The Disposable Page 8

  Shoulders was still regarding him, but some of his manic edge had slipped away into sudden solemnity. “You really believe this, don’t you?” he said softly.

  Fodder gave a quiet nod. “I really do. Do you?”

  Shoulders gave him a frank stare. “Not really. I think you’ve gone crazy. Because if you’re saying what I think you’re saying…you want to take on the Taskmaster?”

  It was a mind-boggling idea, but Fodder had to admit that Shoulders had seen right to the heart of it. “That’s who’s pulling the strings. That’s who’s made it unfair. So pretty much, yeah.”

  “Insane.” Shoulders drew the word out, spilling it slowly and vividly into the air. “We’re two Disposables, Fodder. We don’t stand a chance.”

  Fodder returned a stare of equal frankness. “It’s this chance or the dungeon. And imagine if we could make it work. No more being slaughtered on lonely roads. And Clank would never be allowed to cut your head off again. Not if you didn’t want him to.”

  One hand twitched briefly and awkwardly along Shoulders’s neck. “Stop trying to make me hope,” he retorted sharply. “We both know that isn’t going to happen.”

  Fodder leaned forwards, meeting his friend’s eyes intensely. “But what if it could?”

  Shoulders closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head. “I can’t believe I’m even listening to you. Taking on the Taskmaster? This is loony! I’m going to wake up back home in bed any minute and laugh at the stupid dream I just had!”

  Fodder shrugged slightly. “But while you’re dreaming away, what do you reckon? Will you help me?”

  Shoulders gave a long and weary sigh. “Fodder, it’s either follow a nutter like you or get locked in a dungeon. What choice have I got?” He rolled his eyes. “It’s nutter all the way, heaven help me.” He turned sharply and jabbed one finger into the night air. “But you’d better have a bloody good plan! Something better than just dragging the princess around with us and keeping her out of The Narrative, anyway!”

  One look at Fodder’s expression was apparently enough. Shoulders slumped against the wall, running one hand across his unshaven face. “We’re doomed,” he muttered darkly. “Just hand me that rope Preen gave you, will you? And there had better be a gag, or I’m taking my chances with the dungeon!”

  Fodder handed over the rope without comment and set to work ripping a broad strip of cloth off his surcoat as Shoulders knelt, plonked the slumped princess’s wrists unceremoniously onto his lap, and set to work binding them.

  “She’s going to go ballistic when she wakes up,” Shoulders commented matter-of-factly. “You do know our regal pain in the arse here is going to be far more trouble than she’s worth, don’t you?”

  Fodder sighed. He could picture the histrionics that they would be in for in the days to come, and it wasn’t a prospect that filled him with joy and contentment. But what choice had they got?

  “She’s too important to the plot,” he replied wearily, kneeling carefully as he hauled her head forwards and shoved her mass of coiffured ringlets messily aside so that he could secure the gag in place. “Without her, they’ll have to change almost everything. We’ll just have to live with her.” He shook his head. “And I was thinking. If we can get to the pub, I’m sure we could get Flirt on our side. And she’d definitely sort her out.”

  With little decorum, he deposited Pleasance’s head back against the rock wall, her elegantly arranged curls reduced to a frizzy mess by his indelicate handling. Picturing the look on her porcelain face as she’d scolded them about her hairdo, Fodder found himself unable to resist the urge to reach forward and ruffle her hair a touch more, locking his fingers into the few remaining orderly blonde ringlets that hung beneath the small, neat tiara and pulling them every which way until the resulting mess more closely resembled a hedge in a hurricane than a human head of hair. It was surprisingly satisfying.

  Shoulders grinned at him tightly but made no comment on his actions. “Flirt? You may be—”

  “—worth checking, I reckon. I’m sure I told Fodder about this tunnel in the pub once, and Preen’s frothing at the mouth. If we don’t find them soon, he’ll have a seizure.”

  “Don’t know what those two idiots were playing at back there. All this trouble and Preen screaming like a banshee. I’m tempted to whack them one myself when we track them down.”

  It was Pounce and Lurk. And neither sounded particularly in the mood to listen to Fodder’s glorious revolution.

  The Humble Village Disposables exchanged a brief, horrified glance as footsteps echoed in the tunnel behind them. Snatching up their Royal pain once more, Shoulders bolted for the entrance with Fodder sharp on his heels. A quick glance told them that the road was clear and, with the lights of Humble Village glistening in the woods below, the two men launched themselves out into the dark unknown.

  It was definitely time to head for the pub.

  * * *

  “…to be brought to me immediately upon their discovery. Is that clearly understood?”

  Through the crack in the narrow doorway that, in its current form, led from behind the counter of the Archetypal Inn through to its kitchen, Flirt the Barmaid watched the thin, brittle form of Strut the Officious Courtier. He was carefully eyeballing the recently roused and decidedly dozy-looking residents of Humble Village whom he had so firmly had Sentinel and the Palace Guard round up and shepherd into the common room. Of those who looked conscious enough to understand the enormity of what they had just been told, most seemed able to do little but blink and stare, their jaws hanging open, no hint of the true meaning behind his words dawning in their eyes.

  But Flirt had understood everything.

  Closing her eyes for an instant, she allowed herself to lean back against the wall, breathing hard, brain reeling and circling. And then, slowly, she felt herself begin to smile.

  He did it. He actually did it.

  Fodder defied The Narrative.

  She couldn’t believe it. Of all people, that it would be Fodder—sensible, reliable, down-to-earth Fodder—who would find a way to do what she’d always dreamed could happen! She’d had no idea that he or anyone else had even considered the inherent unfairness of the world in which they lived until that extraordinary conversation over beer and stew and the story so far. She watched them potter contently along with their humdrum lives and wondered if she could really be the only one who fought the urge to scream every time The Narrative rolled into the village and stripped away everything that made her her. There was no part of her that took pleasure from thrusting around a chest that wasn’t hers, from having her bottom smacked and pinched until it was black and blue, and from perching on the lap of smelly Barbarians whilst they slobbered and slurped their way over her face. She loathed every coy smile, every raucous laugh, every bumptious hip-wiggle that The Narrative prompted her to make and despised the way that so many of those with whom she cavorted In Narrative honestly expected her to cavort with them out of it too.

  All she wanted was to be allowed to be herself. Why should anyone, even the Taskmaster, have the right to say she couldn’t?

  She’d always dreamed of adventure, of something to challenge her, a leap into the unknown. She adored the idea of being allowed to fight back. A slap for a smack, a punch for a pinch, knowing she could turn around and kick the pasty backsides of anyone who so much as leered in her direction. That’d put an end to Swipe’s wandering fingers and Thud’s bruising squeezes! But adventure was out of the question for those to whom it was not assigned, and The Narrative had always melted her anger into a syrupy haze until she emerged from its grasp once more, sore and dishevelled and hopelessly frustrated. She’d never tried to fight it. She’d thought fighting to be impossible.

  But for Fodder, apparently, it wasn’t.

  She had to know how he’d managed it. She needed to know.

  She had to find him. She had to find out what he’d done and how she could do it herself. And then, at last, she would be able to prov
e to every smug, self-satisfied groping bastard who’d ever pinched her backside, slobbered on her cleavage, and called her wench or darling that she was more than a pushed-up bosom in a corset! And if the chance arose to repay a few of the affectionate bruises she’d accrued over the Quests, so much the better!

  But first, she had to find Fodder. And that meant gathering what she needed and getting out unspotted.

  It didn’t take her long to slip up the back stairs to her room and even less time to toss a handful of practical clothes and some light blankets into an old pack she generally used to hoist around the laundry. Then, with quiet efficiency, she ransacked the kitchen, grabbing food and water, flints and candles, a coil of rope, and, in lieu of proper weaponry, a sturdy kitchen knife and the poker from the fireplace. As an afterthought, she also grabbed a pot of ale. If Shoulders really was out there with Fodder, as Strut’s descriptions had implied, she strongly suspected he’d need it.

  Finding them wouldn’t be easy, of course. That thought alone was enough to sober her enthusiasm. They could have headed in any direction from the pass, hidden anywhere, decided anything. She had no idea if they’d had any plan in mind when they’d defied The Narrative or if it had been a spontaneous act that had forced them to desperately improvise. Even as she pulled open the back door, she knew her search was certainly not going to be…

  Oh.

  Two very familiar faces and a velvet-cloaked backside blocked her path.

  Fodder gave a tentative grin. Shoulders was far more preoccupied trying to deal with the wriggling mass of velvet and blonde curls hoisted over his right shoulder.

  For an instant, Flirt could only stare, trying to slap her mind back from probably-futile-search mode into the less well explored region of what to do when she found them. Fortunately, common sense was quick to kick in.

  “What do you think you’re doing, you pair of idiots?” she hissed fiercely. “Strut is right there in the common room baying for your blood, and you walk straight back to the pub? What kind of rebels are you?”

  Grabbing the fronts of their surcoats in each hand, the Barmaid propelled her two Disposable friends rapidly backwards across the cobbled stable yard and through the door into the dusty, hay-riddled stable. Several horses glanced up and fixed the new arrivals with curious looks as Flirt bundled her companions into the nearest empty stall and firmly slammed the gate shut.

  There was a long moment of silence, damaged only by the muffled squeaks emanating from beneath the gagged, dishevelled blonde whom Flirt knew could only be the missing princess. With a weary huff, Shoulders shot the backside of his twitching bundle a filthy look and then tipped her unceremoniously off his shoulder into a pile of nearby hay. Constrained by rope and blue velvet, the fuzzy-headed princess flailed and kicked helplessly on her side, her blue-violet eyes wild with fury as she struggled to find a more royally appropriate stance. Through much undignified wriggling, she managed to haul herself into a sitting position. From there, she glared up at her kidnappers with a look that would not only have killed, if it were possible, but flayed the two Disposables alive and whacked them round the legs with wet towels for good measure.

  Flirt could tell at once that she was going to make simply wonderful company.

  But for now, a kidnapped princess was not the issue. The Barmaid’s eyes raked over the two men before her: first Shoulders, battered, fraught, and weary looking, his face a potent cocktail of desperation, resignation, and irritability; and then Fodder, who…

  Who…

  Looked alive. So very, very alive. Alive in a way that Flirt hadn’t realised it was possible to be.

  His smile was vibrant. She couldn’t help but smile back.

  “Come on then,” she said softly. “Tell me everything.”

  They did. Fodder watched her face carefully as he recounted their strange tale. Within her expression, he was thrilled to find the understanding and excitement that had been so lacking from Shoulders’s. She nodded and smiled and gasped in all the right places, even wordlessly handing Shoulders a pot of ale as he worked himself up at the recounting of his horrific night thus far. True, the fact that he viciously downed it in one meant it did not stem the tide of muttering for long, but it was a thoughtful gesture, and that was enough.

  Fodder’d known she’d be an asset. Flirt was always prepared, and a quick glance at her pack proved tonight was no exception. That she had already been coming to find them was gratifying; that she could understand and accept his rough outline of a plan, even more so. And also as expected, it didn’t take her long to whip it into shape.

  “We’ll need more people, won’t we?” Flirt’s gaze roamed the ceiling thoughtfully as she broke the brief silence that had followed Fodder’s none-too-detailed explanation of what he intended to do. “The three of us aren’t much of a rebellion, and more people means more fuss.”

  “What’s good about fuss?” Shoulders grumbled irritably. “Fuss means being chased by men with spears and having holes poked in your gullet. Fuss means dungeons.”

  “But it also means attention, doesn’t it?” Flirt grinned broadly. “The more people who know what we’re doing, the more likely it is we’ll find the ones who’ll listen. And the more people who listen, the more likely it is we’ll find the ones who like what they hear. And once we have enough of those, we can’t be ignored anymore. They can’t lock us up after that, can they? If the people who’ve listened outnumber the dungeons, what are they going to do then?”

  Shoulders looked slightly mollified. “I suppose,” he conceded rather grudgingly. “But where do you propose we find these magic listening people who’ll keep me out of prison?”

  Flirt frowned thoughtfully. “Not round here,” she admitted. “Not if the lads last night are anything to go by. Maybe we could try the mountain Trappers or the folk up at the Grim Fortress? They might be more up for a change of scenery.…”

  “But what are we going to do about her?” Shoulders gestured violently with one thumb to where Pleasance’s glare had, if anything, intensified. “We can’t keep dragging her around kicking and screaming indefinitely. Aside from anything else, she’s going to do my back in!”

  The slight smile that touched the corners of Flirt’s lips was exactly what Fodder had hoped to see. “Oh, you leave madam to me,” she said conspiratorially, bending over and rummaging around in her makeshift pack. “Now where…aha! Here we are!”

  The look that crossed Pleasance’s face defied description. For what Flirt was flourishing so cheerfully appeared to be nothing more than a pair of sewing scissors and a small box of cosmetics.

  “I’m sure you recognise these, don’t you?” she asked the furious Pleasance cheerfully. “And that being said, us being girls together and given that we are about to spend pity-knows-how-long in each other’s company, I thought we might be able to talk looks. Specifically, your looks. And what’s going to happen to your looks if you don’t calm down, stop kicking my friends, and start doing exactly as you’re told.” She glanced up at Fodder and Shoulders, her smile cheery and matter-of-fact. “What do you reckon would look better In Narrative, boys?” she remarked thoughtfully. “A bowl cut or no hair at all? Or maybe a bit of turquoise eyeliner in a check pattern to highlight her cheekbones?”

  Rage was gone in a flash. A pair of blue-violet eyes filled with instant, flat-out horror.

  “Lime green.” Fodder barely managed to hold back the grin that was threatening to wash away his faux-thoughtful expression. “Definitely.”

  Flirt’s lips twisted thoughtfully. “Really? I was thinking puce.”

  “Both.” The beatific interruption came from Shoulders. “Stripes. Or better still, you could shave her bald and draw pictures of goats on her head…”

  “Or maybe hedgehogs,” Fodder offered.

  “Paint her nose red with nail polish.” Shoulders was gaining momentum.

  “Shave her head down one side.”

  “Write dunce on her forehead.”

  “Glue
some spare hair to her chin as a beard.”

  “Paint her arse…”

  “Yes, thank you, Shoulders.” Flirt fixed the Disposable with a brief, irritable look. “There is a limit, isn’t there; and well done, you’ve found it.” But her expression remained one of reasonable friendliness as she turned back to face the saucer-eyed princess. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? We’ve got more than enough,” she said, her tone a picture of explanatory helpfulness. “Our imagination is infinite. Our patience isn’t. Okay?”

  For a moment, Pleasance barely seemed capable of moving. Fodder was fairly certain that nobody in the whole of her life had ever spoken to her in such a way before. But then slowly, but distinctly, she nodded.

  “Good.” Reaching out, Flirt tucked the box and scissors neatly back into her pack before rising, her expression abruptly practical. “So, what do you reckon?” she said. “Lie low in the woods and then make a run for the mountains? Because—”

  But she got no further. For it was then, with a creak, that the stable door opened.

  A hand slapped down sharply against Fodder’s head, and he found himself thrust to the floor next to a shocked-looking Shoulders and Flirt’s abruptly abandoned pack. One glance at Pleasance was enough to tell that she was drawing breath to muster the loudest muffled scream she was capable of. With the barest of shared looks, he and Shoulders pounced, clamping her mouth and flailing limbs as quietly as they could. Flirt had turned sharply the moment she had finished shoving her companions to the ground, pulling open the stall and stepping out into the stable, wearing an admirably arranged expression of curiosity.

  “Oh, hello, Midlin!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  Midlin. Fodder cursed fluently under his breath as he struggled to keep a silent grip on their thrashing captive. Of all of his Disposable compatriots, why did it have to be the one who was so emphatically Ordinary?

  “Thud and Preen sent me and Donk down to search the village.” Midlin’s bland voice drifted from just a few yards away. “Have you heard what’s happened?”