Chapter 40
THREE AND A HALF HEROES, A PETITE PRINCE, SIR EUSTACE IS VERY JEALOUS INDEED
As soon as the roads were clear and the desert sands had stopped shifting, an onslaught of Heroes trekked across the Ashburnum waste. Word of Dirk the Dangerous’s ruby theft had spread and with it, one pivotal theory.
If the dragon was bored enough to rob rubies, that meant he was bored enough to leave the tower.
And if he left the tower, the princess was undefended.
Which meant a Hero could rescue the princess without ever facing the dragon.
And who didn’t want to keep his limbs attached to his body or the hair unsinged from his head?
Not only was a Hero’s physical health assured, but he would also be granted the epitome of bragging rights.
It was one thing for the bards to sing of a Hero defeating a dragon in mortal combat.
It was another thing entirely for a Hero to steal a princess out from under the dragon’s very nose.
It was a good, sound theory. But it didn’t take into account that the Great Red was actually a baby luck dragon in disguise under the watchful eyes of a sorcerer apprentice and a princess who’d put him under house arrest.
And so, the Heroes had to face a dragon after all.
It was a fraught time for all.
Obviously the Heroes had every right to be anxious—they had come to the tower expecting it to be empty but finding it very much occupied indeed.
Dirk fought with a handicap that went unappreciated or respected—while the Heroes fought to rob him of his head, Dirk fought in such a way that the Heroes could be defeated and walk away from the experience with a pulse. And did they thank him? Not once.
Bradley, grumbling, sacrificed critical research time to write replacement spells for all the wafers Dirk consumed during his fights. Not to mention he sweated through all the new clothes Miss Penelope had brought him from worry.
Millie, who had to leave her parasol behind for the sake of her uncouth, undesirable persona, developed a sunburn, far too many freckles, and a sore throat from vetting the Heroes.
She brewed gallons of tea in the coffee maker to soothe her throat, using up most of the filters and vexing the apprentice to no end.
Sir Roger had all the nerves of an anxious papa watching his son at his first boxing match; he’d grown rather fond of the strange little dragon and wanted all the training he’d put Dirk through to pay off.
Sir Eustace could barely record the events fast enough, resulting in sloppy penmanship, which irked him beyond words and left him desperate for a margarita at the end of the day.
And Duchess, fully aware that the ministry official’s mood dictated whether she got caviar with a schmear of mascarpone cheese on toast points or sardines still in their tin for lunch, had to debase herself with hissing and scratching to get the Heroes to form a proper line and wait their damn turn to attack the dragon.
After two weeks of try-outs, as the princess referred to them, three and a half Heroes joined her talent stable.
Sir Beauregard Beauchamp, who had spent his summers sailing with his uncle on the Cobalt Coast, would teach her everything and anything nautical and marine as listed on her blackboard.
The knight was as tall as Bradley and nearly as muscled as Ivar the Bane with a square jaw and straight white teeth and hair the color of flame.
His smile was charming, his personality bold, and he had this infuriating way of winking at Millie and making a smile flicker across her lips. Bradley instantly hated him.
Mr. Duncan Boekhouwer of Southern Calumbria, a bookish third son who’d obviously been told by his father to make him proud or don’t come back, had heard rumor that the dragon’s princess was hiring.
After giving his name and relevant information to Sir Eustace, the gnome had immediately tossed his short sword aside, fallen to his knees in the sand, and made a persuasive argument to keep him on to teach her accounting and negotiation tactics, since a pirate captain would certainly need these skills to know if she was being swindled or not when it was time to outfit her ship or fence her stolen goods.
As well as any general studies subject that tickled the princess’s fancy such as physics or botany.
He’d sweetened his offer with a bouquet of Calumbria’s famous Empress tulips, and since tulips were her favorite flower, Millie couldn’t resist.
And Mr. Jaxson “Jax” Sloop, a charismatic deckhand from Pierpont who knew everything about actually working a ship, not just looking pretty at the helm like a certain knight.
He could also climb ropes like a monkey, which he demonstrated, with a smile, upon request from a grappling hook leftover from another Hero’s failed rescue attempt.
The half a Hero came in the form of Fink, Jax’s black-footed ferret companion.
He wore a purple vest with black trim and a collar with a yellow opal, which was enchanted with an expensive communication spell that enabled the ferret to understand complicated verbal commands.
Very handy for a deckhand’s assistant. Fink was so personable and dapper that it was impossible to deny him anything.
Even Duchess wasn’t opposed to sharing her grouper sashimi with the little fellow.
“I daresay that’s the last one for the day.
” Sir Eustace lowered his spyglass and sprinkled sawdust over his chronicle.
He forced himself to wait the appropriate time for the ink to dry before closing it and shutting away this day’s penmanship atrocities.
His beautiful calligraphy had degraded into crabbed cursive, and the effect it was having on him could only be mitigated by a very large margarita and copious purr therapy.
“Excuse me,” a voice called.
The little man whipped around, coattails lashing. His nostrils flared, and his eyes flashed with a burst of red light. The sand nearest the tower was mostly flat with a few gentle slopes, so nothing could escape his gaze but the burrowing creatures, and he saw nothing.
“Must’ve been a sprite,” he murmured, shuffling this and that into their appropriate desk drawers. He heard a mew from his tent. “Coming, my fluffy goddess.”
“Pardon me.”
Sir Eustace whipped around once more. “Who is there? I say, show yourself!” If it truly were an air sprite having a go at him, he would march back into his tent and return with a black-flame candle and then they would see who would be having the last laugh.
“I am, good sir. Down here.”
Sir Eustace, who stood only four feet tall himself, was surprised at the request and immediately jerked his gaze down to the diminutive creature positioned in front of his black shoes, which were in desperate need of their daily shine.
“And you are?” he demanded.
“I’ve come to rescue the princess, of course,” the owner of the voice said. “If there’s still time. I should like to get this over with today, if possible. I used the last of my sunblock in the crossing.”
The sun was just a sliver above the horizon, the desert heat fast receding with the coming night, but there was nothing in the DDP that prevented either a twilight or evening attack. It just wasn’t normally done, and certainly not done by anyone of this Hero’s stature.
The ministry official pushed his lower lip out as he contemplated the Venn diagram that was ministry protocol and his moral compass, specifically where they overlapped in that tiny sliver in the middle. The tiny sliver won out.
“You do know you’ll be attempting to rescue the princess from a dragon, not from a sleeping curse brought on by a pricked finger or from near-death purgatory initiated by the consumption of contaminated fruit, correct?”
“Yes.”
Sir Eustace’s shoulders slumped, and he retrieved his chronicle, quill, and inkwell.
Duchess mewed from the tent. “One moment, precious.” Flicking out his coattails so he wouldn’t wrinkle his suit, Sir Eustace resumed his seat upon his stool and opened the chronicle to a fresh page.
He dabbed his quill into the ink. “Name?”
“Prince Henri des Marais.”
Sir Eustace recorded the name without so much as a hitch in his writing. After collecting the other necessary details required for the chronicle, he asked, “Would you like me to announce you, Your Highness? It is not necessary, especially if you’ve prepared a sneak attack.”
“Not be announced? What, like a commoner? I expect a grand fanfare, sir.”
Sir Eustace lifted his bugle to lips, paused to blow the infernal sand away from the mouthpiece, and heralded the Hero.
His sensitive hearing brought to him the sounds of muffled voices and pounding footsteps within the tower. A few minutes later, the princess, the dragon’s valet, and the dragon’s head peered over the western balcony railing. The valet yanked a napkin out from the collar of his robe.
Sir Eustace stiffened as jealousy rippled through him.
He would much rather be having supper, too.
After the strangeness of this particular Discount Damsel Protocol that manifested more and more with each passing week, the ministry official found himself clinging to the mundane joys of life, such as supper at a reasonable hour. Alas, denied him this evening.
“Oh,” the princess cooed, propping her elbows upon the railing and cupping her chin in her hands, “this is new.”
“Is that a frog?” Dirk the Dangerous demanded. “Where’s the Hero?”
Prince Henri des Marais hopped forward. “It is I, and yes, I am a frog. But I wasn’t always so.”
“A frog prince? How fascinating,” Millie said.
“Go on,” the valet said, eyes narrowing.
“A witch cursed me,” the prince said, “and I might only become myself again if I receive a princess’s kiss.”
“Don’t do it,” Dirk warned his princess. “That’s how you get warts.”
“I beg your pardon! I have been tested and am certified wart-free.”
“So you’ve come. Here to ask for. A kiss to break. The spell, then you’ll fight. The dragon?” Bradley asked.
“Precisely.”
“I still think it’s a trap,” Dirk whispered to Millie. “Why take the chance?”
“Mmm,” she mused.
“Don’t listen to that reptilian vermin! He just doesn’t want to die.”
“Reptilian vermin?” Dirk’s mane bristled beneath his illusion. “That’s rich coming from you, Swamp Boy!”
“You’re very sure of yourself,” Millie told the frog.
“I’ll have you know, my lady, that where I’m from, I’m a very formidable fighter.
” Prince Henri des Marais, who was a sizeable bullfrog, inflated his throat pouch.
“Why, I had to fight my way through some ruffians in the Strip just to get into the desert, and look at me—not a scratch. That dragon would be dead now if I was my true self. As would your lover be. I do not share what I have won.”
“L-lover?” Bradley sputtered.
Millie pressed a hand against her mouth, suppressing a gag.
Dirk the Dangerous leapt off the balcony and landed in front of the proud little frog in less than a second. He drew himself up to his full Great Red height, golden eyes glinting and fangs flashing in the moonlight. “I’d be dead, huh? Wanna bet?”
The frog fell back with a high-pitched note, webbed feet kicking. The sand just clumped to the mucus between his toes and hardened into cement.
“I say,” the princess cried. “What a perfectly executed high C. Wait just a moment, Dirk.”
The dragon shut his mouth, but his barbed tail still flicked across the sand.
“Prince Henri, are you familiar with Madame Palferoi?”
“The opera singer?” the frog asked, confused. “Of course. She’s an angel of music.”
“I quite agree, and it sounds like you might be more than an admirer, but perhaps an operatic aspirant?”
The frog blushed. “I dabble. Madame Palferoi’s ‘Bouncing Breasts of the Busty Barmaid’ is my favorite.”
The princess turned to the apprentice. “We’re keeping him.”
“We’re what?” Bradley and Dirk asked.
“Oh come on. His raging egomania and misogynistic ideals aside, the frog can sing. He can liven this place up.”
“The Heroes do. That already,” Bradley growled.
“No, they bring stress. This little frog’s arias can destress.”
“I shall be addressed as Prince Henri des Marais. Or Prince Henri,” the frog corrected.
“Besides,” Millie continued, “it would be cruel to leave him out here to cook in the desert sun come tomorrow, even if his ego deserves it.”
“He hopped. Out here. Without dying,” the valet said. “He can. Hop back.”
“The fair maiden is correct,” the frog said quickly. “I used up all my sunblock about an hour ago. I don’t suppose you have any water? Or any moisturizers with a high content of beeswax?”
“What do you say, Dirk?” the princess asked, ignoring Bradley.
Luck dragons were very fond of music, and he had to agree with Millie: a professional singer would certainly brighten up the tower’s ambience without adding stress to their lives. Perhaps it would even decrease his friends’ bickering. Or give them another outlet to bicker to.
Dirk pounced, eliciting another high C from the frog. He scooped up the amphibian prince and soared up to the tower where Millie had the gold birdcage from the workroom waiting for them.
As the tower residents welcomed their newest addition (except Bradley, of course, since he thought the tower was far too crowded as it was), Sir Eustace dabbed his quill into his inkwell once more. “Prince Henri des Marais defeated by . . . general overpowerment.”
He wrinkled his nose at the ambiguity of the phrase and more specifically at the offending word, which was not found in the lexicon penned by the legendary logophiles Merriam and Webster.
A career-ending oversight, in his opinion.
Perhaps there was a suitable word to be had, but the ministry official was tired, irritable at his suffering penmanship, and it was easier to blame the logophiles than his slipping grasp on cognitive function.
Then, with much haste, the ministry official packed it in for the day.
He hummed a very loud tune as he did so to drown out any more soft-spoken “Pardon mes” should there be any to be had.
Never in all his years had a Discount Damsel Protocol been so busy.
Before, there had been plenty of time for a midmorning nap, a three-hour lunch, and cocktail hour, but not with this princess.
Not with this dragon. What was this world coming to?
From the tent, Duchess released a yowl that announced she would be breaking into the caviar by herself if he did not join her this instant.
“Coming, my sweetness.” Laden with his desk and stool, Sir Eustace hurried forward with a series of quick, short steps that sent his coattails flapping around like quarrelsome crows. “Coming!”