Arbliss laughed. “You have an exaggerated sense of your own authority,” he said. “In any case, I was never getting out of here. I’ll die in this prison, and I’m okay with that. I’ve accepted my fate. It’s time for you to accept yours.”
“Bishop Wyngalf,” said the sergeant, who was approaching uncertainly from behind. “Perhaps we should finish the tour?”
“Tour’s over,” said Wyngalf. “I’ve seen what I need to see.” He turned away from Arbliss’ cell and began to walk back the way they came.
Twenty-three
If the guards were suspicious of Wyngalf’s sudden lack of interest in the prison, they didn’t show it. Probably they were just happy that he no longer seemed intent on informing Orbrecht of their mismanagement. They led him back out to the street, where he mumbled his thanks for the abbreviated tour and bid them good day.
He spent the next several hours wandering the streets of Skaal City in a haze, wondering if what Arbliss had said was true. The man’s logic seemed unassailable: if Wyngalf really was the Ko-Haringu, then there wasn’t anything Wyngalf could do about it. His destiny had been sealed. But that meant that Wyngalf’s own decisions were of no consequence. On some level, he had always believed that the Noninity had predetermined everything that had ever happened; the Doctrine of Unavoidable Destiny was, after all, one of the Fourteen Points. But it was one thing to believe this notion in the abstract and quite another to be told that one had a specific role to fulfill, and that one had no choice in the matter.
But he did have a choice, didn’t he? He could choose to abdicate his role as Ko-Haringu. All that would prove, of course, was that he’d never been the Ko-Haringu in the first place. Maybe the similarities between his circumstances and the Ovaltarian prophecy were just meaningless coincidences. The only way to be certain he was the Ko-Haringu was to accept that he was the Ko-Haringu. There seemed to be no escaping the circularity. It was either a self-fulfilling prophecy or not a prophecy at all, and there was no way to know until after the fact.
There was one thing he did know, however: neither Arbliss nor Orbrecht could be trusted. Orbrecht had lied to him about talking to Arbliss, and Arbliss had used him to further the Ovaltarians’ insane desire to put a dragon in charge of Skaal City. Wyngalf needed to determine the correct path for himself, without relying on the guidance of either mad prophets or power-hungry usurpers. But searching his own soul revealed nothing, and his prayers for wisdom remained unanswered, as far as he could tell. He found himself wanting to ask Evena what she thought, but of course she was probably hundreds of miles away now, far along the coast of Dis to the north—and even if she were still in Skaal City, she would be unlikely to help Wyngalf after the way they had parted ways.
Wyngalf eventually found himself near the harbor and decided to walk down to the docks. Any evidence of Verne’s destruction of the Numinda Fae had been cleaned up or washed away, and workers were busily loading cargo onto another ship. The work seemed to be proceeding in a relatively ordered manner; there was no sign of the chaos that had reigned on the dock when he had last arrived here. Things were moving so smoothly, in fact, that Wyngalf became curious. As far as he knew, the old clerk, Halbert, was still at the bottom of the bay, and Lord Popper had joined Verne and Scarlett in the abyss at the center of Skaal City. So who was running the Shipping Guild office?
Wyngalf strolled down the dock to the tiny Shipping Guild shack and opened the door. He was shocked to find, sitting behind the desk, Evena herself. She looked up at him as he walked in, forcing a smile. Her eyes immediately darted for a second to Wyngalf’s right, and he saw that the guard who had carried Evena back to the Battered Goblin, Garvin, was standing just inside the doorway. He regarded Wyngalf suspiciously, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
“Hello, Wyngalf,” said Evena, without emotion. She looked very tired.
“What are you doing here, Evena?” asked Wyngalf. “I thought you were on your way home.”
“I decided to stay here to help out the Shipping Guild office until they can find a new clerk,” Evena said. She glanced not very subtly at Garvin.
“Do you have business here, Wyngalf?” asked Garvin. Wyngalf noticed Garvin didn’t bother with the honorific.
“Just stopping in to visit my friend,” said Wyngalf.
“Well, your friend has work to do,” said Garvin. “Does Orbrecht know you’re down here?”
“I don’t have to account for my actions to Orbrecht,” said Wyngalf.
This got a chuckle out of Garvin. “If you say so. In any case, you’d best socialize elsewhere.”
“You should go, Wyngalf,” said Evena.
Wyngalf glanced at Garvin’s hand resting on his sword and nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt your work.” He turned and left the office, closing the door behind him.
So Orbrecht had lied to him about this as well. Evena hadn’t been sent home; she was being held against her will, being forced to act as an interim clerk for the Shipping Guild. At least, that was how it appeared. As he walked up the dock, Wyngalf cursed his naïveté. Tobalt and Evena had seen it, but he had been too blinded by his own ambition and misplaced sense of destiny. Orbrecht was no better than the SAURIANs or the SMASHers. He was simply using Wyngalf to tighten the reins of power over Skaal City. And his generosity toward Wyngalf’s friends had been aimed at getting them out of the way, where they couldn’t talk sense into him. He was lucky Orbrecht hadn’t simply decided to have their throats slit. Undoubtedly he would if they ever ceased to be of use to him—and there didn’t seem to be much Wyngalf could do about it.
As he passed the ship that was being loaded, the foreman—a huge, burly red-haired man—gave him a salute. Wyngalf waved back, thinking that it was odd for someone to salute a bishop, but then it occurred to him that this was the same foreman that he and Evena had worked with to load the Erdis Evena. The man didn’t recognize him as the bishop; he had assumed Wyngalf was still working for the Shipping Guild.
“What are you loading?” Wyngalf called to the man, partly to be polite, but an idea was brewing in the back of his head.
“Spices from Quirin, mostly,” the foreman replied.
“Spices?” said Wyngalf with a frown. “What kinds of spices?”
“Uh,” said the foreman. “Smells like ginger and cinnamon, mostly. Maybe some peppers.”
Wyngalf gave an exaggerated groan. “Didn’t they tell you? That order was canceled.”
“What?” cried the foreman. “This is the first I’m hearing about it.”
“Yeah, things have been kind of a mess with the paperwork lately,” said Wyngalf. “Evena is still trying to figure it all out. Maybe we should go talk to her.”
The foreman grumbled something and set down the crate he was holding. “Take a break until I get back,” he shouted to the workers, who didn’t need to be told twice. The foreman made his way down the ramp toward Wyngalf, and the two began to walk down the dock to the office. Wyngalf made sure to keep the huge foreman between him and the office, so that he couldn’t be seen approaching.
As the foreman approached the door to the shack, Wyngalf stepped aside and put his hand on the man’s arm. “You know,” he said, “maybe I should handle this. I don’t want to get you in trouble. You just get your men started unloading those spice crates, and maybe nobody has to lose their job.”
The foreman shrugged and grunted, then turned to walk back to the ship. Wyngalf ducked behind the shack and listened as the man barked orders to his men. These were met with groans and mutters, and then the sound of men going back to work.
Wyngalf waited for close to half an hour in the sweltering sun behind the Shipping Guild office before he heard stirring inside the building. Evena and Garvin were arguing, and the tone was getting louder and more acrimonious. Finally, the door burst open and Evena stumbled out, as if she had been pushed. She nearly fell off the edge of the dock before regaining her balance and turning to face Garvin, who was stroll
ing out of the office behind her. Wyngalf ducked his head back behind the wall before the man saw him.
“—ask the foreman!” Evena was saying. “I didn’t tell him to unload those crates!”
“We’ll see about that,” Garvin growled. “If Orbrecht finds out you’ve been sabotaging our efforts to keep trade going, you can forget about ever going home.”
Wyngalf heard the sound of footsteps receding down the dock, and he stepped out from behind the shack to see Garvin walking a few steps behind Evena. Wyngalf slipped off his boots, took a deep breath, and ran after the man.
When Wyngalf was only a few paces away, his foot hit a creaky board and Garvin suddenly spun around, his hand on his sword hilt. Garvin was too slow, though: Wyngalf launched himself at Garvin, digging his shoulder into the man’s ribs. Caught off-balance, Garvin stumbled sideways and fell with a massive splash into the bay. Barely able to halt his own momentum, Wyngalf nearly followed him, skidding to a halt with his toes on the edge of the dock. Garvin’s head emerged from the water, angry and sputtering, a moment later. “You’re a dead man, Wyngalf!” Garvin howled, splashing his way toward the dock. “I’ll kill you both!”
“Run!” yelled Wyngalf. Evena ran, favoring her injured ankle, and Wyngalf followed, the dock workers turning to stare as they passed. Wyngalf glanced behind him to see Garvin pulling himself onto the dock.
They ran up the beach and into the maze of shops near the water’s edge, with Garvin following close behind. They were just far enough ahead of Garvin that they nearly lost him several times in the winding alleys and side streets near the harbor, but Wyngalf, still in his stocking feet, was having a hard time keeping up with Evena. As he rounded a corner into a dark alley, she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into a doorway. They pressed themselves against the bricks, trying not to pant loudly as Garvin ran past.
When he was out of sight, Evena darted out of the doorway back the way they came, and Wyngalf followed, doing his best to dodge the sharper rocks in the unpaved road. She led him through another series of winding avenues, making a dozen or so seemingly random turns, until they both stopped, exhausted, in a blind alley. Standing there, bent over, panting and sweating, they could only hope they had lost Garvin.
Wyngalf listened for the sound of boots approaching, but heard nothing but a whining, nasally voice pleading with someone in the distance. He realized after a moment that the voice was familiar.
“Is that…?” Evena asked, between gasps.
“Tobalt,” said Wyngalf. “Come on.”
Too exhausted to run, and worried that Garvin might still be nearby, Wyngalf tiptoed down the alley toward the street, with Evena following. Seeing that the street was deserted, Wyngalf turned to the right toward the sound of voices. There seemed to be two voices other than Tobalt’s, and they were alternating in an animated discussion. Wyngalf continued down the street, peering around a corner where the voices seemed to be originating. He saw two city guards standing in the middle of the street, their backs to him. Tobalt was facing toward Wyngalf, but was too preoccupied with the discussion to notice him.
“So what you’re saying,” the guard on the left was saying, “is that totalitarianism supplants human reason by making the glorification of the state an end in itself.”
“Then it’s as much a religious system as a political one,” the guard on the right mused.
“That’s an excellent point, Javik,” said Tobalt, nodding. “In the end, a totalitarian system is held together by faith in the system itself. That’s why, when the end finally comes, it tends to come quickly as the collective delusion of the all-powerful… Simply Wyngalf!” Tobalt waved as he noticed Wyngalf peering around the corner. Wyngalf and Evena sheepishly revealed themselves, walking toward the group. The two guards turned to face them, hands on their swords.
“Gentlemen,” said Tobalt, “You remember Bishop Wyngalf and his friend, Evena. Wyngalf and Evena, you may recall Javik and Corbel from the Pit of Darkness the other day.”
“Oh, yes,” said Evena. “Condolences on your friend. What was his name?”
“Malleck,” said Javik. “He was more of an acquaintance, really. Stubborn bastard.”
“Well, I’m sorry he, um, fell into the abyss,” said Evena.
The two men nodded in acceptance of their condolences.
Tobalt cleared his throat. “We were just discussing the advantages and disadvantages of totalitarian societies, apropos to the current shifting of the political landscape of Skaal City under Orbrecht.”
“Totaliwhat?” asked Evena.
“It’s a term I’ve coined for extremely repressive societies in which every facet of life is dictated by a powerful central authority,” Tobalt explained.
“And you think that’s where Skaal City is headed?” Evena said.
“Revolutions, even those initiated for noble reasons, tend to result in more oppressive political structures,” Tobalt replied. “And given the rate at which Orbrecht is incarcerating political opponents, I would venture to guess that the current situation will perpetuate the pattern.”
“What are you doing here, Tobalt?” asked Wyngalf. “I thought you had left town.”
“I intended to,” said Tobalt. “But I was apprehended at the gate by representatives of the city guard. I spent the morning in a dank cave with a delightful assortment of ruffians and agitators. It was deemed, however, that solitary confinement would better suit my temperament. Javik and Corbel were kind enough to escort me to my new quarters, which I’m assured are quite cramped and dismal.”
“He was getting the other prisoners worked up with his political talk,” Corbel explained.
“Yeah, he does that,” said Wyngalf.
“Anyway, Orbrecht wanted him moved. Speaking of which, we should get going.”
“That’s alright,” said Wyngalf. “We’ll take him from here.”
“Um,” said Javik uncertainly. “I know you’re the bishop, but we were given direct orders by Orbrecht to move Tobalt into solitary. We’re going to have to check with him.” Corbel nodded.
Tobalt began to chuckle. “It appears that someone hasn’t been paying attention,” he said.
Javik frowned. “What do you mean, Tobalt?”
“Just a moment ago,” Tobalt said, “you were explaining that totalitarianism is essentially a religious belief system. Now it’s true that in more secular societies, the religious fervor of the mob tends to have a more nationalistic flavor, but in cultures with a strong religious tradition, the object of faith tends to be a figure of reputed spiritual authority.”
Corbel scratched his head thoughtfully. “You’re saying that Bishop Wyngalf, not Orbrecht, is the real source of power in Skaal City.”
“I’m afraid you’re still missing the point,” said Tobalt. “The source of power in Skaal City is the shared delusion of a powerful central authority in Skaal City.”
“But it’s not a delusion,” said Javik. “There is a powerful central authority in Skaal City.”
“Only because people believe there is,” said Tobalt. “If people stopped having faith in Orbrecht’s ability to maintain order, the city would devolve into chaos. Orbrecht simply doesn’t have enough men to subjugate the entire populace unless the citizens have already accepted the inevitability of their subjugation.”
“And that sense of inevitability comes from the Ovaltarian prophecy about the Ko-Haringu!” cried Corbel. Javik nodded excitedly.
“No,” said Tobalt, shaking his head. “Very few people in Skaal City actually believe the Ovaltarian prophecy. But a large proportion of the populace believes that a lot of other people in Skaal City believe in the Ovaltarian prophecy.”
“So…” said Javik, “Orbrecht’s power actually arises from an exaggerated sense of the importance of the prophecy.”
“No,” said Tobalt again. “Orbrecht’s power arises from an exaggerated sense of the exaggerated sense of the importance of the prophecy.”
Javik rubbed his chin.
“You mean that lots of people in Skaal City assume that lots of other people in Skaal City think that a large proportion of the population of Skaal City believes in the prophecy.”
“That’s it!” cried Tobalt. “The whole thing is a house of cards. One grand illusion on top of another.”
“And Bishop Wyngalf is the only thing holding it all together,” Corbel mused.
“Correct,” said Tobalt. “He’s the lynchpin of the whole totalitarian system. Nobody in this town gets repressed without Wyngalf’s implicit approval.”
Wyngalf frowned at this but, seeing where Tobalt was going with his sophistry, he didn’t object.
“So,” Javik, “we were only following Orbrecht’s order because of our faith in other people’s faith in other people’s faith in Wyngalf.”
“Technically,” said Tobalt, “You were following Orbrecht’s orders because of your faith in other people’s faith in other people’s faith in other people’s faith in Wyngalf, but your basic point is sound. For all intents and purposes, you’re working for Wyngalf.”
“In that case,” said Corbel, “I suppose there’s no harm in turning you over to him.”
“Of course!” cried Javik. “He’s the basis of the whole repressive dynamic. I can’t believe we didn’t see it before.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” said Tobalt. “For jackbooted enforcers at the bottom rung of a budding totalitarian regime, you two catch on pretty quickly. Speaking of which, take off your boots.”
“Our boots?” asked Javik.
“Yes,” said Tobalt, with a hint of impatience. “The lynchpin of the totalitarian regime needs your boots.”
The two guards dutifully sat down on the ground and pulled off their boots. Judging Corbel’s to be the better fit, Wyngalf grabbed his boots and slipped them on.
“Where are you taking him?” asked Javik, as he put his own boots back on. “I mean, in case Orbrecht asks.”
“This way,” said Tobalt, suddenly turning and shuffling away.
Distopia (Land of Dis) Page 27
