The Goblin Tower

Chapter Eleven THE GOBLIN TOWER

AS THE SURLY, SILENT BOATMAN ROWED THEM TOWARDS the island, the Goblin Tower loomed up over their bow. It was a simple structure in the form of a narrow ellipse with forty-foot curtain walls. At each end, a single large round tower rose another twenty-odd feet higher. A slender arched stone bridge joined these towers near the summits. The shape of the islet dictated the extreme narrowness of the structure.

The Tower had a drawbridge, which, however, did not join anything at its outer end. It merely hung out over the water and served as a landing pier. Jorian climbed out with his companions and followed them through the gate, under the portcullis, and into a hall. There was no open court inside this tower; the edifice was completely roofed over and built up inside.

In the hall, magicians stood in line before a desk, at which sat a man in a black robe, with a red, conical cap of stiff paper on his head. On the front of this cap was written, in large letters with a broad-pointed pen, the words:

FORCES OF

PROGRESS

SIXTY-FIRST

ANNUAL

CONCLAVE

GNOUX,

RECEPTION

A bulletin board, listing the events of the convention, stood near Receptionist Gnoux.

As Vorko and Karadur reached the desk, the receptionist asked their names, wrote them on a piece of paper, and pasted the slips to the fronts of conical caps like his own but black. He handed them their caps and room keys. When Jorian's turn came, Karadur told Gnoux:

"This is Jorian of Kortoli, my apprentice. I have paid your registration fee, Jorian."

"Welcome, Master Jorian," said Gnoux. "How spell you that?… Here you are." Gnoux handed Jorian a dunce cap like the others, but white to denote Jorian's rank as apprentice, with his name written on the front. "You shall room in twenty-three, with Doctor Karadur."

"Have you an extra key?" asked Jorian. "The good doctor and I may come and go at different times."

"Here you are. Welcome again to this learned assemblage!"

Jorian asked: "Has one Porrex of Vindium registered?"

Gnoux consulted a list. "Nay, though you're the third conventioner to ask me that."

"Peradventure he's swindled the others, too, and they hope to take it out of his hide."

"Well—ah—" said Gnoux, trying to hide a smile, " 'tis not my affair, but I did overhear some remarks about red-hot pincers applied to sensitive areas."

Jorian followed Vorko to the ballroom at the end of the hall, which had been turned into an auditorium. It was full of seated male and female magicians, wearing conical caps. When they had found seats, Vorko whispered to Jorian:

"That's President Aello, up there."

The president, wearing a golden dunce cap, was a tall, stooped old man with a long white beard cascading down the front of his black gown. He was introducing celebrities, each of whom received a patter of applause: "… and I am informed that we have with us the distinguished necromancer, Omphes of Thamoe, whose stable of spirits includes some of the most eminent shades not yet reincarnated. Will you stand, Doctor Omphes? Thank you… And we also have the preeminent wizardess, Goania of Othomae; will you take a bow, Mistress Goania?…"

Jorian remembered the gray-haired woman and tried to catch her eyes, but she was too distant. He squirmed on his bench, looking about him. A figure standing against the back wall, near the door, caught his attention. This was a burly, porcine man wearing a red cap. With a shock, Jorian recognized Boso, son of Trüs, the ex-gongringer with whom he had fought in Othomae, and whom Goania had taken into her service. Boso not only carried a cudgel but also wore a sword. Jorian wondered if Vanora, too, would be there. Aello of Gortü droned on:

"… the worthy astrologer, Ktessis of Psara; will you stand, Master Ktessis?…"

Increasingly bored and hungry, Jorian wondered if he had been so clever to insist on attending the Conclave after all. He soon lost track of the names. His eyelids became heavy, and twice he caught himself falling forward from his sitting position. He was pinching himself to keep awake when Aello mercifully ended the introductions and announced:

"The first item on the program will be a paper by the learned Bhulla of Janareth on 'Familial Organization and Kinship Nomenclature amongst Demons of the Eighth Plane.' Doctor Bhulla."

Amid scattered applause, a small, potbellied, brown man took Aello's place on the dais and began to read a paper, in a squeaky monotone with a strong Mulvanian accent. Although Jorian, if largely self-educated, was fairly well-read, the discourse was completely unintelligible to him. When he found himself nodding again, he whispered to Karadur:

"I'm going out for a while. Where's our room?"

"One flight up at the west end. I shall accompany you, for the next item is an auction of magical properties, old manuscripts, and historic mementoes of our profession. I think I will absent myself therefrom, also."

"Is there any place to eat in this pile?"

"There will be a dinner here, in this ballroom, one hour ere sunset. A costume ball will follow."

Jorian suppressed a groan. "That's three hours yet! I shall starve meanwhile. Lend me a few pence, will you?"

He followed Karadur out into the main hall but paused to look the company over while the old magician tottered off towards his quarters. In the main hall, Jorian discovered that many others at the Conclave, too, were playing truant from the lecture. Little groups of magicians stood in knots, discussing professional matters with expressive gestures and grimaces. The shrill laughs of women cut the air; there were several such groups, from young to old, some wearing the conical caps of registered magicians and some not. The latter, Jorian supposed, were attached to the magicians in one capacity or another. He wondered about Karadur's insistence that celibacy was an absolute requirement for rising high in the profession.

A small, dimly lit room was filled with magicians sitting at tables, munching dried chick-peas and drinking wine or beer. Jorian squeezed in and took an empty seat. The three men at the table were in the midst of a hot technical discussion. They smiled and nodded to Jorian with absent-minded politeness and went on with their talk:

"… that astral movement being circular, every azotic or magnetic emission which does not encounter its medium returns with force to its point of departure, does it not?"

"Aye," said another, "but you must admit that the duodenary, being a complete and cyclic number in the universal analogies of nature, invariably attracts and absorbs the thirteenth, which is regarded as a sinister and superfluous number. Hence your cycles will fail to recapitulate their elements in synchronous order—"

"You are both wrong," said the third, "having forgotten that in nature there are two forces producing equilibrium, and these three constitute a single law. Here, then, is the triad resumed in unity, and by adding the conception of unity to that of the triad we are brought to the tetrad, the first square and perfect number, the source of all numerical combinations and the principle of all forms. Hence the astral currents will cycle homogeneously…"

Jorian became so uncomfortable at being compelled to listen to this incomprehensible talk, while being completely ignored, that he left as soon as he had finished his ale. Outside, he paused before the bulletin board. The board listed the lecture now in progress and the auction to follow it. After that would come a panel discussion on "Invisibility," followed in turn by an informal dinner and a costume ball.

The next morning would be taken up with a debate over the Altruists' proposal to end all secrecy surrounding magic, offering its benefits freely to the general public. There would be a testimonial luncheon to Aello as outgoing president. In the afternoon there would be several learned papers, including a demonstration of evoking a fiend from the thirty-third Mulvanian hell. A small red star after the name of this experiment indicated that it was dangerous.

The evening would see the formal dinner, with awards to deserving magicians and a speech by Doctor Yseldia of Metouro, the guest of honor. Madame Yseldia would talk of recent advances in the enchantment of flying broomsticks. After the banquet would come a series of small closed meetings, to which master magicians only were admitted.

The third and final day would have a couple of papers in the morning and then the business meeting, at which a new president would be elected, the site of the next year's Conclave chosen, and amendments to the constitution of the Forces of Progress considered.

Having absorbed this information, Jorian began to walk away from the board. Then he started and stared as he sighted Vanora, talking with a group of women. The tall, angular girl wore a long gown of emerald-green silk, with a little round cap on her long, black, glossy hair. She was much changed from the bedraggled wench he had left in Othomae. Despite the irregularity of her features, she looked almost pretty and certainly attractive.

"Good morrow, Mistress Vanora!" he said.

"Well, Jorian!" she cried. "Your pardon, girls; here's an old gossip of mine." She took Jorian's arm and walked down the hall. "Did you really rescue that box of moldy screeds from the King of Kings?"

"Aye, that we did and got away with whole skins. How wags thy world?"

She made a face. "That stinkard Boso… But Goania's a dear. I stay with him more for her sake than for his." She pinched a piece of the emerald gown and pulled it out from her body. "She got me this."

"Very pretty. Didn't I see Boso in the ballroom just now?"

"Aye; he's been made sergeant-at-arms, which is to say the same post as ejector that he held at the Silver Dragon in Othomae. But never mind me, who have led a tame enough existence for the past sixmonth. Tell me of your adventures! Rumor has gone out of your hairbreadth escapes."

Jorian grimaced. "Most of these escapades I should have been most heartily glad to be quit of whilst they were happening, I can tell you, however jolly they sound in the later retelling."

"I suppose you'll say you were frightened half to death?"

" Tis the simple truth. After all, I'm no swaggering gallant, but a simple craftsman who would like to settle—but ere I bore you with a four-hour account of my doings, can you find me something to eat? I have scarcely bared a fang since dawn. We rode from Thamoe to Metouro this morn and then came directly hither without stopping to eat or wash. So I'll not utter another word until I'm fed."

Vanora showed Jorian to the kitchen and wheedled a bun and a flagon of beer from the chief cook. Between bites, Jorian told of some of his experiences in Mulvan and Shven.

Two hours later, he paused to say: 'Time is passing, and here I waste our time in self-conceited narration of my own petty affairs! I can resist almost any temptation, save an invitation to talk. Methinks the session nears its end, and I had best rejoin my master."

"Have you become Karadur's apprentice in fact as well as in name?"

"Nay, though a reason for attending this Conclave is to see how I like the profession of magic. But I doubt if the rewards of high magic will persuade me to give up women."

"By giving up all the pleasures of the flesh, Goania tells me, the most skillful adepts can prolong their lives to twice or thrice that of common mortals."

"Or perhaps it only seems twice or thrice as long, without wine or women."

Vanora looked at Jorian in a marked manner. "Ah—it is about such matters that I would speak to you in conf—"

"Your pardon, Mistress Vanora, but I really must go, instanter!" Jorian handed his empty flagon to a cook. "I'm stinking filthy from travel and must remedy this condition before dinner."

He gave the girl his arm and started briskly for the main hall. There he excused himself and found room twenty-three. He let himself in with his key and found a small sitting room and a small bedroom with two narrow beds. Karadur had been to the suite but had gone out again. Jorian cleaned himself up, trimmed his beard to a dashing point, put on his one clean shirt, tried to shine his battered boots, and returned to the ballroom.

There he found that the auction had ended and the panel discussion on invisibility was in progress. The panelists, who sat in a row on the platform, had finished their prepared statements and were answering questions from the audience. President Aello sat at one end of the row and pointed his wand at auditors he wished to recognize. As Jorian entered, a man stood up, beginning:

"I should like to ask—"

"State your name and speciality, pray," said Aello.

"Merkon of Boaktis, theurgic sorcerer. I should like to ask the honorable members what the advantage would be to making all of themselves but their eyeballs invisible? I should find a pair of disembodied eyeballs following me around quite as obvious as a visible man, and much more disconcerting."

"As I thought I had explained," said one panelist, "total invisibility, while achievable, has the disadvantage of blinding the person employing it, because there is no interaction betwixt the rays of visible light and the substance of human eyes to produce the sensory phenomenon we know as 'sight.' I thought this was known to every apprentice. Hence total invisibility is practical only as a measure for extreme emergencies, when one is hotly pursued. Since the invisible one cannot see until he lifts the spell, he must needs rely upon other senses to warn him of the close approach of his foes—especially his astral sight. But this faculty is poorly developed in most mortals. With visible eyeballs, on the other hand, one can at leisure examine forbidden things, provided one stays far enough from the nearest observer that one's eyes are not noticeable.

Jorian kept looking for Karadur but could not see him. Hundreds of dunce-capped magicians looked much alike from the back, and Karadur had shifted his place. Jorian began tiptoeing around the aisle at the edge of the hall, in order to see the faces of the audience from the side. In so doing, he came face to face with Boso.

"You!" whispered the sergeant-at-arms, reaching for his sword, "I ought to—"

"Behave yourself, Boso!" said Jorian.

"Futter you! You behave yourself, or I'll—"

"Shh!" said several magicians, facing towards the pair and scowling.

Boso quieted, and Jorian continued his search, sweeping his glance back and forth against row after row of faces—pink faces, gray faces, tan faces, brown faces; clean-shaven faces, mustached faces, bearded faces; young faces, middle-aged faces, old faces; male faces and female faces. At last, when he thought he would have to give up, he sighted Karadur across the auditorium, sitting with his conical cap on his head and his turban in his lap. The wizardess Goania sat next to him. Jorian quietly joined them.

The panel discussion was nearly over. When Aello declared the session adjourned, hundreds of magicians rose and stretched.

"Whither now?" said Jorian.

"There will be an apertif in the library," said Karadur, "but I take no fermented beverages. I think I will rest until dinner. Why do you not escort Goania thither?"

"Colossal ideal" said Jorian. "Mistress Goania, may I have the honor?"

"One thing in parting," said Karadur. "Here, of all places, guard that flapping tongue!"

"I'll try," said Jorian.

In the library, Jorian drank spiced wine and nibbled snacks of salt fish and cookies with Goania, who introduced him to countless wizards, sorcerers, necromancers, diviners, and other practitioners of the magical arts. He soon lost track of names and faces. During a pause, he asked the wizardess:

"How is Vanora making out with Boso?"

"Oh, they had a terrible quarrel yesterday and are not speaking today. But that is how things go with them. Tomorrow they will have forgotten what they were fighting over."

"She gave me the impression she wasn't happy with him. After all, she is a person of some intelligence, if badly organized, whereas he lacks the brains of a polliwog."

"That she is unhappy most of the time I grant. The question is would she be happier with anyone else? I doubt it, for it is her nature to be unhappy and to make those about her unhappy. All of us have some of this in our natures and she, poor girl, has more than most." Goania looked sharply at Jorian. "You and she were close at one time, weren't you?"

"Aye, though it was a painful pleasure."

"Are you nurturing sentimental ideas of 'taking her away from all this,' or otherwise sacrificing yourself to make her happy?"

"No-o," said Jorian hesitantly, because such ideas had in fact been flitting through his mind.

"Well, if any have, dismiss them at once. You cannot change the basic nature of a grown man or woman, even by magical spells. If you took up with her again, you would find you had acquired, not a lover, but a sparring partner—a rdle for which Boso's grossness and stupidity fit him far better than your qualities fit you."

Jorian drew himself up. "You forget, Mistress Goania, that I left five lovely wives behind in Xylar. One of them at least—my little Estrildis— I hope to fetch away some day, to settle down and lead a simple craftsman's uneventful life."

Goania shook her head. "I have cast your nativity and studied your palm, and I fear that a quiet craftsman's life is the one boon the gods do not have in store for you. As for the wenches, I suggest that you adhere to your resolve to regain your Estrildis when you are lured into other bypaths." She glanced across to where Vanora stood, surrounded by young men. "From the way she is guzzling, I suspect we have one of Vanora's lively evenings ahead of us."

"What mean you by that?"

The wizardess sighed. "You shall see."

The library became more and more crowded, as more conventioners drifted in. The noise rose, as each speaker found he needed to raise his voice to make himself heard. Soon the room was packed with magicians and their helpers, all shouting at the tops of their lungs.

Jorian tried to introduce himself and engage those about him in talk but, despite his natural gregariousness and garrulity, with little success. He had to bellow to make himself heard, and the replies, when they came, were mostly unintelligible. He could catch only an occasional word, and that word was often so distorted that he could not tell whether it was a common word misunderstood or some esoteric magical term.

After a while, Jorian became bored by this noncommunication. He tried an experiment. To a long-bearded, dignified wizard, he solemnly shouted:

"Sir, did you know that the ultifang had metisold the otch whangle?"

The wizard's bushy, white eyebrows rose, and he uttered what sounded like: "You do not say sol We mist certimate glasso in the thourimar!"

"Aye, sir, I had it from the bolimbrig gazoo. No doubt abung it. When is the Soiling gebisht in vemony?"

"On the fenty-nifth, I shink."

"Perzactly, perzactly. It's been a mosure, sir!"

But even this amusement palled in time. Jorian's feet were tired from standing and his head rang with the uproar when dinner was at long last announced. He took Goania in, but as an apprentice he ate with the others of his rank, while Goania joined Karadur to sup with the other master magicians. Remembering Karadur's last injunction, Jorian refrained from an account of his adventures. Instead, he confined himself to polite replies, leading questions to encourage the others to talk, and occasional quips and humorous verses to turn aside their curiosity about him.

"Are you donning a costume tonight?" asked one of his table mates.

"Alas! My master and I arrived late, without time to gather materials. Now I could only go as one shabby travelworn apprentice. But tell me how this contest works, since this is my first Conclave."

"We must clear this hall to allow the servitors to remove the tables and push the benches back along the walls," said another apprentice.

"A long platform is erected against yonder wall. Then those in costume assemble on the floor, whilst those not so clad sit on the benches. There is always a fuss over folk who stand up, blocking others' view, or inch forward into the press of the costume wearers.

"The master of ceremonies takes the names of all those in costume and calls upon them, one by one, to parade up one end of the platform and down the other, whilst the judges sit, looking judicious and marking their tablets. After all have paraded, the few best are called back to parade again, and from these the judges choose the prize winners."

"We have some comical rules," said another apprentice. "To give an example: human beings may parade in the guise of spirits, but demons, spirits, or other denizens of other planes and dimensions may not enter the contest at all. You'll see old Aello standing at one end of the platform and waving his wand at each contestant as he goes by. His great protective spell is supposed to make disguise by spirits impossible, but he wants to make doubly sure."

"And then," resumed the first apprentice, "there is a rule against complete nudity."

"Why?" said Jorian. "I have always thought that well-formed women looked their best that way."

"So did some of our lady conventioners. It got to be that twenty or thirty of these dames would parade as nude as frogs, so that the event bade fair to degenerate into a body-beauty contest and not a costume contest at all. There was a terrific row, with factions shaking fists and threatening maleficent spells. So a panel of the oldest and wisest magicians was appointed to arbitrate. These decided that a naked person is not, by definition, wearing a costume."

"In other words," said Jorian, "no costume is no costume. A fine philosophical and grammatical point."

"Precisely," beamed the apprentice. "Hence, naked human beings might not enter, not being in costume. But that didn't end the matter. There was a squabble only last year, when Madame Tarlustia, the Kortolian sorceress, paraded with no adornment other than a large jewel pasted into her navel. Did she qualify or didn't she? They ruled that she qualified but won no prizes, her garb displaying neither sufficient ingenuity, nor effort, not esthetic appeal. But 'twas a near thing. Had she been twenty years younger and twenty pounds lighter, the decision might have gone the other way, for she was still a fine figure of a woman."

Two hours after dinner, the company filed back into the ballroom. Jorian noted that most of those in costume—as far as he could see their faces at all—tended to be the younger element at the Conclave: the apprentices and assistants. The older wizards and wizardesses, by and large, preferred to sit sedately on the benches around the walls.

After an hour of milling about and getting the parade organized, the master of ceremonies mounted the platform. On the farther side of this platform, with their backs against the wall, sat the nine judges. President Aello stood at one end of the platform with his wand. The master of ceremonies looked at a list and called:

"Master Teleinos of Tarxia!"

An apprentice, dressed like a demon from the Fourth Plane, climbed the steps at one end of the platform, walked slowly past the judges, and descended the steps at the other end. While he paraded around the hall past the spectators, the master of ceremonies called:

"Masters Annyx and Forion of Solymbria!"

A dragon of cloth and lacquer, borne by two apprentices who represented the monster's legs, mounted the platform.

"Mistress Vanora of Govannian!"

Vanora, flushed but not staggering, marched up the platform in the guise of an undine. This consisted of a knee-length shift of transparent green gauze. Lengths of artificial seaweed were braided into her long black hair. She wore green gloves with webbing between the fingers, and her eyelids, lips, and toenails were painted green.

"Doctor Vingalfi of Istheun!…"

And so it went for three hours. In the end, Vanora won a third prize. Then an orchestra played. Jorian came up to congratulate Vanora, who was again surrounded by apprentices. Boso hovered, glowering unhappily, in the background. She was saying:

"They're playing a Kortolian volka. Which of you knows how to dance it?"

"I was once deemed an expert," said Jorian, extending his elbow for her to take. He nodded politely to Boso, saying: "With your kind permission, sir…"

"Oh, to the next incarnation with him!" said Vanora, seizing Jorian's arm and tugging him out upon the floor. "The witling can't dance a step."

Off they went, stamping and whirling. Although Vanora's breath was heavy with wine, the liquor she had drunk did not seem to have affected her excellent dancing. But the volka is vigorous, and the air was warm and balmy. By the end of the piece, both Jorian and Vanora were bathed in sweat. They found a refreshment table, where Vanora gulped down enough iced wine at one draft to have laid an ordinary drinker flat.

"Jorian dear," she said, "I was a damned fool to carry on about your serpent princess, as I did in Othomae. As if a drunken slut with a hot cleft, like me, should take umbrage at whom you frike on a mattress with! But it's my curse, to rail at every decent man and to bed with swine like Boso."

As she spoke, Jorian's eyes traveled over her body. Vanora wore nothing under the gauzy shift, whose sheerness bent the nudity rule as far as it would bend without snapping. Jorian tried to focus his mind on his lost Estrildis, but the blood poured into his loins.

"Say no more," he said, realizing his voice had thickened. "I'm sure I should have enjoyed it more with you than with her. At least, you wouldn't have tossed a man clear out of bed on the floor!"

"Did she, actually?"

"No, but it was a near thing. And the postures those Mulvanians use! But come, isn't it stuffy in here with all these people?"

"Aye. Have you been up to the battlements?"

"No, I haven't. Let's go."

On the battlements the moon, in its first quarter, was just setting. Stars glowed overhead, while in the south a mass of cloud was fitfully lit by the flicker of distant lightning.

"Isn't it warm for this time of year?" he said, sliding an arm around her waist.

"It is rather. Methinks we shall be in for a rainy spell." She turned slowly towards him and tipped back her head. "What of those Mulvanian postures?"

Soon afterwards, they walked lightly down the corridor leading to room twenty-three. Jorian's pulse pounded in his temples. He whispered:

"I haven't seen old Karadur all evening. If he's in our room, we shall have to try yours. If he's not, I'll lock him out."

"I know where some pallets for late-arriving guests are kept," she whispered. "We could drag one up to the roof."

"We shall see." Jorian tried the door of his suite and found it locked. He inserted the key he had received upon registration and quietly unlocked the door. He pushed it open a crack, then froze, listening. Vanora began:

"What is—"

Jorian made a quick chopping motion with his hand. The look of feral lust on his face had vanished, replaced by a hunter's stealthy alertness.

He pushed the door open a little wider, and a little wider yet, until it was open enough for him to slip through. The sitting room was dark, but a candle was lit in the bedroom. The door between the two was ajar, so that a narrow wedge of light slashed across the sitting room. Voices came from the bedroom, and between the snatches of speech the crackle of old parchment could be heard.

"Here's our scroll," said a voice. "By all the gods and demons! Tis a version of the sorcerer Rendivar's great counter-spell, thought to have been lost for aye."

"There's our answer," boomed the deep voice of the magician Vorko. "As I see it, we shall have to proceed by three stages. The first, to be performed tomorrow at the start of the debate, will be to work this counter-spell, thereby opening the way for subsequent actions—"

An old voice with a Mulvanian accent—Karadur's—spoke. In a tone of shocked surprise, this voice said: "You intend to assail our opponents by magic, in despite of all the laws and customs of the Forces of Progress?"

"Certes; what thought you? We've counted noses and know that our proposal has no chance of passage. We do but lack the votes."

"But—but—you were always such a stickler for ethics—"

"Be no bigger a fool than the gods made you! When it's a question of doing something for the masses of mankind, one quibbles not about rules and ethics."

"But are you not being a little—ah—precipitate?" said Karadur.

Vorko snorted. "If you're concerned about every Maltho, Baltho, and Zaltho getting his hands on all the deadliest spells in the grimoire, you can stop worrying. I am not an utter idiot. I know as well as you that some of the reactionaries' claims—that ignorant men are not to be trusted with such powers—have a mort of truth in them. But offering magic free to all is the way to get power.

"Once we control the Forces of Progress, we can have Altruist governments in every one of the Twelve Cities within a year. I have my plans all laid and agents in those places—"

"But the Forces have always eschewed the politics of laymen!" said Karadur, in a voice that was almost a wail.

"The more fools they. Once we're in power, of course, we must needs proceed with caution, letting the masses in on only the most elemental secrets of magic—which they" could learn for themselves in any good library—until they prove themselves worthy of more trust. But getting absolute power is the main thing. Once we have crushed all opposition, we can do whatever seems expedient. And, since I know that my own motives are pure and my plans are logically sound, it is my duty to seek the power to carry them out!

"Now, back to business: The second step will be to collect the names of the leaders of the Benefactors and all those who speak on their side of the question on the morrow. Rheits, you shall perform this task whilst the rest of us work the counter-spell. The session is supposed to last two hours—ample time."

Another voice said: "Are you sure, leader, that the old Rendivar spell will be strong enough? Aello's spell is no petty cantrip."

"As cast by one, belike not," said Vorko; "but by three or four of us simultaneously, I'm sure it will do. Now, as to the third step, if we could collect possessions or parts of the body from all these persons, we could attack them by sympathetic magic: impossible in the time at our disposal. Therefore, Magnas, you shall summon a flight of demons from—"

Jorian, standing in darkness near the connecting door, was horrified to hear a loud hiccup from Vanora behind him. Her consumption of wine had caught up with her. She hiccupped again.

"What's that?" said a voice from the bedroom.

To Jorian's helpless horror, Vanora staggered past him, banged open the connecting door, and cried in a hoarse voice:

" Tis I, that's who it is! And why don't you impotent old shlobs get to the afterworld out of here, so Jorian and I—hic—can use a bed for what a bed's meant for?"

As the door flew open, Jorian had a fleeting impression of several men, besides Karadur, Drakomas, and Vorko, sitting on beds and chairs. Then Vorko's voice spoke a harsh, unintelligible word. Something warned Jorian of danger on his right. As he started to turn, out of the corner of his eye, in the suddenly augmented light, he saw one of Vorko's demons. The demon was stepping towards him and raising a bludgeon. Fast though Jorian's reactions were, the attack came so swiftly that he did not even have time to dodge before the universe exploded.

When Jorian came to, the room was lit by gray daylight through the arrow slit,.furnished with a shutter and a casement sash, which served as a window. It took him some time to realize that the flashes and the rumbling were not inside his head but were caused by a violent storm outside. Rain drove against the little diamond panes of the sash and crawled down the glass like tiny, transparent snakes.

Jorian rolled over, wincing at the pain in cramped muscles and at the sharp stab of headache that accompanied each movement. He found that his wrists and ankles were bound and his mouth was full of gag. As his bleary vision adjusted itself, he saw that Vanora and Karadur were likewise trussed.

Vanora, still wearing her shift of green gauze, looked at him from bloodshot eyes over her gag. About Karadur he could not tell; the Mulvanian looked like a heap of old clothes in the corner.

Although Jorian's assailants had done a sound job of tying him up, they had not reckoned on the practice he had had in Xylar at escaping from such gyves. His first step was simply to chew. A few minutes of vigorous chewing parted the rag that held the gag in place and enabled him to spit out the gag.

"Vanora!" he said thickly. "Are you all right?"

"Gmpff, glmpff," she said through her gag.

"Karadur, how fare you?"

A groan answered. Jorian looked across the room, as best he could from his position on the floor. His sword still hung by its baldric from a hatrack by the door.

It is hard for a man whose ankles are tied together and whose wrists have been lashed behind him to rise from the floor, but it can be done. Several times, Jorian almost got to his feet and then crashed down again with bruising force. Little puffs of dust arose from the cracks between the floor boards. At last he made it. He hopped over to the hatrack and butted it over. Then he squatted down and got his hands on the hilt of his sword. A couple of grotesque hops took him to where Vanora lay.

"Seize the sheath with your feet," he growled. When she had done so, he hopped away from her, drawing the sword from its scabbard. Then he thrust the hilt between her feet.

"Now hold that blade steady. If you let go, 'twill skewer me."

He began squatting and rising again, holding the cords that bound his wrists behind him against the blade. When after twenty-odd squats a cord parted, the lashings came quickly off. For a few moments, Jorian stood rubbing his wrists and feeling the lump on his skull. Then he took the sword and quickly severed his and his companions' remaining bonds.

"That's how I once saved my head," he said. "The moral is to keep your sword well honed. These knaves were tyros after all, or they'd never have left aught sharp where we could come upon it."

"Remember, my son," said Karadur, "that they are accustomed to coping with foes, not by such crude devices as swords and cords, but by spirits, spells, and the transcendental wisdom of magic."

"So much the worse for them. What time is it?"

"Good gods!" said Karadur. "It must be after the fourth hour. That means the debate on the Altruist proposal will be under way in the ballroom. Vorko will be working that counter-spell he got from the Kist. Where is the wretched thing? Alas, they have taken it with them. Ah, me, shall I ever cease being a trusting, credulous ninny? But we must hasten to the ballroom to warn the Forces!"

"Gods, what a hangover!" moaned Vanora, holding her head. She did not look at all attractive this morning.

"Are you changing sides, Doctor?" asked Jorian.

"Nay; I have always been on the side of virtue and order. Say rather than Vorko and his minions have deserted me." The old man groaned as he tried to rise. Jorian helped him up. He failed to find his key but got out his pick-locks and went to work on the door, which soon swung open.

"We must lose no time, feeble though I be this morn," said Karadur.

"We?" said Jorian. "Why should I concern myself with the squabbles amongst your spookers? My work for you is done, and I don't intend to join your profession."

"You heard what Vorko said. An you care not for me and other honest magicians, think of Vorko's tyranny, blacker than those of Mulvan, Tarxia, and Metouro combined! But I cannot stop to argue; follow me who will."

The old magician hobbled out the door. After a heartbeat's hesitation, the other two followed him.

The doors of the main ballroom opened to Jorian's vigorous push. Karadur tottered in and down the central aisle between the rows of benches. One of the debaters was on his feet, saying:

"… and if you believe not that the common man be unworthy to be trusted with such fell secrets, let me cite instances of his stupid, swinish conduct from the history of our host country. When the kings of Metouro were overthrown and the Republic established—"

The speaker broke off as he became aware of Karadur, limping down the aisle bareheaded, his eyes glaring.

"Treason!" croaked the old Mulvanian. "A cabal of our members plots to overthrow the governance of this brotherhood and seize all power! Master Rheits, yonder, is gathering the names of the Benefactors, to further this attack! Seize him, an you believe me not—"

As Karadur spoke, Jorian and Vanora started to push through the door after him. As they did so, Boso confronted them. Seeing Jorian first, Boso started to say:

"Apprentices in the balcony for this meeting. Only master magicians down here—"

Then the sergeant-at-arms sighted Vanora. "You!" he barked. His face turned red, and his eyes glared with an insane rage. "You two spend—you spend the night in high diddle, and then you have the nerve —the g-gall—I'll fuff-fix you, strumpet!"

With an inarticulate snarl, he tore out his sword, shouldered Jorian aside, and rushed at Vanora. With a scream, the girl fled back into the main hall.

Torn two ways, Jorian hesitated for a heartbeat. In the ballroom, Karadur seemed to have things well in hand. He poured out his denunciation, while turmoil erupted around him. Several members of the Forces had seized Master Rheits. Jorian turned and ran after Boso.

He came out into the main hall in time to see Vanora vanish up the stair at the end of the hall with Boso in pursuit. After them he went, drawing his own sword—the same long blade be had taken from the sleeping Gending in the Ellornas.

Up he went, flight after flight until he began to pant, at each turn catching a glimpse of those he pursued. Soon he came out on the roof. Low clouds scudded overhead; rain beat slantwise to the flagstones. Lightning flashed, and booms of thunder periodically drowned out the whistle of the wind and the rattle of the rain.

Looking anxiously around, with his left hand up to keep the rain from blinding him, Jorian saw Boso enter the door to one of the two big round towers—the twin keeps—of the castle and slam it behind him. Supping on the wet flags, Jorian ran to the door and tried it; but Boso had shot the heavy bolt inside.

Boso, thought Jorian, would chase Vanora up to the top of this tower and, if he did not catch her there, out across the bridge that joined the two towers and down the spiral stair in the other tower. So he ran back to the base of the other tower, whose door had not been locked.

Entering the other door, he trotted up the stair. As he came out on the roof, he almost collided with Vanora, who, gasping for breath and with her transparent shift clinging wetly to her, arrived at the same moment on the tower top from the bridge. Behind her came Boso, sword and teeth bared.

"Get back down and get help!" Jorian barked at Vanora over his shoulder as he sprang out on the bridge. The wet, gray stones under Jorian's feet vibrated in the gale like a fiddle string.

The structure was not quite so spidery-slender as it looked from below. The footway was four feet wide, and there was a low, crenelated parapet, a little over waist high, on each side. One was not likely to fall off merely from the effects of wind and rain. On the other hand, it would not be hard to fall out of one of the embrasures during a hand-to-hand fight.

The swords met with a whirl and a multiple clang, which was lost in a roar of thunder. The two powerful men stood on the bridge, still panting from their climb and glaring into each other's eyes, cutting, thrusting, and parrying. For an instant they backed off, breathing heavily; then they were at it again, clang-tzing-zip-clang. There was little footwork, because of the limitations of space and the slipperiness of the wet stones.

Their right arms worked like pistons, until Jorian's began to ache. The wind howled and drove the rain scudding almost horizontally. It staggered both fighters so that they had to clutch at the merlons with their free hands for support, even while they hacked and lunged. Lightning glared and thunder boomed.

Jorian found his horseman's blade a little too long for this kind of work, especially since its hilt was too short for both hands. Boso's blade was of about the same length and weight as the sword Randir, now the loot of the cham of the Gendings. The burly ruffian handled it well, whereas Jorian's parries, doubles, and one-twos were a little slow. Boso easily parried them, no matter how complex an attack Jorian launched. On the other hand, Jorian's extra inches of arm and blade kept Boso a little too far away to take advantage of his greater speed of blade. His stout, short-legged build made him too slow on his feet to slip in by a quick advance-lunge to get inside Jorian's guard.

Moreover, Boso had the bad habit of parrying in the obsolete seconde. Jorian swore that, the next time his foe did it, he would double and skewer him properly…

A new sound and sensation made itself felt. This was neither the crash of thunder, nor the whistle of the wind, nor the humming vibration of the bridge. It was a deep rumble, combined with a heavy shaking as of an earthquake. From below came a rising uproar of thumps, rumbles, rattles, clatters, crashes, shrieks, howls, screams, and bellows. Behind Jorian, Vanora screamed:

"The tower is falling!"

Jorian cast a quick look at Boso, who had withdrawn a couple of paces and stood, clutching a merlon with one hand and his sword with the other. The sergeant-at-arms's face was pale, and his hair was wetly plastered to his low forehead.

Jorian risked a backward glance. Vanora stood a couple of strides from him, clutching the merlons of the parapet of the tower.

"Why didn't you go down—" began Jorian, but then the stones lurched under his feet. With a frightful, grinding roar, both towers and the bridge that joined them began to sway outward, over the rain-lashed water of Lake Volkina.

Jorian sprang to the parapet, where the bridge joined the tower top. "Jump as far out as you can!" he yelled.

As he gathered himself to spring, Jorian took one last look at Boso. The latter was not looking at Jorian at all, but at a being that had appeared behind him. One of the merlons of the bridge parapet had burst into pieces. One stone, falling to the footway of the bridge, had changed into the being. Five feet tall and spindle-legged, it had an enormous head, larger than a pumpkin, and a huge, froglike gash of a mouth. It wore no clothes, and its skin had a moist, froglike appearance. It had no visible organs of sex.

That was all that Jorian saw as the towers leant further and further out over the water. He hurled himself out with a mighty bound, felt the wind whistle in his hair and rain in his face—curious, he thought in a flash, that rain should seem to be falling up; but of course he was overtaking the raindrops on their way down. Then he saw the slate-gray water coming up at him. Smack!

He reached the surface, feeling as if a giant had swatted him with a paddle. On either side of him, someone was splashing. As he got the water out of his eyes and regained his breath, he saw that one of these was Vanora, who, unhampered by her negligible costume, was striking out for shore. The other was Boso, ineffectually wallowing and thrashing and trying to choke out the word: "Help!"

Jorian had dropped his sword during his dive. Two strokes took him to where Boso thrashed, bobbing under water and out again with each frantic effort. Jorian hooked an arm under the sergeant-at-arms's chin, secured a crushing hold, and began swimming on his back towards the shore.

A few strokes and he touched down. He dragged Boso to shore and dropped the man on his back in the mud. Boso lay with his eyes closed, coughing, spitting water, and breathing in racking gasps. Then Jorian looked around.

The Goblin Tower had collapsed into a vast heap of stone blocks. From under a few of the nearer blocks, human hands and feet protruded. All around the isle, hundreds of magicians and their helpers stood in the water, up to their ankles, knees, waists, or even chins. Some poked among the ruins of the castle. Injured persons moaned.

The rain had slackened to a steady drizzle. Nearby, Vanora stood naked at the edge of the lake, wringing the water out of her flimsy garment.

"Jorian!" He looked up to see Karadur and Goania wading towards him.

"What in the forty-nine Mulvanian hells happened?" Jorian cried.

Karadur was too winded and frightened to do more than gasp, but Goania explained: "You know how the Goblin Tower got its name? Well, when Vorko worked his counter-spell, this nullified not only Aello's protective spell, but also the original spell put upon the goblins by Synelius, back in the days of the tyrant Charenzo. Since the castle had been partly built of these stones, when they were changed back into goblins, the walls collapsed because there were so many gaps in them. Most of the goblin stones seem to have been on the south side, and that is why the towers fell this way."

"I saw one of the things whilst I was up on the bridge, fighting with Boso," said Jorian.

"There must have been many hundreds of them in the lower parts of the castle."

"Where are they now?"

"Karadur released the demon Gorax from his ring and set Gorax on the goblins, whereupon they all whisked back to the Ninth Plane. I think they were worse frightened by awakening from their sleep of enchantment in the midst of the collapsing Tower than we were frightened of them."

"How did you escape?"

"When Karadur told what he knew of Vorko's counter-spell, old Aello instantly knew what was up. He screamed to us to get out of the Tower instanter. Most of us got out, although some were caught, and some were struck by falling stones after they had left the edifice. Luckily, the water on the other side is shallow all the way to shore. Vorko and his minions seem to have been amongst those destroyed; at least, I have seen nought of them."

"And Aello?"

"Dead in the ruins, I fear. He went to the kitchen and the servants' quarters to get those folk out, too, and was last seen poking about there to make sure that none was left behind. But what is this?" She indicated Boso, who was beginning to revive.

"I dragged him out of the lake. He would have slain Vanora up on the roof, out of jealousy. I was fighting with him on the bridge when the castle crumbled."

"Fighting him to death, and then you saved his life?"

Jorian clapped a hand to his forehead. "By Imbal's brazen balls! Why do I do these stupid things? Oh, well, I didn't really crave to kill the poor halfwit." Glancing about, he glimpsed a dull, metallic gleam in the shallow water. It was Boso's sword, lying in the mud. Jorian picked it up and shoved it into his own scabbard.

"My own is out in the lake somewhere," he said. "Will you go to law with me about it, Boso, or shall we forget the whole sorry business?"

Boso, now sitting up, shook his head and mumbled: "I hurt my back."

"Well, back or no back, get up! We have work to do." Jorian led the groaning Boso around the isle to where the magicians, standing up to their knees and waists in the water, were loading injured persons into rowboats that had come out to pick them up.

"Vanora!" said Goania severely. "Get some clothes on, child, ere you catch your death of cold."

When evening had fallen on Metouro, Jorian sat in the tavern that Vorko had occupied, with Karadur and Goania. Karadur had lost his turban in the collapse of the Goblin Tower and, feeling uncomfortable without it, had wound a strip of rag around his head as a substitute. Boso and Vanora, the latter wearing a new dress purchased that day by Goania, sat by themselves two tables away. Jorian said:

"Now I've done what your Altruists demanded, Doctor, even if your cursed Kist is buried in the ruins of the Goblin Tower, where at least it won't cause trouble for a long time to come. Since I have performed my part of the bargain, how do I get this geas lifted?"

"It is already lifted, my son. Since Vorko imposed it, his death cancelled it. But we must consider your future. If you would become my apprentice in fact as well as in name, I could make a prime magician out of you in fifteen or twenty years—provided I pass not to my next incarnation in the interim."

"No, thank you. I have my own plans, the first of which is to get back my dear little Estrildis."

"How will you accomplish that, without the help of magic?"

"I know not, old boy, but I shall find a way. During our journey, I observed that when I relied upon my own mundane powers, I usually succeeded; whereas, when I leant on the supernatural, I usually ended up worse off than when I started.

"Horses will play the fiddle before I count on your arcane arts again."

Karadur began to argue: "The most ignorant man is he who knows it all. Without my arcane arts, you would have no head on your shoulders to harbor that wit whereof you boast. An ethical man gives just credit to—"

But Goania cut him off: "Let the lad be, old colleague. His mind is made up and from his point of view, rightly. When he attains our age and the blood runs less hotly in his veins, he may find our mysteries more beguiling. What shall be your first step, O Jorian? The Faceless Five demand that we all quit Metouro on the morrow, ere we destroy the city by another ill-directed enchantment."

Jorian grinned. "I have a horse and a sword—both of middling quality—but no money. My first task is to get some of the last-named, and for that I shall need a hat. My fur cap and my wizard's headpiece are buried in the ruins of the Tower."

"A hat?" said Karadur vaguely. "I suppose you might find one in Vorko's room, upstairs. But how can a hat—"

"You shall see." Jorian rose and started for the stair.

"Jorian!" called Vanora. "Wait." She hurried across the room and spoke in a low voice. "Leaving us?"

"Soon."

"Well—ah—I am, as you know, a tough and useful traveling companion—"

Jorian shook his head. "I thank you, Mistress Vanora, but I have other plans. It has been very interesting to know you. Na, na, weep not, lass; 'twill but redden thy nose to none avail. A needs must forth the morn, and ma nag can bear but one."

He ran up the steps and presently reappeared with Vorko's hat on his head.

"How got you into his room?" asked Goania.

Jorian smiled. "Know you not that I do but make a mystical pass, and all locks open unto me?"

She glanced over to where Vanora sat beside Boso with tears running down her face. Vanora and her companion both stared morosely into space. "I take it she asked to become your leman again, and you denied her?"

"That's right. Thrice I've come close to being killed on that young woman's behalf, and that is twice more than enough. I'm no hero— merely a simple craftsman—oh, all right, Father Karadur, I won't say the rest."

The glare that Karadur had given Jorian softened, and the old magician said: "But the hat—how—"

"Come out into the marketplace in a little while, and you will see how I do it. Did not the philosopher Achaemo say that the superior man uses his very faults and weaknesses to advantage? Fare you well!"

Half an hour later, Karadur, Goania, Boso, and Vanora strolled out to the marketplace. The rain had ceased, although puddles among the cobblestones still reflected the yellow light of link and lanthorn. A crowd was gathered around the Fountain of Drexis in the center of the open space. When the four approached, they saw that the crowd surrounded Jorian, sitting on the curb of the fountain. As they came up, he was saying:

"… and so ends the tale of King Fusinian the Fox and the enchanted shovel. And the moral is, that more woe is wrought by stupidity than by villainy."

Jorian fanned himself with Vorko's hat, for the night was warm. "Would you like some more? Let's say, the tale of ex-king Forimar and the waxen wife? Yes? Then let us see if you cannot prime the pump a little, to spur my sluggish memory…"

He passed the hat around the circle, to the clink of coins. "A little more priming, good gentles; money is the grease that lubricates the storyteller's clockwork. Ah, better.

"Well, it seems that after King Forimar the Esthete had abdicated in favor of his brother Fusonio, a man set up an exhibition of waxworks in Kortoli City. This man, whose name was Zevager, asked the former king to allow such an effigy to be made of His Highness and displayed with the rest…"