The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

two days’ walk of the capital must be arrested and brought here for investigation,” he said to the officer who paced anxiously behind his chair.
    The guard practically ran out of the hall, gathering armed men as he went.
    Nimbulan nodded his approval then turned his thoughts back to the problem at hand. He had last lain with Maia the night before Televarn tried to kill him with a knife between his ribs. That had been in early spring, nearly three seasons ago. The babe would be newborn about now.
    “You can’t go in search of your destiny yet, Nimbulan,” Lyman whispered, drawing Nimbulan aside as if to consult on the assassination issue “Soon, though. Wait until we can make arrangements in private. King Quinnault has ordered you to remain in the capital rather than search for Myrilandel. He won’t take kindly to your leaving on this quest either. He needs you to counter whatever ploy the attack fleet from Rossemeyer plans.”
    They stared at each other in a moment of complete understanding. They barely heard the commotion at the entrance to the Great Hall.
    “Your Grace, you can’t be considering this draft of the treaty. The conditions are preposterous!” Lord Hanic burst into the room, oblivious to the tension surrounding the bowl of water and the cup of wine still sitting on the floor.
    “Lord Hanic to see you, Your Grace,” a servant squeaked from the doorway somewhat belatedly. He straightened his stiff tunic in the new green-and-gold livery of the royal house. A stylized dragon was embroidered over his heart.
    “Calm down,” King Quinnault soothed, not at all flustered by the lack of protocol. He hadn’t been king long enough to expect the elaborate courtesy that plagued other kingdoms. “All of those ‘preposterous’ clauses are negotiable. However, we should at least pretend to consider them so that Ambassador Jhorge-Rosse can tell his king that he presented them. We might also lull him into the belief that we are incredibly stupid because we do consider them. His natural feeling of superiority might make him stumble into a mistake in our favor.” Quinnault ambled back to the demithrone at the table, ready to return to business as usual.
    “Your Grace,” Nimbulan interrupted. “You don’t need me further. Allow me and my assistants to clear away this mess and join the search for the assassin.” If he stayed, Quinnault would drag him into yet another endless discussion about the blasted treaty.
    “Stay, Nimbulan. The weather has been clear for two days. The Rossemeyerian fleet could attack at any moment. We need to plan our defenses. Now.” Quinnault glared at his magician with an expression that tolerated no defiance. A new expression for the king, learned within the last year.
    “His Lordship, General Jhorge-Rosse, Ambassador from the Serene Kingdom of Rossemeyer,” the harried servant at the door announced.
    Quinnault turned his attention from Nimbulan to the tall desert dweller who swept into the room in his all-concealing black robes. An elaborate black turban added more height to his imposing figure.
    Rossemeyer’s primary export consisted of mercenaries. Mercenaries, not assassins. No desert warrior would stoop to the dishonor of magical poison when a knife duel worked as well or better. Every member of the government in Rossemeyer had to have earned leadership on the field of battle before entering the battle of politics. The “Rosse” suffix added to the ambassador’s name was the highest honorific allowed his people. Only members of the royal family made the name a prefix.
    Nimbulan motioned to the two journeymen to dispose of the bowl and cup on their way back to the school. He dispatched Lyman to organize the search for Televarn.
    Was Rossemeyer’s desert sand as red and black as Nimbulan had seen in the vision?
    Rovers were known to seek refuge in the desert wastes of Rossemeyer.
    Concentrate! he ordered himself. Find out what you can and then leave quickly. Leave and follow your heart. Myrilandel.
    “Your Grace.” Jhorge-Rosse dipped his head and perhaps one knee in a brief gesture of respect to the king. He glanced sideways at Nimbulan and ignored Lord Hanic.
    Nimbulan wondered briefly if his mud-stained leather working clothes, dyed a common blue, earned him respect or dismissal in the ambassador’s eyes. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. He had to find Myri and Maia.
    “Your Grace, I have read your proposals and find them nothing less than