Page 122 of The Discount Damsel

“Ooo, stay right there,” Dirk the Dangerous said when the cat had come in front of his nostrils. He breathed in deeply, almost sucking her fur into his nose. “Oh, that’s the stuff.”

Sir Eustace had to agree. There was just something exceptionally pleasant and calming about sniffing your favorite cat.

“Are you well, Dragon?” he asked without the slightest interest in the answer.

“Well, I have been better, that’s for sure. Bradley and I had a fight yesterday, sorta, and⁠—”

“Well enough to leave now, I mean. You had your cuddles and your sniff. You shouldn’t be here, remember? I can’t very well maintain my third-party observership if you keep coming here to socialize. And this is my private time.” Sir Eustace rose, fastened the top two buttons of his shirt, and adjusted his cufflinks. “I’ll show you out.”

“No, please! Wait. I have a question about the DDP.”

Sir Eustace paused from retrieving his suit jacket. “If it’s about the Discount Damsel Protocol, I would be happy to assist.”

“We haven’t had any Heroes in, like, a week.”

“Six days, thirteen hours, and seventeen minutes, but go on.”

“Uh, right. That’s the longest stretch we’ve gone without having a rescue attempt.”

“So far these have been statements, not questions. What do you want, Dragon?”

Duchess cuffed Sir Eustace’s ankle then, a soft yowl emanating from her throat.

“I’m sorry, sweetling. I just have the reputation and propriety of an entire ministry to uphold.” Sir Eustace inclined his head towards the dragon. “Apologies. If you could perhaps just cut to the chase?”

“How long do I have to wait?” Dirk wailed. “I’m bored out of my mind! Bradley’s always studying, Millie’s learning how to climb ropes but I’m not allowed to help her, and my room is—” He shuddered. “When is someone going to come and fight me? Did Raegon have to wait this long? G’Serah? Tamzerin?”

“There is always a slump around the halfway mark,” he answered briskly. “It’s completely natural. Good day.”

Duchess hissed.

Sir Eustace quickly reached out a hand and patted the dragon’s snout, his pointy nails clicking against the hard red scales. “There, there.”

He cleared his throat, withered under the baleful blue gaze of the alabaster goddess, and sagged on his cot. “The initial excitement has worn off,” he explained. “Word is still spreading to the furthest reaches of the continent and the outlying island kingdoms. It will take time for the Heroes of those lands to travel here. And the sandstorms might delay them further. Your next Hero could be weeks away. But fret not, Dragon, there is always a surge near the end. You’ll probably have more Heroes to fight than you’ll know what to do with. So keep training every day, even when you’re bored.”

Sir Eustace looked to Duchess then, and the cat seemed satisfied enough with his answer . . . to saunter over to the golden chalice and mew expectantly. Her tail flicked against the bowl in another prompt.

“But, darling, those are my bezoars,” he balked.

Her ears flattened, and her tail brushed against the chalice bowl in a manner that was much more “swat” than it was “flick.”

“What’s a bezoar?” Dirk asked. “Are they snacks?”

“They’re not snacks,” Sir Eustace said sharply. “But they are edible. To liken them to a multivitamin would do them a great disservice. A bezoar is the ultimate adaptogen, treasured by dragons and dragonkin. It can digest poison, relieve the effects of nutrient imbalance, enable one to withstand harsh environments, heal⁠—”

Duchess gave the chalice lid an impatient bat of a velveted paw. The next time, she would use her claws.

“And apparently my manners are lacking,” Sir Eustace grumbled. He lifted the lid and extracted a bezoar with a pair of gilded tongs. The rest of them wiggled to get free and wander off.

“Are you sure they’re not jumping beans?”

“You’d think an official from the Ministry of Folklore would know a bezoar from a jumping bean, Dragon.”

“You can call me Dirk.”

Sir Eustace rolled his eyes and capped the chalice. He approached with the bezoar held outstretched in the tongs as if it were a feral ossuary pixie at the end of a catch pole. “Before I give you this, tell me, what kind of Great Red are you, Dirk the Dangerous? How are you not repulsed by the mongoose scat?”

Something in Sir Eustace’s narrowed gaze and tone of voice alerted Dirk that he should’ve had an adverse reaction to the glowing pink mounds surrounding the tent. “I was that bored,” he insisted.