The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

construction.
    The elaborate passenger barge he had ridden on—was it just two days ago?—rested against a clean ramp. No one bothered to sweep and scrub the more commercial docks. But this one catered to wealthy and elite passengers. A bevy of colorful canopies and padded benches provided those passengers with a place to await the tide and the whim of the pilot.
    If he’d worn his magician’s robes, Bessel could have walked directly up to the barge and demanded passage free of charge. Dressed as an ordinary fisherman, accompanied by a scruffy dog—who had gotten very dirty again crossing the city—the stewards and crew wouldn’t allow him beyond the velvet ropes that separated the passenger area from the common dockside traffic.
    He needed another disguise.
    What would get him aboard the ship without question and without having to pay an enormous fee? He couldn’t board as an ordinary dockhand, and the uniforms of the Guild of Bay Pilots were custom-made for each individual— no extras. Besides, every man in the Guild knew every other man in the guild.
    He’d have to board as a magician needing free passage so he could fulfill some unnamed errand for the Commune. No longer concerned about performing rogue magic, he snapped his fingers again. His formal robe and his best boots from his room in Myrilandel’s house landed in a heap at his feet. He ducked behind a pile of crates and rope coils to rearrange himself. The robe covered his ordinary fisherman’s clothing. But his bedroll and Mopsie needed a more discreet covering.
    He checked the pockets of the robe for his normal assortment of essential equipment. Everything seemed in place.
    “With permission to use rogue magic, I can hide the bedroll here and retrieve it later,” he whispered to himself and Mopsie. He also needed to change his appearance a little. He didn’t want Raanald, the pilot during yesterday’s disaster, or any of his crew recognizing him. With just a little magic he made himself appear taller and thinner. The dirt on his face took on a heavier appearance, more like a true beard and mustache.
    Mopsie whined in disapproval at the change. “Don’t worry, pup, I won’t leave you behind. I need you to stand guard while I do what I have to do.”
    The depth finder was in place. He could see it from here, but he couldn’t blast it with magic. That would bring down the wrath of the Guild upon the Commune. He needed to make it look as if the machine were defective—dangerous—so the Guild would cooperate with the Commune in the future, not go to war with each other.
    He needed to get closer, close enough to touch the machine. Boldly, he stepped up to the steward standing behind the velvet rope.
    “Good man, I travel on business for the Commune of Magicians. I need to interview passengers arriving this evening at the port.” Bessel gestured expansively toward the four islands far out in the Great Bay at the beginning of deep water. The steward kept his eyes on Bessel’s hands and staff rather than on the dirty mutt who hid beneath the journeyman’s robes.
    “I need a passport.” The steward held out his hand for the bit of slate with symbols scratched on it that outlined Bessel’s instructions.
    “What you don’t know can hurt you,” Bessel whispered to himself. He fished in his pocket while murmuring yet another transport spell to bring him the flat scrap of slate he kept with his books. The piece was outdated from his journey to his mother’s deathbed. But this man couldn’t read—prevented by law from learning the arcane skill.
    The steward barely glanced at the passport, then unhitched one of the velvet ropes at the stanchion, allowing Bessel to pass into the waiting area unhindered. “You may board now, but sit somewhere out of the way. We’ll sail with the tide regardless, even if that mob of uppity mercenaries and their lady don’t show up on time.”
    “Mercenaries?” Bessel raised one eyebrow at the man as if the issue were of only moderate interest.
    “Yeah. The lady sent word. She’s taking the ambassador’s body back to Rossemeyer for burial. After she executes that other magician, the one who murdered her husband.”

Chapter 47
     
    Afternoon, home of Myrilandel, Ambassador from the Nimbus of Dragons, Coronnan City
     
    K atie gulped back her immediate fear. Quinnault knew the business end of a sword and how to use it.
    So did all of those black-clad mercenaries. But they would not try to find a