The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

banned. Could that be where the smuggler aimed to take the Tambootie seedlings? Yaakke strained to follow the speaker with his eyes, but lost him among the throng of taller observers.
    The mood of the crowd seemed to echo the speaker—half wildly enthusiastic for the king and half faddishly bored, unable to approve of anything.
    With the slightly crossed eyes required for TrueSight, Yaakke scanned the courtyard for any hint of Jaylor. All he could sense was a tiny tune of peace and love just ahead of him. That had to be Brevelan, Jaylor’s wife. An island of calm radiated outward from the delicately framed witchwoman. Her witch-red hair and magic were disguised. No one who didn’t know her would suspect that the quiet tune she Sang to her new baby was really a spell to keep the overwhelming emotions of the crowd away from her empathic sensitivities.
    Disguised or not, Jaylor wasn’t beside her.
    Yaakke climbed to the top level of seats erected around the central dais, almost to the top of the wall. He ignored Corby perched atop the wall ten arm-lengths away as he preened scorched breast feathers. Tendrils of black floated on the wind, like ash, with each stab of his sharp beak.
    Scanning the crowd for anyone wearing a magic disguise or delusion—friend and enemy alike—Yaakke avoided jostling elbows that threatened to push him over the outside wall into the churning river that encircled Palace Isle. The jackdaw cackled laughter at his concern.
    “Rotten weather for a celebration.” A sergeant in the green-and-gold uniform of Darville’s personal guard remarked beside Yaakke.
    “Yeah, could rain any minute.” Yaakke looked at the sky where the jackdaw now flew, rather than at his unwanted companion. He swallowed heavily and tried to ease away from the young sergeant.
    “Do I know you?” the Palace guard asked, peering closely at the black-and-silver tunic Yaakke had chosen for his magic disguise. He thought it went well with his dark hair and eyes. Then he remembered the girl with raven hair and bay-blue eyes. She had been wearing black and silver too.
    “I don’t think we’ve met.” Yaakke looked around nervously. He wished he could dissolve into the crowd like the girl had, without using any magic. This curious sergeant looked as if he might be trying to “smell” the presence of magic.
    A bizarre purple haze clung to the area around the dais. Yaakke wrinkled his nose against the odor of the incense. Cautiously he eased a light shell of magic armor around him. The overly sweet smell subsided.
    The sergeant opened his eyes wide and shoved his way down the tier of seats, like a boat forging upriver against a strong current, pushing noble and wealthy citizens aside without regard. Apparently he didn’t like the smell either.
    Yaakke watched, wondering at the sergeant’s haste and determination. Then he saw what had disturbed the sergeant. One of the acolytes wasn’t a young boy. Beneath a dissolving spell of delusion, he was a short, middle-aged man with a square-cut beard. No respectable citizen of Coronnan would wear a beard trimmed in the style affected by King Simeon of SeLenicca, the sorcerer-king who waged war against Coronnan.
    A sorcerer-king who ruled a land notorious for the absence of magic, A dragon could provide Simeon with enough magic to work his spells. He’d need Tambootie trees to feed the dragons who had deserted Coronnan last spring.
    Was the smuggler headed for SeLenicca and King Simeon?
    Assassin! The outside thought came into Yaakke’s head unbidden.
    He sent an invisible probe into the false acolyte’s head. Poison . The man was going to shoot poison into King Darville. Yaakke had to stop him.
    But how? He was too far away to get to the dais before the assassin acted.
    If he threw any magic at all—at this distance he’d have to summon power and focus the spell with gestures and a trance—the guard standing one tier away would arrest him for using outlawed powers. The guard might even think he, Yaakke, was the assassin.
     
    Rejiia eased out of the guardroom toward the King’s Gate. That magician boy had seen her. That meddlesome apprentice of Jaylor’s, who seemed to melt into walls and fade into obscurity while listening to the most private of conversations, was skulking around the coronation. She had no doubt he could penetrate her delusions. Perhaps he could eavesdrop on her private thoughts and telepathic conversations as well.
    If he overheard, the coven’s