It was just after dawn when the ship left the dock. The three companions were given firm orders to remain in the hold for the voyage; there was, according to the captain, “no room above decks for land lubbers.” So they spent the day below decks, dozing in hammocks and playing cards by the dim light of a lantern. For some time they managed to avoid discussing the precarious nature of their situation and the strange sequence of events that had led to them being holed up in the bottom of a cargo ship on its way to a pumice-mining operation, but as the hours wore on, they found themselves trying to make sense of the bizarre political landscape of Dis.
“I wonder if it’s true that the citizens of Brobdingdon turned to Scarlett for protection against Verne,” Evena mused. “Maybe that’s just a lie they tell themselves to rationalize their subjugation to Scarlett.” The three of them sat around a crate they had been using as a makeshift card table. A lantern hanging on a hook swung lazily from side to side above it.
“You think it was the other way around?” asked Wyngalf. “That Skaal City turned to Verne for protection from Scarlett?”
“It is my understanding that dragons can live for thousands of years,” said Tobalt. “Thus the answer to your query may very well be lost to history. But Scarlett claimed that she and Verne are of the same brood, and it therefore seems probable that the two reigns commenced concurrently, or nearly so. In any case, I would suggest that it makes little difference. The salient point is that at present, each city is perpetuating the arrangement, under the impression that allowing themselves to be enslaved by one dragon is preferable to being enslaved by another.”
Wyngalf shook his head. “It’s tragic to see people allowing themselves to be subjugated by a dragon in that way,” he said. “It’s a complete perversion of the way society is supposed to be run.”
“Yes,” said Tobalt, “I imagine the people of Skaal City and Brobdingdon would be much better off if the dragons were supplanted by Noninitarian bishops.”
Wyngalf glared at Tobalt. The goblin’s tone gave nothing away, but Wyngalf was virtually certain Tobalt was mocking him. “Are you implying that a society structured by Noninitarian principles would be no different than one ruled by dragons?”
“In my experience,” said Tobalt, “societies are run by people, not principles. So, to answer your question, I would suggest that it would depend on the person—although even the best of men have been corrupted by the temptations of too much power.”
“Then what is your solution, Tobalt?” asked Evena. “Someone has to run those cities. What options are there, other than a dragon, a mayor or a bishop?”
“I question the premise,” said Tobalt. “Why does someone have to be in charge of Skaal City and Brobdingdon?”
“To see that society is structured in a just manner,” said Wyngalf.
“To look after the public interest,” said Evena.
“I’m not sure what a just society would look like,” replied Tobalt. “I’ve never seen one. Nor have I ever seen this ‘public interest’ to which you refer, Evena. In my experience, individual humans have many interests, many of them competing with each other, and these cannot be added up to produce an aggregate sum, as if interests were potatoes. And while I do not claim to be a particularly bright goblin, empirical evidence suggests that most humans in power have not much better an understanding of these concepts than I do. Further, I doubt that most human leaders have any more intention of bringing about a ‘just society’ or working toward the ‘public interest’ than Verne or Scarlett does.”
“I think you’re being disingenuous, Tobalt,” said Evena. “Even if it’s a council or committee rather than a mayor or bishop, someone still has to make decisions for the community as a whole. In your idealized society, who would build the roads?”
“Perhaps the mayor,” said Tobalt, “as she would have plenty of time, having been freed from the burden of structuring a just society and overseeing the public interest.”
Wyngalf was still formulating his rebuttal when thunder rumbled in the distance.
“I think we’ve left the river and entered the Gulf of Bardem,” said Evena. “We’ve begun tacking back and forth.”
Wyngalf had noticed the ship’s movements as well, but it hadn’t occurred to him what the change meant. The sunlight that had been streaming through the cracks in boards above them faded, and as the night began the storm grew stronger. For several hours, the crew scampered around above in a manner that reminded him of his voyage across the Sea of Dis. He half-expected to be hauled above decks at any moment to face the Hafgufa once again. But the storm died down, and he and his companions remained below decks, unbidden and unneeded.
They spent the night sleeping fitfully in their hammocks. It occurred to Wyngalf that the last time he had an uninterrupted night’s sleep was nearly a week ago, at Bulgar the fishmonger’s house—and even then, his dreams had been troubled by vague forebodings of his divine voyage across the Sea of Dis. Those dreams, as it turned out, had failed to communicate the true horror of what he was to face in the upcoming days, and for that he was thankful.
As light began to creep through the slats in the boards overhead and the thudding of footsteps grew louder and more frequent, he realized it was day once again. Soon they would be on the island of Bjill, where they would have to find another ship and negotiate for passage across the sea. He hoped Evena had enough money left to convince a captain they were worth their weight in pumice.
But the day wore on, and by mid-afternoon they still had not made port. They were under orders not to leave the hold under any circumstances, but Wyngalf began to worry that something was wrong. Trying the hatch, he found it was barred shut. He banged on the hatch until footsteps approached and a muffled voice spoke up from the other side.
“Whaddya want?” the voice said.
“Shouldn’t we be at Bjill by now?” asked Wyngalf.
There was a long pause. “Storm blew us off course,” said the voice. “Gonna be a few more hours. They heard the man walking away. Wyngalf turned to his companions and shrugged helplessly. They spent the next several hours playing cards by lantern light. When night came again, they still hadn’t arrived at Bjill. “If I were the cynical sort,” said Tobalt at last, “I might surmise we are not, in fact, headed for Bjill.”
“It’s possible the storm blew us out into the Sea of Dis,” said Evena. “If the winds are against us, it could take us a while to get back on course.”
Wyngalf nodded silently, but he suspected that Tobalt was right. He should have known their escape would not be so easy. He retired to his hammock and spent several hours in prayer to various members of the Noninity, pleading for guidance, but he received no discernable reply. Clearly he had violated the divine will at some point, but he was at a loss to determine where he had gone wrong, or what he could have done differently. Had it been a mistake to flee Skaal City? It occurred to him, not for the first time, that the messianic Ovaltarian prophecy could as easily have been the word of Ravast the Corruptor as that of Ganillion the Messenger. As much as he wanted to believe that the Noninity had sent the Ovaltarian prophet to pave the way for his divine mission in Dis, perhaps the prophecy was a trap that had been set for him by Ravast—and Wyngalf had walked right into it. But did that mean that he was supposed to have stayed in Skaal City and faced down Verne with nothing but his own wits and courage? It was hard to see how that could have ended in anything but a painful death for him and the demise of Noninitarianism in the land of Dis. There was a fine line between martyrdom and a pointless, agonizing death.
Eventually his prayers and ruminations gave way to sleep, and when he awoke daylight was once again streaming through the cracks of the hold. The ship still hadn’t made port at Bjill. Tobalt and Evena were already up, playing cards. When Wyngalf’s gaze met theirs, he knew they were all thinking the same thing: they’d been double-crossed. None of them said it aloud, but there was only one place the ship could be heading.
Wyngal
f spent a good hour pounding on the hatch and pleading to talk to the captain, but there was no reply. They spent another day in sullen near-silence. The ship made port just after dark, and they were hauled above decks. “Sorry,” said Captain Yanbo, who stood on the deck waiting for them. “Got a better offer.” He held out a pouch full of coins to Evena, evidently intending to return her money. She spat in his face. One of the mates drew his sword, but the captain held up his hand. “It’s fine,” he said gruffly, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Just get them off my ship.”
The seamen marched them down the gangplank to the docks. The moon was hidden by clouds, but even in the near darkness, the outline of the harbor was familiar.
“Welcome back to Skaal City,” said a well-dressed man standing on the docks, who seemed to be waiting for them. Flanking him on either side were several of the city guard. Two of them were holding torches. The three companions were prodded toward him, and in the flickering light Wyngalf could just make out the man’s features.
“Lord Popper,” Wyngalf said. “I’m surprised you’re still in charge of the Shipping Guild office after our last encounter.”
“Oh, I’m not,” Popper said with a smile. “It’s been an eventful few days,” he said. “I won’t trouble you with the details. All you need to know is that Dwalen has been removed from the mayoralty and the SAURIANs are no longer in power. After some negotiations between the aristocrats of the city and the SMASHers, it was decided that I was the most satisfactory choice for the position.”
“You must be joking,” said Evena. “You’re the mayor?”
“I’m quite serious,” replied Popper. “And there are going to be a lot of changes around here.”
“You mean like Verne no longer being allowed to terrorize the city?” Evena asked hopefully.
Popper frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “But you’ll be happy to know that Verne has allowed us to pass a resolution permitting all law-abiding citizens of Skaal City to carry swords over thirty-two and a quarter inches.”
“Yes,” said Wyngalf unenthusiastically. “That’s fantastic news.”
“Of course, there was a price to pay for that concession,” said the mayor. “I had to promise to deliver you to him. I issued a bounty for you through the Shipping Guild on the off-chance you might try to slip away overseas. Honestly, I thought it was a longshot, but here you are.” He turned to the guard on his right. “Take them to the dungeon,” he said.
The three companions were escorted from the docks.
Wyngalf, Evena and Tobalt were taken to a small cell in a dungeon beneath the palace. The dungeon appeared to be quite extensive, but it seemed to be empty except for the three of them and a few other lonesome souls who murmured and clanked somewhere in the near-total darkness. Wyngalf supposed the dungeon was comprised of tunnels that had been reclaimed from the goblin city underneath Skaal City, and for a brief, hopeful moment he imagined that they might escape through that network of tunnels again. But of course the dungeon’s overseers would long ago have blocked off any escape routes: the walls of their cell were solid stone. The only light came from a torch flickering down the hall.
Feeling more defeated than ever, Wyngalf walked across the cell and sank into the pile of straw that sufficed for a bed. Evena sat down next to him, while Tobalt stood forlornly with his hands on the bars of the cell door. The guard’s footsteps receded in the distance, leaving only the faint sounds of other prisoners languishing in the darkness.
“I can’t believe they put that idiot Lord Popper in charge,” said Wyngalf after some time.
“He may be an idiot,” said Tobalt, “but he seems to have outsmarted us.”
“A smarter mayor would know better than to give in to Verne’s demands.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” said Tobalt. “It seems to me that the mayor is acting in a perfectly rational manner, as his rule depends on keeping Verne happy. Our incarceration is not the result of stupidity, but rather of rational self-interest coupled with an authoritarian power structure. We are a threat to the power structure, and therefore must be eliminated.”
“I don’t think it’s Popper’s lack of intelligence that’s the problem,” said Evena. “The problem is that he’s a coward.”
“Perhaps,” said Tobalt. “But I will point out that we faced essentially the same fate under the previous regime, which is why we fled, as you may recall. Horkuden’s Knife suggests, therefore, that the problem is not with the individual holding the office, but the office itself.”
Wyngalf scowled. “Not this again,” he said. “You aren’t seriously arguing that society can function with no one in charge, and everybody just looking out for himself,” he said. “I shudder to think of what such a society would look like. We’d be no better than goblins, reduced to our basest survival instincts. No offense.”
“None taken,” said Tobalt. “You are quite correct about the primitive and brutish nature of goblin society. But I believe you are mistaken in assuming that this sort of society is the result of an excess of individual freedom. Quite the contrary, in fact. Goblin society evinces precisely the rigid top-down hierarchy that you desire for humanity, and the results are, as you’ve implied, less than optimal.”
“But goblins are—present company excepted—stupid and belligerent creatures,” said Wyngalf. “It is no surprise that these traits persist despite the best attempts to instill order in their society.”
“If I may further beg your indulgence,” said Tobalt, “it seems to me that you miss the point. Goblins are not any more inherently stupid and belligerent than humans. Their stupidity and belligerence arises not despite their strict tribal hierarchy but directly as a result of it. Based on my—admittedly imperfect—studies of both races, I’ve come to the conclusion that intelligent, creative, peace-loving individuals are as common among goblins as they are among humans. But because goblin society is organized in a rigid hierarchy, such genius is rarely recognized. In extreme cases, the individual may even be banished by the clan.”
“You’re trying to tell me that the only difference between goblins and humans is that goblins have a greater desire for order?” Wyngalf said, dubious.
“Not the only difference, to be sure,” Tobalt replied. “But it seems that while the desire for order exists in all sentient species, it manifests itself more strongly in goblin society. A society run by a top-down hierarchy is necessarily one in which the individual’s value derives primarily from the amount of power over his fellows. It is, sadly, not the just society that you seek, but rather a society driven by envy and characterized by backstabbing and short-sightedness. By insisting that every aspect of goblin life be controlled from the top down, we eliminate the possibility of improvement through spontaneous action. Our military organization is effective, to be sure, but ultimately the strength of any society derives from the vibrancy of its culture, and goblin culture stagnates while human culture advances. We are, in the end, merely parasites on human society, and will persist only as long as the host is too weak to fully eradicate us.” Tobalt stared at the lantern for a moment, lost in thought. “Perhaps, though, such an outcome is not inevitable.”
“What do you mean?” asked Wyngalf suspiciously.
“Until recently,” said Tobalt, “I had assumed that the excessive goblin craving for order was a congenital defect of our race, and that human beings were somehow naturally more tolerant of the disorder that accompanies individual freedom. But listening to you, it seems to me that perhaps I appreciate the human desire for freedom because I have experienced so little freedom, while you crave order because you have not seen what a rationally ordered society actually looks like. Rather than being diametric opposites on a continuum, our races may simply be poised at different points on the arc of a pendulum swinging between order and chaos. What if, in other words, there really is no difference between goblins and humans?”
“No difference!” exclaimed Wyngalf. “That’s absurd. Anyone looking at us cou
ld tell we’re of two completely different species.”
“Of course,” said Tobalt. “I don’t mean to say there are no superficial differences. But what if there is no significant difference between a human mind and a goblin mind? What if goblins are simply humans who have given into the most extreme form of the desire for order? And conversely, humans are simply goblins who have embraced, however imperfectly, the concepts of individual freedom and responsibility. Think of it, Simply Wyngalf: thousands of years ago, before recorded history began, a great goblin civilization, renowned for its arts and literature, may have spanned the continent of Dis, while marauding bands of primitive humans harassed its frontiers. At some point, however, the tables turned. Goblins became smug and complacent, relying on a professional military to keep them safe from threats real and imagined, and trusting their leaders to perfect goblin society. Goblin society stagnated. Meanwhile, humans, forced to innovate in order to survive, developed a vibrant, resilient civilization, eventually eclipsing the goblins—and in at least one case, literally building their civilization on top of what remained of goblin society. All that remains of the uncivilized prehistoric humans are the barbarian tribes far to the north and south—whose society is structured much in the same way as goblin clans.”
Wyngalf scowled at this absurd and blasphemous corruption of history, but remained silent, unsure how to respond. The more he argued that human society required order, the more he seemed to be confirming Tobalt’s hypothesis that humanity was giving into the authoritarian urge that had doomed the goblins. Wyngalf didn’t buy in for an instant, but he had to admit it made for an oddly compelling narrative—especially in light of their discovery of the abandoned network of tunnels and caverns beneath Skaal City.
Just then, a man’s voice called out somewhere in the darkness: “Simply Wyngalf, is that you?”
Distopia (Land of Dis) Page 21
