The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

large obstacle. For a moment it hopped back into the air. Three seconds of absolute silence deafened him. All he could see out the front viewscreen were rocks and more rocks. The sensors relayed information too quickly for him to comprehend. Then the shuttle dropped again. Kinnsell’s stomach lurched toward his throat. He shuddered with the vessel as it struck ground once more. A great tearing sound ran the length of the cabin. The deck split in the wake of the horrendous noise. The cabin canted sharply backward and to the left. Stopped. Suspended. Where?
    Kinnsell unclenched his jaw. He rotated the joints a couple of times, fearing he’d cracked a bone or three. When his chin and cheeks stopped popping, he took a moment to appraise the situation.
    His sensors and the view outside the window told him the shuttle was precariously balanced upon the edge of the plateau. A tangle of tree limbs kept the stern of the shuttle from teetering into a steep and broken ravine.
    A worse fate awaited him out the front viewscreen.
    “Not again,” he moaned and buried his head in his hands. When he spread his fingers a little and looked out the broken window, he slammed his eyes shut again. “I have to be feverish. I have to be hallucinating.”
    A huge dragon eye stared back at him through the cracked window.

    Midafternoon, home of Myrilandel, Ambassador from the Nimbus of Dragons, Coronnan City
     
    Bessel slipped up the stairs to his room while the royal couple and their friends made plans. He pulled together a disguise out of odds and ends and returned to the kitchen by the back staircase. Luucian’s attention was on the servant’s spyhole. Bessel tiptoed around him and opened the kitchen door of Myrilandel’s house cautiously. A dozen black-clad mercenaries from Rossemeyer lined the alley. They stood tall and formidable, made more imposing by their voluminous black robes that could hide two dozen weapons, and by their elaborate black turbans with one end draped over their faces. Their black eyes glittered with menace as they surveyed Bessel.
    He swallowed his fear and opened the door a little wider. As he took the one step down to the stoop, he held his lower back with one hand and balanced his weight to emphasize the large bulge of a blanket wadded up under one of Myrilandel’s maternity gowns. His “pregnancy” was held in place by a wide belt. With a kerchief over his hair, he just might pass for a woman nearing the end of a difficult pregnancy.
    Provided Mopsie stayed quiet and didn’t squirm around too much within the blanket.
    Two of the mercenaries stepped forward, hands on the hilts of their swords.
    Bessel waddled up to them, keeping his eyes open and frank. He couldn’t betray the truth by even so much as a twitch of fear on his face.
    “Allow me to assist you, madama.” The mercenary on Bessel’s left crooked his arm, ready to take Bessel’s weight, should he choose to place his hand there.
    Bessel suppressed a grin as he leaned heavily against the man. He placed his other hand, still holding the basket, beneath his tummy bulge and moaned a little.
    “I’m off to market for some special herbs to ease the birthing pains,” he said in falsetto. “I should ever so much appreciate your company on the journey. One never knows when the babe might burst forth.” Bessel clutched his belly again and moaned louder. This time he swayed a little.
    “Um . . . um . . . shouldn’t you stay home and send someone else to market?” His mercenary escort hesitated. The soldier looked frantically toward his companions for inspiration.
    Few men, even healers, were comfortable around women in childbirth. Bessel had learned that much through his mother’s numerous pregnancies. At the first sign of a labor pain, all the men in the village found urgent work elsewhere.
    “There is no one else. They are all held captive in the street. Can’t you hear the commotion? I must go now, I can’t delay.” Bessel moaned again as he took a few mincing steps down the alley.
    “Then I fear you must go alone, madama. We cannot desert our posts.” All of the mercenaries bowed low.
    Bessel took several more steps—a little longer stride this time while they weren’t looking.
    “Please stay close. I may need you to boil water and fetch supplies by the time I return.” Bessel dismissed them with a wave of his hand. The strangers drifted away from Myrilandel’s kitchen door in an effort to separate themselves from