"I cannot," said Valdonius. "I must forgather with those of my opinion, to see if we cannot overthrow this priestly tyranny with one sharp blow. Such a chance may not recur during my lifetime. I will lend you the horse; but I expect you to stable it in Metouro until I can send a servant to fetch it back—if I do not end up standing on a pile of faggots."
"Or you may have to flee to Metouro yourself," said Jorian. "When the hierarchy recovers its wits, it will soon infer that you must have had something to do with the theophany of their god. Meanwhile, let's be on our way whilst the gates are still open."
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!"