Barnaby was, by all accounts, a model public servant. His knuckles, though sizable enough to be mistaken for river stones, were immaculately clean. His waistcoat, a sturdy tweed, was always buttoned. And his bridge—oh, his bridge was a masterpiece of civil engineering and bureaucratic efficiency. Every cobblestone was polished, every toll receipt was filed in triplicate, and the official “Bridge and Waterway Regulations, 3rd Edition” sat on his desk, its pages tabbed and annotated with a loving precision that bordered on the fanatical.
For Barnaby the troll, life was a blissful symphony of orderly queues and correctly filled-out forms. Until Tuesday.
Tuesday arrived in a cacophony of hoofbeats, flapping wings, and the delicate rustle of silk. At precisely 9:17 AM, three entities converged on the south entrance of his bridge. First, there was Princess Seraphina, whose gown was the color of a sunrise and whose expression suggested she’d just smelled something unpleasant, which, to be fair, was often the case in the wider world. Second, Sir Reginald the Valiant, his armor so polished it threatened to blind migratory birds, sat astride a horse that looked as exhausted by its rider’s self-importance as everyone else was. Third, and most problematically from an infrastructure standpoint, was Ignatius, a dragon whose scales shimmered like obsidian and who was currently idling with a low, sulphurous rumble that caused the nearby pines to shed their needles in protest.
Barnaby stepped out of his tollbooth, ledger in hand. “Welcome to the Gorge Crossing,” he said, his voice a pleasant baritone rumble. “Standard toll is three silver pieces for bipeds, five for quadrupeds, and… ah,” he paused, flipping through his regulations, “twenty for ‘scaled, fire-breathing megafauna.’ Please form a single, orderly queue.”
This was, it turned out, an optimistic request.
“I shall do no such thing,” Princess Seraphina announced, producing a scroll tied with a golden ribbon. “The Royal Right of Passage Act of 1102 clearly states that any member of the royal family has unconditional and immediate priority on all public thoroughfares. I am on my way to be rescued from a tower. It’s frightfully urgent.”
Sir Reginald cleared his throat, a sound like two anvils having a polite disagreement. “A noble cause, Your Highness, but one that must yield to the Knightly Code of Urgent Questing, Article 5, Section B. As the rescuer in this equation, my quest is, by definition, of ‘dire importance.’ Therefore, I have the right-of-way.” He waved his own, far more weathered scroll.
Ignatius simply snorted, a plume of smoke obscuring Sir Reginald’s polished helmet for a moment. “Amateurs,” he rasped, his voice like grinding stones. He tapped a massive claw on a lichen-covered stone at the bridge’s foundation. “See this marker? This signifies the Ancient Draconic Territorial Treaty. This gorge, and by extension any structure foolishly built across it, is my sovereign airspace and ground space. You’re all trespassing. I’ll cross first because I own the very concept of ‘across’ in this immediate vicinity.”
Barnaby felt a bead of sweat trickle down his mossy brow. This was unprecedented. Three conflicting, yet legally sound, claims. He retreated to his booth and hauled out the master copy of the Regulations. His finger, thick as a sausage, traced the lines of the index. ‘Disputes, Right-of-Way, Inter-species, subsection 4…’
He read. His brow furrowed. He read it again. He then consulted the appendices on Royal Decrees, Knightly Mandates, and Pre-Kingdom Pacts. A low groan escaped his lips. The situation was worse than he thought. The laws were all valid. The Royal Act post-dated the Knightly Code, but the Draconic Treaty predated the kingdom itself. There was a sub-clause that gave knightly quests precedence over royal convenience, but another footnote gave draconic territorial claims supremacy over all mortal laws. However, a much newer addendum stated that no law could supersede a Royal Act without a royal signet, which the treaty obviously lacked.
They had achieved perfect bureaucratic gridlock. No one could cross. Not legally.
Outside, the argument had devolved. Sir Reginald was questioning the dragon’s understanding of property law, the dragon was critiquing the metallurgical integrity of the knight’s armor, and the princess was complaining that this whole ordeal was going to throw off her rescue schedule.
Barnaby, clutching his head, did the only thing a true functionary could. He grabbed a sheaf of forms—the ‘Incident Report and Multi-Party Dispute Resolution Request,’ Form 74-B—and a quill. “I’m afraid there has been a procedural complication,” he announced, his voice trembling slightly. “The bridge is hereby closed pending a formal review. I’ll need statements from all of you. In triplicate, of course.”
The princess, the knight, and the dragon fell silent, turning as one to stare at the troll. For the first time all morning, they were in complete and utter agreement about something: bureaucracy was the real monster.