hands and his magic. He grabbed hold of cold fingers and wrist with one hand, being careful to stay above the ambassador and the crushing current as he struck out for the surface. He had to abandon the staff, but he knew it would follow him eventually.

  Pressure built in his chest. His legs didn’t want to kick. The limp hand slipped from his grasp.

  He didn’t have the strength or air to go back. At last his head broke the surface of the water. Icy needles of rain pelted his face. He closed his eyes against the pain and gulped air. A second deep inhalation and a third.

  Without thinking, he triggered a trance and he saw the ley lines glimmering against his inner vision. No dragon magic came to him to replace the enticing power.

  Protect the ambassador at all costs. Master Scarface’s words pounded into his mind again.

  Damn the rules. Peace in Coronnan depends upon this man’s safety. I’ve got to save him any way I can.

  Bessel grabbed the power and let it enhance his lungs and heartbeat. Then he dove again. Muddy water, churned by the storm and his own movements, cleared before him. He saw the pattern of the current that pinned the ambassador’s body. His staff had grounded in the bar nearby.

  Bessel grabbed the staff and wedged it between Jorghe-Rosse and the tree trunk. At the precise moment the current eased the tiniest bit, he thrust all of his weight onto the staff, prying a gap between the snag and the ambassador.

  With new strength and agility, and a touch of levitation, Bessel yanked Jorghe-Rosse free.

  Suddenly, the magician sensed semi-awareness rippling through the drowning man. Like any drowning victim, Jorghe-Rosse fought the water, his rescuer, and his dimmed consciousness. He whipped his arms into a deadly rotation, seeking to strike whatever pinned him. His left fist connected with Bessel’s jaw.

  Starbursts exploded behind the magician’s eyes. His grasp on the ambassador’s wrist slipped. His contact with the ley line and his magic faded. He was lost in the murky, cold water without a sense of up and down.

  Jorghe-Rosse gasped for air. But there was none.

  Blackness crowded Bessel’s vision. The cold numbed his body. He made one last desperate grab for the man he needed to save. His fingers tangled in cloth.

  Enough. Aching in every joint, weakened by the blow to his jaw and loss of magic strength he struggled upward.

  Finally, after what seemed like forever, he broke the surface. He wasted several moments just breathing. His lungs continued burning, protesting any movement.

  Then Bessel struggled for the still trapped barge dragging Jorghe-Rosse behind him.

  Anonymous hands reached to relieve him of the ambassador and then pulled Bessel aboard.

  “Too late, Magician,” Raanald sneered. “You drowned the ambassador. Now there’ll be war with Rossemeyer. And you caused it.”

  The city of Hanassa, before midnight on the dark of the moon

  Rollett paused in the shadows around one of the rock outcroppings that littered the caldera floor of the ancient volcano. Shacks and taverns surrounded each jumble of volcanic stone. From here he spied the palace entrance. Fifteen long paces separated him from the arched entrance within the cliff walls that rose from the city proper. The first Kaaliph had built his palace out of an existing cave system. The cool interior of the north wall made it the most desirable location within the natural walls of the city. Other important personages occupied other cave dwellings, like the Rover enclave. Most of the others had to settle for these makeshift dwellings against the massive boulders.

  Darkness, darker than the dark night, filled the palace entrance. Yaassima had never allowed shadows anywhere near a vulnerable portal. She had ordered torches shifted every few minutes to illuminate different sectors and her guards firmly fixed in the doorway at all times. In the old days, an assassin or thief had no place to hide and no gaps to penetrate.

  Piedro kept his torches stationary and his guards moving. He had Yaassima’s ruthlessness but not her cunning. Rollett had discovered in the last year and a half that most Rovers rarely thought beyond “today.” They loved the open road and met each day with joy at being alive, and each crisis as it came. Plans for “tomorrow” were useless because “tomorrow” might never come.

  The Rovers trapped in Hanassa frequently indulged in violent brawls and self-inflicted wounds. The lack of open roads and a wandering way of life tore at their sanity.

  Piedro exhibited the typical shortsightedness of his race. His capricious cruelty could be a sign of his growing loss of reason.

  Rollett watched the seemingly random movements of the guards until he saw a pattern. Humans found comfort in routines. Hardened assassins, thieves, and terrorists imposed chaos but worked best within the limits of their own ordered regularity. Within a few moments Rollett knew when and how to walk through the front gate of the palace without challenge.

  “One at a time, slide through the doorway on my command. Go all the way to the Justice Hall as quickly and quietly as you can. Don’t wait for the rest of us until you get to the Justice Hall,” he ordered the line of men hugging the
wall behind him. “Now!” he pushed the first man forward.

  One by one Rollett’s raiders infiltrated the palace. Rollett feared that the prospect of fresh food might make them reckless. Fortunately, the caution bred into them by years of outlawry prevailed. In short order, Rollett was the only man left to enter.

  He waited a few more heartbeats to make sure the guards’ pattern of movements held true. The man on the left, the one who carried a spear, faltered.

  Rollett stopped in mid-step. His balance teetered. As quietly as he could, he planted both feet on the ground and recovered just before he fell flat on his face.

  The guard scratched his crotch, belched, and moved on.

  But now the guard on the right had turned in his patrol and faced the doorway.

  Rollett held his breath, willing the guards to resume their normal pattern. Two more passes and a gap in their vigilance appeared again. Rollett wrapped a shadow around himself and slipped through. He’d only had to use a minor magic trick to divert the guards.

  Too easy. He’d made eleven raids on the palace stores. In every one, he’d had to fight for each morsel of food he gained.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood up. All the senses available to him jumped to alert. He paused at the first alcove inside the gateway to listen.

  Nothing. So far, no one followed. He proceeded toward the rendezvous, watching every flicker of torchlight for signs of a trap.

  By the time he had wound his way to the Justice Hall, all his senses tingled with uneasy rawness. Something was wrong. This was too easy.

  He paused outside the broad archway leading into the largest chamber in the palace complex, the temple to the winged demon Simurgh—the only one left in all of Kardia Hodos. Locals called it the Justice Hall now. Rollett hadn’t observed much justice dispensed from here—only cruel punishments by Yaassima and then her successors.