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For these last few millennia, Goblin society has been based on walking everywhere. At least, walking within any particular cavern; links between caverns, which are located all over the world, are provided by the transit tunnels. So, rich or poor, all share a common transport system. The absence of powered transport within the caverns may sound strange to a human ear, used as they are to the idea of mechanical transport. Their world is one where a wealthy individual would command a private conveyance – a car, boat or even aircraft - and those less well off would have to use some shared device - a bus or train, for example. And they still take absolutely ages to get anywhere! For me, then, being directed by Tibbermore to the entrance of a specific transit tube was absolutely normal. We walked in silence; he didn't seem the type to chat and I was left to my own thoughts. I looked around at the familiar features of the cave in which my office is located, and wondered what an uninformed human would make of it all. A Goblin cavern is not some damp and squalid hole in the ground, but a vast enclosure, miles across and with ceilings a thousand feet above our heads. The roof is supported by soaring columns and pillars and, it is widely believed, a certain amount of old-school magic from the time the complexes were first constructed. Within, the caves are filled with a mixture of older residences and newer constructions. Traditionally, before the fashion of copying human-style buildings had caught on a few hundred years ago, Goblin homes were formed from hollows partially set into the walls themselves, or abutting the supporting columns. These days, these residences are usually built out into the cavern spaces to form vast gently-sloping terraces that carpet many parts of the floor. Elsewhere, more modern buildings can be found: free-standing blocks and towers filled with apartments and some penthouses, and a few cases individual grand mansions for the truly wealthy. Even these palaces are usually separated by a few yards of patio and plaza, often decorated with tubs and urns of decorative fungi and assorted statuary; floor space is always at a premium down here. I followed Tibbermore down the steps to the transit tube entrance. The tubes are not some kind of underground railway that perhaps a human would imagine, but instead provide instantaneous transport from point to point. You just step into the entrance in one place and step out at another. The humans messing around with mechanical transportation is often amusing and only occasionally annoying - when I am travelling around up there myself - but ultimately inevitable, I suppose, given the proscribed nature of magic in the surface world. This cavern was quite different from the one we have just left. In this place, human-style buildings predominated, and there appeared to have been some style and taste used in deciding their placement, as opposed to the hodgepodge arrangement to be found in any suburb I could afford to live in. At the tube exit, Tibbermore indicated a direction. Together we walked down a broad boulevard set with large houses to left and right. This was the dormitory for the very well off. To a Goblin's eyes, the space between the grand establishments, not to mention the width of the road itself, spoke volumes. I could practically smell the wealth and influence emanating from behind the highly-polished front doors. A few minutes stroll brought us to the portico'd entrance of one of the largest and most impressive buildings on the street. This one was different in other ways, too. Most of the other places showed signs of life: guests and servants coming and going, voices or music from within. This place felt quiet, even dead, more like a morgue than a home. Tibbermore held open the front door for me and ushered me inside. The entrance hall rose to two stories with a gallery running along two walls at the upper level. Dark wood panelling lined the lower portions while indistinct portraits cluttered the walls above. A few pieces of old-fashioned heavy furniture cluttered the geometrically inlaid wood of the floor. "I am instructed to ask if you would care to wait in the library, sir," he said, every bit the epitome of the old family retainer. "Sure, why not?" I shrugged. He directed me across the polished parquet, my shoes creaking on the wood, and into another room. A library indeed: acres of leather-bound volumes lined all four walls, smelling only faintly of dust and more so of ancient learning. A large desk, a couple of over-stuffed easy chairs and an assortment of small tables filled the space between the stacks. Tibbermore went over to a cabinet set into the bookcases and pulled open both doors. Inside I could make out a collection of polished silverware, glistening glasses and a very passable collection of bottles. He turned back to me. "Perhaps sir would care for an aperitif?" This time, I grinned widely. I had spotted a bottle of a very fine old whisky nestling amongst the others. I lowered myself into one of the armchairs. "A large Scotch," I said in a definite tone of voice, "Would do very nicely."
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Part 3