The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

span. The bridge collapsed into the river.
    The warrior had magnificent reflexes. He clung to the handrail, pulling himself along it until he reached the ropes that remained connected to the support posts on Bessel’s end of the bridge. Then he proceeded to shinny up the rope, the sword now clutched in his teeth.
    “Stargods, even the river doesn’t slow him down.” Bessel took off again. He had to cross only two more bridges to reach University Isle. He’d find refuge there. No one, not even an assassin from Rossemeyer, would follow a magician into the enclave of the Commune.
    All Bessel needed was one other magician within reach. Once they made physical contact, the magic within both of them would amplify and grow. They could erect defensive spells to repel the warrior and his lethal sword.
    If he reached the University in time.
    Alone, he didn’t have a chance of gathering enough magic to throw an effective spell.
    Before Bessel had run one hundred paces, the warrior regained solid ground. Water dripped from his heavy robes. He grabbed them with his free hand, keeping the wet cloth from tangling his legs.
    Mopsie yipped from the doorway of a ramshackle tavern. Safety? Bessel followed his familiar, trusting him with his life.
    The dimly lit common room was nearly empty at this time of day. A dozen plank tables stretched the length and breadth of the open space, with little room to walk between.
    Mopsie scooted beneath them, toward the back corner. Bessel dropped to all fours and followed. Deep in the shadowy corner a small metal grate was set into the wall next to the floor. Most of the older buildings on the islands had these primitive drainage gates. In winter and in times of high water, they were shuttered both inside and out. In summer, open grates offered some air circulation. After a flood, the grate would allow water to drain from the building. Some industrious city dwellers used the grates as a drain after washing slate or tile floors.
    The tavern owner had unlatched the grate and swept refuse through it into the common midden in the back alley. He hadn’t refastened the bolts. A buildup of rust on the latches would make locking them difficult.
    Mopsie paused only long enough for Bessel to push the grate up. The dog darted through just as the assassin entered the tavern. Bessel didn’t linger.
    Rusty latches scraped his arms as he wiggled and twisted through the small opening. His slashed tunic caught on imperfections in the metal frame. He heard it rip more as he squeezed his shoulders into the open.
    His butt stuck. Curse those extra portions of sweet yampion pie and candied cone roots Guillia heaped on hungry magicians.
    Someone clamped a heavy hand on Bessel’s boot. He didn’t wait to see who. Ignoring scrapes and bruises, he pushed through the opening, leaving his boot behind.
    Limping, Bessel sprinted to the next bridge, collapsed it before crossing, and ran for a different one half an island away. He didn’t wait to see if the assassin fell for his decoy.
    His detour took him onto Palace Isle. He aimed for the palace gate, hoping the guards would protect him. Today was open petitions in court. Anyone could walk into or out of the Great Hall without notice. All of the guards were inside. He didn’t have time to dive into the crowds and demand protection from King Quinnault.
    And the king might have decided to bow to diplomatic pressure from Rossemeyer and declare him guilty.
    Bessel cursed his ill luck and continued to the old causeway. Centuries of high tides and winter storms had almost completed the work of separating Palace Isle from University Isle. Mopsie leaped across the first break in the stepping stones with no hesitation. Bessel followed his familiar, again trusting the dog’s instincts for good footing. Jagged rocks cut his bare foot, but he continued on, knowing his only refuge from the assassin was with the Commune.
    Shouts and hurried footsteps told him the warrior with the drawn sword hadn’t been fooled by the decoy for long.
    “Help me!” Bessel cried, panting for breath as he jumped the last few feet onto University Isle. “Masters of the Commune, help me. Help a fellow magician!” He added a little magic to speed his cry to the proper ears. His talent barely responded. All of his energy went into running for the safety of the buildings.
    Scarface stepped into the main entryway, arms crossed, face grim, eyes nearly closed with some carefully contained emotion.