The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

and tunic, but it was almost as sodden as the rest of him. No amount of emptying his boots and wringing his socks would dry them.
    Hours had passed, awaiting rescue and answering questions since he’d dragged Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse from Rossemeyer from the depths of the Bay.
    Misery dogged his steps as much as the scraggly white mutt with long, curly fur that had followed him from the docks and kept pressing up against him. Bessel wanted to kick it out of the way, but it looked as depressed and lonely as he felt. He let it stay with him as he followed the other refugees from the barge.
    Armed guards from both King Quinnault’s personal guard and from Rossemeyer had met them as they docked.
    Four stern-faced warriors from Rossemeyer led them from the docks into the palace. They carried their dead ambassador on a litter. Another four warriors flanked them protectively. Behind them came the other dignitaries and their ladies, still wet and chilled. The palace guard had given them warm blankets and cloaks. But no one had offered Bessel anything.
    Except the dog. When it rubbed against Bessel, he felt a little warmer.
    Jorghe-Rosse’s lady stood a little apart, dry-eyed and chin jutting with determination. If she grieved, she didn’t show it in her posture.
    Bessel, the pilot, and the boatmen brought up the rear, along with the bedraggled dog. Bessel didn’t need to read the sailors’ minds to smell their fear. No one knew for certain how the new widow would avenge her husband’s death. Only that she would.
    Fires roared in the hearths at either end of the huge hall. The dignitaries gravitated to the bright warmth even at this late hour. Tapestries and flower bouquets gave the room an air of cozy invitation. King Quinnault and Queen Maarie Kaathliin had transformed their major reception area into a home that welcomed petitioners to the court rather than made them afraid of true justice in a cold and forbidding hall.
    Bessel didn’t think there could be justice as long as Rossemeyer was involved. The entire country of mercenaries made their own rules that had nothing to do with the rest of civilization.
    The king and queen entered the hall through a small back door. The king still wore riding leathers flecked with steed foam, as if he’d driven his mount to extremes in his hurry to get here. Queen Maarie Kaathliin clutched her baby tightly as they made their way to the twin thrones on the low dais. She kept looking around anxiously. Usually she left the child with servants while she accompanied her husband on official business. Today she refused the nanny who kept reaching for the child.
    Master Scarface and a few of the other master magicians marched into the room, pushing aside the crowd of courtiers. Scarface took up his position between the twin thrones. The other master magicians flanked the royal dais. Bessel tried to catch Scarface’s gaze. The Senior Magician scanned every corner of the room except where Bessel stood.
    Bessel sent a gentle mental query to his master. Scarface remained impassive and unresponsive.
    Wind-drift, the master magician standing just to the right of the queen’s throne, a man Bessel barely knew but who had become very close to Scarface in recent weeks, sent an inquisitive mental probe of his own toward Bessel’s mind. Bessel saw it as a glowing yellow dart. It sped toward Bessel’s right eye. A hair’s breadth from contact the energy bolt stopped, turned, and backlashed to the sender at double speed. The magician reared back, clutching his eyes in pain.
    Scarface opened his eyes wide in alarm. His scowl deepened.
    Bessel shrugged. The magician hadn’t asked permission. No magician had been able to read his mind without Bessel’s prior consent since his experience with the outlaws as a child.
    They’d exile him for sure now and he’d be alone, without the family of the Commune.
    The dog plunked down on his foot. Maybe he wouldn’t be totally alone. But a dog didn’t make up for a family.
    May I ask your version of the story? Please? Wind-drift asked politely. His wild red-gray mane, which usually stretched back from his face as if he stood in a strong wind, crackled with the energy of Bessel’s backlashed probe.
    Since you asked politely. Bessel opened his mind and let his memories of the afternoon pour forth.
    Scarface still looked angry and puzzled. Was Wind-drift passing the images along to his senior or not? Wind-drift hadn’t been with Scarface in the library