A/N: (Grand fanfare)
83 reviews! The Land Of What Might Have Been has broken The Shattering of Oz's record! (Wild applause, continued fanfare)
Now, the latest chapter is here as well - albeit chainsawed a little for the sake of space and avoiding content muddling; but first, I'd like to thank everyone that's reviewed in the last few weeks, for you have made the writing process all the more joyful.
Cloudborne, your anthology of reviews was much appreciated; as always, your theories on where the stories are going are a perfectly balanced blend of accuracy and creativity. Those scenes you mentioned - both the aftermath of the attack and the warped love scene - both were probably the most fun to write in those chapters, and I'm very glad you enjoyed them; descriptions of ruins and the aftermaths of disasters are always enjoyable, and I think I may be getting a taste for scenes in which characters' perceptions are distorted in some way. Oh, and Omber's backstory spent a long time in the works before I finally used it - I just kept looking for a place where s/he could talk about it without it seeming out of place; I'm glad you enjoyed the reveal. For now, I'm spending a little more time in the dream-memories before Elphaba discovers the truth about the Wizard and about the coffee spiking: I hope the chapters spent here are up to standards, and I hope they entertain. Thanks again!
Ichibayashi, your review of the last few chapters was amazing; quite apart from being flattered that you found the description worthy of quoting (the descriptions are the points where I go a little bit crazy and have fun in the process), I found your dissections of the chapters to be detailed, interesting, and a joy to read. It's so rewarding to have you examine the moments of the story that you enjoyed, too; I love how you describe the warped vision as a "Gelphie" - I didn't even think of it that way, but it makes a great deal of sense - but yes, it's going to be interesting to see how Elphaba reacts when she finally awakens. And by the way, "Alphaba" was already a wonder as far as fan contributions go, but then you added the marvellous title of "the Ballgown of Fire" and the song about the Mistress of Mirrors... wow. You are extraordinary - I never even thought of a song like that, but I can actually imagine kids singing it as their parents go about trying to summon her. Because as much as I thought that Anita Kelsey's "The Night Has A Thousand Eyes" worked well as the Mistress of Mirrors' theme song, sometimes, you just need a "songbird, songbird see him fly"-style nursery rhyme to get the message of a character's weirdness across. In fact, with your permission, I may have to work these contributions into the story somehow! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, chainsawed though it is, and we shall see just how many perfectionist schemes Alphaba can arrange! Enjoy!
Nami Swannn, alas that I cannot shorten all my chapters so easily; nothing's ever a short story with me, unfortunately - it's a long-running obsession of sorts. One way or the other, we'll see just how well Boq's stomach holds up under the strain.
chibikaty, it's certainly worth considering; maybe they could have fallen in love if Boq had only been honest with her and broken the illusion early before it had time to fester, maybe Nessarose could have been able to shatter Boq's illusions too if that were the case. You never know - such a story be explored, for all things are possible in the Land of What Might Have Been. Mwahahahahahaha!
Apex2014, your story review was wonderful - it's always good to know that the characterization's on target, and a great relief to know that my OCs haven't mutated into Mary Sues; I'm glad you like the setting and the dream/memory sequences - a good thing considering my chainsawing necessitates quite a few of them in the next few updates. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter, and I thank you for a short but sweet review.
So, without further ado, Pottery and Intrigue! Read, review, and above all, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Wicked and Oz cannot be mine, were never mine and will never mine.
Less than half a minute out of the Pottery, Dr Coil's prediction comes true.
The transition is nothing short of astonishing: one minute, Heart's walking along the corridor, Miss Turnkey at his side, his thoughts on nothing more than lunch; the next, his stomach is lurching violently towards his throat. He isn't even aware he's about to be sick: all he can think of is the intestines he helped remove a few minutes ago, and a nightmare vision of them oozing back into the carcass's open belly, rolling back inside like a hosepipe on a reel; and just like a hose, something flows out of it as it rolls up – something that nobody in their right mind would ever mistake for water.
Luckily, though they're nowhere near the restrooms, Turnkey is able to quickly guide him out of the main corridor and onto a disused hallway just before the noose around his stomach tightens and sends its contents spraying out of his mouth. For what feels like hours, Mr Heart is left half-leaning half-slumped against the wall, retching and heaving into the drainage gutter as Turnkey pats him on the back, doing her best to keep him from tumbling into his own vomit.
"I'm sorry," he wheezes, once it's all over. "I'm sorry."
"You've got nothing to apologise for. I've seen dozens of other apprentices and assistants do the same thing, and most of them didn't make it as far as the corridor. Most of them didn't even get through the first gutting without losing breakfast. Believe me, you've done well."
"Oh. Thanks." As Turnkey wipes his mouth with a handkerchief, he absently asks, "How long did you last? I mean, I know you're not an apprentice to any of the surgical experts, but-"
"- I do a lot of work with them, yes. To answer your question, I didn't need to: growing up with an abattoir worker for a dad tends to desensitize you a bit." She laughs. "Bring Your Daughter To Work Day was an awkward time at that gory old place. But I think I've compromised my secret identity enough for one day, don't you? Let's get down to the refectory."
She takes him by the hand, guiding him back towards the main path.
"Are you sure I should be eating anything?" he asks. "I'm heading straight back to the autopsy table after lunch, and I'm probably going to vomit again anyway."
"Have a little faith in yourself, Mr Heart: you've got a stronger stomach than most if you were able to get through the first session without decorating the floor. I'd say the worst is over for you; you'll have good days and bad days, just like everyone else who has to deal with blood and guts on a daily basis, but it's not terribly likely that you'll just go right back to losing your lunch – not unless you're actually studying advanced decomposition."
"You've seen this happen before, then?"
"Oh, dozens of times. It's practically a rite of passage down here: consider your cherry popped, Mr Heart."
In spite of himself, Mr Heart actually laughs at this.
"Now," Turnkey continues briskly, "If you want my advice, you'll at least have something to eat and drink: the Full-Timers have the longest working days out of anyone in the Pottery, and it's not a good idea to spend them hungry."
"The who?"
"The Full-Timers. The full-time workers. The permanent residents." She notices the look of uncertainty on Heart's face, and clarifies: "Look, everyone who works here – whether they're an assistant, an apprentice, a guard or a researcher – ends up falling into one of two groups: the Part-Timers and the Full-Timers. The first lot work here, but they don't live here: for whatever reason, they can't dedicate all of their time to the Pottery; they show up once a day –once a week if they're really busy –, do their part for the Director's Think Tank, and then go home and pretend nothing happened."
"And that's why we have codenames? For secrecy's sake?"
"Exactly. Now, permanent residents like you and me give their all for the Pottery; in return, we're given accommodations, free meals at the canteen, and the opportunity to get really involved with some exciting fields of study – after all, there's only two few Part-Time researchers in the entire building, unless you count the Director herself. She might not do much research of her own, but when she does, you can guarantee it's going to be something special."
"But what's all this secrecy and study for? What's all this work supposed to accomplish? The Director said it's for the good of Oz, but what does that mean, really?"
Turnkey only smiles, somehow managing to be mysterious, infuriating and alluring all at once. "You'll find out soon enough," she whispers softly. "When you're ready, the Director will explain everything to you, the same way she does for all the workers once they've had time to get accustomed to life in the Pottery. And as for what happens after that…" She shrugs. "… It's entirely up to you. But let's put the mysteries back on the shelf for now: let's get down to the refectory. I think they might have some chicken pies on offer today. But first, I think you might need to stop by the bathrooms – you're carrying about half the autopsy table on your forearms…"
The rest of the day is spent either chatting with Turnkey, or hard at work at Coil's autopsy table; as promised, there's even more blood and gore than before, this time from rendering down the organs extracted during the previous session.
"It all has to be melted down into usable biomatter," the python explains, as the entrails in front of them slowly dissolve. "Even with mage-surgery, there's only so far we can stretch a subject's flesh before it breaks. We need additional clay to work with. In times past, mage-surgeons would carry around pounds of solid human flesh and tissue for their needs; thanks to the innovations of the Pottery, we've made it easier to store and easier to preserve. Trouble is, it's still just as difficult to extract and transport: if possible, a more convenient method of needs to be devised."
Thankfully, as promised, his stomach doesn't rebel at any point during the grisly process of stirring the pot of intestines and kidneys into soup: even when his concentration wavers and he finally notices the smell, he only feels a slight quaver of nausea. From what Miss Turnkey tells him, this is a good sign that he's developing a tolerance rather than just ignoring the stimuli.
Once the organs have been rendered down into a thick puddle of viscous pink slime, Mr Heart is given the job of pouring the liquefied flesh through a sieve, ensuring that the mixture is free of "unwanted solids." Then, no sooner have they stored the purified biomatter in an enchanted container for later use, the two of them are abruptly saddled with the job of patching up one of the unluckier apprentices: a student of one of the Pottery's metallurgical researchers, he'd made the mistake of playing around with one of the sharper examples of his tutor's work and ended up accidentally slicing off his own arm for his troubles. So, Mr Heart is tasked with holding the idiot still as Dr Coil goes about repairing the damage, knitting the sheared bones and melding the amputated limb to the stump with slow, careful motions of his tail across the wound.
"Why do they always bother me?" Coil grumbles once the operation is finished. "Why not one of the other mage-surgeons? Surely they can't make this many mistakesssssss?"
Thankfully, the two of them finally have some time to spend on Mr Heart's education after that: Coil makes it clear that he doesn't expect Heart to master mage-surgery on his first day, but assures him that it's a comparatively simple matter – at first. "The spells that will allow you to manipulate flesh are the simplest known to magic," he explains. "It's really just like working with plasticine when you get down to it; gods only know the other mage-surgeons here treat it like preschool plasticine: I've seen even the soberest of apprentices turn into four year olds when they learn how to mould flesh. But as for the spells that allow you to heal flesh as well as warp it? Much, much trickier by far."
Heart thinks about this for a moment… and then an idea occurs to him. He's had his thoughts on how to accomplish his first project at the back of his head for a while, now, but with most of his initial fears soothed by the last couple of hours work and conversation, his mind is finally clear to focus on the problem – and now, he can see one of Elphaba's suggestions applying itself.
"Would it be possible to change someone's appearance using mage-surgery?" he whispers, trying not to let his excitement show in his voice.
"Of course – but only once you've learned the mechanics of human anatomy; I've heard quite a few horror stories from the older generation of mage-surgeons regarding botched reconstructions. If you were to try altering a human face, say, without understanding the way muscles and nerves animate the features… at best, your subject ends up with a set of deeply unsettling expression and tics that will last until corrected; at worst, your subject walks away with permanent facial paralysis."
"What if I didn't have to worry about muscle movements? What if I was only working with a corpse?"
Coil very slowly uncurls from his seat, tongue flickering in and out. "It would be much easier, to be sure. I take it this has something to do with your personal project?"
"Absolutely."
"Then you'll need to earn the raw materials you need, I'm afraid: fresh corpses are difficult to untraceably obtain and transport down here, and Director Thropp rations them very carefully – meaning that once you've obtained your corpse, you can't afford to screw up."
"Oh."
"One way or the other, you'll need to master the basics of mage-surgery before you even attempt the project. Meaning that you've got some homework to do…"
He turns to one of the shelves and, with a flick of his tail, sends a small pile of books hovering off the shelf and into Mr Heart's outstretched hands. "Your textbooks for the next few evenings," Dr Coil hisses, by way of explanation. "Basic human anatomy; beginners' guides to spellcasting; and, of course, the first chapter of Mage-Surgeon's Compendium – written by my tutor," he adds proudly. "Read them carefully, and remember to take time off: the Pottery needs functional researchers, not burnouts."
He glances at the clock. "Hmm. Just about dinnertime, Mr Heart. I'd read while you eat, if I were you; it's going to be a busy day tomorrow, and spending your first night sleepless from study won't do you any good."
And so the routine is established:
Mr Heart will get up at 7:30 in the morning, take a quick shower, don the cheap clothes that have been provided for him, and wander down to the refectory for breakfast with Miss Turnkey and the other permanent residents. Then, he'll stop by the changing rooms adjoining the Pottery and augment his replaceable clothing with the leather apron and cotton surgical mask that has become his uniform, before joining Dr Coil for a day of dissection: Coil will quiz him on the previous evening's reading material, and Heart will demonstrate what he's learned since they last spoke; they'll conduct practical exercises using the many supplies of liquefied flesh stored in the icebox; other researchers will occasionally ask them for assistance, either with projects of their own or with injuries too serious for the infirmary; and of course, Coil will conduct his own mysterious experiments – many of them concerned with how long laboratory rodents can be kept alive once stripped of their skin.
At twelve o'clock, there'll be a lunchbreak – proceeded by a change of clothes if necessary. Heart will spend most of the break in the company of Miss Turnkey: they'll talk about almost everything under the sun; work, play, the books that they've been reading, the things that frustrate them, the entertainment that the director's arranged for the permanent residents, the antibiotic shielding around Coil's cubicle, the time they spend washing their hands… everything except their true identities. Much to his surprise, Heart enjoys these little talks; conversation's never been one of his strong suits, least of all with attractive women or people taller than him – and Turnkey falls into both categories – but somehow he finds himself regularly getting into "a good long ramble" as Turnkey puts it. And while there'll occasionally be conversations with the other apprentices and assistants, most of them are part-timers and not around often enough to work their way into the ramblings.
Then, back to work: more education, more demonstration of how the techniques of mage-surgery work; more experiments; more assisting troubled researchers. It's around this time of day that Coil's at his most talkative, for while Heart goes about hauling dead bodies and wondering how he got so used to the sight of human corpses, the python will unexpectedly start rambling on about almost anything that crosses his mind. Sometimes he'll talk about something almost pleasant, like his slithering travels across Quadling country in search of the lost practitioners of mage-surgery's "higher mysteries", his interviews with these dying gurus (often barely kept from death through their mastery of the bastard art) and how he went about recording their final lessons and last words for posterity. Other times, the monologues are darker: he'll talk about how he lost his job to Anti-Animal prejudice, and how he only just managed to avoid being arrested, killed or "silenced" during this time. If he's really gloomy, he'll talk about what he did for a living in the dark times before Elphaba found him. In any event, he'll talk – a welcome distraction on some of the more fragrant afternoons.
This continues until dinnertime, whereupon he'll return refectory for dinner, conversation, and maybe a little bit of entertainment. The day ends in the sleeping quarters, more or less where it began: Heart will stay up just long enough for about two hours of study, and one hour of recreational reading – usually one of the dog-eared horror paperbacks he brought with him – before switching out the lights and nodding off to sleep, all set to do the same thing all over again.
And to his surprise, he enjoys it.
Maybe it's just all the months he spent working for Nessarose while lusting after Glinda, but the work is more satisfying than anything else he's ever done in his entire life. Even though he doesn't have the faintest idea what all the research is in aid of, even though he doesn't know what will become of him if he finally makes the transition from apprentice to researcher, he can't help but marvel at how happy he feels at work – whether he's studying the textbooks or disembowelling a corpse.
And what other line of work would allow him to learn magic? What other line of work would ever give him the same chance that Shiz University gave Elphaba or Glinda?
Half his evenings are already spent leafing through well-thumbed textbooks on magical technique, learning the gestures and incantations of magical practise; extending them to physical reality almost turns it into an adventure – especially on his third night in the Pottery, that glorious moment when he proves to himself that he can use magic: even though it takes about four tries; even though the successful try takes about five solid minutes of chanting the words, waving his hands and focussing every last microbial vestige of concentration on the target to accomplish; even though he knows for a fact that he'll likely never master this spell or even use it again until he's done with the basics of mage-surgery, the knowledge doesn't dampen by the sense of victory he feels when the teaspoon rises into the air.
That same sense of triumph makes itself felt the next day, when he manages the first spell in the mage-surgeon's library – when he feels dead flesh bubbling and warping beneath his fingertips and sees it flowing like molten candlewax into new and unnatural shapes; looking up and seeing Dr Coil finally offer his strange reptilian smile makes this minor victory seem all the grander by far.
"Don't celebrate just yet, Mr Heart," the python reminds him. "You've got a long way to go before you're ready for your project. Altering flesh is one thing; altering bone, cartilage and skin texture? Well, that's a different cage of rabbits altogether. Speaking of which…"
And so the study goes on.
Days turn into weeks, and Mr Heart gradually finds himself settling in: waking up in the sleeping quarters becomes as normal as waking up in his own bed back in Munchkinland, the tiny plywood enclosure allocated to him no less a bedroom than any of the others he's lived, worked and slept in over the years. The echoing labyrinth of catacombs and passageways between rooms is just another neighbourhood; the Pottery as familiar and yet monumental as the Yellow Brick Road; the whirring and whistling of the air ducts just natural weather of the place; and eventually, even the overhead lighting seems nothing more than the sun and stars to him.
True to the comparison, he learns the rhythms and intricacies of the Pottery as he would any neighbourhood – sometimes for the purposes of the job, sometimes just for fun.
And fun has considerable value in the think tank; after all, it's not all work and no play down here: the permanent residents would probably go stir crazy without entertainment, and Director Elphaba provides as much as humanly possible. In exchange for a certain quota of work, apprentices are allowed to make requests for certain items from the world outside the Pottery: magazine subscriptions, books, boardgames, and many other distractions – some of them more lurid than others. The researchers make requests of their own, often more extravagant and requiring them to deliver on the promises they made to Elphaba. For those who don't feel like having a quota to fulfil in exchange for their entertainment, there's a library being built in one of disused storerooms neighbouring the Pottery, and while it's still small, there's more than enough fiction being trawled from the world above to keep the bibliophiles down here occupied – which just as well, because it saves Heart from having to reread his dog-eared collection for the fifth time in a row. There's also a rudimentary gymnasium for the more active residents… and for those of them who find the gym too static, one of the guards has actually set up a spelunking group (of all things) to explore the maze of corridors and cellars beyond the Pottery; they bring back rumours that these old passageways were built on an even older set of ancient tunnels, and some of them even claim that Elphaba plans to have the next gang of spelunkers outfitted to explore these very ruins.
Every now and again, there'll be a special performance in the refectory, with one of the researchers allowed to take centre stage – mainly for the entertainment of the workers, but at least partly as a chance to show off: one of the illusionists might put on a show, conjuring up ghostly battles and sporting events for the crowd's entertainment; an image/sound researcher might show off the his newly-built "vision-capturer" and project recorded footage of concerts and plays upon thin air; the explosives researchers might make a dazzling display of pyrotechnics and explosions in miniature. Once, Dr Mainspring brings a grisly parade of scarred figures into the refectory, and has them perform an impressive display of acrobatics, somersaulting the length of the room and sprinting up the walls. But then Heart recognizes one of the "performers" from his first day in the Pottery, and realizes that the acrobats are actually corpses – hollowed out by Dr Coil and animated by Mainspring's machinery.
Then there's the gambling: by and large, Elphaba doesn't allow high-stakes betting, but she's willing to look the other way so long as habits and collection don't get out of hand (or as she puts it, "for now"). Card games are popular, along with craps and liars' dice; a few inventive assistants even manage to set up a miniature racetrack, using anything from cockroaches to rats in place of horses. Outside of that, there's always someone willing to wager that a performance in the refectory will bomb, or that Dr Lintel's latest project won't explode this time.
It goes without saying that there's even seedier sides to the entertainment at play down in the Pottery, but most of the time, Heart doesn't even notice it until the guards return from a patrol carrying the dented wreckage of a makeshift distillery. By official decree, most forms of alcohol are readily available to anyone requesting them in whatever quantity, providing that they a) drink responsibly and b) pay off the debt through a specified workload. To those who don't like labouring under a work quota, there's always moonshine, bootleg hooch, bathtub gin, and the distinct possibility of going blind.
And given that many of the researchers have access to some decidedly illicit pharmaceuticals for the purposes of their experiments (or so they claim), sometimes the vices can be even more startling that that. Once, Heart is given a handful of what the assistants call "Wide-Eyes," and told that they'll help him get through some of the busier workdays. Immediately suspicious, he wraps the pills in tissue paper, washes his hands very carefully, and takes the supposed gift to Dr Broil for analysis. And after glancing at one of the pills for all of three seconds, the pharmacologist informs him that the supposed "pick-me-ups" are actually military-grade amphetamines.
"Likely from apprentice Collander's stash," he adds.
"How can you tell?"
"Because he bought them from me, of course."
As soon the fun's over, it's back to work with even more intricacies to learn: there's pathways to memorize, secret entrances to take note of, and plenty of storerooms and backrooms and antechambers to keep at the back of his mind for one reason or another. As Dr Coil's apprentice-to-be, he sometimes has to retrieve certain items for the experiments, and regardless of whether it's a patch of subterranean mushrooms or a tube of analgesic cream, Heart has to know where it is and where to find it.
From time to time, he has to approach other researchers on behalf of Dr Coil, and that opens up a completely different realm of intricacies: he has to take care to remember which researches study magic and which ones study purely scientific disciplines, which ones apply themselves to biology and which of them make use of engineering, which of them are friendly enough to help, and (most importantly) which of them are running dangerous experiments.
It doesn't take long for him to figure out that some of the permanent residents were prisoners or fugitives prior to their recruitment, and not all of them are guaranteed to be friendly, even to fellow workers. Worse still, researchers are allowed a certain degree of carte blanche, so there's a lot of eccentricity that goes unpunished: there's old grudges between researchers, and new grudges between their apprentices; there's Animals left bitter and unfriendly after years spent unable to find employment fitting their qualifications, and there's humans disgruntled at having to work alongside Animals; there's crackpots who regale Heart with wild promises of miraculous inventions likely to kill them both; there's repentant murders and unrepentant psychopaths, there's active gambling addicts and former drug addicts, there's corrupt professors and half-mad weapons manufacturers, and even a few extremely vocal critics of the Wizard.
There's even a few eccentric enough to have gained a weird kind of celebrity status among the inhabitants of the underground: there's Mad Handerson the war machinist, who spends his every waking hour on designing and building colossal war engines, and once marched through the Pottery stark naked except for the giant legs of his half-finished mechanical exoskeleton; Illivid the Red-Eared, whose experiments routinely burst the eardrums of everyone within a ten-foot radius (himself included); Malistran the Mirage, a pioneering illusionist witch renowned for her skill in conjuring picture-perfect duplicates of real people – and for the day she duplicated every single researcher in the Pottery just for a laugh; Palanquin, who constantly smells of rotten fruit, dribbles like a busted faucet and has to be carried everywhere by a small army of pint-sized golems. Even familiar figures like kindly old Dr Mainspring and the darkly affable Dr Coil have their share of infamy.
Perhaps most famous of them all is Dr Lintel, the so-called Prophet of the Otherlands. Crass, bigoted, and hopelessly butter-fingered, he's become famous among the researchers for his wondrous experiments in creating portals through a blend of machinery and magic – and notorious for the accidents that sometimes happen as a result: explosions, fires, electrocutions, toxic spillages, near-decapitations and uncontrollable portal manifestations. One way or the other, Lintel usually finds himself getting patched up in Dr Coil's cubicle, where he spends most of his time there complaining bitterly about having to receive treatment from "a dust-eating pissant animal" as he puts it, and ranting about the success of the portals to anyone who'll listen.
"They've reached other realities," he raves. "There's a world not so far outside Oz, joined to our land by thaumaturgic ties and barred from us only by the slightest of ethereal boundaries; my portals can pierce those boundaries – I've seen the countryside that lies beyond! And there's more worlds beyond that, dimensions and universes beyond Oz altogether! You'll see! I'll show you!"
And of course, there's withered old Miss Emma, always trying to steal something, and always being reprimanded by the implacable Miss Turnkey. Nobody will tell Heart exactly where she came from or why she's earned the enmity of just every about single researcher here. Even Turnkey remains silent when asked, and she despises Emma more than anyone else in the Pottery.
But perhaps he won't have to wait long: after all, there's still the promise of Elphaba revealing the secrets of this place to him, and maybe those secrets include Emma's true identity. And if it doesn't…
… so what?
It's still the best job in the world.
"Sergeant Harnley?"
The dark-haired guardsmen looks up from his clipboard with a start, handsome features twisting with annoyance. "What is it?" he snaps. "I'm very busy wi-" His eyes widen as he recognizes the figure standing over him, and suddenly the acid is gone from his voice. "Oh, er… sorry, Director Thropp; I wasn't expecting to see you down here."
"No need for apologies, sergeant. You've been very busy down here, no doubt."
"Uh, yes – new supplies and armaments, y'see. I ended up getting the short straw today, so I have to deal with this…" His brow furrows with anger, and he crosses out the previous entry on his clipboard. "… this stupid fiddly finicky piece of maggoty..." He throws the clipboard aside, fuming.
"I hope I haven't done anything to make your work any harder, sergeant."
"You? Oh no, no, director; it's just that I've never been particularly good at paperwork or taking stock, that's all. It's nothing to do with you." Harnley's sculptured features redden with embarrassment, as if remembering all the times he had blamed her.
Elphaba almost laughs at how much Harnley's demeanour has changed since she last met him: in those days, back when she'd been both unenlightened and ugly, he'd taken just about every role that would allow him the most opportunities to harm her; he'd not only been in charge of the squad that had successfully captured her, but he'd also fired the shot that had brought her down, and – once she'd tried fighting back – led the other guardsmen in the near-fatal beating that had followed. Perhaps he would have done more, had Fiyero not been there to stop him; perhaps, if security at the prison hospital had been looser, he might have tried again – assuming the attempted poisoning hadn't been his work; perhaps, if Fiyero hadn't kept him on such a short lead following her release, he might have even been bold enough to kill her even after the Wizard had accepted her return. But since then, she'd only encountered him in the horror stories Glinda and Fiyero would bring back from the barracks, or as a glaring face among the ranks of parading guardsmen… until the tail-end of the Plague's reign over the Emerald City, when he'd decided to take matters into his own hands. Elphaba had no doubt he would have assassinated her that night if he'd had the chance: after all, he'd been among the many Ozians who'd denied any possibility of her redemption, and he'd been perhaps the most ardent of them all.
And yet the deniers are a dying breed now, if not entirely extinct: the long year of silence, the Plague of Transformations, and her own charitable works have smothered the fear that the Wicked Witch might one day return; the unveiling of Madame Morrible as the Plague Witch killed any suspicions that remained. And in no small part due to what he'd seen on the night of that unveiling, Harnley is no longer her enemy.
She'd heard much of this great shift in personality, once again either through Glinda or Fiyero: stories of him being unable to meet Glinda's eyes whenever they passed in the corridors, or how quiet and obedient he'd been around Fiyero. But it's another thing to witness it in person, and see just how much of an effect that fateful night had on him: Harnley had been a proud man, inclined to think very highly of his own opinions, quick to anger if any of those opinions were challenged, and openly hostile when faced with consistent opposition. Now, he's been humbled, first by his beliefs being proved incorrect, then by being felled by Morrible: he's been forced to learn humility, tempering his arrogance with a demeanour more suited to his handsome face.
As always, beauty can only be achieved through both purity of mind and perfection of the body. Harnley might not have completed his journey to true beauty, but he's making progress; after all, he stands as another fine example of how beauty can sometimes only be achieved through destruction.
Meanwhile, the blush has finally retreated from Harnley's face. "But enough about that," he mutters distractedly. "What can I do for you?"
"Your superiors tell me that you're the best shot in the entire regiment."
"More than that, Director: I'm the best shot in all of Oz."
I can hardly dispute that, can I? Evidently, your bruised ego doesn't extent to your ability as a marksman; at least your vanity is at least partly justified by its results.
"Well, the evidence certainly speaks for itself. According to your dossier, you've proved yourself effective with just about every brand of rifle currently used by the guard. Also crossbows for some reason. And even if there were any doubts concerning your abilities, they'd be immediately extinguished by the simple fact that I wouldn't be standing here before you if it wasn't for your masterful aim."
Harnley's eyes widen in horror. "Listen, what I did-"
"- Was your duty and nothing more. As for the beating you led, that was justified by my resistance… and by my own wickedness."
The horror fades, and is replaced by confusion. "You forgive me?"
"How could I not? It's thanks to you and Glinda that I'm alive today. It's thanks to you in particular that I'm here, living in the comforts of civilization, in the company of my friends, and redeemed in the eyes of both the Wizard and the people of Oz. You're the only reason I ever had the chance to attain redemption and beauty in the first place. And so…" Elphaba leans forward, and embraces the sergeant tightly, kissing him on the cheek for good measure. "Yes," she whispers. "I forgive you."
There's an awkward pause a she releases him from the hug; for a while, Harnley's expression wavers between surprise, confusion and amusement, before finally settling on a look of flattered gratitude –with just a hint of his old pride.
"But for all your good deeds, it occurs to me that you've gone without a reward for quite some time. Tell me, sergeant, what do you know of the Plague Witch Morrible?"
"Only what I saw on the night when we arrested her, and what I've read in the newspapers since then. At this point, it's safe to say that she's a traitor to the Wizard and just as dangerous as you were when you were still wicked. No offense meant," he adds, almost as an afterthought.
"None taken. But there is one important detail you should understand, sergeant: she may be even more dangerous, if only because she has nothing to lose."
"What do you mean?"
"During my reign of terror, I laboured under the delusion that I was doing the right thing: I believed that I acted with the best of intentions, and that in rebelling, I saved the lives of Animals throughout Oz. The Animals that I had "saved" agreed with me, not knowing any better." As if I could have saved anyone, as ugly and foul of spirit as I was. "I even spared the lives of some of my enemies in the belief that I was being merciful – though in reality, it was merely because I believed myself unstoppable. And so my madness went on until you captured me and brought me back to the Emerald City for my purification. Morrible has no such delusions: she has no thoughts of justice, no good intentions; she won't spare any lives or show any mercy, and she certainly won't try to save anyone. Even when she worked from behind the scenes, she was fuelled only by the wish to see her ambitions achieved. Now that she's been forced into the wilderness, she's driven only by hatred, wounded pride, and the desire for revenge. And because of that bloodlust, we need a new strategy: flooding the countryside with guardsmen won't solve the problem as it did the last time a witch stalked the Land of Oz; we need a special team to hunt her down."
"Well, it makes perfect sense, Director, but shouldn't you be taking this up with Captain-" Harnley pauses, and sighs deeply. "With Commander-Administrator Tiggular?" he amends. Obviously Fiyero's high office still rankles. "Or better still the Wizard?"
"Oh, I have. And they agree with me. However, they also agree that there are certain members of the guard who have been assigned to improper duties for too long: you said yourself that you were no good at paperwork, and you've got a skillset better suited to fieldwork outside the city walls. More importantly, with the guards being upsized in ranks and numbers, we need new captains… and I think your work in capturing me speaks well enough of your leadership abilities."
"You mean-"
"Yes. I think it's past time you were promoted… Captain Harnley."
The smile on Harnley's face is a thing of beauty; on the occasions when they've previously encountered one another, his expression's normally frozen either in a bitter frown or a sneer of derision. Humbling might have scrubbed away his sneer, but he still isn't inclined to show much in the way of a smile, at least not around her. Now, all of a sudden, the gloom is gone from his face: hope has brightened his features, and his eyes are suddenly sparkling with enthusiasm. Fiyero has mentioned that Harnley (or "Handsome Harn" as some call him) has a very good face for parades and functions, and now she understands why: this is a smile so incandescent with exuberance that it's a marvel the room even needs an overhead light.
"I'm leading a squad?" he asks, voice practically cracking with excitement.
"A platoon; we have too many guards with skillsets functionally useless in the city – they'll be put to better use under your command. As for your new rank, you'll receive it at the awards ceremony tomorrow night; after that, you and your men will be dispatched to the outskirts of Oz to begin your search. How does that sound?"
Judging by Harnley's expression, it sounds as though all his birthdays have come at once. "Thank you," he whispers, shaking her hand. "Thank you so much. If there's anything I can do-"
"Only your duty, captain; find Morrible, and do it as quickly as you can. It was bad enough that the Wizard had to endure the insanity I wrought upon Oz back when I was still wicked; forcing him to endure worse atrocities from someone he thought he could trust… well, I can only imagine the tormented state of mind he must be experiencing.""
She shakes her head mournfully, and starts for the door. "I can't demand results from you, captain. Just make sure you're prepared for the journey; when the order to move out arrives, the Wizard expects you to be ready."
Harnley issues a salute. "I'm always ready, Director. See you at the awards ceremony…"
Elphaba leaves the barracks storeroom in a rather buoyant mood, though she doesn't let it show on her face until she's at least a block from the guardhouse; this has been a minor achievement in a much grander scheme at the most, but seeing her truths affirmed in Harnley's emotional metamorphosis is still worthy of a smile.
As with most of her activities in the past year, there has been a secondary purpose to this visit: Harnley was indeed deserving of a reward for the integral part he played in her purification, and his skills are better served chasing Morrible out on the fringes of Oz. Granted, Morrible's still imprisoned fifty feet beneath the Emerald City, so the only thing he'll get to shoot will be the decoys she's had planted there for him to find, and maybe – if he's in luck – one of the servitors she uses to bombard the countryside with the Plague. However, by charging him with duties that keep him as far away from the Emerald City as possible, she also ensures that, even if he still harbours doubts about her allegiance, he won't be able to act on their confirmation when the time comes for the Wizard to surrender the throne. The same goes for all the other guardsmen who suspect her of wickedness (incorrectly) or sedition (correctly): when the revolution arrives, there will be no resistance towards her assuming control.
When the lonely hunters learn the news of the coup, they'll no doubt be shocked and dismayed; but they'll have their chance to continue working under her leadership. If they'd prefer it otherwise, well… those decoys can also be programmed to explode.
One way or the other, there will be no obstacles to the Purification of Oz.
For the last three weeks, the front pages of the local newspapers have been dominated by the Plague Witch's latest atrocities: magical lightning storms targeted at government buildings; crops decimated by fungi and other blights; creeping infernos that would have killed hundreds if not for the efforts of local firefighters; vanishings, disappearances and missing persons by the dozen; and of course, outbreaks of the Plague of Transformations. From Munchkinland to the Vinkus, from Quadling Country to Gillikin, the madness has raged back and forth across the country as the perpetrator flees across the outer regions of Oz, always remaining one step ahead of the authorities.
Every single disaster has been followed by an announcement by Morrible herself; though the witch never dared show her face in person, she always conjures a colossal illusion of herself in the sky above the scene of the crime, so that she can announce her demands to the terrified citizens below. The message is always different, but the gist of it is more or less the same: she will continuously lambast the people below for ignoring all her contributions to Ozian society, for having her arrested when she'd only been claiming what the Wizard had owed her, for replacing her with the likes of Glinda and Elphaba. She was more than just a witch, she would bellow: she was the only reason that the Wizard's government still stood. But she would have her revenge, she insisted again and again; before the year was out, she'd have her revenge.
Fortunately, ever since Morrible escaped from prison and fled for the outskirts, none of the monstrous hexes have been targeted at the Emerald City. Most of the citizenry believe that this is simply because the Plague Witch wouldn't dare attack the Wizard directly, but Glinda knows better: by now, Morrible is probably aware that Elphaba's finally recovered from the attempt poisoning and is now ready to defend both the city and the Wizard (and who would have thought she'd ever be doing that? Glinda laughs silently). Knowing full well the extent of Elphaba's powers, even the Plague Witch herself would think twice before challenging her former student.
And it's perhaps with this very knowledge in mind that Morrible seems to have taken a break: for the first time in twenty-two days, the newspapers have no atrocities to report; the front pages are bare, and the columns have nothing but speculation to offer. The people of the Emerald City are practically dancing in the streets as a result; with so much fear and so much uncertainty on the horizon, nobody can afford to waste a day like this – after all, it might never happen again. Unofficial celebrations have broken out all over the city, some of them more decadent than others, some of them even requiring the presence of the guards to stop things from getting out of hand: but whatever the venue, whatever the customers, of them are now playing host to an evening of frenzied, near-desperate revelry.
Of course, Glinda has her own celebrations to attend. There's still another patience-straining month to go until she and Fiyero are finally married, but in the meantime, there's medals to be awarded; perhaps in an attempt to get the city's elite involved in the festivities or maybe just to thumb his nose at the distant threat, the Wizard is conducting an official awards ceremony for everyone who helped to "unveil the Plague Witch and drive the dread sorceress from her den." And much to her surprise and amusement, this includes not only Fiyero, Harnley and the other guardsmen who apprehended Morrible in the first place, but Glinda herself. After all, it hadn't taken long for word to spread that the arrest had only succeeded through her efforts, and in these last few days, her name's been spoken with awe rather than the usual brand of adoration; more than once, she's heard people whisper that she and Elphaba should be crowned as the saviours of the city for their role in ending the initial reign of terror, some even dubbing the two of them with fanciful titles like "The Justice" and "The Healer."
So, it's with a sense of mingled pride and amusement that she finds herself standing before the assembled nobility of Oz in the palace ballroom, positioned at the end of a long line of uniformed figures designated "Heroes of Oz" and left to wait as the Wizard goes about pinning medals to their tunics, having "taken corporeal form for the occasion." As the most honoured of said heroes, Glinda stands at the very end of the line, directly to the left of Fiyero – or "Commander-Administrator Tiggular" as he's now known to the public; she's also afforded the most ostentatious of the medals, too, an impressive gold pendant studded with emeralds, "as befits a champion of the Emerald City." Much like everything else arranged by the Wizard, the ceremony's pure spectacle and not much more than that, and the rest of this supposedly ceremonial evening is going to be spent largely on eating, drinking, and dancing. Truth be told, though, Glinda can live with it: after the months spent living in fear of the Plague and the weeks spent wondering where Morrible would strike next, a bit of sociable frivolity was more than welcome. As for the pomp and ceremony, Fiyero and Elphaba are here, and the two of them can make anything bearable; Elphaba now commands so much influence that the lengthier speeches have been cut short before they could even begin, and on the occasions when the few remaining declarations get too ponderous, all Elphie has to do is nod in the direction of the speaker and suddenly the conclusion is in sight, along with the promise of wine, chocolates, and conversation – of which Elphaba's table always offers the best.
Sadly, Nessa isn't here to share the table with them: she's been spending most of her time cloistered in her apartment, worrying over her boyfriend down at the Asylum. Apparently, Biq has suffered a partial relapse and has been packed off to the infirmary until the doctors are sure it hasn't done any permanent damage; and because this is a symptom of the Plague, nobody's allowed anywhere near him, including Nessarose.
As for Fiyero, he's here beside her, squeezing her hand and whispering the occasional smart-assed remark in her ear during the more onerous moments of the ceremony, or maybe a suggestion of more interesting things they could be doing. Glinda's very glad that most of the crowd's attention is focussed on the speaker, otherwise somebody might have noticed her blushing – or giggling. Whatever the case, she's just thanking her lucky stars that they've been able to scramble back to this level of romance again.
For the longest time, Glinda had thought their relationship would never recover from the wounds the Plague had inflicted: the postponement of their wedding day, the fear, the paranoia, the long nights, Fiyero's harsh workload, that first terrible shouted argument; every single mishap had played its small part in twisting their lives out of shape. It had gotten so bad that Glinda had worried that the marriage would eventually be called off – and that was on the days when she hadn't been worrying that Fiyero might end up among the Plague's next victims. And even once the Plague had left the city and the panic finally died down, the recovery had been slow: Fiyero had been distant for the first few days, seemingly dissatisfied by all the free time his promotion had granted him; even when a new date had been set for the wedding he hadn't shown much enthusiasm. More than once, Glinda had found herself wondering if this was simply the way their relationship was going to be from here onwards: a dull, passionless ghost of the romance that had blossomed back at Shiz.
One miraculous evening later, though, and suddenly all her fears seemed permanently buried. With so much free time on their hands, the two of them had done little except lounge around their apartment, eat, drink and make love. The old passion is now alive and kicking once again, and the two of them are all the happier for it, because at long last, thing are going exactly as they predicted it was going to be all those years ago at Shiz. After all this time, they've earned their happy ending.
At long last, the ceremony finally collapses into celebration: the Wizard assumes his throne at the head of the ballroom; Elphaba stands beside him, deep in conversation; the guests all take their assorted places at the dance floor, the buffet table and the lounges; and finally, Glinda and Fiyero share a hug as they drift into the familiar motions of the dance.
Regardless of what becomes of the Wizard, the city, the Plague and even the Land of Oz itself, Glinda's happy to be facing it down with Fiyero by her side.
"Don't they make a lovely couple?" the Wizard remarks.
They do now, Elphaba reflects absently. It had taken no small amount of effort to permanently ground the psychological effects of the perception warp into Fiyero's brain without doing any kind of harm, but it had paid off one way or the other: for all intents and purposes, Fiyero now subconsciously identifies Glinda as Elphaba, even though he consciously understands the difference between the two; and while his waking mind clearly doesn't remember what he'd seen that night, he now approaches his betrothed with all the passion he'd been intending to show Elphaba. For the last few weeks, the two of them have been practically intoxicated by each other's presence, giggling and smiling with all the energy of the newly and madly in love – a perfect arrangement for their upcoming wedding.
"A perfect couple," she agrees.
"Perfect for each other?"
"That was their opinion from the moment they first met. But it's more than that, by now; there's an awful lot of morale being supported by the upcoming wedding. By now, they're perfect for all of Oz."
"Um, about that…"
Elphaba glances suspiciously at the Wizard: even if the shift in conversation wasn't so abrupt, the tone of voice is indication enough that something's gone horribly wrong.
"We may… have to postpone it. Only for a few months longer," he adds hastily, seeing the look on Elphaba's face. "Only until such time as we've dealt with the threat of the Plague Witch on a permanent basis: you see, we need every single guardsman at our disposal to find and capture her-"
"All of them?" There is anger in her voice, mixed with disbelief and shock, but all are heavily muted by the calm her enlightenment granted her.
"I'm afraid so. And that will require our now Commander-Administrator to direct troops in the field. It shouldn't take long – after all, Morrible's a powerful witch, but she's not as young as you were during your reign of terror; we should be able to bring her down in less than half the time."
"And twice the troops, it seems," Elphaba whispers icily. "Your Ozness, even if this wouldn't mean lasting damage to public morale and a lot of unnecessary heartbreak from both Fiyero and Glinda, it still wouldn't be a good idea. More troops in the field don't guarantee a successful capture: I've seen the reports of my own arrest, and you didn't deplete every garrison in Oz to get the job done; you kept enough working alongside city guards and police to keep order. Here and now, you propose leaving entire cities defenceless for the sake of combing the countryside for one elderly woman who doesn't even have the luxury of a broomstick or the Grimmerie. At best, it's impractical; at worst…"
Clumsy. Inappropriate. Meaningless. Ugly.
"Totally unnecessary," she finishes out loud. "With all due respect, what brought this idea on, Your Ozness?"
"Well… I'm sorry, Elphaba, but…" The Wizard cringes, his face warping with guilt. There's been an awful lot of that in his expression of late, but right now it's almost overpowering him. "There've been a number of complaints from some of my richer citizens: they're demanding that we do something more proactive to end the threat of the Plague Witch, and the plan for mass deployment of the guard was their idea. They're promising to pledge additional funds and resources to me if I can keep the Witch away from their holdings on the outskirts and bring her to justice."
"Do any of these richer citizens have military experience? Do any of them understand that their holdings in the cities will be in danger if they send literally every single guardsman on a nationwide hunt?"
"That… that's not the only reason." If anything, the Wizard now looks downright wretched. "They're insisting that the guards are also to begin the mass-evacuation of Animal settlements. It's just a temporary measure," he wheedled desperately, "At least until we can make sure that they aren't working for Morrible-"
"And they aren't. You know that as well as I do."
"Maybe I do, but the petitioners disagree: they're insisting that the Plague Witch has to have the support of the Animal community; they think it's the only way she could have escaped capture for so long."
Elphaba very gently covered her eyes with one hand and marvelled at the sheer ugliness of human stupidity. "Do these people actually know who Morrible was before she was unveiled as a terrorist?" she wondered out loud. "I mean, she actively profited off the Animals losing their rights the first time; she was in full support of having them all silenced. Why would any of them shelter her with a reputation like that?"
"I know, I know, it's stupid," the Wizard chuckles nervously. "I mean, they're acting as though she's been at large for years when it can't have been more than a month. But that doesn't change the fact that they're forcing my hand: they have the influence to make it happen, no matter how insane their demands are."
In other words, they're rich, old, prejudiced and intent on using Morrible as a way of getting the status quo restored. "And just what is supposed to happen to the Animals "evacuated"? Will there be cages involved? Perhaps re-education of some kind? Were the words "Animals Should Be Seen And Not Heard" used in this conversation by any chance?"
Suddenly, the Wizard can no longer meet her gaze. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.
"I imagine most of the Animals in Oz will be sorry as well. Why did you even bother letting them out of their cages and giving them rights again if you were just going to send them right back there two years later?"
"Look, I know it's not fair to have everything you worked for undone like this, but it has to be this way. These petitioners have the money and the power to make a lot of trouble for me; they might believe that I'm a wizard, but that won't stop them from exerting all the influence they have to pressure me into giving them what they want."
"And how do you know that?"
"I… well, I just do."
"Your Ozness, if you're not going to speak frankly with me, then why are you even sharing this information with me in the first place?"
The Wizard takes a very deep breath. "Before she… back when she was still a part-time advisor as well as my press secretary, Morrible kept a list of my wealthier citizens – specifically those who were powerful enough to pose a threat to my government if they wanted to and bold enough to ignore my usual tricks. The list ended up becoming evidence when Morrible was first arrested; it was one of the few things that survived the fire at barracks, and eventually it passed to me… and as it happens, most of the petitioners are on this list. I mean, look at it for yourself if you like…"
Reaching into the cavernous depths of his coat, the Wizard holds out a crumpled sheet of paper. Elphaba examines at it for a minute, taking in the names inscribed in the former press secretary's meticulous handwriting – the "petitioners" having been deliberately underlined in red by the Wizard. "Your Ozness," she says at last, "this list is more than six months out of date."
"Really?"
"Well, given that about half the people listed here are either dead or bankrupt, it'd be hard to see it any other way. As for the petitioners, times have changed for them unfortunately: they've lost a good deal of their money and influence since the Plague – some of them are barely keeping their business from collapsing."
"How can you tell?"
"Because I've been forced to negotiate with them before, and when it comes to ensuring that Animal rights remain unthreatened, it pays to keep detailed files on the most outspoken opponents - or supporters for that matter. The ones you've outlined are still able to exert a certain degree of influence, but nowhere near enough to threaten the government; all in all, the petitioners are of little concern."
For the most part, Elphaba's being perfectly honest; however, there is one name on the list that is of particular interest – but only to her: Lobald Lollast, Acting President of Northsweep Manufacturing. Having familiarized herself with the files, she knows for fact that the company in question is owned and run by none other than Mr Branderstove, and though the corpulent industrialist still recovering from the Plague, he's still capable of managing Northsweep via mail. Lollast is just the proxy who carries out his instructions, and judging by his dossier, he was chosen for the role of acting president specifically for his unquestioning loyalty – even in the face of an order that might challenge the Wizard's government. And with the web of business associates, contracts and political influence that the ailing company still commands, it wouldn't be entirely unfeasible to imagine that the petitioners might also be taking orders from Northsweep.
In short, Elphaba silently muses, Branderstove is trying to bully the Wizard into submission, using anti-Animal prejudices that he himself doesn't believe in, supposedly for the sake of defending his holdings – and they're mostly likely to be in the hands of another company by the end of the year anyway. What game is he playing? What inspired him to do this?
The Wizard must have noticed her eyes narrowing and thought the look was directed at him, because he immediately sinks back into the cushions of his throne, eyes closed in exasperation. "I know, I know," he sighs, "I made a mistake. I panicked and nearly did something unconscionably stupid. Is that what you want to hear?"
"No. What I want to know is why you didn't do any of this research yourself; as head of state, you could have just asked one of the clerks around here to look into these petitioners. So why didn't you?"
"Because I honestly didn't think to. Normally, when I've got questions that need answering, I ask Madame Morrible to make the necessary inquiries, but now… well, there's missing link in the chain. And…" The Wizard's expression twitches, suddenly registering an emotion that Elphaba has never seen on the tired old face before: shame. "I've been so reliant on her advice over the last eight years; even before she became my press secretary, she acted as part-time advisor – she'd figured out I wasn't really a Wizard and she was anxious to prove she could be of use to my government, even if it was only by mail. Politics, strategy, magic; she gave me information on everything I needed to know. Even when she was… even during the Plague, she still found time to provide the odd titbit of advice. And now that she's gone, I just… I don't know what to do half the time. I mean, don't get the wrong idea, I wasn't like this before she became advisor, it's just that I'm not used to being without her after all this time."
But Elphaba can tell it's nowhere near as simple as that: after all, she hadn't been entirely dishonest when she told Harnley that the Wizard's thoughts were troubled. She's had the old man watched for several days now, either by Chistery or a scrying spell, and it's painfully apparent that the Wizard is finding it almost impossible to concentrate on affairs of state. As the weeks pass, more and more of his time is spent either muttering to himself or contemplating the green bottle he took from her, his work left unattended, his meals ignored more often than not; every day, there's less and less variation in the schedule, more and more repetition of the same theme: incomprehensible mutterings, examination of one or both bottles, and Elphaba's name, whispered almost sorrowfully. Whatever's troubling the old man, it's obviously a matter of considerable guilt and sadness if it's managed to drive him to this level of distraction; normally, she'd be inclined to let the matter remain a private one – after all, it's no business of hers, and though the implications are certainly curious, the Wizard's grief is largely irrelevant to the bigger picture. Unfortunately, it's grown into a dangerous obsession too intertwined with the politics of Oz to be tolerated. In the end, it joins a long list of intolerable problems that make the Wizard unfit to rule this country.
"And you want me to replace her?" she asks quietly.
"Well, I know you're a bit busy for a third set of duties, so that's not what I had in mind-"
"Just as well. She's already replaced me as the resident menace; having me replace her as your advisor would just make this uncomfortable."
"-but I would like your advice here and now."
"Then call the petitioners' bluff: challenge them to do their very worst. If they try and press the logic of this delusional strategy, remind them that Morrible is an old woman with limited resources, no allies, and performed her best work from the comfort of a luxury apartment. Captain Harnley's team will find her soon."
"I'm afraid that may not be enough, Elphaba: until they confirm their limitations, I'm afraid that the wedding postponement is still on the table."
"In that case, I'll see if there's anything I can do to make them back off sooner and ensure that Glinda and Fiyero are married on time."
"Like what?"
"Well, Your Ozness, some jurisdictions now classify Plague victims as Animals; if these petitioners want to start torturing Animals into silence, they may have to face the troubling possibility that there might be some very prominent Ozian citizens among the condemned."
Including their CEO.
The Wizard finally smiles. "Good point," he mumbles. "Very good point. I'll see to it. In the meantime, I should let you get back to the party; you run along, enjoy yourself." His eyes widen. "Oh, one more thing: I already told you I found the list among Morrible's belongings, but there was something else removed before the fire…"
Reaching into a pocket of his coat, he holds out a stack of envelopes; leafing through the pile, Elphaba finds that all of them are addressed to her. For good measure, there's a note pinned to the topmost letter: M, it reads, No longer intercepting the goat's outgoing letters until you pay me. Don't care who this Dillamond is or what he wants with Thropp. If anyone finds out I'm interfering with Asylum Director's business, I'll be lynched. Work not worth pursuing without money. Keep the letters. Not having them around my house for someone to seize as evidence.
"Dr Dillamond was trying to contact me?" Elphaba whispers in astonishment.
"So it seems. I think Morrible considered him a… er, unwanted influence."
She was right in that respect, Elphaba reflects. I'll have to catch up with the good doctor soon; even if he no longer commands any influence in the Animal community, we still have much to discuss…
"That's to be expected," she replies aloud. "But how did you get hold of these? I'd have thought the chances of two paper items escaping the fire unharmed would have been astronomical." And so they were, especially considering that the "fire" had been arranged by Elphaba in order to disguise the mass-teleportation of Morrible's belongings into the depths of the Pottery.
"Well, the moment I heard that Morrible had made an attempt on your life, I ordered one of the guards to find as much evidence of it as possible and bring it straight to me; I was angry and hoping to prosecute the woman for it personally. Of course, once I heard about both the fire and Morrible's escape, the idea fell apart… and I eventually forgot I'd even kept these letters." He smiles sheepishly. "My memory's not what it once was."
Elphaba sighs silently: old age; yet another problem muddling the Wizard's effectiveness as a leader… and yet another ugliness infesting the world. It's bad enough that birth is such an ugly process, the very act of bringing a life into the world tainted by blood and pain and – all too often – death; the ugliness at the end is all too often tragic. Old age strips the strongest of their prowess and the wisest of their wits, forcing them to undergo all the myriad indignities their failing bodies can offer them, and subjecting them to humiliating, painful, and undeniably meaningless deaths. So few really die of old age; so few die peacefully in their sleep: more often than not, they linger in their agonies for months on end, either from illness or from injury, forced to watch their own bodies decay. And as for those who remain in some crude semblance of health and do not succumb to senility or madness, they all too often find themselves consumed by the melancholy of their former lives – the regret of might have been, and the sorrow for what never could be experienced again.
Slowly but surely, the Wizard is undergoing the same undignified collapse; the old showman is losing his grip on the audience, and the puppet show is falling to pieces. Maybe if Morrible hadn't made herself such an integral component of his regime, he might have forestalled the decay of his own warped brilliance… but then again, Morrible's undergone a collapse of her own: disease, old age and madness have eaten away at the press secretary, leaving only a sad, desiccated relic of her once-vivacious self – little more than a nuisance to the Pottery staff.
This ugliness will have to be dealt with once she has the power to act in the open.
So much will have to be changed. So much will have to be improved.
So much will have to be made beautiful.
"But perhaps you can improve that," the Wizard continues, brightly. "Perhaps there's some spell that can sharpen my mind?"
"You never know: anything's possible with magic, given time and appropriate application of resources. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think it's time I got back to the party. Judging by the look on her face, Glinda's starting to wonder what we could have been talking about for so long."
The Wizard nods. "As you say, Elphaba. Say hello to the betrothed for me…"
Soon, she says to herself as she marches away. Soon, the rotten figurehead will crumble and a beacon of light shall take its place. Nothing will stand in the way of the great purification, least of all you, old fraud. And perhaps its time I ensured that my newest apprentice will not oppose me when the time comes...
A/N: What is Branderstove trying to do? What will become of Mr Heart? When will the dreamers awaken? All this and more, in the next chapter!