Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Elmyr rubbed his tiny face for a moment too long, as if waiting for more coaxing. “The bank’s about to go bust. It’ll happen at the end of the week, when the miners come to cash their checks. Or at the end of next week.” He sighed heavily. “At the end of which week, I can’t say. But we’ve blown it.”

  By ‘the’ bank, thought Mallery, he obviously means ‘his’ bank.

  “What have you done, Elmyr?” said another.

  “We thought we were on the verge of another boom. Started loaning out too much. But it wasn’t our fault. The market couldn’t have expanded otherwise… and there were deals that we felt were…”

  Can he not just get to the point? thought Mallery. As Elmyr droned on, attempting to paint a picture of imminent ruin while also cleansing himself of any wrongdoing, Mallery sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, a gesture that he hoped said I can’t believe what you’ve done rather than I can’t believe I have to listen to these people.

  “… but the final deal, the one that really put us over, was investing in the coal-burning automobile. It just makes no sense to me. In Pontius, you can’t even talk about building an automobile manufacturing plant before people line up to throw their money at you. But here? I mean, we aren’t blessed with a supply of crude, I understand that, but we had a real team of brainiacs who were going to revolutionize automobiles by running them on coal. Coal! But… things happened… it seems our team was either incompetent, or actively swindling us. There was something about how they would only work in winter. They always took summer off, claiming that their labs were overheating. I don’t know. I just-”

  “Elmyr, surely something can be done?” Mallery extended his hand as if planning to literally pull the banker out of his troubles. He thinks he’s going to use us, thought Mallery. But I’ll be using him.

  Elmyr took a long drink. “If the bank’s not propped up, businesses are going to collapse like a line of dominos. One after another, boom boom boom, until this big sideshow we’re in will turn out to be nothing but a bunch of people standing around in the woods with a lot of hungry dogmen. You see what I’m getting at?”

  Mallery saw the flaw in the argument. This wasn’t Pontius, where currency was valued by threats and promises and if enough people realized that the bankers who held the city together were only rich because their ledgers said they were rich then the whole thing would fall apart. It would be dog-eat-dog, and only the most vicious would survive. The banks here didn’t have the foothold – or the stranglehold – that they had in Pontius. In the Valley, housing materials were cheap, food popped out of the ground or winked at you as it swam by, and there were no gangs who festered in the loopholes of a complicated bureaucratic spider’s web. If one bank failed, another would take its place. Another could even be created the very moment that a few wealthy citizens decided over dinner that they wanted to become wealthier than they already were.

  What a fool you are, Elmyr! thought Mallery. The last thing the world needs is for your bank to be propped up.

  “We’ll need to prop up the bank, then,” said Mallery, nodding at the obviousness of his own statement. “It’s our duty to avoid disaster before it strikes, I say. Not an easy thing to do without money, though. Any ideas?”

  “The boys on the board have tossed a few back and forth,” said Elmyr, gulping as if suddenly overcome by the sensation of drowning. “If we were in Pontius, we could get someone in power to print off some extra funds to temporarily alleviate this sort of thing. Can’t do that here, of course, since we’re limited to physical coins. At least, that’s what we thought at first. But then we got to thinking: Why couldn’t we print off some bank notes? What’s keeping us from doing that?”

  The fear of Wodan, thought Mallery. That’s what. We can’t pretend that he won’t ever come back. But if we work within limits, it will limit what he can do to us.

  “Look here, Elmyr,” said Mallery. “I’m not about to do anything that would arouse the King’s anger. That’s not what I’m about. I wouldn’t brook any sort of rebellion against the King – I’m assuming we’re all in agreement on that.” Mallery took a moment and pretended to look at each of them as they nodded or lowered their gaze. “But it’s also true that we need to do what’s necessary to keep this thing running until the King returns. Elmyr, let’s say your bank issues temporary promissory notes. But then the King comes back and he says something about how you’ve devalued the currency. What can we do to counter that charge?”

  Elmyr scratched at an ear, then probed around inside the thing. “We’d have to get more out of the mines. You know? The banks can only mint what they’ve got on hand, and the materials on hand are limited by what’s pulled out of the mines. And the mines are limited by those damned mining unions…”

  Have we hit a wall so soon? thought Mallery. The mining companies have complained about this sort of thing to me, and probably to the other representatives, too. The miners like living in those big houses of theirs, but are they grateful for it? You’d think it was the unions paying their bills rather than the companies they work for! The unions always put their foot down when it comes to how many hours the miners can work. As if black lung was the worst thing in the world!

  “You guys are scared of the mining union?” said one of the representatives. Everyone turned and regarded Chumsen, a Ranger as well as a representative. Mallery attributed the young soldier’s election to the simple fact that he had had the top of his hair burned off during the Smith War, which made him look far older than he was.

  “Nobody’s scared of the mining union,” said Mallery. “But if the King comes back and we’ve no way to cover the excess funds we’ve temporarily printed, he’s going to be angry. We’re just looking for a way to increase production from the mines.”

  “Look, let’s not get too abstract about this whole thing.” Chumsen leaned forward and Mallery felt nearly overcome with nausea when he realized that the young man really was trying to adopt the mannerisms of a more experienced, older man. He glanced around to see if anyone else was as embarrassed as he was to see the charade. “The only way to get more out of the mines is to send more boys in there,” said Chumsen. “Right? So if the union won’t let the companies do that, you send in some scabs. And if you’re looking for people, we’ve got guys who try to join the Rangers every day – but they don’t make the cut. These are guys looking to work hard for decent pay, so…” Chumsen shrugged. “Problem solved, easy. Looks like we got our scabs.”

  “Not scabs,” said Mallery. “Relief workers.”

  “It’ll take more than clever words to sell an idea like that,” said a representative with a booming voice. The others turned and regarded Dorcas the preacher. He was tall and incredibly large, like a giant compared to the others, with a wild mop of gray hair and blazing blue eyes. Years ago he had founded the Sect to End All Sects church and devoted himself to the spiritual salvation of Pontius. For years he had avoided death by gang violence only to have his own congregation turn against him. He was saved from lynching by members of another church but, being unable to handle his unwavering devotion to righteousness, they had convinced him to turn his attention to the spiritual wickedness in the Black Valley.

  In the Valley, Dorcas had seen countless examples of people strung out on all manner of illicit substances, their drug-addled bodies thrown on top of one another in backroom heaps like corpses; or the open-air heresy market, where degenerates in unbelievable attire shouted insane ideas at one another, frothing at the mouth like lunatics as they discussed repulsive notions that had absolutely no scriptural foundation; or the slime-coated sex dens, where attractive women and small, slender young men were captured and forced to service demon-possessed businessmen, their cries for salvation unheard because they were, no doubt, led into basements with clubs and whips, then cruelly forced to the ground where their throats were slit over filthy grates, only to be replaced by other naïve sinners ready to learn the awful truth about life in
the Black Valley.

  “Dorcas?” said Mallery. “You were going to say something…?”

  “Only the power of the truth can move the hearts of men,” said Dorcas. “Many would stand against you. But I can convince the people. I can move their hearts.”

  By Mallery's reckoning, Dorcas was perhaps the greatest fool he had ever encountered. Then again, lots of simpletons found him remarkably convincing. Mallery had heard that a young couple in his church had asked for a divorce, saying that they had been too headstrong about the whole matter and came to regret it. Apparently Dorcas shouted scripture at the young couple with enough force to shake the walls of his little church. The entire neighborhood heard the whole thing, and in the end the young couple decided to stay together for the sake of the children that they might have someday.

  “I’m honored,” said Mallery, “that someone of your moral standing would agree to convince the common man that we’re only trying to do what’s right. But what do you-”

  “Mallery, it’s as you’ve said. In this hellish world, one needs money to make things happen. As you might know, my church is taxed the same as any profane business…”

  Mallery had to hide his sudden laughter behind a cough. Moral superiority, indeed! If the stiff-necked old fool would only open a soup kitchen and do some charity work instead of taking in money and obsessing over architectural expansions to his church, the tax collectors would avoid him. Instead…

  “Of course, of course,” said Mallery. “It makes no sense to put you on an equal footing with morally inferior business establishments. We’ll see what we can do about getting you a tax exemption, shall we?”

  “That’s all well and good, as long as nobody with a backbone has any problem with this,” said the last of the representatives at their gathering. “But what are you going to do if you end up with armed protestors on your hands?”

  They regarded Bobram, an Enforcer with a face carved out of granite and eyes like tiny furnaces. He was a fierce man, feared by friend and enemy alike. Bobram smirked, then laughed as if dealing with a group of amateurs. “I suppose you think with Chumsen on your side, you won’t have to worry about protesters. If things get violent, you can just call on his Rangers, right? Wrong. If the military gets involved, you’re going to have blood on your hands. People will turn against you. That’s why you’ll need the Enforcers if you want to move this thing along.”

  Mallery was struck by two thoughts. The first was a general sense of irony; whether protestors were beaten down by the military or the police, did it matter? Was there really a difference? But the second thought was dizzying enough to almost make him lose his composure: He had not expected the idea of stomping down protestors to occur to the others just yet. If things hadn’t gone according to plan and the people began grumbling, Mallery figured he would have to be the one to suggest bringing brute force to their aid. He would have pretended reluctance, of course, so that the others would have gone along without a lot of sidestepping and hand-wringing. But this… were they moving too fast?

  “A fine idea,” Mallery heard himself saying. He felt himself rising on a wave of incredible excitement. “I’m sure there will be more than a few backwards yokels who will try to threaten the relief workers and stand in the way of a better tomorrow.”

  Could it be that easy? thought Mallery. Have we really found a way to print money and surround ourselves with guards?

  “Surely it won’t be that easy,” said Elmyr. He tried to smile as he dabbed sweat from his forehead. “I’m just as eager as the rest of you to see my bank saved, and the Valley saved along with it. But, the people… Valliers can be a pretty rough bunch, you know. As soon as the miners see workers and guards brought in, won’t they… I mean, you never know what could…”

  Mallery felt himself teetering on the edge of a dark, cold expanse. You idiot! he thought. Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut, Elmyr? We were going to save your worthless behind – and we were going to get rich in the process! You fool! Ingrate! Don’t you realize the whole thing can be blown out with a single word, a whisper, a single clearing of the throat?!

  Just then, Almus cleared his throat. The white-haired newspaper owner, who had kept his silence the entire time, slowly spread his hands and spoke as if reading a headline from one of his own newspapers. “Currency crash looming… brave Enforcers brought in to protect relief workers.”

  Relieved laughter and applause all around the table buffeted Mallery’s soul upward. He clapped a hand on Almus’s shoulder. The man turned to him and nodded once.

  He’s right! thought Mallery. The newspaper will tell people what to think. Anyone who tries to stop us will look monstrous. Protest will be stifled before it ever turns to action!

  Mallery watched the representatives of the people as they congratulated one another for doing what was necessary to save their nation: Almus the newspaper publisher, Bobram the Enforcer, Dorcas the preacher, Chumsen the Ranger, and Elmyr the banker.

  “Gentlemen,” said Mallery, “perhaps we should make a name for our gathering to commemorate this event… and foster a little team spirit?” Immediately realizing that nobody, himself included, was creative enough to come up with a name for their group, he added, “Perhaps we should name ourselves after this establishment? Eh… what’s the name of this place again?”

  Almus whispered the name to him.

  “Very well,” said Mallery. “It’s decided. Let’s all raise a toast to the Golden Calf Party!”

  ***

  The images flickered and faded out.

  “I have to go back,” said Wodan.

  “Of course you do,” said Setsassanar. He spoke to Wodan’s back as his apprentice paced the room. “I completely understand. Who could have foreseen this? Your training… well, you can pick that back up at any time, can’t you? Achieving your full potential so that you can put an end to the flesh demons is secondary when it comes to making sure things run the way you want them to back home. Correct?”

  Wodan stopped pacing. He could hear the cruel mirth in his master’s voice. He did not have to turn and look to know that he was smiling.

  “But my, what a bunch of grand dreamers!” Setsassanar continued. “You and your anarchy! It almost makes me wish I’d invited those men up to the Tower for advanced studies. Such vision! Such ambition! And here you thought you were the only man fighting to make the world a better place. Of course… hmm… laws will have to be modified slightly, of course. Your paltry three laws don’t really do much against protestors who stand in the way of a better world.”

  Wodan spoke through gritted teeth. “You don’t know the Valliers. They’re not like the beaten-down people in Pontius. If those men try anything, someone will stand up to them.”

  Setsassanar dropped his jesting tone. “No they won’t,” he said. His words carried the weight of finality. Silence filled the crystalline blue chamber. Wodan slowly turned and looked into Setsassanar’s frigid violet eyes.

  Wodan opened his mouth to counter him, but agony constricted his throat. Since childhood he had sought a place where he could be free. Isolation had not worked; neither had running. In the end, only violence and terrible suffering and a willingness to die had allowed him to carve a home, a sanctuary, out of an uncaring world. Once he had carved out such a place, he had gladly given the gift to others. He felt that giving power away only increased his own power – a paradox that weak, envious men could never understand.

  But was it all going to come to an end? Years of hard work all gone in a flash? Would his sanctuary only become another Pontius?

  “You know what’s going to happen,” said Setsassanar. “But you’ll stay anyway. You’ll follow through with your training.”

  “Will I?”

  Setsassanar paced away from Wodan, hands behind his back. “Your nation is lost. You know it. A small group of men have taken power, and anyone who stands against them will look like heartless fiends once the media’s through with them. New laws will have to b
e passed for the Valley’s new rulers to retain power, and so new criminals will be made. Prisons will have to be built. Vices will be taxed. Bureaucratic agencies will be created to keep track of ever-expanding loopholes created by a tax system and a legal system that will become so complicated the common man will have no way of understanding it, much less stopping it.”

  “You speak as if this is inevitable,” said Wodan, hands squeezed into involuntary fists.

  “Some of it has already happened,” said Setsassanar, stopping and turning to his apprentice. “I recorded that meeting on the very night that you left the Valley. Even if you gave up your training and flew back to your home this very minute, you would find the Black Valley a much different place than you left.”

  Wodan was filled with an awful sense of inevitability, as if facing the embarrassing outcome of a child’s unrealistic dream. Of course the people wouldn’t rise up as one to throw off their oppressors! People tended to look after their own garden. Mallery and the others would always dream up their schemes in dark corners and dress them up like humanitarian ventures or crisis-averting gambits before presenting them to the public. Nobody understood how power-mongers operated, not like Wodan did; otherwise Wodan would have had a lot more help against their kind in Haven and in Pontius.

  And now he had to watch as it all fell apart.

  But did it really matter? Wodan wanted to create a land of free men – but was that what the Valliers necessarily wanted? They enjoyed their freedom, but did they really deserve freedom if it only endured because Wodan made it so? And when the demons finally came to them, would it really matter whether they were free men or slaves?

  The demons, thought Wodan. In the end, they’re the ones that decide what we can and can’t do. If it wasn’t for them… if it wasn’t for them!