Wyngalf and Evena stared at Tobalt dumbly.
“Macro what?” asked Wyngalf after a moment.
“I beg your forgiveness,” said Tobalt. “As I say, it’s a minor point, of interest mainly to members of a race whose congenital short-sightedness threatens its own extinction. Being human, you obviously have the luxury of remaining oblivious to such existential concerns.”
Evena and Wyngalf traded glances. It was becoming increasingly unclear whether Tobalt was apologizing to them, lecturing them, or making fun of them. While Wyngalf was still mulling his response, Evena spoke up.
“Perhaps we should leave this discussion for another time,” she said, nodding toward the Numinda Fae. The last few crates were being hauled up the ship’s ramp.
“So this is it?” asked Wyngalf. “You’re leaving?”
“I have to,” replied Evena. “I wish I could accompany you on the rest of your adventure, but I need to get home. My mother and father must be worried sick about me, thanks to Verne.”
“I understand,” said Wyngalf, with a nod. “Are you certain you’ll be safe on that ship? Perhaps I should come with you, at least to Brobdingdon.”
“I’ll be fine,” Evena said. “Word has spread among the seamen that I’m a high-ranking official with the shipping guild. Nobody is going to mess with me. And you need to think about starting your church. There’s no need for you to accompany me.”
Wyngalf nodded, still uncertain about letting her go.
“It’s okay, Wyngalf,” she said. “I know you didn’t mean to tell Verne about my hometown. And in any case, you were true to your word. You got me on a ship. Once I get to Brobdingdon, I’ll catch another across the sea, and then travel down the coast back to Skuldred. It will take some time, but I will make it home.”
“But what will you do when you get there? You can’t stop Verne from destroying Skuldred.”
“No,” she admitted. “But at least my parents will know I’m safe. My father has plenty of money. We can flee town and resettle somewhere out of Verne’s reach. Perhaps I’ll suggest Svalbraakrat. When you return after your divine mission is complete, you can find me.”
Wyngalf smiled, feeling a flutter in his chest. “I would like that,” he said.
“Goodbye, Wyngalf,” said Evena, with a smile. “And goodbye, Tobalt. You’re certainly the most… interesting goblin I’ve met.”
“And the only goblin you’ve met, I would wager,” said Tobalt with a bow. “It is to my utter regret you were inflicted with such a poor representative of my species.”
Evena turned and walked up the ramp. She gave them a final wave, and then set about to snapping orders at crew members, who scurried in response to her commands.
“I think she’ll manage,” said Tobalt.
“It would appear so,” said Wyngalf. “Let’s see if we can sneak you into a tavern and get something to eat.”
Twelve
Wyngalf and Tobalt located a tavern overlooking the harbor. It was now late afternoon, so the place was nearly empty, and the proprietor, who seemed to be half-blind, made no indication that he noticed anything amiss about Tobalt. He might simply have been desperate for business, but Wyngalf slipped him a couple of extra silvers just in case. Evena had given them enough money to get by for the next few days, and they were famished. The two companions sated their hunger with fish and bread while they waited for the Numinda Fae to cast off. For the moment Wyngalf had stopped thinking about ditching Tobalt. With Evena gone, Tobalt was the closest thing he had to a friend on this continent. And, truth be told, the goblin’s idiosyncrasies were starting to grow on him. When they were full, they sat drinking beer and staring out at the harbor.
“I’m sorry to see Evena go,” said Tobalt, setting down his mug. “She seems a fine specimen of humanity.”
“That she is,” replied Wyngalf wistfully. “I mean, does. She seems fine, that is.” Wyngalf was not ordinarily a big drinker, as alcohol impeded communication between his brain and his mouth. Sometimes this resulted in him saying things that he later regretted, as had happened at Bulgar the fishmonger’s house. With that incident fresh in his mind, he was now overcompensating, considering each word as it came out of his mouth, like a man tripping on cobblestones because he’s preoccupied with his own shoes. “I’m not sure I trust this chaotic transport system you seem so enameled of,” he said. “Enameled of? I’m not sure I trust this transport system you like so much. I’d have preferred to hire a single ship to transport Evena home.”
“But doing so would be prohibitively expensive, would it not? Assuming you could get a captain to agree to make the voyage.”
“Yes,” said Wyngalf. “So we have no choice but to rely on a series of sea captains, each acting in their own self-interest. His own self-interest? A series of self-interested sea captains. How do we know that one of them won’t take advantage of her?”
“I get the impression Evena can take care of herself,” said Tobalt, “but in any case, I suspect there is little reason to worry. From what I can gather, the shipping guild’s system, when it isn’t bottlenecked by idiocy and incompetence, seems to work fairly well for transporting goods all up and down the coast of Dis and even across the sea from the ports in the north. There seems little reason to think that it will not serve equally well to transport Evena home.”
“Still,” said Wyngalf, “I don’t like it. Too many things can go wrong between here and Skuldred. I should have gone with her.”
“Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, Simply Wyngalf,” said Tobalt, “but I was under the impression that your purpose here in Dis was to spread the Noninitarian faith.”
“Of course,” said Wyngalf. “But I also have an obligation to make sure Evena gets home safely.”
“Unless I am mistaken,” Tobalt said, “Evena herself released you of that obligation. And in any case, although my assessment of the situation is undoubtedly flawed, I fail to see how accompanying Evena on her voyage would increase the likelihood of her returning home safely. Unless you possess information to which I am not privy, I would, begging your forgiveness, venture that perhaps your true motivations are otherwise.”
Wyngalf took a moment to parse the goblin’s statement and decided he wasn’t entirely sure he liked what he seemed to be implying. “Are you calling me a liar?” he demanded.
“Certainly not,” said Tobalt. “What I am trying to say, in my own imprecise and evidently provocative manner, is that I suspect you might have feelings regarding Evena beyond those of mere obligation and protectiveness, of which perhaps you are not entirely aware.”
“Pah,” muttered Wyngalf dismissively. He wasn’t entirely certain that this qualified as a rebuttal, but consoled himself with the thought that adhering to the proper forms of discourse was probably pointless in a discussion with a dimwitted subhumanoid anyway. He finished his beer and signaled for another.
“I cannot say I blame you,” said Tobalt, undeterred. “She is, as I’ve indicated, a prime specimen of the human female, well into her fertile years. I might add that her allure transcends even the boundaries that separate your kind from subhumanoids such as myself, although of course I have no delusions regarding potential reciprocation.” Wyngalf furrowed his brow at Tobalt and the goblin went on, hurriedly, “But more germane to your case, I suspect you harbor some uncertainty about your mission, and perhaps on some level seek to delay it out of fear of your own inadequacy for the task.”
“I trust the Noninity,” announced Wyngalf. “It brought me here to start a Noninitarian church in Dis, and that’s what I’m going to do. My own furballs are no barrier to the will of the nonimpotent monimity.”
“I’m sorry,” said Tobalt. “Your furballs?”
“Furballs!” exclaimed Wyngalf, then scowled and tried again, enunciating more carefully. “Foy. Bulls.”
“Ah, foibles!” said Tobalt. “In other words,” said Tobalt, “you have your doubts, but you are one hundred percent certain that those doubts are
unfounded.”
“Yes,” said Wyngalf, and then shook his head. “Wait, no. Look, what I’m saying is that ultimately the Noninity is in control of everything, so there’s no point in worrying about it.”
“Ah,” said Tobalt. “Interesting.”
“What?” Wyngalf demanded. “Spit it out, gobble-bin!”
“Oh,” said Tobalt with an apologetic shrug, “I just find it fascinating that although a moment ago you were fretting about Evena’s treacherous journey home, you are now assuring me that everything is under the control of a supernatural entity of which, if I’m not mistaken, you have no direct experience.”
“You think I’m contracting myself,” said Wyngalf, wagging his finger at Tobalt. “Contradicting myself. But I’m not. My concern about the chaotic nature of the shipping guild’s transport system arises from my faith. Goblins do not have a monopoly on vile, depraved conduct, Tobalt.” Having hit his stride, Wyngalf pressed on, relying on his rote memorization of Noninitarian theology to overcome the effects of the alcohol. “Humans too are base, self-interested creatures when left to their own devices. When the Creator first brought order out of chaos, human society was perfect. But Ravast the Corruptor infiltrated the First City, undermining the divine order with his message of self-interest. People began to believe that each man was the best judge of his own interests, and as this cancer spread, the hierarchy established by Abasmos crumbled. The Noninitarian faith is a devotion to the belief that for men to live in harmony, this divinely ordained order must be reestablished. The haphazard nature of the shipping guild’s so-called ‘system’ is evidence of Ravast’s corruption of human society, and is therefore not to be trusted. While the Noninity is now and always in control of all creation, men will not be truly happy and free until they are given the opportunity to live in accordance with the divine will.”
Tobalt nodded thoughtfully. “If I may be so bold to ask,” said Tobalt, “in this new order which you envision, would the Noninitarian leadership happen to play a pivotal role?”
“If you’re suggesting that Noniminitarianism is motivated by a desire for temporal power,” replied Wyngalf, “you could not be more mistaken. My brethren are interested only in the advancement of the divine will and the restoration of human society to its proper relation to the Monimitiminy. Monimity. Its proper relation to the one true God.”
“But when this divine order is established, it will look very much like a pyramid with the Noninitarian bishop at the top, will it not?”
Wyngalf scowled again. With the beer muddling his thought processes, it was difficult to formulate a coherent counterargument. “Listen, gobblebin,” he started, but before he could complete the thought, the room was suddenly cast into shadow for a split second as something very large passed in front of the window, blocking out the sun.
“Tell me that’s a big cloud,” Wyngalf said. “A really big, dark, fast cloud.”
“As much as I would like to allow you to persist in that delusion,” said Tobalt, looking out the window, “I’m afraid I would be doing you a disservice, unless you intend to redefine the word ‘cloud’ to mean ‘a large, winged reptile that breathes fire.’ That shadow was, if I am not mistaken, Verne, the very same dragon you have encountered twice on your journey already.”
Wyngalf groaned and turned to look out at the harbor, where the Numinda Fae had just left the dock. Squinting against the evening sun, he could just make out a winged creature that seemed to be heading directly for the ship. “Evena!” he cried.
“It would indeed appear that Verne somehow managed to ascertain the whereabouts of—”
But Wyngalf had already gotten up from the table, and was stumbling toward the door. Tobalt went to him and helped him outside. As the cool breeze off the bay struck his face, Wyngalf’s head cleared somewhat. He steadied himself and then ran toward the ship, which was now a stone’s throw from the dock. The great bat-like form of Verne the dragon hung suspended above the ship, flapping its wings.
“Simply Wyngalf!” Tobalt called after him. “Forgive me for failing to see the wisdom in your actions, but I admit to being a bit curious as to what exactly you….” But the rest of his words were lost in the breeze and the clomping of Wyngalf’s boots on the dock. He skidded to a halt at the end of the deck and watched helplessly as Verne lowered himself to within a few yards of the Numinda Fae. The crew stood on the deck, paralyzed with fear. Evena had to be among them, but Wyngalf didn’t see her.
“It has come to my attention,” Verne’s voice boomed across the bay—and anyone in the vicinity who wasn’t already agape at the scene now turned to face him—“that amongst this ship’s passengers is a young woman who has not been cleared for travel from this port. This is the third serious breach in customs regulations this week, and I’m afraid I can’t allow such abuses to continue. I’m going to have to incarcerate you.”
Wyngalf heard snippets of confused discussion from the ship.
“I don’t have all day,” said Verne after a moment, still hovering just off the ship’s bow, “Get off the ship or you’ll be incarcerated.”
More confused babbling on the ship. Wyngalf saw a few of the men move toward the railing, but none of them seemed very eager to jump into the bay. A few of them put their hands up.
“Your choice,” said Verne, and he craned his head back as if taking a deep breath.
“Jump!” cried Wyngalf from the dock. “Get off the ship!”
Around half of the thirty or so men on the deck seemed to have a sense of what was coming. Maybe a dozen of them managed to get over the railing before the fire came. The cone of flame swept over the deck, engulfing the men and tearing through the sails. The blast lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to set the whole ship aflame. Those that could get to the bay did, while the others died, flailing and screaming. It was a ghastly sight. But Wyngalf forced himself to keep watching, looking for some sign of Evena.
“Dreadful,” said a voice next to him, which he was dimly aware belonged to Tobalt. “My knowledge of such matters is, of course, largely academic, but I would be hard-pressed to name a method of execution more agonizing than dragonfire. Although perhaps the survivors are more to be pitied, as they—”
“Shut up, Tobalt!” Wyngalf growled. “Look for Evena!”
“I beg your forgiveness, Simply Wyngalf,” said Tobalt, squinting in the bright sunlight. “I’m afraid my instinctual reaction to traumatic circumstances is to retreat to the realm of the theoretical in an attempt to blunt the effect of the—”
“Tobalt! Shut your face and help me find Evena!”
“Many apologies,” said Tobalt. “She’s over there.” Tobalt was pointing to a dot bobbing in the water about fifty feet past the flaming wrecking of the Numinda Fae. Only her head was visible—and that only intermittently—but it was clearly Evena. She seemed to be struggling to remain afloat.
Wyngalf slipped off his boots and unbuckled his scabbard. He handed it to Tobalt. “Hold this,” he said.
“Forgive me for my presumptuousness,” said Tobalt, taking the scabbard, “but perhaps in your present condition—”
Wyngalf dove into the water.
Thirteen
Wyngalf’s memories of what happened next were fuzzy. A shock of cold, and then a blur of flailing about and gulping salt water. Somehow he must have eventually made it to Evena, because there was a lot of kicking and scratching at one point. The next thing he knew, he was doubled over on a sandy beach, retching up an unpleasant mélange of fish, beer and seawater. Once his stomach was empty and he could breathe freely, he rolled onto his back, exhausted. His head was killing him, and he closed his eyes against the glare of the evening sun.
A shadow passed over him, and for a moment he thought Verne was going to finish him off. But as he opened his eyes, he was relieved to see that it was just Tobalt, still holding the scabbard and sword. Standing next to him, looking bedraggled but otherwise unharmed, was Evena. He smiled. “I… rescued you,” he murmur
ed.
“I rescued you, you idiot,” said Evena. “I was trying to help one of the ship’s mates to shore, but when you started pawing at me I had to let him go just to keep my head above water. We only survived because you eventually passed out. I dragged you all the way here.”
Wyngalf frowned. “So the man you were helping…?”
“Drowned,” said Evena. “But don’t feel too bad. I don’t think he was going to make it anyway. Only twenty or so made it to shore, and many of them are badly burned.”
Wyngalf sat up and looked around. They were on a small beach just north of the docks. Around them were members of the crew who had made it ashore. Several of them lay on their backs, moaning, while others tended to them. In the distance, Wyngalf could hear the occasional scream. In the bay, the wreckage of the Numinda Fae continued to burn. He was about to ask where Verne had gone when he felt a familiar breeze kicking up sand around them. A moment later, the dragon alighted on the beach in front of them. Nearby, men screamed and shouted, and those that were able ran. But Wyngalf just sighed. He managed to pull himself to his feet, with Evena and Tobalt helping him.
Distopia (Land of Dis) Page 13
