The Disposable Page 5

  Seven words of summation in Bard’s recital and a dismissive adequate from the Taskmaster’s taskmaster.

  And it was never going to get any better.

  This is it. This is my life.

  Seven words. And adequate.

  “Bloody, pompous, stuck-up… Swanning around, ordering me about as though I can’t do my job! Who does he think he is?”

  Fodder jumped violently as Preen unceremoniously thumped down a coat of chain mail, topped by a blue-and-red surcoat, against their table.

  “Finish up and wipe that foam off your chins!” the Courtier ordered harshly. “You gentlemen have a job to do, and I’m here to see that it’s done right!”

  * * *

  The chain mail was bright and heavy, not the half rusty, badly tended stock to which Fodder had become so accustomed. The helmet, emblazoned with the crest of this Quest’s Dark General, Sleiss, weighed down against his skull as his fingers twitched uncomfortably along the edge of the fine weave that made up the belted surcoat. It was well made and well cared for, lacking the artful decay that had become his standard work clothes. Even the sword belted to his waist was brightly polished.

  Normally, the chance for a slightly different costume and a different part to play, even when merely Bulking Up, would have left him excited and cheerful. But it was not the thrill of new equipment that was ringing through his head as he sat, rocking with the motion of the familiar cart that carried them slowly but steadily up the variable and treacherous turns of Bandit Pass, but the last, dismissive words that Preen had tossed over his shoulder as he mounted his primly manicured horse and set off up the pass ahead of them.

  “I know this is better kit than you generally get, but it’s on loan from the Palace Disposables, so take good care to return it in the condition it was received. And don’t get used to this.”

  Don’t get used to this. Well, didn’t that just sum everything up? Even amongst the ranks of the Disposables, he and his friends were considered second class, not to be allowed to play with anything shiny or good for more than a couple of scenes. A life of loyal service, of obedience to The Narrative, and he wasn’t even trusted to hand back a piece of armour intact.

  Seven words. Adequate.

  Nobody really noticed what they did. Nobody really cared. They were told from birth how important they were, how every person was a link in The Narrative chain and how vital it was that they play their part as designated, be it Boy of Destiny or Background Villager. But the truth of it was that certain big shiny links were far more important than the little rusty ones in the corner. Would anyone even notice if they rusted right through? What would happen to their precious chain then?

  Lost in his musings, Fodder failed to notice that the cart had shuddered to a halt until he heard the clatter of chain mail and felt the wagon bed jerk as his companions dismounted one by one. Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of Shoulders squinting at him quizzically, but his friend’s eyes darted away on being caught, and Shoulders hurriedly flung himself, jingling, out onto the rocky ground. With a sigh, Fodder pulled himself up and followed.

  Around him, Bandit Pass loomed, grey and imposing against the darkening twilight sky. Bandit Pass had been born to loom, a narrow cut through the gap between two vicious-looking mountains, ringed by towering cliffs and long, scattered slopes of fallen scree. Its proliferation of boulders, caves, and rocky up-thrusts made it ideal ambush territory. Lurk, Pounce, and Twister, the three scruffy Disposables who made their home up here in this remote spot, knew every crouching point, dramatic leaping post, and cunning hidey-hole by heart. They were an odd trio. Bulky Pounce, who was Thump’s brother, had been born in Humble Village and often wandered down to the pub for an ale and a chat. But the twins Lurk and Twister, both of whom had originated in the strange, ever-so-slightly creepy environment of the mountain Trapping Station, were a bit more of a mystery and rarely left the hidden but surprisingly comfortable cave in which the three Bandit Disposables slept, ate, and practiced for their work. But Fodder respected professionalism when he saw it, and he knew with absolute certainty that there was no one better at the art of the sudden, sneak attack than Lurk of Bandit Pass.

  But tonight’s attack was not to be Lurk’s usual wares, and Fodder couldn’t help but notice as he followed his companions over to where Lurk, Pounce, and Twister were conversing with Sentinel, one of the Palace Disposables, how utterly uncomfortable the threesome looked. More accustomed to leaping out from behind rocks in scruffy tunics, wearing eye-patches and waving cudgels, the lean, leathery faces of Lurk and Twister in particular looked bizarrely out of place crammed into polished armour and a liveried surcoat. But the demands of Narrative were king.

  They wouldn’t be dressed up like this, not if they had their way. Pounce is always saying how much Lurk and Twister hate being made to wear armour. Doesn’t matter, though, does it? We do as we’re told and what do we get in return?

  Seven words. Adequate.

  One man who did look comfortable, however, was Sentinel. The Palace Disposable’s armour shone by the gleam of the torches his men were lighting around the perimeter of the ornately decorated carriage that was drawn up at the edge of the road nearby with one wheel artfully broken.

  “Good evening,” he greeted the arriving Disposables formally, nodding to them in a precise and professional manner. Precise and professional were the two words that most thoroughly summed Sentinel up—Fodder had known him for four Quests and had yet to detect the slightest hint of personality about him. “I presume you gentlemen are aware that you are here to Bulk Up for an ambush of some significance?”

  “We are?” Shoulders muttered sardonically under his breath. “And there, I thought we were here to trip the light fantastic.”

  If Sentinel heard Shoulders’s remark, he singularly failed to react to it. “Your instructions are as follows: to ambush the carriage of the princess as it traverses the pass and make a spirited attempt at her kidnap. You will already be locked in battle with us, her loyal bodyguard, although the last of us, myself, will be felled within moments of engagement with The Narrative. On the arrival of the Merry Band from the south, you are to offer lively resistance and attempt to drag the princess away north-westwards. You shall, however, be beaten back by their skill and strength, leaving many of your number dead or mortally wounded on the floor, although at least three of you, one of which is to be Lurk, are instructed to slink away like cowards in order to report back to your master. One of those survivors will be felled by an arrow as you spew curses, but the other two will vanish into the darkness, leaving the now unprotected princess to be taken into the care of the Merry Band. Lurk will act as Lead Guard, and you will take instruction from him as necessary. Is that understood?”

  Fodder nodded along with his companions, adding his grunt of assertion to the mix without any real emotion. For all they were wearing posh armour and standing in a dark, windswept pass rather than on a country road, it was pretty standard fare. He was certain that he hadn’t missed the flash of disappointment on Lurk’s face at the news that The Narrative would enter halfway through the fight—leaping howling from behind rocky outcrops was easily the most enjoyable part of any ambush and for tonight, it had been denied them.

  Not that it was up to them anyway.

  Seven words. Adequate.

  “Are we ready here?”

  Fodder suppressed an internal groan as Preen fussed busily over to join them, his tight smile a strong indicator that he had just been forced to abandon a significant fawning session with someone he considered of far greater import than they in order to make sure his charges were doing his job for him. He clapped his hands together in a brief and irritating staccato.

  “Now, I’ve been conferring with Princess Pleasance, who will be taking the role of the Princess Islaine for the course of this Quest…” Aha. That explains it, then. “And she has insisted upon approving any Disposable who will be required to manhandle her in the course of the ambush. She has reque
sted that I assign our most”—his eyes wandered over the ranks of his Disposables with a vaguely unenthusiastic air—“hygienic specimens.” He smiled with utter insincerity. “So, perhaps you, Fodder? And your…friend there? Although…” His gaze fixed upon Shoulders, whose expression, on being fingered for kidnap duty on the basis of being questionably more hygienic than his comrades, was hardly one of goodwill and gratitude. “Perhaps he could…wash his hands first?”

  Fodder hadn’t believed it possible that his thoughts about his job could sour much further that evening, but as he followed Preen over to a nearby water barrel, ignoring the sound of Shoulders muttering ill-temperedly under his breath a step behind, he found himself amending his mental litany.

  Seven words. Adequate. And hygienic.

  Not because I’m good. Not because I’m reliable. Not because I’m worthy of meeting his precious princess. No. Because I’m cleaner than a man who magnetically attracts food and his friend who smells of beans. There’s a tale to tell the grandchildren. Yes, young Urchin, I got to manhandle the princess in The Ring of Anthiphion because I remembered to scrub my ears! Let that be a lesson for life!

  This is not fair. It’s not fair.

  He splashed himself half-heartedly from the icy water in the barrel, trying to tune out Preen’s fussing about whether there was time to send down to the village for some soap. As Preen reluctantly approved their efforts as having to do for now and turned to bustle them in the direction of the carriage, Fodder found himself wondering if there was time before the ambush to track down a good mud puddle to roll in.

  He knew he shouldn’t be this moody, this angry, about his job, about the way things were. But the dark thoughts refused to go away and he was unable to banish them. He felt as though he was suddenly seeing the world he’d always taken for granted with new eyes, and he didn’t like what—

  “Bloody hell!”

  At his side, Shoulders jumped at least a foot. Fodder started violently himself as a vivid scream rang out, echoing with potent power against the cliffs, battering against itself until it broke into a thousand pieces and finally faded away. A tumble of loose scree nearby flopped downwards in a dusty little flurry, driven to flee from the sound.

  “No, no, no!” From behind the carriage, a figure strode imperiously into the ball of light cast by the blazing torches: slender, elegant, her face delicate and beautifully crafted to catch the light just so; her long blue gown, golden tiara, and artfully draped velvet travelling cloak sweeping behind in a manner that left one in no doubt that royalty stood before them. Her hair was blonde and curly, with a hint of red about it, although Fodder was quite certain that such a whisper of colour would become a glint of shining fire given the right light and Narrative conditions. One milk-white hand rested carefully against her bodice as her bosom heaved with graceful artifice.

  “This scream has to be perfect!” As Pleasance of the Royal Family, soon to be known as the Princess Islaine of Nyolesse, wheeled back the way she’d come with one precise whisk of her heel, it took Fodder a moment to realise that she was addressing the mousey little figure in a plain coif who waited, head bowed, in the shadows behind her. “Don’t you understand, Menial? It’s my first moment of Narrative! My introduction! This is the scream that draws my true love to ride to my rescue! It has to be of the best quality! It must inspire a glorious description! Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  Every word the princess spoke was punctuated by an artful gesture, every exclamation emphasised by a perfectly arranged expression. Every motion she made, every feature she had, was keyed up, controlled, and released in a fit of pure high drama. There was really only one conclusion that Fodder could possibly draw.

  Oh good grief. It’s Bard in a dress.

  A pair of ruby red lips pursed carefully. “Perhaps if I varied the cadence a little, inserted some rise and fall? Hmmm, maybe…”

  Fodder just found the wherewithal to cover his ears in time. The dusty trickle of scree rapidly transformed into half an avalanche.

  The rise and fall was very impressive, though. He gave her that.

  Shoulders’s eyes were bulging in their sockets as Fodder tentatively lowered his hands from his ears and glanced over at his friend. Shoulders returned his gaze with mute horror for a moment, his lips working in silent misery before finally alighting on a sentence.

  “She’s a screamer,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Fodder could only nod. “Yeah. I noticed.”

  “We have to grab her.”

  “Got that part too.”

  “Our heads will be right next to hers.”

  “At least until Clank arrives.”

  “And she will be screaming like that the whole time.”

  Fodder sighed grimly. “We’ll just have to hope that Squick’s got a good stock of spare eardrums. But on the plus side, if she deafens us, we won’t have to listen to Bard.”

  Shoulders was quietly shaking his head. “I hate screamers,” he muttered, his expression harrowed. “If I’d have known it meant working with a screamer, I would have left my head in that muddy ditch and my entrails up that tree.…”

  But there was no time to belabour the point further. A pair of striking blue-violet eyes had alighted upon them, beneath the suddenly creased perfection of a porcelain brow.

  Princess Pleasance was staring at them, and her expression was hardly one of respectful satisfaction.

  “Are these my kidnappers?” she drawled, her rich voice dripping with disdain. Her eyes swept briskly over their shining armour before lingering with rather more disgust upon their faces. In one sweeping turn, she wheeled on Preen. “Is this the best you could do?”

  Preen bobbed his head in a sickeningly servile manner. “I’m terribly sorry, my lady. But the choice is very limited. These were the best I had available.”

  Pleasance’s lips pursed as she regarded the cringing Preen with the closest she could manage to sympathy.

  “You poor man,” she declared, her voice throbbing with passion as only a princess’s could. “I pity you having to work with such torrid material.”

  Fodder could actually feel his jaw hardening. Even the mud puddle suddenly didn’t seem like enough.

  Seven words. Adequate. Hygienic.

  That is not worth this.

  Don’t they realise we’re people too? Don’t they think we have feelings? Doesn’t that bloody woman care that we are standing right here?

  “Well, needs must, I suppose.” With an air of tragedy, the princess laid one delicate hand against her cheek. “In the name of The Narrative, we must all make sacrifices. So.” With a snap like a general, she swung round to face Fodder and Shoulders, her eyes narrowing as she regarded them with sudden icy coolness. “Ground rules, gentlemen. I am not to be manhandled. You will take utmost care to ensure that while you appear to be vicious brutes treating me abominably, you will not grab me, haul me, yank me, bruise me, scratch me, or damage me in any way whatsoever. You will not touch my skin under any circumstances and you will also cause no damage to my clothes. You will not mess up my hair. One of you has to brutally stab my Maid, but you are not to get any of her blood on my dress or cloak.” She gestured casually over her shoulder at the mousey young woman, whose expression, unnoticed by her mistress, was one of quiet, mute terror at the prospect of a stabbing, even a Narrative one. Fodder had become accustomed to the daily brutality of his job, but the poor young Maid had probably never been killed before and had no idea what to expect. And it didn’t seem like anyone around her had considered her worth reassuring.

  Her mistress was ploughing on. “And of course, you will allow me full latitude to put up the kind of spirited fight that is appropriate to my character. You will push your helmets back so that I will have free rein to scratch at your faces with my fingernails. You will insure that certain parts of your anatomy are kept within my range to kick. You will, however, acquire mail gauntlets. Those hands don’t look nearly clean enough to me.” Drawing herself up, Pleasance
regarded them with the full force of her regal training. “Make me look good, gentlemen. That’s what you’re here for. Now, off you go. And make sure you remember what I told you. Any deviation, and I will instruct Strut to make certain that you spend your next ten Quests shovelling dung. Understood?”

  A smile. It spread slowly, almost grimly over Fodder’s face as he stared at blonde, pale Princess Pleasance glaring at them with such disdain, detached completely from any reasoning centre of his brain.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “I understand completely.”

  And he did.

  We don’t matter. We’re replaceable.

  Disposable.

  Seven words.

  Adequate.

  Hy-bloody-gienic.

  And why?

  Because it says so on a piece of paper.

  Somewhere far away, Fodder could hear Preen hurrying them to their places, could see the faces of his friends as they dropped into position around the carriage ready to launch on command into a half-finished fight. He saw Pleasance bustling into her carriage, arranging her face into an expression of horror as she braced to deliver her big introductory scream with just the right amount of rise and fall. He saw Strut appear like a phantom at the edge of the road into the Bandit Pass, one hand raised imperiously in signal as the darkness and moonlight behind him deepened and sharpened with The Narrative’s approach.

  He could feel his sword grasped in his hand. He could see Shoulders at his side, bracing himself for the inevitable vocal assault as he rested his hand upon the carriage door and prepared to batter it open. He knew it was happening. He knew The Narrative was coming.

  But it all seemed so far away.

  It says so on a piece of paper.

  Who says so?

  Why should we?

  Why should I?

  Like a beam of vivid moonlight, a single thread of Narrative alighted on the carriage.

  And Princess Pleasance screamed her lungs out.