The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  Mopsie licked his chops and stopped to sniff at the butcher’s tent.

  “Sorry, pup, I can’t afford to buy you a bone today. You’ve eaten well enough for now.” He scratched the dog’s ears in compensation for the lack of another treat. As a journeyman magician, he was entitled to a small allowance, payable at the full moon, his portion of the fees paid for services the Commune as a whole gave the public. He’d spent most of his savings on a special crystal for his favorite small wand. Magical tools and healing herbs were the only expenses he should have. The University supplied everything else.

  Would he still be a magician come the next full moon and payday?

  Mopsie growled a warning. Bessel stopped in his tracks, seeking the source of danger.

  Smoke. He smelled fresh hot smoke, uncontrolled and spreading. Where?

  Just ahead, thick black smoke roiled out of the carpenter’s shop. People gathered to gawk and scream and stand in the way of those who sought to escape the fire.

  “Water!” Bessel cried. He grabbed a burly man by the shoulders and shook him out of his staring panic. “Bring water. Form a line with buckets. You know how to do this.”

  The man blinked his eyes clear of panic and confusion, then nodded his understanding. He grabbed a bucket from the nearby blacksmith and headed for the river. Other men followed. The women brought blankets and soothing salves for the carpenter and his family. Everyone moved quickly, organized—once the trance of panic was broken.

  King Quinnault, before these people had made him king, had drilled them in simple ways to defend their homes from attack. Fire had been a favorite weapon during the Great Wars of Disruption.

  Bessel took a place in the line of bucket bearers. A team at the river filled any available vessel with water and passed them up the line to the fire.

  Three men, garbed in black with trim of bright purple and teal blue, stood to the side watching through hooded eyes. Their dark hair and tanned skin hinted of exotic breeding. Rovers? They leaned casually against the wall of the weaver’s shop. But their stance told of wariness.

  As one, they heaved themselves away from the wall and approached the carpenter.

  Leery of the men’s intent, Bessel opened his senses to them. Mopsie crept closer to the men, adding his keener hearing to Bessel’s.

  “Remember what happens to people who don’t pay up,” one of the black-clad men whispered to the carpenter.

  “The king’s guards will protect us,” the carpenter protested.

  “Who do you think we bribe with your money?” the men replied, laughing. “Spread the word to your neighbors. Ten dragini each moon and we won’t burn you out. Another five at quarter day festivals and we keep the tax collector from darkening your door.”

  “But the tax is only two drageen each quarter day!” the carpenter wailed.

  The men just laughed and strolled away.

  A chill ran down Bessel’s back. He needed to tell someone about this dangerous racket. But who? As a magician, he should report directly to Scarface. The Senior Magician wouldn’t listen to him. Nor could Bessel get close to the king. And the king’s guards seemed to be in the pay of the extortionists.

  Who? Maybe Nimbulan had enough influence to get to the root of the problem. Later. The old man needed and deserved his sleep.

  What could he do? Throw a truth spell on the culprits for the name of their leader. But then what? He didn’t have the resources to tackle the gang on his own. He also needed time and privacy to work the truth spell. The gaudily clad men wandered through the marketplace, keeping well within the crowds.

  Puzzled and wary, Bessel moved along in his quest to get to the library. The locals had the fire well in hand, they didn’t need him now.

  No one seemed to heed his leaving the line of bucket bearers. As if he’d never been there.

  “You’ll have to be quiet in the library, Mopsie. We’re going to retrieve a couple of forbidden books. I hope they will answer my questions. I need to know more about invisibility spells and about navigating the Great Bay, as well as more about the plague.” He added Rovers to his list of subjects to investigate. If the despised wanderers did lead the extortion racket, how did they get into Coronnan through the magical border and why hadn’t they been arrested before this?

  Didn’t Nimbulan, and therefore, his cousin Lord Balthazaan, have Rover blood in their ancestry? That was how Nimbulan had been able to work Rover magic the season he lived with Televarn’s clan. Rumor placed a number of Rover-bred retainers in Balthazaan’s entourage. Their magic depended upon a common link in their blood. If a person with Rover blood in his heritage stood on one side of the border, could he link with Rovers on the other side of the magic wall to negate the protective barrier? Bessel filed that idea away for later examination along with the possibility of Rover criminals terrorizing Coronnan City.

  Back to his primary concerns. Raanald, the barge pilot, hadn’t trusted the depth finder. Either his distrust or a malfunction in the machine had led to disaster. There had to be a better way to navigate the mudflats of the inner bay, even in storms and shifting channels.

  Mopsie yipped an agreement with him. He sent Bessel a mind picture of a sleek water dog standing in the prow of a fishing boat again.

  “I’m sure you’d have been a big help, Mopsie.” Bessel swallowed his chuckle. His image of the long ropes of Mopsie’s curls soaked and matted by salt water on the short-legged body didn’t quite match the dog’s view of himself.

  “Dust mop, indeed,” Bessel muttered as he noted Mopsie’s fur brushing the packed dirt of the road. “You’ll need another bath tonight, and every night.”

  Mopsie tucked his tail between his legs and drooped his floppy ears. Yesterday, Bessel had to carry the dog into the sunken stone bathtub with him. The dog wouldn’t go near the water otherwise. “If you hate baths so much, how come you think you belong in a boat on the Bay?”

  Mopsie just wiggled his entire behind along with his stubby tail.

  They crossed the first bridge. Mopsie stopped in the center of the span and looked longingly at the churning River Coronnan below. “Not this time, pup. We haven’t time to take a swim today. It isn’t warm enough either.” Spring might have come, but the river was fed by snow melt deep in the mountains to the west. Bessel only enjoyed swimming in high summer when the chilly water was a refreshing change from the sultry weather.

  As he hopped down the step at the end of the bridge, Bessel fingered the linchpin hidden beneath the railing. In case of invasion, all of the bridges connecting the myriad islands of Coronnan City could be collapsed as the inhabitants retreated inward to the palace and University. Invaders would have to resort to boats to follow them.

  This linchpin had been oiled recently. Maintaining the release mechanism was one of the duties of the Guild of Bay Pilots. The Commune made a practice of checking their diligence frequently.

  The next bridge showed signs of rust on the linchpins on both ends. Bessel paused to look closer to see how neglected the mechanism was. He didn’t pay any attention to the foot traffic going in both directions across the span.

  Then Mopsie barked a serious warning. The dog tugged at the hem of his trews then nipped him lightly on the calf. “What is it, Mopsie?” Bessel glanced up from his inspection, looking for another fire.

  The dog kept tugging him away from the bridge.

  “I am duty bound to inform you that you die here and now so that you may know I am the instrument of justice!” A black-robed warrior ran toward him, vorpal sword raised.

  Chapter 26

  Early morning, the streets of Coronnan City

  Bessel ran. He ducked and dodged through the crowded marketplace. The assassin from Rossemeyer followed close on his heels.

  Why was it that when he wanted to be noticed, especially by the Commune, no one seemed to know he was in the room, but now, when he desperately needed to hide, an assassin spotted him easily in this large milling crowd?

  People screamed an
d ran in illogical directions as the assassin cursed and brandished his weapon. Bessel used the confusion to put a human barrier between himself and the black-clad warrior. Desperately, he overturned crates of tubers. The hard vegetable balls scattered and rolled, tripping several of the running cityfolk.

  And still the assassin followed, sword raised and ready. “Single-minded wild tusker,” Bessel mumbled as he ran around a cart piled high with cone roots. He snatched two as he ran and tucked them away for a snack later. He’d need the sugars to replace energy depleted by running and any magic he had to throw to save himself.

  At the candle maker’s booth, a little girl stood in the middle of the path, frozen in place. She screamed her fear. Bessel stumbled to avoid bowling her over.

  The assassin gained three paces before Bessel recovered his balance. The point of the man’s sword slashed the back of Bessel’s tunic.

  Fear gave him new energy and a burst of speed. He reached the next bridge. Without thinking of the consequences, he pulled the linchpin the moment he and Mopsie cleared the last span. The bridge collapsed into the river.

  The warrior had magnificent reflexes. He clung to the handrail, pulling himself along it until he reached the ropes that remained connected to the support posts on Bessel’s end of the bridge. Then he proceeded to shinny up the rope, the sword now clutched in his teeth.

  “Stargods, even the river doesn’t slow him down.” Bessel took off again. He had to cross only two more bridges to reach University Isle. He’d find refuge there. No one, not even an assassin from Rossemeyer, would follow a magician into the enclave of the Commune.

  All Bessel needed was one other magician within reach. Once they made physical contact, the magic within both of them would amplify and grow. They could erect defensive spells to repel the warrior and his lethal sword.

  If he reached the University in time.

  Alone, he didn’t have a chance of gathering enough magic to throw an effective spell.

  Before Bessel had run one hundred paces, the warrior regained solid ground. Water dripped from his heavy robes. He grabbed them with his free hand, keeping the wet cloth from tangling his legs.

  Mopsie yipped from the doorway of a ramshackle tavern. Safety? Bessel followed his familiar, trusting him with his life.

  The dimly lit common room was nearly empty at this time of day. A dozen plank tables stretched the length and breadth of the open space, with little room to walk between.

  Mopsie scooted beneath them, toward the back corner. Bessel dropped to all fours and followed. Deep in the shadowy corner a small metal grate was set into the wall next to the floor. Most of the older buildings on the islands had these primitive drainage gates. In winter and in times of high water, they were shuttered both inside and out. In summer, open grates offered some air circulation. After a flood, the grate would allow water to drain from the building. Some industrious city dwellers used the grates as a drain after washing slate or tile floors.

  The tavern owner had unlatched the grate and swept refuse through it into the common midden in the back alley. He hadn’t refastened the bolts. A buildup of rust on the latches would make locking them difficult.

  Mopsie paused only long enough for Bessel to push the grate up. The dog darted through just as the assassin entered the tavern. Bessel didn’t linger.

  Rusty latches scraped his arms as he wiggled and twisted through the small opening. His slashed tunic caught on imperfections in the metal frame. He heard it rip more as he squeezed his shoulders into the open.

  His butt stuck. Curse those extra portions of sweet yampion pie and candied cone roots Guillia heaped on hungry magicians.

  Someone clamped a heavy hand on Bessel’s boot. He didn’t wait to see who. Ignoring scrapes and bruises, he pushed through the opening, leaving his boot behind.

  Limping, Bessel sprinted to the next bridge, collapsed it before crossing, and ran for a different one half an island away. He didn’t wait to see if the assassin fell for his decoy.

  His detour took him onto Palace Isle. He aimed for the palace gate, hoping the guards would protect him. Today was open petitions in court. Anyone could walk into or out of the Great Hall without notice. All of the guards were inside. He didn’t have time to dive into the crowds and demand protection from King Quinnault.

  And the king might have decided to bow to diplomatic pressure from Rossemeyer and declare him guilty.

  Bessel cursed his ill luck and continued to the old causeway. Centuries of high tides and winter storms had almost completed the work of separating Palace Isle from University Isle. Mopsie leaped across the first break in the stepping stones with no hesitation. Bessel followed his familiar, again trusting the dog’s instincts for good footing. Jagged rocks cut his bare foot, but he continued on, knowing his only refuge from the assassin was with the Commune.

  Shouts and hurried footsteps told him the warrior with the drawn sword hadn’t been fooled by the decoy for long.

  “Help me!” Bessel cried, panting for breath as he jumped the last few feet onto University Isle. “Masters of the Commune, help me. Help a fellow magician!” He added a little magic to speed his cry to the proper ears. His talent barely responded. All of his energy went into running for the safety of the buildings.

  Scarface stepped into the main entryway, arms crossed, face grim, eyes nearly closed with some carefully contained emotion. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “An assassin from Rossemeyer is after me. I need your protection,” Bessel panted as he skidded to a halt in front of the Senior Magician. He bent double trying to catch his breath.

  “You were told to stay with Nimbulan.” Scarface made a solid barrier in front of the door and sanctuary.

  “I forgot some of my things.” Bessel looked anxiously over his shoulder. The assassin stalked across the new bridge that connected University Isle to the Palace. He carried his sword lightly. A triumphant smile split his dark face.

  “I’m a member of the Commune. You must protect me, Senior Magician Aaddler!”

  “You are but a journeyman, not a full member of the Commune. I have decreed you exiled from the Commune until the issue of your use of rogue magic is resolved. Protect yourself.” Scarface whirled and slammed the door in Bessel’s face.

  Palace Reveta Tristile courtyard, early morning

  “May I help you mount your steed, Your Grace?” King Quinnault asked his queen, tugging his forelock and bowing deeply, like any of the stable hands who might have offered the same service.

  “What do you think you are doing, Scarecrow?” Katie whispered to him. She tugged on his cupped hands, trying to get him to stand upright.

  “I’m helping my wife mount her steed. And a noble steed it is, even if it is barely big enough to mount a child,” he replied with a grin. The king’s matching white steed stood nearby, head and shoulders taller than the queen’s mount.

  “But you’re dressed for riding. And Buan is saddled and anxious for a hard run.” She eyed the beast’s restless feet, as big as dinner platters and unmindful of any human appendage that might get beneath him.

  “I’m going with you, love.”

  “Please don’t do this to me, Scarecrow. You’ve got to stay and find a solution to Lady Rosselaara’s demands. And . . . and we can’t leave Marilell alone. I don’t trust anyone.”

  “I’m only going as far as Myrilandel’s house with you. Then I’ll come back and search the laws and old treaties for a precedent that will placate the widow. And I’m bringing the baby with me.” He gestured at the maid who stood near the doorway with the squirming princess firmly clasped in her arms. A full escort of guards waited beside her, also ready to ride.

  “I can’t take all those guards with me. I need secrecy. You know what my father is like, what technology he controls. We can’t let these men see it.”

  Quinnault’s face took on the closed, emotionless look she knew too well. His stubborn face. No sense in arguing with him. Short of a full-scale invasio
n within the next ten minutes, he’d not change his mind. She couldn’t change it for him, even if she used her telepathy.

  “Maarie Kaathliin, the absence of an armed escort while you ride about the country is a clear signal that something special occurs. I won’t let you go alone.”

  “I’m going for a ride with friends. I don’t need an armed escort when I have a magician with me. They will interfere with my mission.”

  “The armed escort has orders to stay well behind you. They are sworn to secrecy. They have proved their loyalty time and again. I trust them with my life, so should you.”

  Katie bit her lip. She couldn’t think of a single argument to sway him.

  “I thought I was meeting Nimbulan, Myri, and Bessel here.” Only the two steeds stood in the forecourt. She had expected to have to walk to the mainland stable rather than have the mounts ready for her less than an hour after her interview with Nimbulan and Scarface.

  “We’ll meet them at their home on the way out of the city. South, you said?” Quinnault bent once more, holding out cupped hands to assist Katie into the saddle.

  She placed her left foot into his palms as she grabbed the saddlehorn. She barely had time to swing her right leg over the steed’s back to keep from plummeting over it and onto the cobblestones on the other side.

  “Easy, Scarecrow!” she gasped as she fought for balance.

  “Sorry, love. Your steed is a lot shorter than I’m used to.” His grin didn’t reach his eyes.

  “And I’m shorter than an adolescent child!” Back home, small stature and efficient metabolism were assets in a resource-deprived culture. Here, those qualities made her the butt of many jokes.

  But the easy banter didn’t break the tension she sensed in him.

  “Quinnault, I need to do this privately. My father is dangerous. If your escort even glimpses the nature of his vessel, everything will change . . . for the worse.”

  He turned to mount Buan in one swift movement, ignoring her comments. Then he reached down to take Marilell from the maid. When the baby sat before him in the saddle, happily cooing, he spoke. “I changed my mind. I’m going with you. We’ll leave the baby with Amaranth and her nanny for the day. Safer, I think, than the palace today. You think your father left his conveyance to the south of here?”