The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

time; so, too, were a pile of tubers and cone roots ready for chopping.
    But no one greeted him. No one sang while working.
    “Anyone here?” he asked the empty room. The fire remained a bank of smoldering coals. The house smelled empty.
    Wherever Myrilandel and Nimbulan had gone, they had taken Amaranth with them. Not unusual.
    “Well, if we are hungry, Mopsie, I’d best set about fixing something.
    “Woof,” Mopsie agreed. He waddled over to the pantry door and sniffed eagerly.
    “Why did I know you’d be hungry, pup?” Bessel opened the door and followed the dog to the trapdoor leading to the cool cellar. The leftovers of last night’s stew should be in the shallow underground room. Mopsie jumped down the four steps and found the covered pot before Bessel could bring a ball of witchlight to his hand for better visibility. Myri had left a bone beside the pot on the shelf, just above Mopsie’s reach.
    “If I give you the bone, do you promise to be neat with it? I can’t have you messing up Myri’s kitchen.”
    Mopsie sat politely and wagged his tail across the stone floor.
    “Take it up to the mudroom, then.” Bessel handed the bone—longer than the dog’s head was wide—to Mopsie. The dog grabbed it with eager teeth and trotted up the stairs.
    There he stopped and growled, dropping the bone to bare his teeth in warning.
    Bessel set the stew pot back on the shelf very slowly, very quietly. Then he consciously set his magical armor in place. Spells would dissipate before reaching him. Mundane weapons should bounce off him—if he could hold the protection in place long enough. He wasn’t used to relying upon ley lines to fuel his spells.
    Cautiously, he mounted the first step. The armor sharpened his sight enough to spot the weaknesses in the wooden board that might creak and betray his presence.
    His head and shoulders cleared the trapdoor entrance. He searched the pantry with every sense available to him. Once certain that no one had entered the little room and nothing stood between him and an exit, he doused his witchlight and climbed up the remaining three steps.
    He paused at the closed door to the kitchen and listened. Someone moved about, restlessly, picking things up and putting them down again.
    Who examined the kitchen so precisely?
    Then the intruder bumped into the table. He mumbled a curse, barely audible to mundane ears. The wood groaned and a knife clattered against the floor. Four thuds suggested some of the vegetables had followed the knife.
    Whoever prowled the room didn’t know it well.
    Mopsie crawled to the door, belly down, neck fur raised, and teeth bared.
    Bessel put aside all of his reticence from invasion of privacy and opened his mind.
    “Where have you been, boy?” Lyman angrily threw open the pantry door. “And where are Nimbulan and Myrilandel? The house is as empty and silent as a grave. Do you mind telling me why you and that scruffy mutt are hiding in the pantry like thieves?”
    Bessel sagged with relief, leaning against the doorjamb.
    “I don’t know where anyone is, and I was looking for supper when my familiar warned me of an intruder. Why are you here? I didn’t think you ever left the library.” Certainly he hadn’t left it long enough to keep up with current fashion. His knee-length tunics and silk sash were the objects of many apprentice jokes.
    “You don’t think much, then. I must find Nimbulan. Where could he have gone?”
    “I don’t know. I left early this morning and haven’t been able to get back until now.”
    Lyman paused to look at Bessel more closely. “Strange garb for a magician.”
    “But proper garb for a fisherman. The agents of Lady Rosselaara search for a journeyman magician.”
    “Ah, so they decided to take matters into their own hands.” Lyman tapped his lip with his index finger. “I should have suspected as much if my mind had been on this existence.”
    “This existence!” Alarmed, Bessel grabbed the old man’s shoulders. “You can’t die and pass on to the next existence yet. The University needs you. The Commune needs you. We have to counter Scarface’s fanaticism.”
    “And you need me to reclaim information in the library. Yes, yes, I read your mind. I couldn’t help it when you opened it wide to listen to mine. Well, you’ll have to find the books and read them on your own.”
    “Promise me you aren’t dying,” Bessel pleaded. He’d had too many upsets in too short a time. Lyman was a permanent