The Disposable Page 22

  The silence that followed his pronouncement was epic, vast, and highly impressive. It thundered. It deafened. It echoed and roared and rang and did everything a vast and epic silence tended to do when it was supposed to just stay silent. But it could not last forever in spite of its efforts, and Fodder eventually ventured in and pushed it carefully aside.

  “You…know about that?” he managed tentatively. It was hard to believe, after their lonely few days of struggles, that in spite of the efforts of the Taskmaster to keep things in order, the truth had already leaked out. It was what they’d wanted, of course, but without the grand gesture, the big disruption they’d attempted, he hadn’t believed it was possible. But was it happening anyway? Was word spreading? Were people actually beginning to see past the limitations and understand that things could change?

  “Oh yes!” Dullard was nodding so vigorously that Fodder was worried for a moment that his head might fly off and roll into the corner. “Pleasance told us all about it! And, oh, they were all fussing about her terrible ordeal and not really listening to what she was saying, but I couldn’t quite believe what they were overlooking! You people broke with The Narrative! That’s unheard of! I didn’t even think it was possible! I mean, the implications, characters dictating to the Taskmaster, the removal of the obligation to obey…the consequences on this world could be enormous! The potential of it!”

  It was Fodder’s turn to gape. “You can see that?” Oh yes, oh yes, finally! Someone gets it! Just one person, maybe, but that’s one more than before!

  “Of course I can see it!” Dullard brushed his statement aside with a flick of his quill. “I don’t understand why everyone I tried to explain it to downstairs can’t! It’s amazing! You, what you’ve done, it’s…amazing!” He laughed almost hysterically. “I really do want to know everything, everything about what you’ve done and how you’ve done it! I want to study it; try it; find the boundaries, if there are any; and see what can be done. I want to understand it, and you can help me do that.”

  Fodder had to admit that he hadn’t really thought of it that way. His first rebellion had been almost an accident and now he was faced with an enthusiastic academic hunting for details, well… “I don’t know how much I can tell you,” he confessed, reeling rather from this sudden assault of interest. “It’s not something I planned. It just sort of…happened.”

  Perhaps it was his imagination, but Dullard seemed to wilt slightly. But he bounced back again like a lively frog a moment later. “Well, some of the best discoveries turn out to be from accidents, you know!” he exclaimed, gesturing to the sword blades quivering slightly where they’d been buried in the floor. “Why, the metal compound I found works best in my swordsmithing came out of a small slip in measuring the ore quantities.”

  Flirt’s eyes bulged as she stared at the swords. The nearest weapon had a long, indented blade decorated intricately with an engraved string of ivy leaves that spread onto the hilt wrapped up in gold leaf all the way to the pommel. The further one was bulkier and slightly recurved with a delicate, tapering spiral flying out from the hilt. “You made these?” she gasped.

  Dullard’s lips twisted slightly as his eyes ranged over the stunning selection nestling in the rack behind her: blades of every weight, shape, and calibre topped by delicate artistry, perfectly wrapped hilts, and shining pommels. “I know they aren’t much.” He shrugged with what seemed to Fodder to be highly inappropriate self-deprecation. “Nothing to what the Artisans down in the Respectable Quarter are capable of. But it’s a hobby. Finding the right balance of metals for the blade and decoration, keeping the weight even but making it look splendid. It’s such a fascinating way to pass the time. I picked up the basics of fencing from old Gallant the Knight in order to test out their properties, but I find the composition of the chemicals far more interesting than simply waving a sword about.…”

  Flirt was squinting at Dullard, and Fodder could sense that she was fighting to tell if the Rejected Suitor was in some manner taking the piddle. But, like Fodder, she found only sincerity in his face. Her eyes widened incredulously. One hand reached out, hauled the closer sword out of the wood, and hefted it thoughtfully. To judge by her expression, she didn’t find it disagreeable.

  “You really made these?” she repeated flatly. “Yourself? From scratch?”

  “Oh yes.” Dullard nodded cheerily. “In fact…” His lips pursed awkwardly and he shuffled his feet slightly. “I do feel ever so bad about shouting at you all earlier. I haven’t had the nicest of days, you see, and I’m afraid you rather struck a nerve. So, I know they aren’t much, but as an apology, if you’d like to keep one of them, you’re more than welcome to help yourself.”

  Flirt’s jaw dropped. “You’re giving me a sword? A proper sword?”

  “If you’d like it. As I said, I really do want to help.” Dullard’s fingers twitched anxiously around his quill, but his voice, when it came, was unexpectedly serious. “I really do believe that what you’ve uncovered here is so important. It’s the ultimate discovery. It’s how the world works. It’s the meaning of our lives. If we know how to change the world, we can see how it works, the mechanics, the truth of it. You have done what no one in the history of our world has been able to do. You’ve destroyed the ineffable. You’ve slapped away the hand of God and said you’re doing this your way!” He squared his shoulders. “That’s why, whatever you’re doing, I want you to keep doing it. I want to help you keep doing it. I want to come with you.”

  Shoulders was staring at Dullard with a low, level gaze. “Mate,” he said with a snort. “You don’t even know where we’re going. We don’t even know where we’re going, and we barely know what we’re doing. We’ve been chased, attacked, shouted at, and we’ll probably end up spending the rest of our life dying of boredom in some dungeon. We’re aiming to balls-up The Narrative so badly that no amount of floundering around with new instructions can fix it back up, and the Taskmaster and the Officious Courtiers are out to get us because they know it and they’re terrified. This isn’t some poncy experiment you can shrug off and write up afterwards. This is bloody serious.”

  Fodder stared at his friend for a moment, surprised that he had been the one to lay the truth of it on the line. But then, he supposed, of all of them, Shoulders was the most aware of the consequences and what happened to those who ignored them.

  But Dullard, it seemed, was not to be dissuaded: He locked his jaw and thrust out his substantial chin in response. “I don’t care. I want to help. I want to learn.”

  Shoulders’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve had offers of help before,” he said bluntly. “And the bastards tried to turn us in. How do we know you aren’t the same?”

  It was a reasonable question, although, as far as Fodder was concerned, the difference in sincerity between Grim and Dullard was so glaringly huge it was chasm-like. Dullard’s expression was suddenly solemn. He regarded them, each one in turn, with a look so steely it could have been forged into armour.

  “Anything you want me to do,” he repeated stubbornly. “To prove myself. I’ll do it.”

  It was Flirt who grinned first, the light of an idea flickering behind her eyes.

  “Actually,” she said cheerfully, “there might be something. How well, exactly, do you know Princess Pleasance?”

  * * *

  With a deep and languorous sigh, Princess Pleasance eased herself out of the warm and soothing bathtub and, with tangible pleasure, wrapped herself in the vast, fluffy towel that had been provided for her. Her pale skin almost seemed to sparkle by the dancing lantern light, her wet hair smooth and clean once more as the travails of the last few horrid days were shed from her skin along with their filthy legacy.

  It was so good to be home.

  Already, her ordeal was fading from her like a terrible dream. The ropes that had bound her, the horrible gag that had tasted of chain mail, the indignities and coarse rudeness that she’d suffered and borne like a saint—all dwindled into insignificanc
e before the roar of a glowing fire; the hot, soapy water that stroked the skin; and the tray laden with wine, sweetmeats, and fresh fruit for her delectation. A fresh costume had been provided, laundered carefully and smelling faintly of rosewater.

  An hour before, Quibble, on behalf of Strut, had delivered a crisp new set of instructions detailing how Princess Islaine was recovered from the river by a passing patrol of her father’s men, half-drowned and terribly traumatised by her ordeal at the hands of Sleiss and claiming to be unable to face the prospect of marriage to anyone, let alone to the insensitive and foolish Tretaptus. Desperate to escape her wedding and eager to avenge herself on the allies of her tormentor, she was to stow away with the Merry Band, and the story would proceed as before, only with the added angst that Bumpkin-as-Erik would now have to ease past her emotional barriers and work his way around her defences in order to win her love. It would be a far more complex relationship than the adolescent griping that had been planned and, loath as she was to admit it, Pleasance had to concede that in that lone respect, those rotten, interfering Disposables had done her a favour. It would be an emotional, grown-up type of romance, difficult and angst-riddled and ultimately more rewarding. It might have been nice to be swept off her feet by some swashbuckling adventurer, but she’d take a bit of depth over the childish conflict originally scripted any day. No one would make fun of Islaine now.

  If only it wasn’t with Bumpkin.

  The thought put a damp blot onto her otherwise contented musings. If only she’d had some kind of choice as to her partner in this endeavour. If only it didn’t have to be a gawky, blond teenager who slobbered all over her whenever his lips touched hers—and stared mostly at her cleavage when they didn’t—then she could truly look forward to her big Narrative moment. True, most Boys of Destiny started out this way and bloomed into full-blooded Heroes by the Quest’s conclusion. Perhaps as their Quest progressed, he would grow on her—and not like a fungus, as her mind had treacherously supplied.

  But it was just so hard to picture that they’d ever really get along. He was so petulant and self-obsessed, unsubtle and lacking in any kind of poise or charm or depth. She had always wanted a Hero who would excite her, who could handle danger with bravery and panache and yet still find time to pick her an exquisite bloom or write a few stanzas of poetry about the infinite depths of her eyes. And she knew that, unless he had a full personality transplant during the course of the Quest, that wasn’t going to be Bumpkin. She had heard Bumpkin’s parents boasting proudly that the post-Quest name he had chosen for himself was to be Regal, and it was all she could do not to laugh out loud—for that name was simply everything he was not.

  But it was more than likely that this would be her only Quest as Heroine—luck like Vanity’s was rare, for unlike so many Narrative roles, Heroes and Heroines were not often recycled. Both In Narrative and beyond, it seemed very likely that she’d be stuck with Bumpkin, and so all Pleasance could do was grit her teeth and resolve to make the best of it. Perhaps the Quest would help him to change for the better. And if it didn’t, she would.

  But she wasn’t about to let such thoughts ruin her good mood. The Narrative would arrive first thing in the morning, and she needed to make sure she was prepared.

  Thoroughly dry in all but hair, Pleasance abandoned her towel and pulled on her silk dressing gown and soft satin slippers. She briefly regarded the tray of treats the Servants had placed beside her bath for her to enjoy, but decided it would be undignified to carry them through to her dressing chamber personally, and proceeded out of her bath chamber unencumbered. Menial the Maid was waiting for her quietly by her dressing table, her head lowered in her usual respectful manner. Pleasance gave the mousey Servant a dark look. After the unexpected mercy she had received at the hands of those blasted Disposables, Menial had been rounded up by gallant Sir Roderick into The Narrative and had spent a whole day with the Merry Band before being left in a friendly village to be escorted back to the Palace by Nyolesse soldiers. As a result, Princess Islaine’s Maid had spent more time In Narrative than the princess herself; and, faced with such a grievous injustice, Pleasance did not feel inclined to be kindly.

  “Where are my mother and sister?” she snapped curtly as she settled herself onto her cushioned stool with an elegant sweep of her dressing gown and gazed at her much-improved reflection in the mirror. “I thought they were going to wait here until I was done.”

  Menial bobbed a chastened curtsey. “If you please, Your Highness,” she murmured awkwardly, “Her Majesty and Her Highness went to try on their Narrative outfits. Her Majesty suggested you might like to join them in her solar when your bath was done.”

  “What?” Menial jerked sharply at her mistress’s violent eruption. “After all I’ve been through, they couldn’t sit and wait for me for one hour? They expect me to go traipsing all the way down the corridor just to convenience them?”

  “I couldn’t say, ma’am.” Menial bobbed again. “I only know what they said, ma’am.”

  “Of course you do.” Lifting her chin, Pleasance carefully examined her reflection, running her finger over her cheek and the line of her jaw to check that the vile gag hadn’t left any kind of mark or blemish that The Narrative might pick up on. “Brush my hair. Gently.”

  Obedient as ever, Menial quickly scooped up the gilt hairbrush resting on the dressing table and took a gentle hold of a lock of her mistress’s hair. Pleasance settled elegantly into place, her hands resting delicately on her knee as the brush began its passage through the damp mass of royal hair. Soothed by the action, Pleasance allowed herself a hint of a smile as she began a precise, inch-by-inch assessment of her features.

  “Did anyone else call by while I was bathing?” she asked absently, distracted rather by the fine outline of her cheekbones in the shadowy lantern light. “Did they bring gifts, flowers, good wishes?”

  Menial bobbed once more, awkwardly given that she was attempting to smooth out her mistress’s hair without causing an incident. “If you please, Your Highness,” she offered again, somewhat tremulously, “there were no gifts. But Prince Dullard was here.”

  “Dullard?” The sound of the name caused Pleasance to jerk out of the pleasant reverie she had been enjoying as she considered the fine curve of her eyebrows. The Rejected Suitor’s irritating intervention in the throne room came flooding back in a rush; the sheer insensitivity he had shown towards her terrible plight had been infuriating. “That useless buffoon? What did he want?”

  The smoothing stroke of the brush shivered down her back once more. “He said he wanted to apologise, ma’am. He asked me to say he was terribly sorry he’d been so insensitive in the throne room and he was hoping, if you’d forgive him, that you might be able to spare him a few minutes later tonight.”

  “A few minutes?” Pleasance wrinkled her nose in what she had to admit was a quite charming manner. “A few minutes for what?”

  “To work on your scenes together, ma’am.” Brush, brush, gently went the brush. It really was most relaxing. “He said he wanted to make sure that he behaved in just the right obnoxious way to drive Islaine away and he was hoping you might be able to coach him as to how you want him to do it. He wants to be sure he makes himself look as foolish as possible next to your grace. He very much needs your help, ma’am. He said he’d even be willing to grovel for it.”

  “Grovel?” Pleasance rather liked the sound of that.

  “On his knees, ma’am. He was ever so contrite.”

  “On his knees, you say?” It was so satisfying to have a face upon which even smug satisfaction sat like a beautifully crafted statue. “Well, perhaps I might be able to spare him a moment or two on the way to join my mother. I want you to run and take my Narrative outfits down to my mother’s solar. On your way back to help me dress, stop and tell him I’ll spare him a few minutes of grovelling time. But only a few minutes. I don’t want to have to look at that joke of a face for long. Is my hair done?”

  “Yes, m
a’am.” And indeed it was, the snarls brushed free from the drying locks as they eased back into their naturally curly state with magnificent elegance.

  “Good.” Carefully, Pleasance raked her emerging curls into place with her tapering fingernails. “Then get on with it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” With yet another curtsey, Menial turned and scurried away, collecting the range of beautifully stitched outfits arranged on the bed before awkwardly bundling both them and herself out of the door.

  Pleasance paid little attention to her Maid’s plight, lost as she was in the contemplation of her face. For it was a face well worthy of Narrative attention. And soon, it would have its chance to shine.

  It was so nice to know all the horrors of the past few days were behind her. Her Quest would be hers at last. The Narrative would be here in the morning, and those obnoxious Disposables would certainly be rounded up very quickly now they no longer had a prisoner as bargaining power. They’d soon see how foolish they’d been and go back to their rightful place as nothing-whatsoever-that-mattered.

  It was her turn now. What could possibly go wrong?

  * * *

  Despite the long and anxious wait for the knock on the door, Fodder still jumped a good foot when it finally came.

  He wasn’t the only one. Flirt, who had been flourishing her new and impressive sword with an alarming glint in her eyes, swivelled sharply at the sound, blade held low. Shoulders, who had taken advantage of the lull to steal a fitful doze on the bed, woke from his snore with a start. And Dullard, who had been busily packing what looked to be a significant proportion of the contents of his chambers into a pack for the road, dropped his coil of rope and climbing axe abruptly as he jerked quickly to his feet.

  “Into the garderobe!” he hissed sharply. “Hurry!”

  Fodder didn’t need to be told twice. With Flirt and Shoulders hot on his heels, he ducked into the narrow corridor, pushing the door quickly closed until only the narrowest of cracks remained. Ignoring Shoulders’s brief protest at being pushed aside, he placed one eyeball carefully against the crack as Dullard straightened his doublet and reached for the door handle. With a last, assuring nod at the garderobe entrance, he pulled open the door.