Page 27 of The Discount Damsel

“Technically I’m a male,” Dirk said.

“You do not have permission to speak yet!”

The baby dragon gulped and fled behind Bradley’s broad shoulders.

The pirate aspirant dropped her hands and lifted her chin. “We all three need a truce, at least until the griffin returns with more rice paper. Master Dirk, you’ll promise not to take any unnecessary risks and let the tower and desert heat do most of the work against the Heroes. Mr. Donmarin, you will enchant him with whatever spells he needs to keep him unharmed and healthy.”

Bradley snorted. “And just how will I do that?”

“You will take speech lessons from me,” she declared.

“My curse is not a psychosis!”

“And I bet you don’t know that when you talk in your sleep, you have no trouble whatsoever with your pronunciation. You weren’t the only one disturbed last night by an unwanted bedmate.”

Bradley reared back as if Millie had just become a snapping turtle with desires on his nose for a mid-morning snack. He risked a glance over his shoulder at the baby dragon; Dirk gave an unhelpful yet sympathetic shrug. The luck dragon’s hearing was fantastic, but even he couldn’t make out murmurings said into a pillow behind a closed door separated by several stone floors in the dead of night.

The sorcerer apprentice glowered down at Millie as if the heat of his gaze would burn a confession out of her. “Lies.”

With her feet braced as far apart as the taffeta skirt would allow, her manicured hands on her hips, and looking every inch the pirate aspirant she claimed to be, Mutineer Millie craned her head to look up at him. “What do you want to lose, Mr. Donmarin? Your pride or Dirk’s life?”

Fire snapped in the sorcerer apprentice’s eyes, a strange wind rising from his feet and flapping the robe about his knees. The princess never blinked, her expression as resolved as ever.

Upon Bradley’s shoulder, the white claws of Dirk’s paws landed as lightly as sparrows. “Anything’s worth at least one chance, isn’t it?”

To keep Dirk alive? Yes.

“And what will you do with the remainder of your day, after you’ve finished driving me crazy with your stimulating instruction, Tula?” Bradley asked the princess.

“Well, I want to become a pirate, don’t I? Better start acting like one, I suppose.” She turned to the desert waste with a mischievous smile and watched the heat specters twist above the orange dunes. “Who wants to rescue an uncouth, foul-mouthed hellcat in trousers with a cutlass? When I’m not hurling insults down at the Heroes, I’ll make sure I’m seen picking my teeth and trimming my toenails, swigging ale and belching, perhaps I’ll even sing off-key and recite bad poetry.”

The very idea of picking at one’s teeth and trimming one’s nails outside the privacy of a bathroom activated Bradley’s gag reflex. He clenched his jaw, refusing to vomit in disgust in front of this princess.

Dirk shuddered. “Sounds perfectly dreadful.”

“Good,” she said brightly. Then she stuck out her hand for Bradley to shake. “We’ll still need you to cook, by the way.”

With more snarl than sigh, Bradley took her hand and squeezed. He found her own grip surprisingly robust. Not to be left out, Dirk placed a paw over their joined hands. “It’s settled. Now who’d like some brunch?”

“I’ll get the beans started,” the apprentice signed.

“Beans?” Millie snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll have scones with marmalade and soft-boiled eggs like civilized people.”

The muscle in the apprentice’s jaw twitched as he ground his teeth.

“Please?” Dirk asked, his golden eyes adoringly large. “It is a special occasion. Sort of.”

“You and I have very different definitions of the word ‘special.’” But Bradley had a hard time denying the little dragon anything—with the exception of whatever might endanger him, of course. He turned for the workroom. “Come on.”

CHAPTER 12

A BARRAGE OF PIGEONS, BRUNCH PROVES A DISASTROUS AFFAIR, AND WAR

The pigeons that roosted in the attic were complete imbeciles.

Perhaps the desert heat had fried their neurons. Perhaps a diet of janky cactus juice and crickets wasn’t sufficient enough to promote intelligence, though it provided incredible heat tolerance. How else could you explain how they clustered tight along every crossbeam, stuffed themselves into every nook and cranny, and thrived in a hot and humid oven of feathers, droppings, and dander without suffering from heat stroke or asphyxiation? No bird would willingly remain in such conditions unless it was stupid.

Their stupidity persisted even in the face of Bradley’s nest raiding. He could take any egg he liked so long as he never approached the southwest wedge (for a circular tower’s attic does not have corners, you know.) The boundaries of this wedge were not distinctly defined, and the apprentice currently made the egregious error of crossing it.