The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

enough of manacles to last two lifetimes.
    “I must speak to Mistress Kaantille myself, good sirs.” Jack sidestepped to keep both guards and their hideous manacles in view.
    “Kaantille!” the tall guard hissed in angry alarm.
    “No daughter of a suicide would be allowed in the palace. Her father’s a traitor, enslaved for his crimes.” The manacles clanked as the shorter guard pulled them free of his belt.
    “What kind of criminal are you that you need to speak to her? ” The tall man tried to capture Jack’s wrists.
    Jack turned and ran, revulsion deep in his throat. He’d never submit to chains again.
    “Stop him!” the short guard yelled brandishing the manacles. “Bring him to the gaol. King Simeon wants to know about anyone who has any connection at all to the Kaantilles.”

Chapter 27
     
    N o magic sprang to Jack’s hands for defense. Without ley lines to augment his natural reserves, his mild delusion took most of his talent. But he couldn’t allow himself to be captured and dragged before King Simeon. His quest was too important.
    He dropped the delusion that masked his staff. Instinct brought the tool up against the guard’s chin with a resounding crack. The stout man staggered backward, fighting for balance and consciousness. Before the staff completed its upward arc, Jack swung it down and around into the tall man’s chest.
    The guard ducked back from the blow so the staff merely brushed the buttons of his uniform. In return he lashed out with a foot to Jack’s groin. Jack deflected the kick into his thigh. Bone-numbing pain sent him staggering backward. His delusion slipped.
    The black-clad man gasped and stared at Jack’s dark hair and eyes.
    “You want street fighting?” Jack ground out between clenched teeth. “I grew up fighting for scraps in alleys!” Almost recovered, Jack took advantage of the man’s momentary distraction. He stood from his crouch, bringing the staff upright with him.
    Right, left, right, and down he struck the guard. Step by step, Jack pushed the tallest man into a narrow passage between two houses. In the shadowed privacy of a hedge he let his fists fly to jaw and gut. He caught his opponent behind the knee with a foot in a blow meant to damage the hamstring.
    In moments the fight was over and Jack was running back the way he had come. Running toward the river district, where he could blend into the crowd and disappear.
    As he rounded a corner, he heard the shorter guard gasp, “A magician! He changed his hair and eye color. A dark-eyed magician. He’s the one with the price on his head. After him!”
    Jack increased his pace. He elbowed merchants and shoppers aside in his headlong run. His foot caught the support pole of a market booth. Wooden poles and canvas awnings collapsed in the road behind him.
    Guards stumbled. Ladies screamed. Men cursed.
    Shadows from tall buildings invited Jack. He wrapped the growing darkness around him while he caught his breath. A cough born of mine dust threatened to choke him. He held his breath and melted against a brick wall.
    The guards called for other men in black to assist them. A troop of seven stomped down the alley where Jack hid. He willed himself into silent immobility, knowing that color and movement caught the eye. His pursuers passed him by without a glance.
    When the city watch turned a corner, Jack drifted away in a new direction. He had three more broad streets to cross before he reached the crowded industrial area. He tried a new delusion. Silver hair, stooped shoulders, a fine green cloak. His staff became a cane to assist his shuffling steps.
    None of the agitated citizens looked at him twice. He crossed the first street. Large shops gave way to smaller stores with dwellings atop.
    He crossed the second street and caught a glimpse of the marching troop of the city watch, now grown to twelve. He paused to cement the delusion in place.
    The dozen men in black turned back onto the same route Jack followed. One man in the lead sniffed right and left, his right arm straight out before him. His nose wrinkled and he tested the air again. “There!” the witch-sniffer cried and pointed. “That old man, he’s a magician.”
    “King Simeon has offered a year’s pay for his head. Two years’ pay for each of us if we catch him alive!”
    Jack dropped the energy-draining delusion and ran.
    The crowds increased. Jack found himself pushing and shoving innocent bystanders into the filthy gutters. Footsteps