The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

and bread as they ducked out the back door. After an easy trip through the bustling city, they passed Jorghe-Rosse’s embassy on the way to their new abode. Already blood-red mourning wreaths adorned all the doors. Cloth banners of the same blood red were draped from every window. Warriors from Rossemeyer expected to die in battle, therefore the color of freshly spilled blood represented death.
    The dog scuttled past the house. Bessel followed as rapidly. Mopplewogger radiated fear that invaded Bessel. Just as they passed the dwelling, a man clad in the voluminous black robes and tall turban of Rossemeyer stepped onto the front stoop. The long strand of black cloth that normally draped from the turban across the man’s face hung limply to his shoulder. A fierce frown drew the man’s mouth into an expression of malevolence. He watched Bessel and his familiar through eyes narrowed in calculation. Then he unsheathed his serrated short sword from the depths of his robe.
    Bessel willed himself invisible.
    You are dead, the warrior mouthed the words and stepped down to the street level. He maintained eye contact with each step.
    Mopplewogger yipped and scooted forward, his bobbed tail tucked down.
    Bessel ran after him.
    The warrior didn’t follow. Lady Rosselaara had given King Quinnault one day to produce a suitable victim for her harsh justice. Bessel had until midnight—if the desert mercenaries counted time the same way the rest of the world did. Somehow, Bessel knew they counted time to fit their own desires. They would wait for King Quinnault’s justice only if it suited them.
    Still looking over his shoulder, Bessel scuttled around an imposing townhouse half an island away. He knocked on Myrilandel’s and Nimbulan’s kitchen door with more urgency than was probably necessary. He wanted to be indoors and out of sight of any potential assassins. Since he could not fade from view with magic, he’d hide behind mundane walls.
    Most of the houses on this island belonged to various ambassadorial parties. A few foreign merchants with enough wealth to buy one of these tall narrow dwellings had settled near their ambassadors. Dragon gold had purchased one of the slate-fronted houses for Myrilandel, their ambassador to the humans.
    Nimbulan, Myrilandel, and their daughter Amaranth lived somewhat more modestly than their neighbors, with few if any servants, rarely giving lavish parties or hosting large retinues of their followers. Dragons didn’t need to court favor with politically powerful people. People needed to keep the dragons happy.
    But if no dragons had been seen in several days, did that mean the dragons were not happy with humans right now?
    At last Myrilandel opened her kitchen door to Bessel’s rapid knock. He continued looking over his shoulder for signs of pursuit.
    The dragon’s ambassador carried a broom and wore a simple peasant gown with a kerchief hiding her white-blond hair. Nimbulan was nowhere in sight. Bessel ducked into the warm room with the dog tangling his feet.
    “I will not have dogs fouling my clean kitchen,” Myrilandel announced, herding Mopplewogger back toward the door with the broom. He scooted around the broom and hid under the long worktable.
    “He’s not just a dog!” Bessel defended his new friend. “He’s my familiar.”
    “Well, a familiar is different,” Myrilandel peered at the dog through slitted eyes, as if assessing him with her magic. “I lost my Amaranth over a year ago, and I still miss him. Even naming my baby girl after my familiar didn’t fill all of the gap his death left. What’s this one’s name?”
    “He calls himself Mopplewogger.”
    “What in this existence is a Mopplewogger?” Nimbulan asked, coming into the kitchen with his daughter tucked under his arm. The little girl giggled around a damp thumb stuck into her mouth.
    “Some kind of water dog,” Bessel replied.
    “Looks more like a dust mop with a nose and tail.” Myrilandel shook her head. “Mopsie, I think.”
    The dog looked up at the shortening of his name, wiggling from nose to tail and back again.
    “Pick a bedroom for yourself and Mopsie.” Nimbulan gestured toward the stairs. “Then join me in the study, I’d like to assess your progress before we commence on new courses.”
    “Pick a room close to an exit for the dog,” Myrilandel added. “You’ll have to open doors for him, and you’ll get tired of walking up and down those stairs in the middle of the night.