The Goblin Tower

Chapter Ten THE FACELESS FIVE

JORIAN AND KARADUR RODE DOWN THE VALE OF THE Kyamos on the fifth of the Month of the Pike. Spring was in full tide. Flowers of a hundred hues bloomed everywhere, every pond resounded to the croaking of frogs, and all the trees were in leaf. Although the drowsy heat of summer had not yet arrived, the warmth of the air hinted at its coining.

The two riders—Jorian on his faithful if bumpy Oser, Karadur on the white pony borrowed from Valdonius in Tarxia—no longer wore the heavy sheepskin coats that had seen them across the steppes of Shven. These garments were rolled up and lashed to their saddles behind them. The journey had taken them twice as long as it would have taken Jorian alone, because Karadur did not dare to move at more than a fast walk. Between fear of falling and fear of being late for the Conclave, the old magician was in a constant swivet.

The Kyamos was a small river, which presently widened out into the broad Lake Volkina. On the north shore of the lake stood Metouro City —or New Metouro as it was more exactly called. A bowshot from the shore, directly in front of the city, rose an islet, on which stood the Goblin Tower.

Lake Volkina was of relatively recent origin. A landslide in the western part of the valley had blocked the course of the Kyamos a few centuries before, flooding the original Metouro City and creating the lake. In time, the lake had overflowed the natural dam formed by the landslide, and the Kyamos had resumed its course across Ir to the Western Ocean.

At the East Gate, as they dismounted and gave their names to the sentries, a small man in gray appeared. "Doctor Karadur?"

"Aye."

"Drakomas of Phthai, at your service. Our colleague, Doctor Vorko, has asked me to conduct you to your quarters in the Goblin Tower."

"I feared," said Karadur, "that, because of our lateness, all space in the Tower would be taken."

"A thousand nays, fair sir! Knowing the worth of yourself and your companion and the burden you bear, we reserved a suite for you early. Pray come!" To the sentries, Drakomas said: "We vouch for these men."

The sentries waved Jorian and Karadur through. Metouro proved a larger and handsomer city than Tarxia, with straight streets crossing at right angles instead of Tarxia's tangle of winding alleys. While more prosperous-looking than those of Tarxia, the people seemed dour, reserved, and tight-lipped, giving the strangers brief, sidelong glances without any change of expression.

Drakomas led the two travelers, not directly to the boat landing for the Tower, but to an inn. He saw to the stabling of their mounts. In an upstairs room, they found a man and two nonhuman beings. Karadur said:

"Master Vorko, permit me to present my apprentice, Jorian of Ardamai. Jorian, know that this is Vorko of Hendau, the head of our White Faction."

"Your apprentice?" said Vorko, in a voice even deeper than Jorian's. "Is this not the former king of Xylar, who accompanied you as bodyguard and factotum?"

"Aye."

"Has he then determined to enter the profession?" Vorko of Hendau was an extremely tall, lean, knobby man, with a big, hooked nose and a jutting chin. His two attendants were of about human size and shape, but they had scales, tails, muzzles, fangs, talons, pointed ears, and mustaches consisting of a pair of fleshy tendrils, which constantly curled and uncurled and waved about like the tentacles of a small squid. Their big, yellow eyes had slit pupils.

Jorian was staring at the nonhumans as Karadur replied: "Nay, he has not taken the vows. But I hope that, by exposing him to the exoteric side of magic at the Conclave, I shall arouse his curiosity to the point where he will wish to do so. Meanwhile, by your leave, I will continue to call him 'apprentice' to make his admission easy. I trust that none will take technical umbrage at my so doing."

"I think not," said Vorko. "The rules are pretty loose these days. But what of your mission?"

"Esteemed colleague, we are happy to report success. The Kist, Jorian!"

Jorian unslung the little chest from his back and handed it to Vorko by its rope sling. "Here you are, sir," he said. "And now, since I have performed the task for which you laid me under a geas, may I ask that you lift this geas forthwith?"

"Oh, murrain!" said the enchanter. "You're entitled to it, youngling, and you shall have it—but not just now, for want of time. We must needs forth at once to the Tower, without even pausing to wash up. We shall be late as it is. Of course, Master Jorian, you need not attend the Conclave if you do not wish."

"Oh, I will indeed attend, forsooth! 'Tis a small enough reward for the risks and hardships I've undergone for you and your colleagues in the past half-year."

"Very good; off we go. The Kist will be safe here, with my servants to guard it."

"What are they?" asked Jorian.

"Demons from the Twelfth Plane, hight Zoth and Frig, fixed in material form on this plane and bound to my service for nine years. They are good, faithful guardians, albeit not very intelligent. Their main complaint is that I should invoke a demoness or two for them to consort with. But let us hasten; the ferry service is incredible." Vorko spoke a few syllables in an unknown tongue to Zoth and Frig, who bobbed their fanged heads in acknowledgment. Zoth picked up the duffel of the two travelers and silently followed them through the streets to the lake shore.

The lake shore of Metouro had several boathouses for small boats, a stretch of bathing beach, and a few small piers for pleasure craft. Lake Volkina was not large enough to carry commerce. On one pier, scores of men in dark robes and cloaks were lined up. Jorian, Karadur, and Vorko took their places in the line. The pier pointed towards the Goblin Tower, a bowshot away. A pair of rowboats, each pulled by a single rower, plied the water between the pier and the tower, taking passengers across three at a time.

"We've complained of this pediculous ferry service to the Faceless Five," said Vorko in a fretful tone, "but they as much as invited us to move our Conclave elsewhither. They've run the polis so long as they pleased that they are not accustomed to advice or complaints from anybody."

"The Metourians seem a grim lot," said Jorian.

"You would be grim, too, an you had to watch every word lest some nark bear tales to your rulers," said Vorko. "That's what it is to live in a land ruled by a secret society. Suspicion is the way of life here. They would not suffer us to meet in Metouro at all, save that we promised to confine our activities to the Tower. They recall the events that led up to the building of the Tower in the first place."

"I know not that tale," said Jorian.

A magician, robe fluttering, glided in on a broomstick to a landing on the beach. As he approached the shoreward end of the pier, with a carpetbag in one hand and his broomstick in the other, Vorko called out:

"Hail, Sir Fendix! You were asking me, Master Jorian?"

"About the Gob—"

"Certes! I will tell you the whole story—God den, good Doctor Bhullal How fares the art of Thaumaturgy in Janareth? To resume, Master Jorian: Once upon a time, Metouro was a republic, with a constitution like that of Vindium today. There was an elected archon, and a senate of heads of propertied families, and an assembly of the people. This scheme worked very well for many years, so long as Metouro was poor and backward, having just risen from the dark age that followed the fall of the Three Kingdoms. Ah, greeting, good Master Nors!"

This salutation was addressed to another magician, who first appeared in the form of a whirlwind of dust. This dust column danced along the beach until it neared the pier, when it collapsed into a brown-robed man.

"The trouble with all these flying spells," said Vorko, "is that they leave the thaumaturge so spent that he can do little for days thereafter. Watch Doctor Nors and Sir Fendix—the latter is an authentic Othomaean knight, turned to magic—and you'll see them dozing through all the sessions—some of which, I confess, are hard enough to wake in anyway.

"As I was saying, the republic flourished until wealth accumulated. Then the leading families gathered more and more land and coin into their hands, until a small clique of the rich ruled the polis, squeezing the much more numerous poor until the latter could barely survive. Behold, here comes Antonerius of Ir on his dragon! He is always fain to make a show of his arrival, but I'll wager he will have trouble stabling his monster."

The magician Antonerius glided into a landing on the back of a wyvern, a flying reptile with a forty-foot wingspread. The wind of the creature's wings fluttered the robes and cloaks of the magicians on the pier. A couple of attendants ran up to take the reptile's reins but shrank back when the beast arched its neck and snapped at them, disclosing fearsome fangs. Its rider whacked it over the head with a goad until it quieted.

"Why do they all land here instead of at the Tower?" asked Jorian.

"Because our good president, Aello of Gortü, has laid a preventive spell upon the Tower, lest in the heat of debate some colleague be tempted to launch a thunderbolt at his opponent or otherwise to wreak magical woe upon him. Hence no spell works in the Tower. If Doctor Sir Fendix, for ensample, were to seek to alight on the battlements, his broom might lose its power just before he touched down and dash him to his death on the rocks below.

'To resume: There arose in Metouro a man named Charens, one of the rich who had lost his wealth. He said the other oligarchs had swindled him out of his property. They said he had lost it by profligacy and dissipation, and we cannot now tell which had the right of it.

"This Charens became a leader of the poor, demanding reforms: such as compelling the rich to pay taxes, which irksome duty they had thitherto managed most featly to shirk. And he demanded that public moneys be spent on amenities for the poor, such as a public lazaretto and an orphanage, instead of things that benefited the rich only, like hunting lodges and banquet halls. At the next vote, Charens was elected archon despite the efforts of the rich to intimidate the voters and miscount the ballots."

The wyvern had at last been brought under control. While several attendants held its head by ropes, the rider dismounted and tied the animal's wings in the furled position, so that it could no longer flap. Then the attendants dragged away the reptile, hissing and bucking. A huge black vulture now glided in, flopped down on the sand, and changed into another wizard.

"As soon as Charens got power," continued Vorko, "he began to effect his reforms. This so enraged the rich that they hired a gang of bravos to slay Charens as he walked home from the marketplace. Since, under the then constitution, the man having the second largest number of votes became vice-archon, the candidate of the rich became archon and rescinded all of Charens' reforms.

"The oligarchs, howsomever, had not reckoned on Charens' younger brother, Charenzo. This Charenzo had greatly loved and admired his brother, and now he swore to devote his life to vengeance. And soon he had gathered a secret following. One year after the murder of his brother, he led a revolt, which slaughtered many of the rich and forced the rest to flee. This was the first of the great massacres, which for the next few years convulsed the history of Metouro, with heads piled in heaps in the marketplace, and howling mobs cheering on the torture of captives and tearing their opponents' women and children to pieces.

"Charenzo proved a less able and enlightened and much more violent man than his brother. Reforms and public amenities interested him less than vengeance upon his brother's slayers—a class which he little by little expanded to include everybody who opposed him. Hardly a day passed in Metouro but that some unfortunate was led out to death at his command as a suspected oligarch, or at least as a factor of oligarchy.

"With each execution, Charenzo made more enemies, and even his friends began to be bored and alarmed by the endless charges of treason and oligarchical leanings. When a party of exiled oligarchs appeared with an army of Shvenic mercenaries, they routed Charenzo's armed rabble and seized control of Metouro once more. Then they had their turn at massacre and execution.

"Charenzo escaped from Metouro. Since his people had failed him, he determined to seek supernatural aid. So he sought out the sorcerer Synelius in Govannian. This Synelius was a Metourian, exiled because he was under sentence as a witch. One of Charenzo's own judges had sentenced him in his absence, Synelius having learnt from his spirits what was toward and having prudently fled.

"Now, however, Charenzo made common cause with his former foe. And Synelius said that, yes, he could summon an army of goblins—the vulgar name for demons of the Ninth Plane—to oust the present regime in Metouro. The new oligarchical government, like their predecessors, had learnt nought from experience and were oppressing and exploiting the poor as ruthlessly as ever.

"So Charenzo and Synelius and a host of goblins suddenly appeared amongst the Metourians. Terrified of supernatural beings, the terrible Shvenic mercenaries fled. So did many Metourians, until Charenzo closed the gates and posted goblins as sentinels.

"So began another period of rule by the fierce and implacable Charenzo. Being nocturnal, the goblins were seldom seen in the daytime. But at night everybody cowered behind locked and barred doors, lest one of these bouncing, huge-headed creatures enter to drag him off to some nameless doom.

"Charenzo resumed his reign of terror, until at length Synelius warned him that he was killing off the Metourians faster than they were being born, and that if he continued this process long enough he would have no subjects left to rule. This advice aroused Charenzo's suspicions of his ally, or perhaps he had planned all along to rid himself of Synelius as too dangerous to let live.

"Professing great interest in Synelius' magic, he flattered the old man until the latter revealed the spells and words of power whereby he controlled the goblins. Then Charenzo had Synelius arrested and thrown into a dungeon in the bowels of the citadel, which stood on a hill in the midst of the city. Synelius called upon his goblins to rescue him, but Charenzo countermanded the order. So the goblins did nothing. Not having his magical paraphernalia in his cell, Synelius could not work a spell to free himself by other magical means.

"Meanwhile, a conspiracy had arisen among a group of Metourians, which included representatives of men of all degrees: rich, poor, and intermediate. These people formed a secret society, called simply the Brotherhood, with passwords and oaths and other mummery. They chose a committee of five to command the society, including representatives from Metourians of as many different kinds as possible: rich and poor, young and old, male and female. Thus, if one was a rich old woman, another would be a poor young man to balance her.

"Through one of its members who was also a member of the prison guard, this Brotherhood heard about the imprisonment of Synelius. With the help of this member, they gained access to the dungeon and presented forged documents apparently signed by Charenzo, commanding the warder to deliver Synelius to them. Thus they got the sorcerer out of jail. And when they had taken him to a place of refuge, they urged him to throw in his lot with them. When he agreed to this, they demanded to know if he could get rid of the goblins. Alas no, he said, for that Charenzo now controlled them and could countermand his orders that they return to their own plane.

"Things were not, however, hopeless, for he knew a mighty spell that would turn the goblins to stone. When he said it required human sacrifice, the conspirators drew lots. And when a promising youth drew the fatal lot, the oldest conspirator, who had been an oligarch, insisted on taking his place, saying he was not for many years and was too full of obsolete ideas and prejudices to be useful in the new regime.

"So the spell was cast. There was a mighty flash of lightning, and a deafening roar of thunder, and a shaking of the earth. The citadel collapsed with a frightful crash, burying Charenzo in the ruins, and a landslide blocked the Kyamos below Metouro City. On that instant, every goblin in Metouro was turned into stone. When the conspirators ran to see how Synelius fared, they found the old sorcerer dead with a peaceful look on his face.

"The Brotherhood then reorganized the city according to their own ideas. They insisted on remaining secret, and this is why Metouro is ruled today by a committee of the Brotherhood called the Faceless Five. These appear in their official capacity wearing black masks, and nobody is supposed to know who they are. When the blocking of the Kyamos created Lake Volkina and flooded the old Metouro City, they built a new one, laid out by an architect with straight, wide streets. Since the citadel was in ruins and the hill whereon it stood was become a mere islet in Lake Volkina, they cleared away the rubbish and built a new stronghold, in which they used not only the unbroken stones from the former citadel but also the hundreds of stones into which the goblins had been turned. Thus this edifice became known as the Goblin Tower.

"Originally, the Faceless Five dwelt in the Goblin Tower. But a century ago they gave up this habit, partly because it made their comings and goings too conspicuous, so that their anonymity was hard to preserve, and partly because the Tower itself was uncomfortable, having been designed more as a fortress than as a human abode."

"How have the Metourians made out under their Faceless Five?" asked Jorian.

"Well in some ways, not so well in others. Like all such self-perpetuating cliques, the main concern of the Five had been to keep all power firmly in their own hands. On the whole, they have given the polis an efficient government, with a fair degree of prosperity. They still have rich and poor, but no industrious man need starve. Not having a glittering court like Mulvan's or an extravagant temple like Tarxia's to keep up, they have not felt the need to squeeze every last farthing out of their subjects. And the custom of choosing members of the Five to represent persons of as many different kinds as possible has made their rule fairly even-handed.

"On the other hand, there is precious little personal freedom in Metouro. The ordinary citizen says little, lest his interlocutor be an informer, and he looks over his shoulder before answering a question about the time of day. Personally I prefer Vindium, with all its disorder and corruption, to quite so oppressively virtuous a regime. Unless—" (the enchanter smiled wryly) "—I myself could be the ruler!"

During this story, Jorian and his companions had inched forward along the pier. As Vorko finished, one of the rowboats drew up, and the three stepped aboard. Zoth dropped Jorian's and Karadur's bundles of gear into the boat, nodded silently to Vorko, and started back for shore.