Chapter 45
DIRK GETS DANGEROUS AND DECISIONS ARE MADE
The sounds of fighting echoed off the tower walls—scuffling and incoherent shouts, the twang of iron bars as something hit them, shifting sand.
Bradley leapt the final four steps, rolled out his landing, and surged for the dungeon door.
It was ajar.
Sir Roger knew to close it behind him when he was escorting the tutors to and from the training room.
Bradley immediately strafed to the side and pivoted, checking the blind spot flush against the base of the stairs.
No one lurked there, and there were no telltale ripples in the spring that someone had recently ducked their head beneath the surface.
The apprentice stormed into the dungeons to find Sir Beauregard, Jax, and Sir Roger in a three-way scuffle, or maybe it was Sir Roger trying to break up the two younger men?
Duncan the gnome was huddled on his cot out of the way, knees drawn up to his chest and his books cradled in his lap, just in case.
There was no sign of Fink, and Bradley hoped it was because the little scamp was out exploring instead of being the cause of the fight.
He was small and the dungeons weren’t exceptionally bright and the little scamp could be easily stepped on.
“That is enough!” A feminine voice, shrill as a whistle, pierced the air.
Hells of the deep! He’d told her to stay in the training room. Didn’t she know brawling men were mindless until their rage was sated?
Bradley snapped around and found the princess on the last stair, one hand gripping the guide rope as she caught her breath. The sailboat carving was nowhere to be found.
At the sound of her voice, the menfolk stopped brawling, and Sir Roger shoved the others to opposite sides of the aisle.
Bradley found himself stepping aside as Mutineer Millie stormed into the dungeons.
Millie was trembling, but she didn’t show it.
Not necessarily from fear, but from nerves.
This was a precipitous moment. Every captain, pirate or no, would have to handle disorderly conduct on their ship at one point or another in their careers, and how they handled it dictated the future obedience of the crew.
If she was too harsh, they would rebel. If she was too soft, they wouldn’t respect her and then rebel.
Millie had long ago decided to throw Machiavelli’s suggestion to the wind—she would be loved, not feared, because she would be inspiring and endearing and her crew would know there was nothing she would ask of them that she would not do herself.
That, and a fabulous wardrobe, was the One in Ten.
These men needed discipline, not abuse. As Millie surveyed them and fixed upon them the fearsome stink eye she had learned from Miss Lottie, her second etiquette tutor, she opened her reticule and extracted one of the thin leather gloves she wore to protect her hands while fencing.
Sir Beauregard was closest, so her glove slapped him across the face first. Back-handed. Then she whirled around to deliver the same blow to Jax. The strike possessed the same physical force of a single raindrop falling into a birdbath—hardly worth measuring—but it stung and humiliated.
When neither man retaliated, Millie breathed an inward sigh of relief.
“What do you have to say for yourselves?” she demanded.
Neither man would out the other, and Sir Roger shrugged. “I didn’t see what caused it, miss.”
Millie tapped her glove against her thigh as she considered whether or not the hedge knight was lying to her. There actually wasn’t much to consider—he most definitely was. His lie would preserve the peace, though, and prove he wasn’t a rat to the others, which would facilitate his job as warden.
“The next time there’s a brawl,” she began.
“I will eat the instigator.”
Every eye darted to the enormous red dragon poised outside the dungeon door. Dirk the Dangerous’s fangs were on full display, and the iron bars clutched in his paws groaned as he tightened his grip. In the low light, his eyes flashed green, then yellow. Smoke rose from his nostrils.
For one strange moment, Bradley was afraid.
“Am I quite clear?” the dragon asked.
The men’s heads threatened to wobble off their necks, such was the vehemence of their nods.
“Say it, meat sacks!”
Sir Roger bowed his head. “Understood, sir.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Yes, your dragon-lordship!”
“Uh-huh,” Duncan squeaked from his cot.
Dirk blew a smoke ring down the aisle, and the Heroes rushed into their individual cells as if it were caustic.
“We’re done for the day,” Millie announced and stalked out.
Let them stew. Tutoring her was a privilege—it was the only time they received to stretch their legs, get some sunlight, and enjoy some scintillating conversation.
“Mr. Donmarin,” she called over her shoulder, “I will return your property to its appropriate place and then I’m going to spend the rest of my afternoon with the only sensible male in this tower. The dragon. Good day.”
“Not fair,” the gnome grumbled, reopening his book. “I didn’t join in the fight.”
Bradley lingered a moment longer in the dungeons, glowering.
Brawls jeopardized everything—the tower, its treasure, the magical shrimps, Dirk’s identity, the princess’s safety.
Even the cat’s. And what was worse, he couldn’t do anything about a brawl.
Sure, he was a scrappy fisherman from the Cut who knew how to throw a punch, but pit him against two knights and another scrappy deckhand, and he would surely lose. And the tower would be overrun.
He was a sorcerer apprentice, dammit! The man he’d been four and half months ago could’ve turned their bones into dust, and he wasn’t even a war mage!
This brawl was as much harbinger of trouble as a red sky at dawn. Soon, the Heroes would challenge him, call his bluff, and there was nothing he could do about it. This, compounded with everything else he’d had to endure, was the last straw his proverbial back could endure.
The apprentice headed for the workroom and locked himself inside. Dirk shouldn’t have to see this.