Page 121 of The Discount Damsel

“Maybe I’m practicing!”

The apprentice held up a hand. “I don’t want to fight, Dirk. I guess I’m trying to say two things. Thanks, for the help in there, and, more importantly, you look good. Better than I’ve seen in a while, actually.”

Dirk itched the scales under his mane, caught himself, and tucked his thumbs into his satchel strap. “Um, thanks. I was feeling a little sick there, but not so much anymore.”

“Maybe you need to air out your room.”

The baby dragon hummed, considering. “Maybe.”

“Maybe move that warhammer into the workroom, too.”

His yellow eyes slitted. “What? That warhammer is mine.”

“It’s an enchanted object, Dirk. It would be safer within the wards of the workroom.”

“Are you saying I’m not capable of taking care of my stuff?”

“No! But a warhammer that likes blood sacrifices and glows green when it doesn’t possess any nature essences? I’m just saying let’s be careful.”

“I am careful.” Dirk poked the apprentice in the chest with a claw. Hard.

“Ow! Dirk⁠—”

“Stay out my room!”

Bradley’s spirits dropped as the Mini Red flew away. So much for their study date tonight.

CHAPTER 51

SIR EUSTACE ISN’T VERY EMPATHETIC, BUT HE TRIES . . . AND REGRETS IT

Sir Eustace’s iridescent eyes snapped open when a shadow passed over his tent. Setting his teeth, he blustered a small sigh. Gone was his dream of Lagunas’ palm trees, swim-up bars, and restorative mud baths. Oh, how his sabbatical there had ruined him for the rest of the world.

Cradling Duchess, who was curled up on his chest, he carefully hinged upright just as a soft but heavy whump sounded outside.

The ochre shadow, which clearly belonged to the Great Red of the tower, paced back and forth across the yellow canvas of his tent. Odd. The enchanted mongoose dung should repel him and anything like him itching to get its paws on his bezoars. Well, if the dragon was somehow immune, the enchanted eagle talons guarding the chalice would skewer him in the tender bits.

After a few laborious seconds of nothing interesting happening whatsoever, Sir Eustace said flatly, “What is it, Dragon?”

“Oh,” the dragon exclaimed, as if surprised to be noticed. The beast was five hundred pounds—there was nothing subtle about him. “Is, um, Duchess with you?”

Sir Eustace regarded the fluffy white Persian in his lap. “Are you?” he murmured.

The cat meowed.

The ministry official released a world-weary sigh and reluctantly told the dragon, “Yes.”

“May I come in?”

“How—”

Dirk the Dangerous shoved his head between the tent flaps, the canvas tangling in the crown of yellow horns upon his brow.

“Cinders and dragon turds! Get your whole head in here, Dragon. You’re bringing in the sand.” Sir Eustace had been very careful to cover every inch of the sand at the bottom of his tent with the plushest rugs.

The dragon inched forward until the flaps pulled free of his horns and layered neatly on either side of his thick neck. He gave them a meek blink.

Duchess trilled and hopped off the ministry official’s lap. With her fluffy tail held very high, she padded over to the dragon and rubbed her body first one way along his muzzle, then the other.