The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

into the rusting brazier beside the bed. The room was small enough that only a little fire would heat the space nicely. He ignited the twigs and leaves with a snap of his fingers and added larger sticks as quickly as he could. At least the old man had prepared for a fire before illness, injury, or just plain old age felled him.
    From the fine cut of his stylish robes and trews, Robb guessed that he had come from a noble and wealthy family. Probably a younger son grown beyond usefulness. He and Marcus would have heard of an heir or lord gone missing. After all, they had spent most of the last three years gathering the gossip of Coronnan.
    “Save your medicines for yourself, lad,” the ancient waved weakly at Robb’s packets. His voice faded and grew with his flickering image. “Leave here. Quickly. This place is cursed. Don’t get trapped . . .” His breath gushed out of his chest on a dry rattle like leaves stirred in a drying breeze.
    At last his form settled into the current reality, a dry husk that no longer held his spirit trapped between worlds. The witchlight died, leaving only the light from the small fire.
    Robb gently closed the old man’s staring eyes. “I didn’t even have time to ask his name,” he said sadly. “I’ll hate burying him without a name.”
    “At least he did not die alone.” Marcus looked up from the merrily blazing fire. A little heat spread out from the brazier.
    Robb and Marcus set about straightening the old man’s limbs. When he lay peacefully on the stone bench, looking comfortable and glad that he no longer struggled through life, Robb searched his pockets for some clue to his identity. His fingers brushed against cool metal disks.
    He fished one out and stared at the shiny gold. The soft metal glowed in the gentle firelight. It caressed his fingertips and eyes with an almost living color. His jaw dropped as he recognized the one hundred mark on the old-style coin. The face and inscription did not trigger any memory in him.
    “Our fortune is made, Robb. He’s got dozens of gold coins in his pockets. Dragons only know how many more are stashed around this lonely monastery.” Marcus held up a handful of coins. He gulped as he, too, held them up to catch the light.
    Robb’s vision fractured into a dozen bright rainbows.
    The world tilted.
    He fought to retain his balance, eyes focused clearly on the gold coin and nothing else. A fine veil of mist seemed to cover everything.
    “The Commune can buy a lot of respectability with these. Not to mention books and equipment for the University,” Marcus said. His voice came from a great distance. “This gold will liven up our games of cartes.”
    “We haven’t time to daydream about gold and fortunes,” Robb replied as he placed two of the coins upon the ancient’s closed eyes. A third rested in his pocket. Keeping one coin for himself would hurt no one. And it might give him an edge against survival during his long treks around Coronnan. Unlike Marcus, he had no desire to settle in one place for a long, long time.
    He bowed his head a moment in silent prayer. “This man is very dead, Marcus. And he said this place is cursed. We have to get out of here. We need a plan.”
    “Not until after the storm passes. We can spend the night searching the place for his stash.”
    “Marcus,” Robb began testily. “Marcus! You’re fading into the walls. Marcus, don’t you dare leave me and take your good luck with you!”
    * * *
    “Nice doggy,” Jack said quietly. He dared not move.
    The beast growled again and showed even more of its teeth. Saliva dripped onto the dock above the boat.
    “Nice doggy.”
    “She doesn’t like to be called doggy,” a man replied roughly.
    “Good mopplewogger,” Jack said, still not moving.
    The dog pricked her ears and sat.
    “Nice mopplewogger,” Jack coaxed. “Don’t suppose you remember me, doggy?”
    The dog rose up on its long legs growling again.
    “Different dog. It’s been ten years, wharf rat. You don’t have to steal the boat. I’d loan it if you asked,” the man said with a chuckle.
    “Want to call off your mopplewogger, Aquilla?”
    “Ten years and you’re still running from bullies. Want to trade that prissy uniform for a real one?”
    Jack dared to look away from the dog long enough to take in Aquilla’s Guild of Bay Pilots uniform of maroon and gold. His weather-beaten face crinkled in laughter.
    “I’ve made oaths of loyalty elsewhere. Want to call off the