Page 123 of The Discount Damsel

“Are you saying your ennui is so intense that the stench equivalent of a thousand mongoose dens wasn’t enough to deter you?”

Dirk slumped against the carpets and looked appropriately listless. “I suppose I am. But perhaps one of those bezoars would help.” He tried not to sound too excited. Though Dirk much preferred his food good and dead before he ate it, the bezoar smelled so delicious that he supposed he wouldn’t mind it bouncing about in his gullet on the way down to his stomach.

“Great Reds rarely require bezoars unless they are spending inordinate amounts of time in subzero temperatures.” Sir Eustace recoiled a step. “You’re not still sick with the flu, are you? I told you to get that looked at.”

“I don’t have the flu,” Dirk insisted, scratching behind an ear. “But I would like one of those. They smell positively scrumptious.”

The ministry official’s slitted eyes narrowed to cracks that barely revealed his iridescent irises. “They have the most offensive smell of anything on this earth, including durian fruit. They only smell pleasant to those in dire need of its qualities. Are you sure you’re not sick?”

“Do you want me to open my mouth and say ‘ah’ or something? And if it’s so repugnant, why aren’t you puking? Are you sick?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why do you have them?”

“Because I am Komodo, obviously.”

Dirk blinked. “You⁠—”

The strange little man was nothing like Dirk had pictured a Komodo monk to be, but maybe not all Komodo were monks, and maybe it was only the monks who guarded the Library of Xandria? The princess had mentioned that some Komodo were Type-A personalities, which Sir Eustace certainly was.

“A Komodo?” Sir Eustace’s expression flatlined as he swept back his hair and revealed two tiny horns protruding from his golden forehead. “Dragonkin? A hybrid? And as such we need bezoars more frequently to maintain our equilibrium with whatever environment we find ourselves in.”

His eyes narrowed. “Komodo oversee the birth of every new Draco typhonus clutch so you bloodthirsty brutes don’t mistake us for food when you grow up. How do you not know this? Are you from a rogue clutch?”

Dirk snapped his large jaws. “My parents were properly mated, thank you very much. And I was born into a swarm, not a clutch.”

Duchess growled, but whether it was from Dirk’s snark, Sir Eustace’s suspicions, or the stench of the bezoar, no one would know because neither of them understood the language of cats, except for what she wanted them to know, of course.

“Sorry—” Dirk stopped short as he felt a scale give way under his scratching claws.

It sprung free of his hide with a muted pop, and it was only sheer luck he got it trapped between two toes before the cat or the ministry official could see what it was. The scrambling of his paw to catch the scale did crash into the nearby bookcase, knocking Sir Eustace’s reading material all over the rugs, which everyone definitely noticed.

Dirk winced. “Sorry. Again.”

“Open up,” Sir Eustace said snippily, and tossed the bezoar into Dirk’s mouth.

The dragon chewed with relish. “Mmm. Thank you.”

“You’re”—the ministry official forced out the second word—“welcome.”

He settled the tongs beside the chalice and flopped down upon his cot. Duchess immediately sprang into his lap and started kneading. He smoothed a small hand from the crown of her head to the tip of her tail. “If it makes you happy, I suppose,” he murmured.

After a minute, he lifted his gaze to the dragon, who hadn’t moved. His annoying scratching had subsided for now, at least. “Is there something else?”

“Oh! Uh, no. I mean, I could stay for afternoon tea if you’re not otherwise engaged⁠—”

“Go, Dragon.”

Dirk the Dangerous puffed a tendril of smoke from each nostril. Smacked his lips. “Fine. Thank you, I suppose. Enjoy your lovely tent and all your delicious snacks and whatnot. Would it be possible to get another bezoar to go?”

A scream sounded from the tower.

“Millie!” Dirk reared back, horns catching in the tent flaps and ripping them clean off their seams.

“Confound it!” Sir Eustace managed to snatch the flaps before the dragon or the wind could make off with them. But the damage to his tent wasn’t the only thing ruffling his feathers. He tossed the fabric into his tent and darted out into the sand.

“Who decided to attack the tower without checking in first?” he hollered. “Don’t you dare abscond with the princess before I get your name! I have history to record. And that goes for you, too, Dragon. I will dock you so many points if you eat him before I get his name, you don’t even know!”