Page 87 of The Discount Damsel

CHAPTER 39

RUBIES, SAUSAGES, AND ONE BITCHY MULE

Dirk was bored.

He never thought he’d be bored again, what with a princess and a hedge knight joining them in the tower, yet here he was on the southern balcony, languishing. He could evade Sir Roger’s cane easily now, and there were only so many loop-de-loops and sidewinders and corkscrews he could perform before the repetition sucked the joy out of flying.

After Ivar the Bane, he never thought he’d want to battle another Hero again, but Lord Frederick B. Smith had been just the one to restore his confidence. It hadn’t been easy, but it hadn’t been a near-catastrophe either. Now Dirk had a shiny new spear to add to his collection, and while he’d never admit it aloud to his friends, he was relieved it wasn’t enchanted. If all enchanted weapons were like that warhammer, glowing and whispering and making his feathers stick out on end, then Raegon the Rabid had clearly lied about how awesome they were. Dirk would have to update the Great Reds Fan Club newsletter to reflect this when he returned to the College.

In the meantime . . .

His ears twitched, catching snippets of conversation drifting up from lower in the tower. Ugh, Millie and Bradley were fighting again. Their squabbles were just as repetitive as Sir Roger’s training, and they usually revolved around the same three things: who crowded who in the one bed, Millie’s ever-growing pile of dirty laundry, and the disruptions of Bradley’s cherished routine.

If there was a slight to be had, one of them would find it faster than a bloodhound, then they would bicker, then they would seek him out to bitch at (though never take his advice), and the cycle would repeat the next day. No wonder Duchess spent her days in Sir Eustace’s tent. There were tinned fish, plump pillows, and peace and quiet in there.

He could endure it, as he always did, and spend his afternoon hunting through the bookshelves for an atlas or anything dragonlore that could provide insight to his shedding scale problem.

Something crashed.

“Tula!” Bradley bellowed.

Dirk had to get out of here. Just for a few hours—they’d never miss him. He could be back before supper with no one the wiser, yet his sanity would be restored, as well as his boredom relieved (in theory).

The baby dragon selected a short-term transfiguration spell from his satchel, swallowed the wafer, and launched into the air. “Dirk the Dangerous has become Dirk the Emotional Regulator,” he grumbled. “Not today, bucko!”

Who bucko was, the little dragon didn’t know, but it was cathartic to direct his rebellious statement towards somebody.

To avoid Sir Eustace, for surely the ministry official would dock him points if he saw the dragon abandoning his post, Dirk kept out of sight by keeping to the dunes’ troughs. With each trough he put behind him, his excitement grew. It’d been too long since he’d extorted anyone, and terrorizing the citizens of the Strip would keep his skills sharp and his reputation intact. With his afternoon free and his satchel full of spells, he looked forward to a profitable venture.

The villages were covered in sand.

The little luck dragon had never left the tower so soon after a sandstorm, so he couldn’t have known that his time would be wasted here. People were too busy digging themselves out, rebuilding, and collecting scattered herds to be intimidated by him.

With a disgruntled snort, he turned inland.

It was dangerous to travel deeper into the Cursed Lands that were Leighton and the surrounding unincorporated territories, but he could risk it with confidence this time. Not only was he disguised as a red dragon (a pint-sized Mini Red, since he hadn’t used an amplio spell) but he had fighting skills now. No longer was his bread-and-butter evade and escape. He could whoop a fanny or two now, and that made him bold.

So bold, that he flew level with the surface of a dry creek bed instead of below its banks and out of sight. And what a difference! The whole of the land unfolded before him, not that it was exceptionally stimulating with its cracked clay soil, shriveled vegetation, and cloudless skies. Deciduous trees that had once been lush had leaves curled up so tight from dehydration they resembled conifers. The few animals that managed to exist out here were lean and hard-eyed. Dirk gave them a wide berth.

After an hour of flight, the little dragon was beginning to think he’d chosen the wrong creek bed. There was nothing out here. No hint of woodsmoke, no whiff of animal dung, no faraway voices on the wind. In short, no one he could intimidate out of their hard-earned money.

“Skin my scales,” the dragon grumped. “What a waste of an aftern⁠—”

A glimmer of red in the creek bed caught his eye.

He dipped low, wiggled the red dot free of the crumbling clay with a claw.

A ruby!

A ruby the size of a pea, so quite a find. What was it doing all the way out here?

But there was another one! Caught by that tree root just a few feet away.

Little swirls of dust tickled his belly scales as he flicked his tail and flew over to the second ruby. This one was about half the size of the first, but he still scraped it loose and tucked it away into his satchel.

As it turned out, there might not be any villagers, farmers, or shepherds to extort out here, but there were plenty of jewels to be had. Rubies, mostly the size of sunflower seeds, peppered the creek bed. Their frequency increased the further inland he flew, and the little luck dragon eagerly collected them all. Sure, he would’ve preferred them to be the size of melons, but this was still a marvelous way to salvage his afternoon.

Then he heard them, bells on the wind.