Page 45 of The Discount Damsel

A BLOOD-THIRSTY KILLER WITH MANNERS, THE DANGERS OF A LIMITED ROT, AND A LOOPHOLE

“Now this Hero has some manners,” Millie exclaimed as the three traipsed down the stairwell to their assigned silly stones. “A proper introduction, professional yet polite, and challenging Master Dirk at a most agreeable time in the morning. Why, if this Sir wasn’t a blood-thirsty killer set on destroying Dirk, I daresay he would be a delightful companion for afternoon tea.”

Bradley didn’t reply, his innards twisting with apprehension and second-thoughts and a whole host of misgivings. He should be in the workroom researching a cure to his curse, not thwarting a Hero that wasn’t his to fight or empowering this princess to further her endeavor to become a scourge of the seas. Bradley wanted to rip his hair out. It would be far less painful than the inner turmoil of being pulled in half a dozen directions.

“Alright, everybody,” Dirk called from the base of the tower, a magical wind carrying his voice to their ears. “Attack!”

The apprentice’s chest expanded as he sucked in a deep breath as if he were preparing to dive for pearls, pressed his mouth against the marked crack in the stone before him, and blew. He felt the vibration of the princess’s silly stone rattling the tower through his lips like an echo of the zing that had traced up the back of his hand at breakfast. Locking the memory of that sensation in a box and burying it into the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind, Bradley focused on his task. Protect Dirk.

When he was out of air, he braced himself against the tower wall and drew in a ragged breath. Bradley brushed the grit from his mouth and prepared himself for another volley.

“Is that it?” Sir Roger called, unsure.

Dirk streaked up from below, his feathered mane flaring and flattening with agitation. “It didn’t work.”

Millie, whose silly stone was closest to Bradley’s bedroom, abandoned her position and dashed up the steps to get the measure of the Hero from the bedroom window.

“If you do not come out,” the knight declared, “then I shall pry you out like a snail from its shell!”

Bradley took the stairs two at a time to follow her, Dirk keeping pace beside him. When they arrived, the princess whirled around from the window. “He’s not bluffing—he’s got a grappling hook.”

The luck dragon momentarily forgot his dread. “No freaking way. That’s so cool!”

“No, it very much isn’t,” the princess admonished. “He’s a knight who knows what he’s doing. He didn’t waste his money on a guide, he has his own pack, and he’s wearing lightweight chain mail and padded leather for easy movement. His sword is Damascus steel, which can definitely cut dragon scale.”

Dirk’s cerulean scales blanched to aquamarine, his body coiling up tight into a spring. His panic constricted him for only a moment before he shook himself loose. “I am Dirk the Dangerous. I can do this.”

The three of them jumped as the grappling hook clanged against the railing of the western balcony and caught. This was a fine knight indeed to have anchored the hook on the first try.

“How long will it take to write those spells on the pancakes?” Millie asked Bradley. “I don’t need an answer. Just hop to. Master Dirk, you go with him. I’ll distract the knight.”

For one thing, Bradley did not like this princess giving him orders in his own tower, and for another thing, how on earth was she going to distract this knight without endangering herself? Either she’d attempt to talk him into madness or throw things at him, and either one could earn her an arrow. Not that he cared one whit, but Dirk would, and he cared about Dirk.

His suspicions proved correct when the princess braced her hands on either side of the sill and pitched her torso clean out the window.

Sweet mother of pearl!

Bradley lunged forward and grabbed her belt before she could tumble out of the tower.

Millie, who was under the misconception that it was Dirk anchoring her and not Bradley, whom she assumed she’d sent smartly on his way to write those spells, trusted in the hand that held her and waved down to the knight climbing the tower.

“Yoo-hoo! Salutations, sir!” she called.

Sir Roger, who had climbed up a quarter of the tower by now, glanced up from his rope to the princess hanging halfway out an arched window. He would have bowed had his two feet been on solid ground, or shifting sand, but as he was currently suspended a decent drop, he found the best he could do was a polite nod.

“Princess Mildred, I presume,” the knight returned amicably. “Good morning.”

“It is not, I regret to inform you, a very good morning, sir. At least for you.” She braced her elbows against the tower and cupped her chin in her hands. “You have awoken the dragon. Surely you encountered the last poor soul who did that, running for his life west of here earlier this morning?”

“Ah yes, the young lordling Thespian.” Sir Roger continued to climb. “I daresay that whelp is in for a beating when he returns to Tupelo empty-handed. Spent a fortune on the carriage ride over here, not to mention even more on that desert guide, and I noticed his scabbard was empty. Lost his sword, too, did he?”

“It’s now in Dirk the Dangerous’s treasury,” she admitted with a feigned rueful note. “Which is where your lovely Damascus steel, and your skull, will end up if you don’t turn back now.”

“I appreciate your concern for my welfare, Princess, but as the dragon has not yet met my challenge, I like my odds. I’ve never heard of this Dirk the Dangerous before your kidnapping, which means he has a limited ROT.”

Unfamiliar with the term, Millie was about to ask the knight to explain when he paused in his climb to wipe the sweat beading in his eyebrows with the back of a hand. Then he tied a stopper knot into his harness and let go of the rope entirely to unhook a canteen from the back of his belt and take a deep swallow.

Since it would’ve been exceptionally rude to question him while he was in the middle of refreshing himself, Millie contented herself to spend the time reevaluating him. He was surprisingly old—that was white hair sticking out from under his shemagh—and wrinkles seamed the edges of his bright eyes. His knuckles were large from years of hard labor, and because of that hard labor, he knew exactly when he needed to rest and when he could push on. She discovered he also understood the ways of the desert, for (as she remembered from Bradley’s lecture), after he’d helped himself to a modest amount of water, he recovered his lost salt and energy by eating a few cheese-stuffed dates.