The Disposable Page 15

  Cringe cocked an eyebrow. “Grim, I did.”

  Grim glanced up at him with a distinct hint of irritation as he scrambled away at his left shoulder plate. He had still not at any point actually turned to face the room. “You what?”

  “I said I did.” Cringe jerked his head deliberately towards the doorway where Flirt, Fodder, Shoulders, and the gagged and bound princess were lingering patiently. “They’re standing right behind you.”

  “What?” Finally Grim’s head jerked up, his eyes darting across the room and widening in shock as he fixed upon the three armoured figures that weren’t a part of his collection. He started visibly. “Oh! They’re…but!” He wheeled on Cringe with an almighty glare. “Why didn’t you say that first? Letting me blather on!” He allowed himself a stuttering moment to regain his composure, fiddling about as he arranged his armour into a more usable formation. And then, with a shake of his shoulders, he turned and noisily crossed the room.

  “So, you’re the rebels?” he said, squinting curiously as he tapped one thumb against his bottom lip. “Hmmm. You don’t look much. Shouldn’t you all be taller?”

  Flirt could see Fodder’s expression. It would have defied even The Narrative’s best efforts at description.

  “Taller?” he ventured. “Why?”

  Grim pulled a slightly incredulous face. “Well, that’s how it’s done, isn’t it? Rebels are always tall with flowing hair, and they hang around up trees with horns and longbows and ambush the henchmen of evil authority. Your comely wench isn’t too bad, and there’s a diverse band of you, so at least you’re doing that part of the thing properly.” He shook his head. “But just this isn’t going to cut it. You’re going to have to attract yourself a handsome and charismatic leader soon or, frankly, it’ll just look silly.”

  But Flirt had stopped listening. Two words had blotted out the entire of the rest of the world.

  Comely wench?

  Did he call me a comely bloody wench?

  I’m not having it. I AM NOT HAVING IT!

  Her hand had whipped down to her sword hilt almost before the words had finished passing his lips, but fortunately for Grim’s ongoing good health, Fodder had seen the danger. One hand lashed out, catching Flirt’s arm, and spinning her round on the spot, he bundled her and her half-drawn sword viciously into a corner.

  “Don’t kill him!” he hissed sharply under his breath. “We need his help!”

  The glare Flirt offered in return could have burned through granite. “Did you hear what he called me?” she hissed back. “Comely wench, he said! Comely bloody wench!”

  “I know, but we need his help! Do you think he’ll give it if you’ve brained him?”

  “How about gutting? I could just gut him a little bit.…”

  “No gutting! No splicing, dicing, chopping, or slashing either! We need his help!”

  “But…”

  “We need his help! If he says no, you can kill him as much as you like! But not if he agrees!”

  “Promise?” Flirt’s anger was draining away but the sound of those two words burned against her brain. She’d promised herself, she’d promised when she’d joined Fodder that she would never allow anyone to subject her to such indignities again. Letting a man call her wench and keep his guts seemed like killing the dream.

  Fodder gave a wan smile. “I promise. But please, Flirt…”

  “I know.” With an angry huff, Flirt released her partly drawn sword and shoved it back into its scabbard. “We need his help.”

  “Everything all right?” Flirt ground her teeth as Grim’s voice drifted over from behind them. “Was it something I said?”

  Fodder turned back to the Dark General, his expression carefully arranged in neutral. “No, it’s fine,” he said carefully. “Just a small difference of opinion.”

  Grim’s slightly patronising smile made Flirt want to thump him. That wasn’t much of an achievement at the moment, though. With comely wench ringing in her ears unpunished, Flirt suspected even his toenails would make her want to thump him.

  “There, you see?” he said chummily. “I told you. That’s why you need a tall, handsome, and charismatic leader. No one ever argues with them.” He tapped his nose slyly. “These things do need to be done by the proper people, you know. Otherwise, how’s anyone supposed to know what’s going on?”

  Fodder’s eyebrows rose so violently that Flirt was surprised they didn’t rupture his forehead. “So…you’re saying you can only rebel if you’re tall, handsome, and charismatic?”

  “Well, of course not!” Grim chuckled irritatingly. “Not the underlings, anyway! But how’s anyone supposed to know you’re a rebel if you go around not looking like one? That’s hardly sporting, is it?”

  Fodder’s eyebrows dropped to half-mast, but Flirt suspected that was only in deference to the effort it was taking to keep them there. “I didn’t know rebellions were supposed to be sporting,” he offered, unable to conceal the hint of cynicism troubling his tone.

  Grim crossed his arms, still grinning in what he seemed to think was a helpful manner. “Well, it’s a good thing you’ve come to me then. I mean, how do you expect to be taken seriously if you don’t even do the thing properly?”

  Flirt could see Fodder’s face quite clearly. It told her plainly that she was probably only a few exchanges away from permission to gut.

  “Do you really believe that?” Fodder asked with well-controlled curiosity, his eyebrows sinking from their former heights to crease his forehead into a frown. “Do you really think a rebellion can’t succeed if it doesn’t look the part?”

  Grim returned his frown measure for measure. “I don’t see how else it can be a rebellion,” he responded frankly. “You can’t make a stew without the right ingredients.”

  “But you might be able to make a nicer stew with different ones,” Cringe interjected suddenly, his face strangely thoughtful. “I think that’s what he’s saying, Grim. You did say you liked the sound of it earlier.”

  “But I thought it would be done properly! That it would look good.” Grim’s expression was abruptly disconcerted. It was much the same look that Flirt had pictured might cross his face as her sword slid into his gullet. “It’s one thing to stand up and get some proclaiming time out front backed up by some proper, impressive rebels—the right kind. You know! Feathered hats! Longbows! Green tunics!” His voice turned sour. “It’s another to be told it’s…this.” The wave of his hand spoke a dictionary full of dismissal. “I didn’t expect it to be so”—he waved one hand raggedly in Fodder’s direction—“ordinary.”

  “But that’s the point of it.” As Flirt had half-expected, Fodder leapt onto the opening. “That’s what our rebellion is about. You’re the Dark General because you look like a Dark General should. You have to stomp around in armour because people expect that to be what a Dark General does. But if you want to lead the forces of evil, or even the forces of good, from a treetop lair wearing a green tunic and a feathered hat, why shouldn’t you be allowed to? We’re fighting for the choice. We want the chance to be what we want to be rather than what people expect us to be.” He smiled slightly. “I mean, take this scene you’ve got coming up. Wouldn’t you like to come out on top for once? Wouldn’t you like to see the Merry Band thwarted instead of you?”

  Grim’s face contorted into several strange configurations. Flirt suspected her imaginary sword in his gullet had just been wiggled about. “You mean…win?”

  Fodder’s smile spread. “Exactly!”

  “Hang on.” Grim looked worried all of a sudden. “Cringe said rebel. More time front and centre. A change of pace. Upstaging bloody Doom. He never said win.”

  It must have been so hard for Fodder not to roll his eyes. Flirt didn’t even bother to try not rolling hers. How thick was Grim?

  Fodder’s voice was astonishingly patient. “The point of rebelling is to win,” he said very slowly. “Why else do it?”

  “It looks good. It gets attention. And that’s
fine.” Grim’s head was shaking slightly from side to side. “But I don’t win. I’m the Dark General.”

  “Well, this is your chance to.” Flirt wasn’t convinced that Fodder was onto a winner. Mr Comely Wench didn’t seem to be able to comprehend the idea with alacrity and speed.

  “But I have dark hair. Angular features. Deep-sunk eyes.” Grim’s tone was incredulous. “That’s not a winning face.”

  “That’s the point.” Fodder shrugged slightly. “There’s no reason why it shouldn’t be. You can win if you really want to. Why not?”

  Grim was staring at him. It was not a happy stare. “But…” he managed, his voice as contorted as his face. “That’s not…how it works.”

  Fodder grinned. “Not yet. But if we play this right, it could be. For example—how would you like to marry the Princess Islaine?”

  Grim wrinkled his nose. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

  “Neither is a rebellion. Or you getting more noticed. Making things happen that aren’t supposed to means we don’t have to do what’s expected anymore. We can do anything and be anyone.” Fodder opened his hands expansively. “And imagine how much recognition you’d get as the husband of Princess Islaine. You’d be slap bang front and centre of The Narrative; everyone would see you. Doom would be nothing. No one would ever forget you.”

  “Ever?” There was a hint, just the tiniest brush of distant light glimmering at the back of Grim’s eyes.

  “Yes!” Damn Fodder for looking so pleased about it! Now she might never get to gut Grim! “The great evil force of The Narrative. Leader of the rebel horde. And you can dump the armour and head out and sit in as many trees as you like, if that’s what you want. Because it’ll be up to you.”

  Grim’s frown was back. “Hold on, though. How would anyone know I was a Dark General without the imposing armour?”

  Fodder shrugged. “You could just tell them. Or you wouldn’t even have to be a Dark General if you didn’t want to.” He grinned slightly. “You could be a rebel and sit in a tree.”

  Grim sighed irritably. “But we’ve been through this. I can’t be a rebel if I don’t have the right look. Which I don’t. Neither do you.”

  Flirt could feel her sword hand twitching. No, it wasn’t her imagination. He either wasn’t very bright or he really wasn’t listening properly.

  Maybe the gutting might be back on?

  Fodder appeared to be losing the fight not to roll his eyes towards the ceiling. Shoulders was slowly shaking his head back and forth. Cringe was rubbing one hand against the bridge of his nose with a weary expression. Even Pleasance seemed incredulous at Grim’s failure to grasp Fodder’s meaning.

  “That doesn’t matter.” Fodder stressed each syllable with scarcely restrained impatience. “You wouldn’t even have to be a Dark General anymore if you didn’t want to.”

  “Not a Dark General?” Grim was still frowning in disbelief. “But what else would I do?”

  Fodder glanced once in Flirt’s direction. She could tell at once he was considering releasing her promise.

  “You can be…whatever you like,” he drawled wearily.

  “Grim, you never stop moaning about how much being the Dark General sidelines you,” Cringe intervened sharply. “About how no one respects you and how Doom gets all the glory. So why not try something new?”

  “Or if that’s too much for now, be a different Dark General,” Fodder added, with far more hope than Flirt felt was warranted. “Like we said, be the Dark General that beats the Merry Band. Be the one to win.”

  “Win.” Grim expelled the word carefully. “And people would remember that. People would notice.”

  “Everyone would notice!” Fodder’s face was a wash of relief as Flirt forced herself to stifle disappointment. Damn, I think he’s getting there.… “It’ll be glorious. Look, why don’t we go and sit down, and I’ll explain it to you properly. Then maybe you might be able to help us out?”

  But Grim’s frown was still creasing his features. “My study is on the second floor,” he said absently. “But I need to sort my armour out first, and I hate doing that with an audience. Cringe, why don’t you show them up? I’ll be along once my gauntlets are straightened. I need to think this through. Winning.” He whirled the word round in his mouth as though trying it on for size. He glanced up uncertainly. “That might take some getting used to.”

  Fodder’s smile was encouraging. “But imagine how nice it’ll feel when everyone’s looking at you.”

  Flirt wasn’t personally convinced that Grim was endowed with any great imagination. He seemed very much a man of fixed ideas, and it would probably take a stonemason and heavy moving equipment to dislodge them. But grudgingly, she was forced to admit that he did look distinctly thoughtful as they left him to wrestle with his breastplate and headed after Cringe up the stairs.

  “So I can’t gut him then?” she muttered irritably to Fodder as they passed the sturdy-looking door on the small first floor of the spiral staircase.

  Fodder shrugged. “Sorry. But I think he’s coming round. And…”

  “We need his blasted help, I know.” Flirt gave a gusty sigh. “I promised no one would ever call me wench again without suffering the consequences. Bugger.”

  “Maybe it’s better to make him see the error of his ways?” Fodder offered thoughtfully.

  Flirt gave him a long, hard look. “For you, maybe. But personally, I’d rather have seen his guts.”

  * * *

  It was almost time.

  The turret roof was windy. Whether that was a Narrative conceit or plain coincidence, Fodder wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t be said it was helping matters. Given the low, vaguely ornamental nature of the crenulations that ringed the small, weathered, uneven expanse of stone and the vast drop off into the Tumbling River that lay beyond, it was possible that one good gust of Narrative wind would be enough to send any one of them plunging.

  Fodder was willing to bet just which of them it would be.

  Squinting into the wind, he could see the glow of The Narrative, hovering just below the horizon of the final rise at the end of the valley. He knew with icy certainty that the moment it topped that final ridge, the castle would become vulnerable to Narrative and battle would commence.

  It wasn’t a battle he was greatly looking forward to.

  It was hard to imagine any situation with more things that had the opportunity to go wrong. The feeling of mild optimism he’d briefly indulged in when Grim had eventually arrived fully armoured up the stairs, taken a deep breath, and declared that he was in had lasted only the few seconds that it had taken Shoulders to begin listing every potential disaster he could foresee. By the time he was done, Fodder found himself three-quarters tempted to jack the whole business in and run like a rabbit for the hills.

  If only they didn’t have to rely so much on Grim. Once they’d gradually eased the man past his initial misgivings and bolstered him into agreement at the prospect of a win, he had given Fodder no particular reason to doubt him, but having to rely so much on anyone he barely knew for something so important was never going to be comfortable. Fodder had insisted that the Dark General wait out of sight at the head of the narrow stairs. Though he appeared to have been swayed over to the cause, Fodder could tell that Grim had not dispelled all his doubts. Besides, there was simply no way to tell how he would cope when the syrupy smoothness of Narrative consumed him.

  When the moment came, would he do his part? Would the prospect of feeding his mountainous ego be strong enough to overcome the habits of a lifetime?

  They’d have to wait and see.

  It had been a straightforward enough plan, when it came down to it: Fodder would play the Sleiss executioner while Grim proclaimed the marriage and death of his bride. Cringe would keep a lookout at the foot of the turret, standing ready to block any sneaky Narrative attempts to break in, whilst Flirt and Shoulders waited, as Sleiss guards, in Grim’s study, ready to defend against any convenient, magical plot d
evices the Taskmaster might use to deposit a Merry Band member inside the tower. The princess would be bound using chains, to forestall any Narrative-induced fraying of rope or leather bindings, and Fodder would keep the axe to her neck at all times. At the slightest hint that Grim was faltering, he would chop.

  Before him, the princess was bound and thoroughly gagged, her legs clamped together like a steel-wrapped caterpillar, her arms pressed to her back by heavy chains so thick and numerous that even the most determined rusty link would have trouble freeing her. Her head lay facedown in the gap between crenulations, lodged as best possible to deter her wriggling out of the axe’s path. Her blonde hair had been scraped roughly by Flirt into a bun, so that her porcelain neck stood out clearly, her chin propped over the edge to hold her in place.

  He glanced down at her face, buffeted by the wind, pale and windswept; her blue eyes, forced by her indelicate position to stare down the thousand-foot drop where, if all went to plan, her head would soon be descending, were wide with both fury and fear.

  Fodder allowed himself a moment to feel a touch sorry for her. She was just a girl, really. In all fairness, she had been at the wrong place at the wrong time; she certainly hadn’t asked for this.…

  Other than when she’d kicked him in the face. And screamed in his ear. And called him torrid. And threatened to demote him if he messed up her hair. And treated him and his fellow Disposables like dirt. And…

  But still…

  He’d always prided himself on being a nice bloke. And even though she was a screaming little brat who’d spoken to him like something she’d scraped off a dung heap, now was probably the time to be magnanimous.

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” he told Pleasance conversationally, trying to ignore the venom that pooled in her blue eyes as she glanced up at him. “But this really won’t hurt a bit. I’ve been killed more times than you’ve had hot dinners. Think of it as a new experience.” In a move he suspected he’d live to regret, but nonetheless felt obliged towards, he reached down and loosened her gag slightly. “And you’ll go down in history too. The first princess ever to be killed In Narrative. No one will ever forget you.…”