Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  He had trouble getting his wide shoulders clear of the metal framework. The small opening pressed against his back and chest. He had to cough several times to relieve the pressure in his lungs. At last he squirmed free. A coughing fit made him stagger until he’d relieved the ache.

  His elegant brocade tunic suffered almost as much as his breathing. Well, he wouldn’t need it once he got back to his ship and resumed his heavy Varn costume. At least then he’d be warm. The layers and layers of thin veils insulated better than the fur lining of his bushie clothes.

  “Where is Televarn now?” Maia asked in a hushed whisper.

  “I’m not certain. He moves around a lot,” Kinnsell twisted the truth as he knew it only a little. Why did he feel uncomfortable lying to this woman? Making the truth fit his own needs had never bothered him before. “We’ll have to go to my ship and contact him from there.” The shadows grew long. He didn’t have a portable torch to light the way to his hiding place. They’d have to hole up somewhere tonight. Unless Maia could see in the dark like the bushie lord and half the population of this cursed planet.

  Wherever they spent the remainder of the night, Kinnsell intended to spend it in Maia’s arms. Her posture, her attitude, her very being promised him many exotic delights; things his wife had forgotten as soon as she said “I do.”

  “You will work a summons spell at your ship?” Maia’s eyes grew wide. “Then you are a Master Magician, too!”

  “Y . . . yes. What do you mean ‘too’? Who else do you know that is also a magician?”

  “Why, Televarn, of course.” She sucked on her cheeks and avoided his gaze.

  She was lying. Someone else very close to her was a magician.

  Kinnsell crept behind her on tiptoe until they had put several streets and alleys between them and the church. The sensation of being watched grew stronger with each step he took. He searched the area with his eyes and ears as well as his psychic senses. Nothing. He couldn’t find anyone watching them, not even the few remaining people on the streets at this chill quiet hour before dawn.

  He had to concentrate hard to see where he placed his feet. Maia kept darting in and out of his view as she slipped from shadow to shadow—just like a magician—an illusionist. He had to keep reminding himself that the magicians here, just like the entertainment magicians back home, were merely actors who specialized in tricking their audiences.

  When he could no longer see the church or its tall spire among the jumble of rooftops, he breathed a little easier. But the chill of unease wouldn’t leave him. He still felt as if someone spied upon his every move. A less determined person would have gone back to the church to end the disquieting sensations.

  He prided himself on his determination and kept walking.

  Kinnsell stumbled over an uneven paving stone. Maia stepped confidently ahead, surefooted and swift.

  The darkness intensified. The hair on Kinnsell’s nape stood up in atavistic fear. If he didn’t find shelter soon, he’d start prattling about dragons just like Katie.

  By the time they reached the last bridge out of the city onto the southern mainland, Kinnsell breathed heavily. Sweat rolled down his back and under his arms, but he didn’t feel warm. The tightness in his chest increased with each step. He’d have to let a cough loose soon. But the noise would echo loudly through these empty streets, betraying their position to any watcher. If he could only hang on until they crossed this last bridge.

  The night breeze increased. Kinnsell began to shiver. He prayed that shelter awaited him close by.

  New storm clouds built up in the outer bay. The air temperature seemed to drop dramatically. He didn’t make it beyond the center span of the bridge before an explosive bark erupted from deep within his lungs. Again and again his lungs tried to expel building fluid and failed. He couldn’t drag in enough air. He clung weakly to the bridge railing. His knees wobbled and dizziness assailed him.

  Thankfully, this wasn’t the plague. His family had always been immune through countless mutations, as were several other clans. Scientists hadn’t yet found the genetic code that allowed them to combat the dreaded disease.

  This must be some obnoxious ailment caused by exposure to the elements. He hoped the antibiotics he had aboard the shuttle would counter it.

  “You are ill, Master Kinnsell?” Maia stood beside him, one hand on his shoulder.

  Warmth invaded his system from that hand. The cough eased enough for him to breathe.

  “I’m all right now. I’m just not used to the air here.”

  “Yes, the city is filthy. Better we take to the road where we can breathe free.” She tugged on his sleeve. “But the road will wait for tomorrow or the next day. The road will always be there, we have but to set foot on it. For tonight, I know an inn.”

  Slowly, Kinnsell followed her across the last few steps to the shore. Up ahead, rushlights sparkled in the growing darkness. The cold, damp river mist hadn’t reached the lights yet.

  He paused to look up at the stars, as bright as the torches. Humans on Terra hadn’t been able to see stars from their homeworld for many centuries. Long before the first domes went up, pollution had obscured the night sky. He wished he could see Terra’s sun from here; know that he was still a part of the Empire and civilization.

  “What will the inn cost us for a room and a hot meal?” he asked, as the thatch of a roof showed black against the dark night sky. He fingered the stash of local coins he carried. He had no idea what each one represented in the true value of goods and labor.

  “He will charge you nothing.” Maia skipped lightly, twitching her bottom. The movement sent her petticoats swaying.

  Kinnsell watched her with growing interest. She hadn’t objected to the idea of one room for the two of them. Perhaps she flirted as seriously as he.

  One hundred long and wearying paces later, Maia pushed open the drooping gate into the inn courtyard. Kinnsell followed her into the open space, too weary to handle the heavy wooden gate. A painted sign showing a green-haired and seaweed-clothed water witch swung in the breeze, creaking on rusted hinges.

  “The Bay Hag Inn,” Maia said, sweeping a hand in the direction of the sign.

  Kinnsell peered closer for any indication of written words on the creaking slab of wood that swayed in the predawn breeze. Only the picture stared back at him. Maia had read the picture. Only magicians on this world had the knowledge to read words.

  A few listless stable hands groomed shabby, knock-kneed steeds. The cook yelled from the kitchen, something about evicting witch cats. Kinnsell couldn’t make out all of her words through her thick peasant accent. Guests sang a drunken ditty quite loudly in the common room, with total disregard for key and tone—or the hour.

  The stench of unwashed bodies, crowded horses, and stale chamber pots sent Kinnsell into a new coughing fit. He bent over, clutching his knees in an effort to remain on his feet.

  “You have to stop this, Master.” Maia rubbed his back solicitously. “The innkeeper won’t let you stay here if he thinks you carry the plague that ravages the interior provinces.”

  “I don’t have the bloody plague, Maia. Believe me, I’d know if I did.” A niggle of doubt tried to insert itself in his mind. He pushed it away. In these filthy conditions, disease must run rampant. But whatever felled the populace, they couldn’t have the same plague that decimated the civilized worlds. Local conditions wouldn’t support that plague. Anything else, he could cure with a few antibiotics once he reached his ship. Tomorrow. They’d walk there first thing in the morning.

  “Tomorrow we hire steeds to take us to your ship,” Maia continued. “They will travel much faster than walking.”

  “I’ll be damned if I bruise my backside on one of those beasts!” Kinnsell straightened from his coughing crouch. “If the inn can’t provide anything better than those nags, I’ll walk.” The energy of anger and insulted pride gave him the strength to walk into the inn.

  “I’ll do the asking, Master Kinnsell. The
innkeeper will not refuse me.” Maia stepped in front of him as a paunchy, middle-aged man wearing a stained apron approached. He reeked of meat and stale ale.

  Kinnsell almost gagged. He had to remind himself that on bush worlds people had to eat meat to survive. The prejudice of civilized cultures against blood diets was only valid on civilized planets.

  Maia sidled up to the innkeeper. She draped herself around him, clutching his shoulder as she caressed his cheek with delicate fingertips.

  “A private room and a meal for the gentleman?” The innkeeper eyed Kinnsell briefly, then turned his attention back to Maia’s lips that hovered much too close to his own. “And for you, my lady, clean sheets and mulled wine in my cot.” He grabbed the Rover woman around the waist, pulled her close, and kissed her soundly.

  “But, but . . .” Kinnsell gasped. How could she pay for their bed and board by . . . by . . . She owed him—Kinnsell. He’d rescued her. She had no right to peddle her body to this filthy commoner.

  Kinnsell narrowed his eyes seeking a suitable revenge. He pushed his right hand forward striving to gain control of the situation and his emotions.

  “Do not worry, Master Kinnsell. I will join you later. When you are rested.” Maia smiled at him.

  Kinnsell relaxed his posture. Let them think him placated.

  She and the innkeeper ambled away, arms draped around each other familiarly, hands exploring bottoms and breasts already.

  “But . . . but . . .” Kinnsell continued protesting for their benefit. Frankly he was relieved he would not have to perform just yet. This nagging cough left him tired and weak-kneed.

  A very young blonde maid took his hand and led him up rickety stairs to the private room tucked under the steeply sloping eaves.

  “I’ll stay with you, Master,” she offered, staring at him with huge blue eyes.

  She couldn’t be more than fourteen, a child. Barbarians!

  He rammed his hand all the way forward. For once the gesture did nothing to help him.

  Kinnsell slammed the door in the girl’s face. The walls shook and the tiny shuttered window rattled from the force of his blow on the door panels. A mouse and loose straw dropped on his head from the thatch. He coughed again from the dust that filled his nose and mouth.

  Noon, the University of Magicians, Coronnan City

  Bessel and Mopplewogger slept until noon. They grabbed a handful of bacon and bread as they ducked out the back door. After an easy trip through the bustling city, they passed Jorghe-Rosse’s embassy on the way to their new abode. Already blood-red mourning wreaths adorned all the doors. Cloth banners of the same blood red were draped from every window. Warriors from Rossemeyer expected to die in battle, therefore the color of freshly spilled blood represented death.

  The dog scuttled past the house. Bessel followed as rapidly. Mopplewogger radiated fear that invaded Bessel. Just as they passed the dwelling, a man clad in the voluminous black robes and tall turban of Rossemeyer stepped onto the front stoop. The long strand of black cloth that normally draped from the turban across the man’s face hung limply to his shoulder. A fierce frown drew the man’s mouth into an expression of malevolence. He watched Bessel and his familiar through eyes narrowed in calculation. Then he unsheathed his serrated short sword from the depths of his robe.

  Bessel willed himself invisible.

  You are dead, the warrior mouthed the words and stepped down to the street level. He maintained eye contact with each step.

  Mopplewogger yipped and scooted forward, his bobbed tail tucked down.

  Bessel ran after him.

  The warrior didn’t follow. Lady Rosselaara had given King Quinnault one day to produce a suitable victim for her harsh justice. Bessel had until midnight—if the desert mercenaries counted time the same way the rest of the world did. Somehow, Bessel knew they counted time to fit their own desires. They would wait for King Quinnault’s justice only if it suited them.

  Still looking over his shoulder, Bessel scuttled around an imposing townhouse half an island away. He knocked on Myrilandel’s and Nimbulan’s kitchen door with more urgency than was probably necessary. He wanted to be indoors and out of sight of any potential assassins. Since he could not fade from view with magic, he’d hide behind mundane walls.

  Most of the houses on this island belonged to various ambassadorial parties. A few foreign merchants with enough wealth to buy one of these tall narrow dwellings had settled near their ambassadors. Dragon gold had purchased one of the slate-fronted houses for Myrilandel, their ambassador to the humans.

  Nimbulan, Myrilandel, and their daughter Amaranth lived somewhat more modestly than their neighbors, with few if any servants, rarely giving lavish parties or hosting large retinues of their followers. Dragons didn’t need to court favor with politically powerful people. People needed to keep the dragons happy.

  But if no dragons had been seen in several days, did that mean the dragons were not happy with humans right now?

  At last Myrilandel opened her kitchen door to Bessel’s rapid knock. He continued looking over his shoulder for signs of pursuit.

  The dragon’s ambassador carried a broom and wore a simple peasant gown with a kerchief hiding her white-blond hair. Nimbulan was nowhere in sight. Bessel ducked into the warm room with the dog tangling his feet.

  “I will not have dogs fouling my clean kitchen,” Myrilandel announced, herding Mopplewogger back toward the door with the broom. He scooted around the broom and hid under the long worktable.

  “He’s not just a dog!” Bessel defended his new friend. “He’s my familiar.”

  “Well, a familiar is different,” Myrilandel peered at the dog through slitted eyes, as if assessing him with her magic. “I lost my Amaranth over a year ago, and I still miss him. Even naming my baby girl after my familiar didn’t fill all of the gap his death left. What’s this one’s name?”

  “He calls himself Mopplewogger.”

  “What in this existence is a Mopplewogger?” Nimbulan asked, coming into the kitchen with his daughter tucked under his arm. The little girl giggled around a damp thumb stuck into her mouth.

  “Some kind of water dog,” Bessel replied.

  “Looks more like a dust mop with a nose and tail.” Myrilandel shook her head. “Mopsie, I think.”

  The dog looked up at the shortening of his name, wiggling from nose to tail and back again.

  “Pick a bedroom for yourself and Mopsie.” Nimbulan gestured toward the stairs. “Then join me in the study, I’d like to assess your progress before we commence on new courses.”

  “Pick a room close to an exit for the dog,” Myrilandel added. “You’ll have to open doors for him, and you’ll get tired of walking up and down those stairs in the middle of the night. Believe me, I know what it’s like to be owned by a familiar.”

  “Uh, sir, I think I might need to learn something about self-defense and disguises.” Bessel paused in his retreat toward the back stairs—the servants’ stairs in any other household. If Myrilandel made use of any servant except an occasional nanny, Bessel had never seen them.

  “Why?” Nimbulan dropped the arm he’d been gesturing with. “Has someone from the University threatened you?”

  “No, sir. I had to pass the Rossemeyerian Embassy on the way here. One of their warriors came outside and watched me very closely. He unsheathed his sword and said something, but I couldn’t hear the words.”

  Why didn’t he admit that he knew what the man had said? Maybe the man hadn’t said the words, only thought them.

  “Did you read his intentions in his mind?”

  “No, sir. I won’t eavesdrop unless invited.” An embarrassing flush heated Bessel’s face.

  “Even to save your life?” Nimbulan raised one eyebrow in question.

  “I . . . I don’t know. I’ve never been that desperate.”

  “Think about it while you settle in. And think about invisibility spells. I used to be quite good at hiding myself while in full view of those I wish
ed to escape. Sometimes I didn’t even need magic.” The elderly man chuckled as he set his daughter onto her feet. He knelt before her and tousled her hair. “But I’ll never escape you, Ammie.”

  The little girl laughed wildly.

  Bessel wondered how much Nimbulan could teach him now that he’d replaced his magic with a loving family. Then his old teacher stood, slowly unbending his limbs. A grimace of pain crossed his face and he coughed.

  Chapter 23

  Afternoon, the pit beneath the city of Hanassa

  “Are you sure this thing will work?” Powwell asked as he eyed the little black ’mote suspiciously. He held the box so the wraith could view it, too. The misty apparition hadn’t left him for more than a few seconds since she’d returned, not even while they slept and ate. The iron gate had remained opened after the guards left. She could come and go as she pleased. So why didn’t she go?

  At least she’d ceased her wailing.

  “I’m not sure of anything,” Yaala replied. She repeatedly touched various parts of Little Liise, the generator that chugged happily along converting steam to ’tricity. Mostly Yaala fiddled with a control panel she had exposed on one end of the machine. “Touch the left button and see what happens.”

  Powwell held his finger over the button she indicated. Sometime in the past it had been painted red. Generations of use had worn the paint off and there were only a few wisps of color left to suggest its purpose. He closed his eyes and pushed hard on the button.

  “Nothing’s happening.” Rollett scanned the caverns, holding out his staff as a sensor. He seemed unaware of the wraith hovering right in front of him.

  “Wait a moment,” Yaala advised as she fussed with buttons and switches on the nearby transformer. “Push it again.”

  Powwell pushed the button.

  Still nothing.

  “Point the ’mote toward the light control panel embedded in the wall.” Yaala heaved a sigh of resignation. “I thought you knew a ’mote had to have a purpose and line-of-sight contact with its objective.”