Page 203 of The Discount Damsel

He rolled his eyes, and she flashed one of her signature mischievous smiles. Then the princess eased herself feet-first into the hole. Duchess had the good manners to wait for her at a tricky bend and mewed encouragement. The stone was as coarse as sandpaper and often crumbled under Millie’s hands or feet, causing her to slip. That made the security rope go tight, which earned her a worried shout from Bradley, and she knew if she didn’t answer quickly, he’d yank incessantly on the rope and bruise her ribs until she did.

Worming through the wall was much easier for the cat than it was for the human, but Millie managed with only a few bumps and scrapes. And she discovered the reason for the tunnel—the grandmother of all hermit crabs.

She had to be the size of a watermelon, and her young had honored her by carving designs into her shell. Its spiral still glowed with bioluminescent light, but it was dimmer now with age. She had to take many naps. This grandmother watched Millie scuttle by, and Millie paid her respects with a polite nod.

Another turn and a slant of sunlight warming the manila stones almost blinded her. Millie squinted, letting her eyes adjust, then scooched down to the sand of the desert. Duchess meowed and slipped through the narrow opening into the sunlight. Millie had to shove the sand back with her hands to carve out a wider exit, but she managed it. She was also out of rope now, so she undid the knot and pinned it beneath a stone before venturing outside.

A natural slope of sand carved by the wind had created a shield wall, blocking the little tunnel from sight unless you knew exactly where to look. That wind seemed to blow in perpetuity, whisking Duchess’s paw prints away almost as quickly as she made them. And as the tunnel faced southwest, it was out of sight of Sir Eustace’s camp.

Perfect.

Millie gave the cat an affectionate scratch behind the ears. “Thank you, sweetie.”

Duchess mewed and trotted off to the tent for some caviar, and Millie reattached the rope and scrambled back up the tunnel.

Bradley quickly checked her over for wounds. “You’re alright?”

“Come on.” Flushed with excitement and purpose, Millie grabbed his hand and darted back into the stairwell.

Her friends were gathered in the dungeons as instructed. Without explaining the details about Dirk’s sickness, Mutineer Millie very quickly told them the dragon was unable to defend the tower, how it was up to them to sabotage the incoming Heroes until he could be healed, and exactly how they were going to do it.

“Also, is anyone familiar with Tianzi puzzle boxes?” When everyone shook their heads, she waved that inconvenience aside. “It doesn’t matter; you’ll all try anyway. Quick march, now!”

CHAPTER 82

A VAST NUMBER OF HEROES, THERE’S A CHANCE, AND THE NUANCES OF TRANSLATION

Sir Eustace’s “vast number of Heroes” turned out to be an army. There had to be at least a hundred soldiers, maybe two, marching across the desert in beige jerkins and pith helmets. Tawny camels dragged a massive contraption over the sand on a large sled.

“That’s a crossbow,” Millie whispered. “But I’ve never seen one so large.”

Beside her at the training room window, Sir Roger lowered his spyglass. “That’s a Skybreaker, miss, armed with Damascus steel crossbolts. Those’ll cut through dragonhide as easily as a fire tears through dry grass.” The hedge knight cursed. “What is it doing here? It’s supposed to be headed north. And why isn’t it coated in oil?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that, miss. A few weeks before I was sent to rescue you, the castle was buzzing to fulfill an order for a Skybreaker and a dozen bolts for export. I thought I would be assigned to the escort team, but instead, I was sent to rescue you. That was months ago.”

Millie’s forehead crinkled with unease. “Whose insignia does the army wear?”

Sir Roger scanned the troops. “They bear the sigil of the crown and crystal. It’s Leighton.”

Prince Chandler Stonevein’s face appeared in her mind’s eye. Then her fist connecting with his smug smile.

“I don’t suppose that by-blow of a swamp witch is gracing us with his presence?”

Sir Roger choked back a laugh. “No, miss. Another’s leading his army. Oh, I recognize this fellow. Raleigh Flinthart. Calls himself a knight, but he’s a dog through and through.”

“Don’t insult dogs, Sir Roger. They’re wonderful creatures. Not as brilliant as cats, but there is something to be said for their enthusiasm.” She crossed her arms, fingers drumming in the crook of her elbow.

The hedge knight lowered his spyglass again. “This all seems a bit much for one princess, don’t you think?”

“It might not be me alone they’re after,” she muttered.

Did Chandler know what Dirk truly was, a luck dragon whose heart could cure his land?

“Miss?”

“Nothing.” She directed her gaze below. “It seems Sir Eustace would agree with you.”