Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  “Warning! Hull temperatures sixty percent above normal. Warning! Warning!” the voice squeaked almost beyond hearing range.

  The engine noise grew so loud it blotted out all thought, everything but the need to break free of the rock walls that confined and amplified and reverberated against the shuttle.

  Yaala pushed more fuel into the engines. The temperature gauge began blinking red.

  “Warrrrnnnning . . .” the voice faded, burned out by the stress.

  With a tremendous scream and shudder, the shuttle burst through the rock wall. Momentum shot the vessel across the narrow plateau that ringed the crater’s exterior.

  Silence descended upon them.

  “We’re free!” Lyman announced. “We’re free of Hanassa.”

  “The rockets died?” Rollett leaned over Yaala’s shoulder examining the control panel with a bewildered look on his face.

  “I burned them out and used up all of the fuel. Jets not responding,” Yaala replied. Her ears still rang in the aftermath of the noise.

  “We’re flying! Just like a dragon,” Lyman proclaimed. He practically jumped up and down in his excitement.

  “We’re soaring, without wings to hold us up or steer us,” Yaala replied.

  “Engage the wings. They’ll keep us aloft!” Lyman called.

  Yaala flipped the switch for the wings. Nothing happened. “We need fuel to open the wings.”

  “Manual override,” Kinnsell murmured, very quietly.

  “What!” Yaala nearly screamed above the ringing in her ears.

  “Levers, inside the hidden hatch, both sides of the shuttle. Manual override of wing controls.” He closed his eyes, looking exhausted from the small effort of speaking.

  Yaala and Rollett leaped to the square indentation on the left side of the shuttle. Lyman examined the companion doorway on the opposite side. The two magicians ran their fingertips around the nearly invisible imperfection in the wall.

  “Ah!” Lyman’s door popped open first. “Pressure point lower right-hand corner.”

  Rollett repeated the action and his door flew open as well. Behind the door lay a handle that looked like the handgrip of a walking stick with indentations for the fingers. Above and below the handgrip was a narrow channel.

  A sudden lurch downward nearly left Yaala’s stomach above her head. “Hurry, Rollett. We’re losing altitude.”

  “Pull the handle out and jiggle it until it engages in the track,” Kinnsell whispered.

  “Yaala, get back to the controls,” Rollett grunted as he followed Kinnsell’s instructions. The handle did not want to budge. “Look for some kind of manual rudder. We’ve got to steer this thing once we get the wings out.”

  Yaala returned to the cockpit of the shuttle. She searched the control panels for something resembling a handle.

  A grinding noise irritated the ringing in her ears. She looked over her shoulder, wincing at the sounds. Rollett heaved all of his weight against the handle. Lyman didn’t seem to be having much luck getting his mechanism to engage in the track.

  The grinding noise repeated itself. Air caught Rollett’s side of the shuttle, dropping Lyman’s. Yaala braced herself against the sudden tilt in the floor.

  Kinnsell and Powwell rolled on top of each other in the direction of the list.

  “Let me.” Rollett shoved Lyman out of the way as he staggered toward him. He leaned on the handle. Suddenly the shuttle stopped dropping.

  “I hope there is a flat place below where we can land,” Yaala said.

  “Joystick,” Kinnsell gasped.

  A sudden image of a short walking staff popped into Yaala’s head at the mention of the word. Instantly she knew where to find the instrument and how to use it. She sat hastily in the pilot’s chair and reached for the rounded top of the stick.

  An updraft caught the left wing; she turned into it and felt a lightness beneath the belly of the shuttle. But it wouldn’t last. As soon as the air current changed, they’d lose more altitude.

  “It’s all mountains, ravines, and ridges for hundreds of miles around here,” Rollett said flatly. “Even the dragon that brought Nimbulan and me here last year had trouble finding a place to land.”

  Chapter 43

  Home of Myrilandel, Ambassador from the Nimbus of Dragons, Coronnan City

  “Your Grace, we can deal with the Rovers later. But we have to stop Scarface now, tonight!” Bessel insisted. He couldn’t let a few narrow-minded men destroy the precious storehouse of knowledge. Just because they didn’t need a piece of information this moment, didn’t mean it might not prove useful—essential—later.

  And Scarface’s comment about familiars—He didn’t have time to dwell on that. Any threat to Mopsie was a threat to Bessel now.

  “It is not enough that we know a cure for the plague,” Nibulan said, trying to rise.

  “Don’t even think about getting up,” Katie and Myri said in unison, pointing warning fingers at him.

  Nimbulan meekly lay back down again.

  Bessel took a long look at his master and bit his lip in sympathetic pain. Nimbulan’s gray face and labored breathing hinted at death stalled, not removed.

  Don’t you desert me, too, Master. I still need you.

  “Our first concern is to save the library.” Nimbulan held up his left hand, palm outward, fingers slightly curved while he thought out loud. The familiar gesture reassured Bessel a little. “By the law of the Stargods, only magicians, priests, and healers may learn to read. Surely Commune Magicians, who can have no secrets from each other, can be trusted guardians of knowledge before it is lost? We have lost so much through the generations. Communal magic is supposed to replace distrust and the willful hiding of precious information.”

  “Scarface doesn’t trust anyone he can’t control,” Queen Katie mused, tapping her chin.

  “He’s also afraid that everyone is out to kill him,” Bessel muttered. “He has to control everyone around him to make sure they don’t kill him. He’s using rogue compulsions to keep their loyalty.”

  Nimbulan winced at him. “For once, I am grateful I no longer have my magic. In my weakened state, I’m not certain I could resist his compulsion.”

  “All of us in this room have proved to him time and again that he can’t control us,” Queen Katie continued. “Scarface knows as well as we do that what we don’t know can hurt us. He’s using the library as leverage to stay in power as Senior Magician.”

  “The time has come to arrest the man.” Quinnault squared his shoulders in determination. But Bessel saw his hands grip the hilt of his short sword too fiercely. He didn’t like that option.

  “Stop and think a moment, Your Grace,” Bessel said cautiously. “If Scarface can control the entire Commune—magicians of great power who in concert could subdue him with a thought—what will he do to the mundane guards you send to arrest him? There isn’t a prison cell built that could restrain him. There isn’t a sword that can touch him.” If I can’t return to the Commune with Mopsie, then I’ll remain outside, serving Coronnan and the king in secret. But if we can depose Scarface, there’s still a chance for me and for Mopsie. The instant of oneness he had shared with Wind-drift haunted him.

  “He’s right, Scarecrow,” Queen Katie agreed. “With the Commune backing him, Scarface could manipulate the entire kingdom into deposing you.”

  “King Kinnsell manipulates the lords of my Council. Scarface misuses the magical power of the Commune. Rovers incite the people to fear me and my men. The provinces are in near revolt over the plague. What happened to the careful balance we built into this government, Nimbulan? What happened to the honor, ethics, and control you built into the Commune?” Quinnault clenched his fists as if needing to slam them into something, preferably Scarface’s jaw.

  “Scarface believes he is providing unified leadership for the good of the kingdom,” Bessel offered. “I slipped inside his mind. He thinks he’s being honorable and ethical in guiding the Commune and therefore, the kin
gdom.” Memory of the twisted loops and dark caverns of Master Aaddler’s mind made him shudder.

  For half a moment Bessel knew the compulsion to follow Scarface’s logic and agree with him. The older magician’s memories of atrocities inflicted on him and by him during the Great Wars of Disruption fed his tremendous guilt and his fear of retaliation. Now he saw every person beyond his control as his enemy, determined to murder him for his past activities.

  “Stargods preserve us from righteous tyrants!” Nimbulan muttered. He crossed himself then fell silent.

  “Our backs are against the wall, Scarecrow. Our options are limited. We may have to resort to trickery to oust Scarface and regain control of the Commune.” Queen Katie reached out and clung to her husband’s hand.

  “I think we can trust Wind-drift and Whitehands,” Bessel mused. “They seem to be aware of what Scarface is doing and defying him in subtle ways, but they have to appear to go along with him for their own safety.”

  “A good piece of information,” Nimbulan replied. “We may call upon it later. But right now, we can trust only ourselves.”

  A long moment of silence stretched out while all of them thought furiously.

  “Quinnault, the tunnels beneath the central keep of your palace, is there still access to them?” Nimbulan finally broke the silence. Unsteadily, he attempted to roll to his knees.

  Myrilandel urged him back down on his pallet with anxious hands. He shook off her help. Bessel offered his own hand gently under his master’s elbow. Nimbulan accepted his silent assistance.

  “Can we still get to the tunnels?” he repeated his question as he staggered upright.

  “Yes. I have workmen excavating a direct route beneath the river between the palace and the University,” Quinnault replied. “If you are thinking of hiding the books down there, the place is much too public at the moment.”

  “I remember side tunnels and dead ends from the time you showed me the escape route from the royal apartments to a hidden cove on an adjacent island.” Nimbulan’s face grayed a moment before returning to a more normal, if somewhat pale, color. He leaned heavily against the chimney but remained standing.

  “Yes. We’ve filled some of those dead ends with dirt and rubble from the excavation, others are tool storage and resting places for the workers.” Quinnault began to pace, hands behind his back and shoulders slightly hunched.

  “A dead end could be walled off, cloaked in magic so it would be ignored.” Queen Katie joined him in his thinking ritual, pacing beside him with one hand looped in the crook of his elbow.

  “It will have to be an enduring spell, and a subtle one that misdirects. We can’t take a chance on Scarface stumbling on the books because he senses the presence of magic,” Nimbulan added.

  “We can’t hide the books forever, Master,” Bessel protested. “The books will have to be found someday. Hiding them forever is as bad as burning them.”

  “A minor detail. We have to take every precaution. We don’t know how long Scarface and his conservative faction will remain in power,” Nimbulan dismissed Bessel’s suggestion. “When will Scarface burn the books?”

  “At dawn,” Bessel replied sullenly. He didn’t like the shortsightedness of his king and his master. “Scarface wants to make a huge public spectacle of the burning. He’s planning a speech that will make it seem as if he’s doing everyone a favor.”

  “But he won’t burn all of the books,” Katie protested. “I don’t want to imagine a life without books.”

  Nor I, Your Grace, Bessel thought. When ignorance guides people, the innocent suffer. As he had suffered as a child because his father believed only myths and legends about magicians rather than looking for the truth.

  A pang of regret and loneliness made a knot in his gut. He had to abandon yet another family, the family of the Commune, in order to maintain control of his own destiny.

  But he would survive. He would find a new family among the fisherfolk and their dogs.

  “Oh, Scarface will keep the volumes he needs or considers ‘safe,’ ” Quinnault reassured her. “He’s making a spectacle of the event just to defy me and demonstrate his power and reassert his popularity among the people.”

  “We’ll need help,” Nimbulan said. “We might not be able to save all of the books, but we can move a large number from the library between now and dawn. I wish Lyman and Powwell were here. I can trust them to resist Scarface’s manipulation.”

  “I think I know how to keep Scarface busy.” Bessel’s face brightened.

  “How?” Nimbulan raised one eyebrow in query.

  “Mopsie and I need to destroy the depth finder.”

  “The Guild of Bay Pilots will howl mightily in protest.” Quinnault grinned mischievously. “They’ll run straight to me and to Scarface demanding someone fix it.”

  “Once the depth finder is disabled, the pilots will need their dogs back. I know some men who would gladly turn large packs of water dogs loose on the docks. Scarface doesn’t like dogs, and they don’t like him. But the pilots can’t afford to let the magicians hurt the dogs. Chaos will reign for a while.”

  “What do dogs have to do with the pilots?”

  “I’ll explain later.” Bessel grinned widely. “I’ve got to catch the passenger barge with the depth finder before it sails to the port with the afternoon tide.” Bessel scooted out the door. He stopped short before stepping down to the cobblestones.

  Two dozen black-robed mercenaries from Rossemeyer stared at him. All of them had covered the lower halves of their faces with turban veils. All had drawn their vorpal blades at first sight of him.

  The man who stood in the center of the semicircle stepped forward one pace. “We besiege this house until Journeyman Magician Bessel is turned over to us for justice,” he announced.

  Chapter 44

  Inside Kinnsell’s shuttle, place and time unknown

  Kinnsell dragged his aching body toward the cockpit of the shuttle. “Ignorant bushies,” he snarled. Pulling himself hand-over-hand, he managed to struggle into the copilot’s seat. He settled into it gratefully as his wobbling knees gave way. “I’ll show you real flying.” Out of long habit, he hit the mayday button to send a distress signal to the mother ship. He also pocketed a portable communicator—something strictly forbidden by the family covenant. Then he overrode the control panel with the joystick. The shuttle’s vibrations communicated to him through the length of his preferred tool.

  Gradually, he began to sense the air currents and momentum that kept the vessel floating when, for all he knew, it should be a crumpled heap at the bottom of a trackless ravine.

  The terrain whizzed backward past the viewscreen. His perceptions distorted. He needed to turn the shuttle around. The helm resisted his control.

  Gradually, he was able to maneuver the vessel into the wind. He gained a little altitude and perspective.

  Beside him, Yaala clutched the sides of the pilot’s cushioned seat with white-knuckled fists. She stared blankly at the mountainsides skidding past the windows. The young man behind her braced himself against her back and held her shoulders while he too stared at the landscape.

  Useless. Both useless. Though he had to admit they’d done an admirable job of getting the shuttle airborne and the wings extended. “You really should have just flown out of that volcanic crater and not wasted a good shuttle on blasting an exit through the crater for the rabble,” he muttered. “Totally out of fuel. Rockets burned out. Jets disabled. You barely got the wings out in time. At least I have a rudder to work with.”

  “The rabble are my people. I had an obligation to free them from their prison and slow starvation. You brought the plague to them. I couldn’t abandon them. Once we are safely landed, we can send help. Supplies and medicine can get into Hanassa.” Yaala roused a little from her fear-induced catatonia.

  “You’d make an admirable ruler, girl. Unfortunately, honor and obligation are only pieces of what keeps a person in power. You also have to balance the
political forces. I don’t suppose you managed to kill that Rover person who manipulated my Maia like a puppet?”

  “If you mean Piedro, the last I saw of him he was leading the mob to kill all of us,” the young magician replied.

  What was his name? I should know after that intimate psychic link, Kinnsell thought. Rollo . . . Rufus . . . Rollett. That was it. Rollett—sounded like a stomach remedy or a chocolate bar. White and dark chocolate in his beard. Good way to remember his name.

  Rollett had probed his mind and channeled information to Yaala so she could fly the shuttle. Powwell had been the other one in the link. Powwell, the healer. Powwell had somehow eradicated most of the disease from Kinnsell’s body and repaired some of the damage. Some, not all. Enough to keep him alive a while longer.

  But Powwell didn’t call himself a healer. He thought of himself as a Bloodmage—whatever that was—and hated himself for it.

  I can use his self-loathing to make him return to Terra with me. A psychic healer of that strength is worth a fortune in both money and power.

  If the boy survived. He’d taken a lot of the plague into his own system and not neutralized all of it. The boy lay unconscious in the cabin, maybe dying prematurely because he had saved Kinnsell.

  “I may have done a lot of underhanded things in my life, but I intend to repay my debt to you, Powwell.” He fussed with the long-range sensors, seeking a landing place, any landing place.

  “I don’t think Maia was manipulated by Piedro so much as she was a willing partner in manipulating you,” Yaala said bitterly, returning to the previous conversation. “I know her. She uses men and discards them. Then she blames everyone but herself for the men not returning to her bed when she needs their money, their talents, or their protection. She did it to Nimbulan and to Televarn, the last leader of the Rovers.”

  “She mentioned Televarn often.” Kinnsell wanted to know more, but he needed all of his concentration to get the sensors back online. “Lovely woman, but I’m glad she’s out of my life.”