The Disposable

by Katherine Vick

  “I hope so.” Dullard smiled again, wanly. “I would hate to think I’d accidentally stirred up any trouble. Well, thank you, gentlemen. A pleasure as always.”

  Heads nodded with polite relief as Dullard moved away. While Dullard’s peers might regard him as an idiot, it was clear the Artisans saw him as a friendly but potent threat.

  Dullard stepped back politely, allowing Fodder to move through the battered door before him and out into the street.

  “Well, hopefully the Artisans will sort Poniard out,” he said thoughtfully. “And I don’t think they suspected we might have dropped the idea there by accident. But oh dear me…” He shook his head softly. “What an awful man he can be. I know how frustrating it must be not to be able to share one’s skills, but really…”

  “He’s a nutter.” Fodder opted not to beat around the bush.

  Dullard’s lips twisted awkwardly as he and Fodder moved away from the well-lit tavern front towards the alley where they’d left the others. “I do hope we haven’t brought down trouble on that poor pixie.”

  “Squick can handle himself.” Of that much Fodder was certain. “He’s canny. A drunken Assassin is nothing.”

  Dullard sighed. “If he can’t, it’s not just him; we’ve brought a great deal of trouble down on everyone.”

  Fodder gave a dark laugh. “We’re doing that anyway. Even if it is for their own good.”

  The prince’s face was serious, bathed in half-shadows and the pale, reflected light from the nearby windows. “But the good of one person isn’t necessarily the good of another,” he offered quietly. “I think talking to Poniard has proved that. I know the overriding objective in all this is a matter of choice, but the choices of some will always negate the choices of others, and balancing one against the other is never going to be easy. There has to be some kind of order. Who’s going to make those decisions if the Taskmaster doesn’t?” The pause that followed was just long enough to make Fodder profoundly uncomfortable. “You?”

  Fodder shook his head emphatically, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that Dullard’s words had lodged in his chest. “I’m no leader. And…” He hesitated a moment as he tried to clarify his feelings on the matter into some kind of order. “I’m not out to overthrow the Taskmaster. This is still the Taskmaster’s world when all’s said and done, and we need it to be. I just want it run a bit more fairly.”

  The slight smile Dullard offered in return was reassuring. “I’m glad about that. I was a little concerned you hadn’t thought it through.”

  Fodder laughed outright. “I haven’t thought any of this through!” he exclaimed. “I’m making it up as I go along and hoping for the best. I’ve got Flirt to boss me and Shoulders to find every downside and now you to do the serious thinking. I’ll stick with the muddling through.”

  It was Dullard’s turn to laugh, an odd hopping, hiccupping sound. “Well, you’re doing a decent job of it, as far as I can tell. Your muddling has certainly got the Officious Courtiers rattled.”

  “Good. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather see rattled.”

  Dullard huffed mildly. “My uncle is an Officious Courtier, you know. I almost became one myself.”

  “Oh.” Fodder allowed himself an appropriate moment to squirm. “Sorry, I…”

  “Oh, don’t worry.” The dismissal was cheerful. “For the most part, I agree with you. But Uncle Primp is a nice enough old stick, and he runs the AFCs, who are such a charming, easy group to work with. I was their prisoner for a while a couple of Quests back, and, let me tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever had such an enjoyable time. That Gibber is a chap of many talents. Do you know he taught me to play the harpsichord in less than a week?”

  Fodder, whose principle memory of Gibber the AFC was a spindly, saw-toothed creature who had swooped out of a tree and eaten his innards before patting him on the back and challenging him to a game of chess in the pub afterwards, didn’t find it as hard to believe as most would.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t have been too bad being Officious Courtier to them,” Dullard mused as they continued to amble down the quayside. “But to anyone else…”

  Fodder frowned suddenly as a thought occurred. “How come you ended up with an Officious Courtier for an uncle anyway? I mean, being Royal, I wouldn’t have thought…”

  “My father was a Weak King and my mother a beguiling Enchantress,” Dullard answered the tailed-off question. “But her mother was a Priestess, which is why my uncle went to the Temple.” He gave a lopsided half-smile. “I’m a little bit of everything, really. It’s no wonder they never knew what to do with me. When I was a child, you see, I was technically half-Royal and half-Mage, but I was gauche and awkward and, well, I’ve never really had the kind of panache that one needs for those sorts of positions. But Uncle Primp offered to show me round the Temple and explain how it worked. It was extremely interesting, seeing the Golden Tome and The Narrative library and the Outer Sanctum and everything, but I was never cut out for that life.” He made an awkward hand gesture. “I just can’t abide bossing people around, you see. And since that’s rather the essence of the job description…” He shrugged. “I ended up as the Rejected Suitor almost by default. I was the only person of Royal blood who was unattractive enough.”

  There wasn’t much Fodder could say to that. “Why the Temple, though?” He gestured out over the dark river to where glittering torches illuminated the shining Narrative face of the city’s religious centre. Its obscure grey companion building was lost in shadow and night. “I always thought it was a façade. I can understand the Priests hanging about there, but why the Courtiers?”

  Dullard fixed him with a puzzled look. “It’s nothing to do with the Temple,” he replied, his tone surprised. “That’s nothing more than Narrative window dressing. It’s the Sanctum that matters to them. After all, without the Sanctum and the Golden Tome, how would they get their instructions?”

  Fodder stopped cold, his eyes locked on the distant, glimmering lights of the island and the unseen building that lurked in its shadow. Inside his head, several things dropped into place with a loud and echoing click.

  “What do you mean by that?” he said softly.

  Dullard had continued several strides oblivious to his halt and had to backtrack hurriedly, his expression one of confusion.

  “I’m sorry but…what do you mean what do I mean?” he answered with outright bewilderment.

  Fodder met his gaze firmly. “I mean this Sanctum—that’s the grey building, right? The one that never moves?”

  Dullard nodded cautiously. “Well, of course.”

  “And it’s important somehow? To the Taskmaster?”

  Dullard’s mouth dropped open almost comically. “Wait a minute—you don’t know about the Sanctum? Or the Golden Tome?”

  Fodder’s expression was frank. “Would I be asking if I did?”

  “But I thought…surely everyone knows…”

  “I don’t.” Fodder pulled a face. “The Artisans I asked about it once don’t either. It sounds to me like your everyone is more like a privileged few.”

  Dullard seemed to be genuinely off balance. “But that doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered almost to himself. “Didn’t you ever wonder where your instructions came from?”

  “They came from Preen.”

  “And where did he get them from?”

  “That stupid little book of his. Or Strut.”

  Dullard’s look was almost relieved. “You know about the books? Good. That’s something. The books are the important part of this. The critical part, you might say. And the Golden Tome, which is kept in the Outer Sanctum, is the most important book of all.”

  Fodder was staring at him, at the reverent tone in his voice. “Why?” he asked.

  Dullard’s voice was hushed. “Because the Golden Tome holds the thoughts and wishes of the Taskmaster. Raw. Written down as they come. It’s the origin of every instruction we receive.”

  Something was buzzin
g deep inside Fodder’s brain, an idea congealing, but he kept it down and out of sight for now.

  “Instructions appear in the book,” Dullard continued quietly. “Writing that writes itself—I’ve watched it. Then the scribes of the Sanctum take over. The Priests translate the thoughts into instructions and write them into their versions of the books. That information will then appear in the Courtiers’ books as well, and they become responsible for carrying those instructions out. The Scholars are responsible for the library. Every instruction we’ve ever had for every Quest there’s ever been is shelved in their library somewhere. The Outer Sanctum is the origin of everything we do.”

  Fodder’s racing mind latched on to the discrepancy at once. “The way you’re saying ‘Outer Sanctum’ implies that there’s an Inner Sanctum,” he pointed out. “And even I know that Inner Sanctums are the ones that matter.”

  Dullard pursed his lips. “There is an Inner Sanctum,” he confessed. “Although almost no one is allowed inside. Strut, the Head Priest, and the Chief Scholar are the only ones who can enter, and only then at certain times. Everyone else is repelled.”

  “What, it smells?”

  Dullard’s look was politely exasperated. “By magic of some kind,” he corrected deliberately. “There’s a force that keeps everyone out. It can only be accessed between Quests. It’s never open when The Narrative is running.”

  “But what’s in there?”

  Dullard shook his head. “Only three people know for certain, and none of them is saying. The rest of us can only speculate.”

  “But this Golden Tome.” Fodder’s mind had returned to the idea he’d temporarily put aside. “It’s the source of all the instructions, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “So without it, this Quest would be a bit buggered, wouldn’t they?”

  Dullard’s eyes narrowed. “Well, they’d have their old instructions but I should tell you…”

  “But old instructions wouldn’t be any good.” Fodder ignored the impending proviso as he tumbled on. “Not if we were changing things. If we had that Tome, the Taskmaster could instruct us forever and a day, but no one but us would know what was said! If we could steal it…”

  “Which I’m afraid we can’t, as I was trying to tell you. Aside from the fact it’s six foot across and sealed to the pedestal by magic that only releases it when a Quest is complete…”

  “Well, if we can’t carry it, maybe we could rip the pages out…”

  “And made of a parchment that cannot tear…”

  “Or chuck water over it…”

  “Or smudge…”

  “Or even set fire to it if we have to…”

  “Or burn…”

  “Or…”

  “Or be damaged, harmed, or destroyed in any way,” Dullard finished pointedly. “The moment one Tome is removed, another will instantly appear and the writing will begin anew. It doesn’t work like the books of the Courtiers—it’s being on the pedestal that matters. Away from that, every Golden Tome is just another book for a Scholar to shelve in the Sanctum library. I’m sorry,” he added on seeing Fodder’s downcast expression. “It was a good idea. But I’m afraid it’s not practical.”

  Fodder sighed. “I should have known it’d be too good to be true,” he said wearily. “I really thought I’d cracked it for a moment there, that your Sanctum and that Tome were the key. The idea was there, and it felt right.…” He pulled a face. “Not to mention I’m buggered if I know what we’re going to do next.”

  “Actually,” Dullard offered diffidently, as they turned the corner and headed into the mouth of the narrow alley where they’d left the others with their retrieved armour. “I have had one idea about that.”

  Fodder smiled sincerely. “You have a lot of ideas, don’t you?”

  Dullard’s answering smile was almost shy. “Well, I do my best. And this makes a wonderful academic exercise. There are so many different corners to think my way around, so many avenues to explore—I’ve never had a study like it. True, unencumbered thought.” He nodded enthusiastically. “Honestly, it’s really quite liberating.”

  Fodder grinned. “Well, stay liberated. Like I said, I need someone to help out at times of serious thinking. Come on then, let’s hear it.”

  Dullard nodded gratefully. “You’re aware, of course, that every Quest has a map?”

  “Yep. Why?”

  “Well, I was wondering. What would happen, do you suppose, if we took the princess and sailed off the edge of it?”

  * * *

  Princess Pleasance was enraged. The emotion had started off as simple anger, had pushed up through the borders of fury, and was now erupting out onto the shining mountaintop of incandescence. There were berserkers in the Barbarian fortress who’d devoted their lives to mindless, drooling, raging bloodlust who would have gazed upon the glow in the petite blonde’s eyes with scarcely muffled jealousy. That was, if they’d been able to hold her gaze long enough without turning and running for their lives.

  And at that particular moment, the victim of this blazing lightning strike of a gaze was the inoffensive-looking figure who was ambling awkwardly beside the nearby fire as he pottered around a bubbling cauldron in a woodland clearing by the light of a fading sunset.

  “Honestly,” she heard him declare to the two scruffy Disposables and the common wench of a Barmaid who were gathered around the fireplace beside him, watching his antics with no small amount of bemusement. “It does work. I had quite a bit of spare time during The Tide of Crimson, and I passed it enjoyably studying various kinds of native flora and their applications and combinations when used in the culinary arts. The cooks in the Palace kitchens were ever so helpful—I mean, I owe what basic skills I have in cookery to them—but you’d be surprised how delicious the most unexpected things can taste when they’re garnished with the right herbs and spices.” Pleasance watched as, with surprising delicacy given the awkward oaf he was, the hideous, treacherous turncoat Dullard dipped his ladle into the cheerfully bubbling cauldron and extended it towards his vile new friends with an oddly pleading expression.

  “Here,” he said with an unappealing smile. “Give these a try.”

  The ratty Disposable with the dirty blond hair who’d spent the days prior to her escape flinging her about like a sack of potatoes was regarding the ladle with a distinct edge of mistrust.

  “They’re tree roots, Dullard,” he said flatly. “From a tree. That tree. I watched you dig them up.”

  The traitor’s smile widened with highly inappropriate joviality. “Yes, but with a sprig of rosemary and a pinch of those mushrooms, they really can be quite tasty. Not to mention that they have a surprisingly high nutritional value.”

  His peasant friends remained unconvinced. The ratty blond was glaring disbelievingly. “But tree roots?” he exclaimed incredulously. “It’ll be like chewing old boots!”

  “No, honestly!” The lying, deceitful blackguard was shaking his head. “They soften ever so well if you boil them up properly. Just give it a go. Please?”

  “Of course,” the frizzy-haired harridan injected suddenly, “we wouldn’t be having to eat tree roots if somebody hadn’t dropped my pack into a deep, damp, stinking river of sewer ooze, now would we?”

  At her pointed look, the ratty whining weasel replied with a glare as filthy as the aforementioned route. “I got it back again, didn’t I?” he retorted sharply.

  “Yeah,” the brown, bland, former axe-wielder chipped in. “But did you want to eat that bread afterwards?”

  Those sewers. Pleasance felt herself shudder at the memory. It had been bad enough waking in that heinous dump of an alley to find the harridan and ratty boy gurning down at her and telling her that she was their prisoner again and, by the way, they’d lowered her down a garderobe chute in order to escape the Palace. And then to find herself faced with the awful truth that Prince Dullard, a member of the Royal Family, a (thankfully very, very) distant relative, was the one who ha
d betrayed her back into their clutches and had the temerity, the utter gall, to lay hands on her and carry her down into that dreadful, stinking pit under the city! Over an hour they’d spent down there, edging along beside the utter filth, not to mention the time it had taken to retrieve first the fumbled pack and then the fumbling Disposable who’d gone in after it. Once clear of the city, they’d dunked him in the river repeatedly—although, alas, it had made little difference—and then ruthlessly stolen a small boat, which they had punted downstream along the edge of the Vast River for the entire of the following day. At sunset, they’d moored their looted craft in a small bay alongside the other edge of those same tatty woods they’d hauled her through on that dreadful first night. They had dragged her off to this foul, uncultured clearing, dumping her against a filthy oak tree and lashing her to it whilst Prince Dullard proceeded to root around like some truffle-hunting pig.

  Dragged down a toilet, hauled through a sewer, dumped in a stolen boat, and expected to sleep in filthy woodlands. It was no way to treat a princess! And these people wanted to be Heroes? How could they even presume it? No Hero would ever do something so…so…uncouth!

  They’d taken her moment. Again.

  It had been better. Islaine had been better. If before she had been her ambition, Islaine had turned into the princess of her dreams. A complicated, memorable, emotive character with the chance to grow and change had been dangled before her and then cruelly taken away. She’d lost it all. It had been snatched away for a second time through no fault of her own. She’d done nothing to deserve such treatment!

  And it was because of him.

  The lightning-strike glare fixed back upon Dullard once more. Cooking. He was even cooking. For them! For Ordinary peasants! Standing there with his ladle outstretched, pleading for their approval! Had the man no style at all? Had he no dignity or grace? Had he no pride?