The Disposable Read online

  Flirt fixed him with her best intimidating glare. Fodder had to admit she did a fine line in them, and this was most definitely one of the good ones. “Because the Merry Band are coming this way, aren’t they?” she retorted impatiently. A morning of listening to Shoulders grumbling over the same complaints had not done wonders for her mood. “And if we’re standing out here when The Narrative comes, they’ll slaughter us and reclaim the princess before you can so much as swear at Clank. We have to behead her on the battlements where they won’t have time to get to us, and for that, we need to be inside. Unless you want it to be your head that goes flying off the cliff?”

  Shoulders jutted his chin out stubbornly but his left hand jerked reflexively in the direction of his neck. “No, but…”

  “Must you?” Flirt exclaimed with sheer exasperation. “I’ve been patient, Shoulders, I really have, but we’re going inside and that’s final. Okay?”

  Shoulders scowled slightly. “I was just saying I have a bad feeling about this. That’s all. I wanted you to know so when it all goes horribly wrong, you can’t say I didn’t warn—”

  “Shoulders, please!”

  The second intimidating look did the trick. Glowering at Flirt with as much irritation as he had the nerve left to muster, Shoulders damped his moaning down to muttering under his breath.

  Loath as he was to admit it, Shoulders’s grumblings had sparked a bit of worry inside Fodder’s head. “Flirt,” he said quietly. “Much as I hate to say it, I think Shoulders might have a point. Cringe has made it pretty clear that he’ll help us to a point, but if trouble starts, we’ll be on our own. What if Grim does decide to turn us in? We’ll be in a pretty nasty situation in there.”

  Flirt stared at him briefly before she sighed wearily. “It had crossed my mind.…”

  “Hah!” Shoulders’s indignant exclamation forestalled the remainder of her sentence. “So when I’m worried, it’s all glares of death and must you, but when Fodder says he’s concerned, suddenly it’s crossed your mind? That is so—”

  “Shoulders!”

  The dual exclamation put an end to Shoulders’s diatribe. With an angry huff, he returned to muttering under his breath as Flirt picked up the thread of her broken sentence.

  “I’ve thought of it, but we don’t have much choice anymore, do we? We can’t still be out here when that arrives.” She gestured over her shoulder to the distant horizon where the familiar, vivid glow of The Narrative was edging closer through the winding valleys of the mountains. “And I know we could just do this ourselves, but, much as I hate to say so, it’ll make more impact if a Principal’s involved. We can be written off as malicious discontents and locked up out of sight without much fuss being made. But if a Principal sabotaged the plot in our name, far more people would notice.” She sighed again, deeply. “And if we don’t get noticed, we’re doomed, aren’t we?” A frown creased her forehead. “And speaking of Principals, where’s Cringe? He’s certainly taking his time in there.”

  It was true. Cringe had insisted it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes for him to nip up and check the way was clear, but time was slipping by and there was still no sign of him. Surely it didn’t take that long to check a tunnel.…

  “Okay there?”

  Fodder jumped a good foot, and the startled look on Flirt’s face and the hyperventilation coming from Shoulders’s direction implied that he hadn’t been the only one caught by surprise. Cringe grinned wickedly as he slipped out from behind a nearby rock and slunk over to join them. A large, heavy-looking cloth-wrapped bundle was slung over his shoulders, weighing them down. He dumped it with a heave and a sigh of relief.

  “King of stealth, that’s me,” he told them cheerfully. “Even while hoisting that monster around. All part of the job description.”

  “You took your time in there, didn’t you?” From the breathless edge to Flirt’s tone, she didn’t enjoy being taken by surprise any more than Fodder did. “What the bloody hell happened?”

  Cringe raised an eyebrow carefully. “No need to get brusque with me,” he told her pointedly. “I am doing you a serious favour here, you know. Entirely at my personal risk, I might add.”

  Flirt bit her lip, suitably chastened. “Sorry,” she apologised, more gently. “It’s been a long couple of days, and you said you’d only be a few minutes.”

  “I was only going to be.” Cringe had put his pipe away since they had set out that morning, but the odd twitchiness of his fingers implied a certain need to have it back. “But I remembered when I went into the passage that it comes out not far from the armoury—and since you gentlemen lost your armour to the river, I thought a replacement set might be in order.” He kicked the cloth-wrapped bundle, which gave a metallic jangle. “Three sets of chain mail and Sleiss livery for you. It should make it easy to move around inside, as long as no one gets too good a look at your faces. And while I was in there, I had another piece of luck. Grim showed up to have his torso plates taken out.” He shrugged slightly. “He’s put a bit of weight on lately. And since the chance came up, I decided it was probably better for me to take the liberty of testing the waters for you rather than you lot walking blindly inside to an entirely unknown reception. So I told him what was going on.”

  “And?” Fodder couldn’t quite conceal the note of eagerness to his voice. “Did he agree to do it?”

  Cringe grinned again. “He took a little persuading, but yes. He likes the idea of a bit of Narrative upstaging.” He positively beamed at the pale-faced and sullen-looking princess, who was slumped against the rock nearby. “So, if you three would care to kit yourselves out, we have an execution to attend to.”

  * * *

  Now this was more like it.

  The chain mail was heavy, there was no denying it. It chafed madly in unexpected places, it had an odour that was most kindly described as distinctly its own, and it pressed uncomfortably down on the parts of her anatomy that most wearers of chain mail did not possess. But compared to the breath-stealing horrors of a too-tight corset filled almost to overflowing with a highly inflated bosom, it might as well have been light as a feather and lined with goose down. Flirt wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

  The sword wasn’t too bad either. It was traditional fare for a Disposable—short, sturdy, and utilitarian—but although it was no Merry Band-esque ornate broadsword that danced through the air as though weightless, it was a damned sight better than a fireplace poker. The scabbard bounced unexpectedly against her leg, but that was another discomfort that could be lived with if it meant that she was armed.

  Armed and dangerous. She’d waited half her life for this day. The chance to stand up for herself, the chance to show what she was made of and to prove that she had the mettle to be more than just a pair of fake breasts that provided tankards of beer. One chance, one fight and she’d show them all!

  But she knew that a fight was probably not meant to be. They were unlikely to cross paths with anyone, according to Cringe, for the inhabitants of the Grim Fortress weren’t as numerous in comparison to its size as they had once been. Formerly, the Grim Fortress had been home to the entire of the Dark Family, responsible for breeding and training up generations of villains, evil witches, and henchmen; but the family had grown so tired of living in ever-changing remote, rocky corners of the kingdom that they had upped sticks as one around fourteen Quests back and moved down to the Magnificent City. They had a nice set of warm, cosy houses in a part of the city not used In Narrative and only dispatched those of their number currently employed by Narrative necessity back to their old stomping grounds. That meant that the inhabitants of this once-great bastion of darkness now numbered one Dark General, one Dark Henchman, four Disposables, five Servants who also doubled as prisoners and torture victims as the situation required, one large black guard dog without a vicious bone in its body, an armourer who often doubled as a jailor in between knocking up or repairing overstated suits of armour for the Dark General, and two professional t
orturers for the dungeons who spent most of their professional lives doing absolutely sod all.

  There were no full-time prisoners at present. Genuine criminals were all but unheard of, and only a genuine criminal would be given that most boring and tedious of lifestyles, left lying permanently on an unattended rack or in a prison cell waiting in a location that was visited In Narrative once every couple of Quests at the most. Nobody was ever actually tortured, except in a harmless Narrative context. It was dullness that formed the ultimate punishment.

  Dullness and being ignored.

  She wasn’t going to let that happen. Not after all this…

  But now was not the time for such musings. They were walking into the heart of potential danger. She needed to concentrate.

  The passageway into which Cringe had led them was dark, long, and windy, ascending awkwardly up uneven, rough-hewn stairs through the rock. It was narrow, which was fortunate, as the total lack of light meant that it was necessary to feel the way up the walls, stumbling on the invisible steps and praying for the top. Cringe was apparently unbothered by the darkness—he told them with irritating cheer that he had spent so much of his professional life skulking around in the shadows that he barely even noticed it anymore—but the same could not be said of Fodder, who tumbled frequently against her back, or Shoulders, who tripped even more frequently on top of the equally ill-equipped princess. By the time they reached the dungeon corridor where the passage emerged, the four of them were black and blue from head to foot and seriously considering ganging up on Cringe and throwing him over the battlements for picking such an awkward and painful route.

  At Shoulders’s strident insistence, they did not linger near the dungeons, but hurried up another, better-lit staircase towards the Fortress walls. Cringe had arranged for them to meet Grim in his private turret, one of a couple of sturdy but unassuming towers wrapped around a corner of the battlements that were so rarely visited In Narrative that the inhabitants of the Fortress had been able to set them up in an unexpectedly homely fashion. It was, Flirt had to admit, an odd experience to glance out at the harsh stone courtyard, with its leering, battered gargoyles dangling from the epic central tower and a bloodstained execution block lurking in the shadows from the window of the warm, friendly little kitchen that Cringe had led them into. The fireplace was clean and cheery; the counters gleamed; the cupboard doors were painted in bright, bold colours; and even the kettle had a floral pattern painted on its metal surface. The large black guard dog, with sharp, crooked teeth and shaggy, matted fur that slavered and snapped for the flesh of anyone who came near it In Narrative, was curled up by the fire on a yellow blanket with a greasy-looking bone clamped in his jaws. His tail was wagging.

  Fortunately, other than the dog, the tower was deserted. As Cringe had said, the rest of the inhabitants were still out uglifying the more commonly used parts of the Fortress ahead of the Merry Band’s arrival. It did not take long to hurry as inconspicuously as possible along the fifteen-foot span of battlement between the larger tower and the small turret beyond, but one brief look at it was enough to tell Flirt exactly what she needed to know. Of all the towers, it was the furthest from any potential action, perched, almost dangling, over the very edge of the thousand-foot drop. It was half-roofed: a small curl of dark tile topped a narrow doorway that presumably marked the top of the stairs, but the rest of the top was flat and open, ringed in by crenulations. Thanks to the curve of the jut on which the Fortress was positioned, it was clearly visible from the gatehouse and the road leading up to the Fortress, but it was out of natural bowshot range and would be tricky to get at quickly, even with The Narrative’s aid, without chucking any hint of realism entirely out of the window.

  In other words, it was the perfect spot to stage a princess’s execution.

  Flirt smiled to herself. Brilliant.

  Ahead, Cringe opened the small door to the turret and ushered them inside. Flirt obeyed, glancing back over her shoulder quickly to scan the courtyard, but it was still deserted, the Ordinary residents of the Fortress caught up in set-dressing in the gatehouse and largest tower. And even if any of them did happen to look out of the window, they’d probably just assume that the three figures in Sleiss armour were here to Bulk Up the numbers.

  Satisfied, Flirt turned her head as she walked into the dim chamber.

  And screamed.

  Armoured figures. Everywhere.

  She hit the door with a mail-clad clatter, her eyes darting everywhere as she struggled to drink in the scene. Her fingers had already half-groped for her sword before her mind actually managed to register what her eyes were telling her. They still weren’t moving, not one, still motionless, still silent. Surely, nobody waiting to spring a terrible trap would have so much self-control.…

  And then her eyes adjusted to the shadowy light and showed her the truth.

  Well. Now I feel just stupid.…

  The walls of the shadowy room were lined with suits of armour. They stood silent, unmoving, empty, and lifeless: vast, ornate visors of burnished, lacquered black metal that concealed nothing but shadows; gauntleted fists clenched beneath enormous, curving breastplates that covered no vulnerable flesh. Some were covered in engravings, images of horror and pain, of torture and brutality, fire and blood tattooed across their metal skin. Others lurked as a mass of corners and curves, demonic horns, dragon jaws—a helmet here like the head of a furious bear, another capped by the figures of two fighting wolves writhing together, eternally frozen in mortal combat. Each one was a horror to behold as it hovered in terrible silence as though waiting for her to collapse and die in terror of her own accord.

  Well, she wasn’t doing that. Not for a load of empty metal.

  But that was what they’d been designed for. These were the work suits of Grim and Doom, stored away for future recycling in later Quests. And because she’d been distracted and hadn’t paid attention, she’d made a complete prat of herself by assuming it was an ambush.

  She was going to get mocked for this. She could just smell it.

  The chuckle came from Cringe. That was disappointing. If it had been Shoulders or Fodder, she’d have felt more able to clout them one.

  “Sorry,” he said with irritating cheer. “I should have warned you. We keep Grim and Doom’s armour down here—the air up at the Dark Citadel makes it rust up more.” He grinned in a manner that took the possibility of a slapping one step closer. “That’d be a thing to behold, though—being ambushed by thirty Quests’ worth of Lords of Darkness.”

  “Cringe?” The unexpected voice echoed down the stairs as, from somewhere above, a door slammed with hurried force. “Is that you?”

  Cringe sauntered forwards, peering vaguely through the archway that led onto the spiral stairs. Metallic footsteps were clattering downwards against the rough stone.

  “Obviously,” he called back. “Were you expecting someone else?”

  “No, no!” The reply was quick-fire. “You were just faster than I thought you’d be!”

  A pair of black-lacquered metal feet, followed rapidly by armoured legs and then an intricately decorated torso—that did indeed show signs of a recent, necessary panel-beating—appeared around the curl of the steps. A moment later, two padded arms dropped into view, cradling an armful of shaped black metal, followed by a helmet that had clearly been thrust into place somewhat hurriedly, given that it was tilted at a very challenging angle that made its wearer appear to be perpetually staring off to his left. He looked, in short, like a refugee from a fight between two dodgy ironmongers.

  Flirt’s lips twitched. She couldn’t help it. Fortunately, the wild angle of Grim’s helmet and the rapidity with which he turned to face Cringe made her almost certain that one of the major faces of Narrative evil hadn’t even noticed they were there.

  Cringe’s grin never left his face. “Sorry, Grim, old chum,” he said casually, stepping forward to meet his fellow doer of foul deeds. “Were you still dressing?”

  Gr
im gave his long-time collaborator a pointed look. “No, I like looking like a pillock for fun. Of course I bloody was. Help me out with this, will you?” With a decidedly Shoulders-like huff, the tall, admittedly nicely broad-shouldered, if slightly pot-bellied figure dumped his armful of arm plates into Cringe’s reluctant grasp so that he could pull off the badly positioned helmet. Grim the Dark General was, as was typical of the men of his family, possessed of thick black hair, pale skin, and angular features. His nose was large and imposing and his eyebrows thick and sharp-edged. His eyes, with equal inevitability, were deep-sunk and dark. He had been born, bred, and raised to cast an imposing shadow over a Quest and provide a more genuine threat than a creepy henchman without being quite so scary as the root of evil that the Merry Band would have to confront at the end.

  It was a difficult line to walk, between the sublime and the ridiculous. But Flirt had to admit that, in spite of his height and his musculature and a face that was born to exude dark and profound menace, Grim wasn’t exactly casting much of a shadow. Specifically, he was hopping awkwardly on one foot as he adjusted a leg plate to a more comfortable angle.

  “By the Taskmaster, today is a mess!” he exclaimed, punctuating his sentence with a small but well-executed selection of swearwords as he teetered and rocked in search of an elusive hint of balance. “Emergency instructions, last-minute changes of plan, The Narrative on its way, and then you show up babbling on about this rebellion! I’d better get some proper recognition out of this, I’m telling you right now!” He righted himself with an awkward huff, straightening his breastplate and reaching for the arm pieces that Cringe was still cradling. “And it had better be done well; I’ve quite enough of being made to look a fool. Where did you leave those Disposables of yours anyway? You said you were bringing them with you.”