The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  Mopsie whined in disapproval at the change. “Don’t worry, pup, I won’t leave you behind. I need you to stand guard while I do what I have to do.”

  The depth finder was in place. He could see it from here, but he couldn’t blast it with magic. That would bring down the wrath of the Guild upon the Commune. He needed to make it look as if the machine were defective—dangerous—so the Guild would cooperate with the Commune in the future, not go to war with each other.

  He needed to get closer, close enough to touch the machine. Boldly, he stepped up to the steward standing behind the velvet rope.

  “Good man, I travel on business for the Commune of Magicians. I need to interview passengers arriving this evening at the port.” Bessel gestured expansively toward the four islands far out in the Great Bay at the beginning of deep water. The steward kept his eyes on Bessel’s hands and staff rather than on the dirty mutt who hid beneath the journeyman’s robes.

  “I need a passport.” The steward held out his hand for the bit of slate with symbols scratched on it that outlined Bessel’s instructions.

  “What you don’t know can hurt you,” Bessel whispered to himself. He fished in his pocket while murmuring yet another transport spell to bring him the flat scrap of slate he kept with his books. The piece was outdated from his journey to his mother’s deathbed. But this man couldn’t read—prevented by law from learning the arcane skill.

  The steward barely glanced at the passport, then unhitched one of the velvet ropes at the stanchion, allowing Bessel to pass into the waiting area unhindered. “You may board now, but sit somewhere out of the way. We’ll sail with the tide regardless, even if that mob of uppity mercenaries and their lady don’t show up on time.”

  “Mercenaries?” Bessel raised one eyebrow at the man as if the issue were of only moderate interest.

  “Yeah. The lady sent word. She’s taking the ambassador’s body back to Rossemeyer for burial. After she executes that other magician, the one who murdered her husband.”

  Chapter 47

  Afternoon, home of Myrilandel, Ambassador from the Nimbus of Dragons, Coronnan City

  Katie gulped back her immediate fear. Quinnault knew the business end of a sword and how to use it.

  So did all of those black-clad mercenaries. But they would not try to find a compromise without violence.

  In her fear for Quinnault, the rising noise around them faded from her awareness.

  Then she noticed the source of the shouts that had brought her to her husband’s side—she must have walked across the cobblestone stoop to stand at his side without being aware of anything but the need to touch his hand and reassure herself he still lived.

  Hundreds of people pressed against the foreign mercenaries. They shouted and brandished torches, makeshift clubs, and everyday tools as weapons.

  “They’re in league with the Rovers,” one man shouted. “They steal our money and terrorize our women and children!”

  “Kill the Rovers and their helpers!” Another man joined the litany of abuse. “I’ll not pay protection money to foreigners.”

  “Kill all the foreigners!”

  “Save the king from the filthy foreigners.”

  “Stargods bless the king.”

  The mercenaries looked over their shoulders nervously. They fingered their weapons but kept them sheathed. Their leader, face completely obscured by black veils, backed up two steps. He ran into a solid wall of his own men. They kept pressing forward, away from the murderous crowd. But as they moved away from the crowd, they came closer and closer to Quinnault and his entourage. A few more steps and confrontation was inevitable.

  “My people.” Quinnault raised his voice above the rabble. He also lifted his hands as a signal for quiet.

  The shouts and murmurs stilled closest to Quinnault and spread outward in waves.

  “People of Coronnan, listen to me! Once before, you joined to unify against forces that would have destroyed us with civil war. Now I ask you to join me again to save the kingdom. I need your help to unite the crown, the lords, the magicians, and the people. Only you, the people, can bind us together!”

  “What do you plan?” Katie whispered. Love and respect flooded her emotions. This medieval man, with a worldview limited by an aristocratic power structure, had just embraced a modern principle of democracy.

  He viewed the people as the heart and core of his kingdom.

  His mind smiled into hers. She saw his plan. The people would march in triumph to the University and challenge the Commune. Scarface would have to relinquish his hold on the magicians in the face of this determined mob backing their king.

  A mighty cheer rose from the throats of the people as they surged forward. The mercenaries looked warily around them. The people pressed against them so tightly they couldn’t draw or wield a weapon. Each of the foreigners found himself totally surrounded, cut off from his fellows.

  “Hear me, men of Rossemeyer!” Quinnault raised his hands and voice once more. His words echoed in the narrow street. “Honorable warriors, go back to your embassy. Inform Lady Rosselaara that this business is finished. I have investigated and found Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse’s death to be an accident. He died honorably fighting the storm and the bay, worthy enemies. No other lives will be forfeited. Take your ambassador home for funeral rites. You are free, all of you, to depart Coronnan with the evening tide.”

  “And if we doubt your ‘investigations’?” the head mercenary asked, fighting to maintain his balance in the midst of the pressing crowd.

  “Then your king must send me a new ambassador to negotiate. Now take Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse’s body and Lady Rosselaara home for a proper funeral. Would you like an escort to the docks? I’m certain the people of Coronnan City would be happy to see you safely on your way.”

  The mercenaries melted away. The people closed ranks, jeering at them. A few cityfolk who carried rocks and tools followed them back toward their embassy.

  “And now, my people, we must bring back a balance in our government. The Commune, the Council, and the King must once again hold equal power. No one faction can be allowed to dominate the others.” Quinnault forged a path through the throng of eager townspeople. They rushed to walk near him, touch him, bask in his glory.

  “Excuse me, Your Grace,” Luucian appeared at Katie’s elbow.

  “Luucian, what are you doing here? You are supposed to be at Shayla’s lair,” Katie gasped in surprise.

  “I’ve been there and back. The dragons know a few shortcuts. The others are trying to work their way through the crowd.”

  “My father?”

  “Well enough, for the time being. He’s in the kitchen, eating and drinking to restore some of his vitality. But, Your Grace, I have a message from Bessel, relayed by the dragons. He said to get these people down to the docks. He needs everyone down on the docks.”

  Katie stared at the mob encircling Quinnault. They were moving toward University Isle. She’d have to divert them. But first. . . .

  “Luucian, go with Master Nimbulan and the others and start moving the books from the library into the tunnels below the palace. Master Nimbulan is to supervise only. He is not to lift a single book.” Quickly, she outlined the plan for to him. “While you are doing that, I need my father to find Lord Balthazaan and keep him out of the way and misinformed.”

  Luucian nodded and melted back into the crowd.

  Katie had to fight to stay close to her husband as they swept along the city streets in the direction of University Isle.

  “Scarecrow, we’re needed at the docks. Bessel sent a message.”

  Quinnault raised an eyebrow at her.

  “I’ve sent Nimbulan and reinforcements on their errand.”

  “Reinforcements?”

  “I’ll explain later.

  Quinnault nodded. “How am I going to divert this mob?”

  “I’m not sure.” Katie bit her lip and glanced around at the volatile crowd.

  “Stop!” Five mas
ter magicians commanded. They stood in a line across the path of the crowd. They linked hands. A dark green aura of power—Scarface’s signature color—surrounded them. “Senior Magician Scarface commands this mob to disperse. We place King Quinnault Darville de Draconis under arrest for interfering with the lawful work of the Commune of Magicians.”

  The docks, Coronnan City

  Bessel swallowed his apprehension that Lady Rosselaara would recognize him. He had to trust in his disguises and complete his mission. He nodded to the steward and climbed the ramp to the barge. He chose a seat in the back corner beneath the canopy, deep in the shadows. Here he could relax his delusion spell while he studied the depth finder.

  Shortly the crew began moving about the deck, coiling lines and performing other chores indicative of imminent launching. A subtle shift of the water’s movement beneath the deck told Bessel when the tide turned and began to recede. Just as a crewman prepared to fling the last line aboard from the dock, a long procession of black-clad mercenaries appeared at the velvet ropes.

  Deep within their ranks, Lady Rosselaara stood beside her husband’s casket, dry-eyed and angry.

  The first of the warriors slashed the rope with his sword and kicked it aside. The steward rushed to stop them and demand their passports. They thrust him out of the way as if he were merely another piece of normal dock debris.

  Raanald, the pilot and absolute ruler of the barge, stalked to the head of the boarding ramp. He stood firmly blocking the way, hands on hips, feet spread, and a scowl on his face.

  “You’re late,” Raanald spat, not moving out of the way.

  The lead mercenary hesitated. They needed the pilot to guide the barge to the port. He couldn’t injure the man, and he couldn’t get past him without injuring him.

  “We are here now. You have not left without us,” the warrior replied from behind his turban veil. His voice remained even and remote through the muffling cloth. A pulse pounded visibly in his temple. Politeness was something these men had little time for.

  And yet some of them had been quite gentle and caring toward Bessel when he appeared to be a female in distress.

  “You may travel with us, but only because it means we’re shut of you for good,” Raanald replied. “You’d better hurry. Anyone not in place in five minutes has to swim to the port, or walk across the sucking mud.” He turned his back on the newcomers and stationed himself by the helmsman on the elevated platform at the rear of the barge.

  The Rossemeyerians proceeded to crowd upon the barge in an orderly fashion, despite their rapid pace.

  Bessel allowed himself to be edged out of the sheltering shadows to stand next to the depth finder. The warriors seemed to shun it as if it would contaminate them with its arcane magic. Lady Rosselaara claimed most of the covered area for herself, the coffin, two maids, and a few select warriors. The deck of the barge wallowed a little deeper in the water with so many people aboard.

  The oarsmen shoved off. Raanald moved back to the depth finder. He stared alternately at the numbers behind the screen and at the water ahead.

  Bessel kept his back to the pilot as much as possible, hoping he had the strength to keep up his disguise throughout the entire procedure. Mopsie had crawled under the nearest bench and watched everything through wary eyes.

  When the port islands finally appeared as a hazy blur on the horizon and the shore remained within clear view, Bessel edged his foot to touch the base of the depth finder.

  He plunged his mind into the guts of the machine and met a solid wall of impenetrable lead. He tried again, probing around the edges, seeking a crack in the mechanism, a seam, any point where he could penetrate. Sharp pain bounced back into his eyes along the line of his magical touch. He grimaced and yanked his foot away from the base as if burned. His entire body tingled with backlashed magic.

  Quickly, he looked around to see if any of the many warriors around him noticed his discomfort. They all seemed absorbed in keeping their stomachs intact. Not very good sailors, Bessel surmised. Maybe . . .

  He sent his next probe into the Bay. The muddy bottom absorbed his magic like a sponge. He tried again, slightly to the left of his original quest for information. A spring bubbled up through the mud. When the tide was completely out, a small freshwater creek would flow away from that spring. Several springs fed the Bay in this manner, making for dangerous sucking mud around the source.

  This time his probe sounded different within his mind. The fresh water changed the density of the salt water. He checked the numbers on the depth finder. They spun up and back down again quite rapidly. The change in the water had triggered an inaccurate measurement.

  Above him, a dragon bellowed as it flew determinedly around the city. The machine numbers fluctuated again, more drastically than it had with the fresh water.

  Bessel smiled to himself and edged over to the railing. He searched for the new wood that marked the spot where Jorghe-Rosse had fallen overboard. He spotted the fresh paint showing a stout replacement to the broken pieces. Two paces away the railing paint peeled and the wood looked worn and weak. He stood beside it.

  Bessel here. Please, flying dragon, announce your presence again, loudly, clearly, he called to the nearly invisible beast.

  (Rouussin,) the dragon introduced himself. Dragon protocol required names. (What do you wish?)

  Please, Master Rouussin, will you bellow again? I need the sounds to disrupt an evil machine.

  (Shayla has shared with us Queen Maarie Kaathliin’s dragon dream. We do not like machines that harbor the seeds of disease.)

  The dragon bugled loudly. The expanse of the Bay picked up the sound, amplified it, and bounced it against the cliff walls farther south.

  The passengers held their ears and looked at each other in distressed puzzlement.

  The numbers on the machine spun out of control. “Hard a port!” Raanald screamed at the helmsman. Panic widened his eyes.

  The helmsman leaned all of his body weight onto the tiller.

  The barge swung around. The waves slapped the barge sideways. The helmsman kept pushing the tiller. The spring beneath the barge and the conflicting movement of the water created an undertow. The turning barge caught a rip in the tide, spinning it around so the other side of the barge faced the oncoming waves. Then it grounded on the bar.

  “S’murghin’ machine!” Raanald yelled. He grabbed one of the long oars away from his crew and slammed it into the depth finder. The viewscreen split. The numbers died.

  Raanald continued pounding the oar into the black casing. The synthetic black shell cracked, but he did not penetrate to the lead core.

  Raanald lifted his makeshift club for one last blow. He looked around him, suddenly aware of the crowd that stared at his anger. They all clutched railings or each other to keep them upright on the uncertain deck.

  The pilot’s gaze landed on Bessel.

  “You!” Raanald stared at him, stunned bewilderment clouded his eyes. “What game are you and that bloody Commune of yours playing this time?”

  He advanced upon Bessel, oar raised.

  “I did nothing to your machine,” Bessel replied, calmly. Suddenly his entire future opened before him. He knew what he had to do.

  “You destroyed the machine!” Raanald screamed.

  “No, you did.” Bessel knew everyone aboard heard him. He only needed a little magic to hold their attention, make them understand. “The depth finder deceived you again with invalid numbers. You destroyed it to regain control of this barge. The Guild can no longer rely on the depth finder.”

  “But we don’t know the channels anymore!” Raanald stared at the vast expanse of water between himself and the port islands, at the oarsmen standing bewildered for lack of direction, at the rudder swinging idly awaiting a guiding hand.

  “Trust your Mopplewogger as you have for many generations.”

  Mopsie yipped and danced on his hind legs. He pranced over to the helmsman. He barked once, quick and sharp.

 
; “That means starboard. You have to go to starboard to get off the bar,” Bessel reminded Raanald.

  “I know what the dog means. But that ain’t a Mopplewogger, and you broke my machine.”

  “Mopsie is a better Mopplewogger than you’ll ever know.”

  “Don’t tell me my business, Magician,” Raanald spat the last word. “I’m a senior member of the Guild of Bay Pilots.” He ran the last few steps to where Bessel stood by the railing. He swung the oar with all his might.

  Bessel ducked backward. Raanald’s blow landed on the railing, splintering the old wood.

  Raanald raised the oar again. Bessel braced himself against the damaged railing. The deck shifted under his feet. His balance twisted.

  The club clipped his temple.

  Starbursts filled his vision. He fell. The railing gave way.

  For a moment the weightless sensation of flying cleared his mind.

  Then the cold dark waters of the bay closed over his head.

  They’ll tell everyone I’m dead, he thought as he shucked his boots and formal robe beneath the waves.

  Let them believe I’m dead. I have nothing and no one to mourn me.

  Above him Mopsie splashed into the water, barking frantically. His cries and whines took on a note of desperation.

  Down here, pup. I’m hiding. Meet me ashore. We’ll be together. I have you to live for. We are both free now. Free of our pasts and those who judged us. Our destinies are our own to shape and control.

  Chapter 48

  Late afternoon, streets of Coronnan City

  ‘We need to stall Scarface until Bessel finishes his chore,’ Katie whispered to Quinnault.

  He nodded curtly in acknowledgment. His gaze remained upon the five magicians facing him across the street.

  “I will deal only with Master Aaddler,” he announced. “Since he challenges my authority, he must face me directly.”

  The magicians looked to each other in a moment of confusion.