The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

father. But what about this one?
    Maybe Scarface had been right to ban certain books. If anyone understood precisely how the depth finder worked, they could duplicate it, adapt it to other uses. . . .
    Bessel took a few moments to draw the warm sunshine on his back deep into his bones. In a few moments, when he could master his bouncing stomach, he’d look at the sparkling light on the shifting waters rather than the mysterious machine. The muck of the mudflats might be only a few fathoms below the water here, but the constantly changing waves disguised the depths. He had no focus to anchor his stomach or his magic. The staff in his hand was useless without that focus.
    He put up with his queasy stomach and listened to the prattling of the ambassadors and ladies who shared the barge with him. Understanding would be so much easier if he just eavesdropped on their thoughts. But Nimbulan had drilled into him respect for the privacy of others.
    Bessel hadn’t even invaded his mother’s mind to catch her dying wishes. He wished he had. He hadn’t felt her love for many years, and he missed her more than he thought possible.
    His stomach lurched with a new shift of the currents and tide. Power simmered within the kardia beneath the waves, begging him to tap it and calm his innards. The power could show him how the depth finder worked. He refused the invitation to rogue magic.
    If he had refrained from tapping rogue magic to help his mother, he certainly wouldn’t do it to make himself more comfortable.
    From the look on the face of the new ambassador from Jihab, he didn’t like the rising and lowering of the deck with each new wave any better than Bessel did. The portly man, who had made several fortunes as a jewel trader before turning to politics, blanched and clamped his teeth together. His normally ruddy skin took on the ghastly pallor of green akin to light-shy fungi in the back of a sea cave.
    Bessel liked the jovial jeweler. The other four ambassadors, their ladies, and aides on the barge were all too aware of their own self-importance to pay him any attention. But Heinriiche Smeetsch had greeted Bessel politely and seemed genuinely interested in his studies to become a master magician. Bessel had even confided his secret wish to succeed Master Lyman as librarian.
    He could think of no better way to protect the banned books and the knowledge they contained. S’murghit, how could Scarface be so sure the disease that felled Lord Balthazaan’s province wasn’t a plague that needed more than fresh supplies to cure it?
    The beeping black box beside the pilot’s chair at the exact center of the barge increased the frequency and intensity of its signal. Bessel sensed no change in the mudflats. But dragon magic was Air-based and didn’t lend itself to Water-oriented spells. The Kardia-based rogue magic would be able to delve into the mysteries of the Bay.
    Kardia and Water were teamed as were Air and Fire.
    Raanald, the representative from the Guild of Bay Pilots, kicked his arcane machine. “ S’murghit, I know these waters. There was nothing in this region yesterday to hinder our passage. We should be well beyond the bar. Two degrees starboard,” he called to his helmsman. “ S’murghin’ machine. Why is it telling me to avoid a clear passage?”
    Raanald brushed the folds of his gaudy maroon-and-gold uniform sleeve into a straight line, very aware of his elite calling. He knew the waters better than the machine did.
    Or so his attitude indicated. If he knew the waters better than the machine, why risk having the machine at all?
    “What does that beeping mean?” Bessel asked.
    “The machine does not concern you, Magician.” Raanald spat the last word as if it fouled his mouth.
    Distrust of the man and the machine rose in Bessel. Maybe that was just his stomach protesting the constant and uneven movement of the barge.
    A wave lifted the shallow-bottomed vessel several feet, then dropped it into the trough. Ambassador Smeetsch spun in place, heaving his luncheon over the side.
    Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse from Rossemeyer slapped his Jihabian counterpart heartily on the back, making a joke of his squeamishness.
    Bessel might have laughed if his own meal rested more easily. Or if the depth-finding machine would stop beeping. It seemed to be getting louder and faster, warning of unseen submerged obstacles. The sandbar that ran parallel to the coastline changed dimensions every spring as the River Coronnan