The Goblin's Puzzle

by Andrew Chilton

  On the fourth evening, Ludwig returned in a glum mood. As Plain Alice forced herself to eat another meal of charred mutton, he said, “I have been showing myself all across the country. Why haven’t any knights or lords come to rescue you?”

  “Why would they?” she asked.

  “Whyever not?” asked Ludwig. “I have not taken the Introduction to Mankind class yet, but I’m pretty sure rescuing princesses is how knights and lords make their reputations.”

  In spite of her situation, Plain Alice burst out laughing. “You wanted Princess Alice?” she said. “Then you’ve kidnapped the wrong girl.”

  “But you are Alice,” insisted Ludwig.

  “The Princess and I are both named Alice,” said Plain Alice.

  Ludwig was shocked. “There are two people named Alice?” he said.

  “A lot more than two. There are probably hundreds when you take in all of the Kingdoms. It’s a fairly common name,” said Plain Alice.

  Ludwig’s face sank. “Oh, but…but this is terrible,” he said. “I have kidnapped the wrong girl.”

  “Think how I feel about it,” said Plain Alice.

  Ludwig cocked his head. “I suppose that is a fair point,” he said. “Er, sorry.”

  Plain Alice should have been very angry, but Ludwig said it with such innocence that she almost laughed. “It was an honest mistake,” she said. “Just take me home, and I’ll forgive you.”

  Ludwig looked down at his foreclaws. “Yes, about that…”

  “What?” said Plain Alice.

  “Only…you know how villains tend to feel about witnesses,” he said. “I am not sure what I am supposed to do.”

  Until that moment, Ludwig had been quite kind to Plain Alice, but she didn’t like where this conversation was going. “You could ask,” she suggested. “Go and see him. I really don’t know anything, so maybe he’ll say you can let me go.”

  Ludwig lit up. “Yes, I am sure he will understand. I will go to him at once.” He spread his great bat wings and launched himself into the air.

  Plain Alice harbored none of Ludwig’s illusions. She was sure the evil sorcerer, whoever he was, would say something like Only the dead keep secrets. That was the sort of thing evil sorcerers liked to say. She’d suggested Ludwig speak to his master only to give herself a chance to escape.

  The nearest stone column was fifteen feet away, and it was also eight or nine feet down. With a running start, she might be able to make it that far. Or she might not. There was a reason she had not tried already. Still, the moment had come. Biting down hard on her fears, she ran and leapt into the open air. For a moment, she thought she was going to make it.

  But only for a moment. As the column rose toward her, her stomach fell away. Her legs kicked uselessly at the open air. She struck the side of the column. The force knocked the wind from her, but she managed to get the tips of her fingers over the edge of the column.

  She clung there, gasping, until she regained her breath. Then she slowly began to drag herself up over the lip. Her arms ached and shook with the effort of pulling herself up, but she finally got high enough that she could swing one leg, then the other, over the top. She flopped up onto the top of the column and lay there, wheezing. Her heart thudded in her chest. The sweat poured off her, chilling her.

  The worst part was that she had to do it again. There was another column with another drop. This time, it was not quite so far away. She made the top of the column and even rolled out of the landing, although she nearly tumbled off the far side.

  The third column was short enough to try for the ground. She lowered herself over the side and hung from the edge of the column. She took a moment to fill her heart with iron. Then she dropped. She landed hard enough to wind up flat on the ground, but she was unhurt. Standing and dusting herself off, she smiled. She was the daughter of a scholar and not an especially athletic girl, but she had gotten herself down unharmed.

  She looked around. The Stanhope Road lay to the south. It was also the first direction Ludwig would look, but there was nothing for it. She was surrounded by wilderness. East lay the Mountains of Fire, the Spine was far to the north, and the Little Dismal swallowed the west. Knowing little of these places beyond their names, she would be lost in broken terrain almost at once. She headed south.

  Had Oswald lived a century ago, he would have gone east to Uskborough to present a petition to the royal court. Long before he was born, however, Queen Claudia, the wife of King Andreas VI of Stanhope, gave birth to twin boys. Even in those days, everyone knew twins were a bad omen, bringing nothing but misfortune and ill luck. Every sage and astrologer in the land advised the king to drown them both in a well, as tradition required. It really was the only civilized thing to do. But old King Andreas did not have the heart—or rather the lack of heart—to do it. He split Stanhope in two and left half to each of his sons instead. Ever since, West Stanhopers who wanted to petition the royal court had gone west to Farnham.

  When Oswald left Middlebury, he took with him a letter of introduction from the Earl. To make sure the petition was taken seriously, the Earl also lent him his personal shield, Magan. Magan was painted with a blue griffin on a yellow field, the Earl’s personal emblem. No one would dare carry her without the Earl’s permission. The Earl also offered him a horse, but Oswald did not know how to ride. So he went on foot, carrying Magan across his back. She was one of those old-fashioned tower shields and weighed heavily on Oswald. By the end of the first morning, his shoulders were sore and raw from the rubbing of her traveling straps. When the pain grew great, he thought of Plain Alice and marched on.

  The country between Middlebury and Farnham was full of farms and villages, and Oswald was able to spend the first two nights sleeping on benches in inns. The third night he spent on the ground by the side of the road. This made his hip hurt, but again, he marched through the pain.

  Late on the fourth day, Oswald crested the final hill and saw Farnham for the first time in over a decade. Sitting on the edge of the plain that gently sloped down to the Western Ocean, it was a trim little city made up mostly of half-timbered buildings, some soaring as high as three stories. The upper floors jutted out over the narrow city streets below, sometimes almost meeting their neighbors across the way. The only substantial stone structures were the city walls and the royal palace, which sat on a rise in the middle of town. As capitals went, Farnham was more quaint and sleepy than fearsome and mighty. Of course, it had simply been the largest port town in the west of Stanhope until the role of capital was suddenly, some might even say rudely, thrust upon it. It had yet to grow into its new role.

  Oswald arrived just as the watch was closing the city gates. Once they were closed, no one was allowed in or out until the next morning. Oswald used Magan to jam the gate open just long enough to make it through. The watchmen were unhappy, but the Earl’s shield kept them from arresting Oswald. Magan herself suffered two crunch marks to her rim. Oswald had no time to worry about the damage and hustled off to the royal palace instead.

  When Stanhope was first divided in half, a new royal palace was needed in a hurry, so the old customs house had been renovated and expanded in a rush. Every expense had been spared, and the result was a curiously ugly mix of warehouse and semi-fortified manor home that was neither pleasant to live in nor particularly siegeproof.

  Not satisfied with being an uncomfortable and insecure eyesore, the palace eventually began to actively threaten the lives of its occupants. It developed the alarming habit of shedding heavy stone gargoyles at awkward moments. Nearly thirty-five years before, on the eve of his wedding, just such a gargoyle landed on the head of Crown Prince Baldwin, which is how his younger brother, Julian II, wound up being king instead of Baldwin.

  The decades since had seen no improvements in upkeep, so when Oswald laid eyes on it, it looked as tatty and run-down as ever. It also looked like it was shut up for the night. Oswald pounded on the doors of the main entrance. “Open up. Open up,” he cried. “I
must see the King.” He sounded unhinged, but he carried on pounding.

  A tiny slot in the door slid open. It was just large enough for two eyes to glare out at him. “Go away,” said the eyes.

  “I bear an urgent message from the Earl of Middlebury,” said Oswald.

  “Then bear it another time,” said the eyes. “Come back in the morning.” The slot slammed shut again.

  “Please, please open up,” cried Oswald. “My daughter has been stolen by a dragon.” The sound of boots clomping off told him there was no point in pleading further. For several long minutes, Oswald simply stood there. He might not be able to go on, but he would not go back. If he had to, he would spend the night at the palace gates. No sooner had he begun to look for a soft spot to lie down than the slot opened up again. “From the Earl of Middlebury, you said?” said the eyes.

  Oswald said, “Yes, and—”

  “Wait there.” The slot closed. The boots thumped away again. It was several minutes before the click-clack of shoes arrived. The palace doors flew open. On the other side was a pinch-faced man in a powdered wig, striped trousers and a frock coat that had gotten a little shiny at the elbows. His shoulders were covered in the cheaper kind of wig powder, the stuff that never adhered properly, and he wore the type of shiny black patent leather shoes with silver buckles that always pinch the wearer’s feet terribly. “I am the Bailiff to His Majesty Julian the Second, Monarch of West Stanhope and Lord of All Its Assorted Dependencies,” he said. “All royal business must be transacted through me. Now, what message from the Right Honorable the Earl of Middlebury do you bear for His Majesty?”

  Oswald studied the Bailiff. He was plainly the sort of fellow who felt his duty was to keep everyone away from the King. If Oswald told him anything, he would shunt Oswald off to a room somewhere and make him wait, possibly forever. “I am Oswald the Sage. Lord Middlebury commanded me to deliver the letter to His Majesty personally,” said Oswald, which was a bit of an exaggeration. “Then I am to give him a message too sensitive to be written down,” he added, an outright lie.

  The Bailiff pursed his lips. “Well, I am sure Lord Middlebury merely meant that it should not go to anyone short of the royal cabinet, of which I am the relevant and appropriate officer. So—”

  “To His Majesty personally. On that point his Lordship was quite clear,” said Oswald. “He did allow me to say that it concerns the security of the realm.”

  At that, the Bailiff pursed his lips still tighter. He took a long moment to look Oswald over from head to toe. In response, Oswald unslung the shield and showed it to him. “Yes, yes,” said the Bailiff. “Come with me.”

  Oswald followed the Bailiff into the courtyard. Halfway across, the Bailiff stopped and studied the roofline of the main hall. Then he dashed the rest of the way across the courtyard to the entrance of the hall. When he saw that Oswald had stopped to stare, the Bailiff impatiently waved at him to follow. Not quite sure why, Oswald dashed across the courtyard, too. When he got to the entrance, the Bailiff said, “Better safe than sorry.”

  The boy ran deep into the foothills. He ran away from Nikola and the road, away from Tibor and Rodrigo, away from Casimir and the whole of the world he had known. With his way lit by the near-full moon, he ran for what seemed like hours. All the while, he carried Mennofar draped around his neck like a shepherd carrying a lamb. When he had run as long and hard as he could, he flopped down on the ground, panting.

  Mennofar dragged himself over to a rock and propped himself up against it. Closing his eyes tightly, he leaned his head forward.

  “I do all the work, and you take a nap,” said the boy.

  “A little silence, please,” said Mennofar. “I need to concentrate.” He sat in silence for a moment more. Then he opened his eyes. “At this distance, we should be safe enough. They will pursue us, but they will give up long before coming this far. Deep down, Nikola knows I will never give in to his demands, and he will not risk his schedule for the few florins you might bring him.”

  “That’s certain?” said the boy.

  “Certain as the future can ever be,” said Mennofar.

  “So it’s true what they say about goblins?” said the boy. “You do know all things, past and future?”

  “It is true after a fashion, but I do not know all things the way you know something you are taught or something you remember. I have to look for them with my third eye,” said Mennofar, tapping the middle of his forehead. “It is like being in a room with a window. You can look out the window whenever you want, but until you do, you do not know what is there. If I want to see something with my third eye, I must search it out.”

  “And you can see past, present and future, all the same?” said the boy.

  “Not all the same,” said Mennofar. “The past is written in stone, but the future is written in water. Each choice makes a new future, though some choices make more difference than others. I can see all of these futures come and go. By watching how the futures fold back into one another, I gain a sense of how likely each one is.”

  “Forever?” asked the boy.

  “As I look further into the future, the number of possibilities multiplies, and the chance of each one coming to pass declines,” said Mennofar. “Eventually, there are too many possibilities to make sense of. It is like trying to pick out a single leaf in a tree. If you are close, it is easy. The farther away you get, the harder it is. Far enough, and the tree is just a mass of green, no matter how hard you look at it.”

  “And does your third eye say where we can get food?” said the boy. In his rush to get away, he had not thought to bring any supplies.

  “I do not need a third eye to answer that. You tear a sleeve off your tunic and make a slingshot of it. Use it to hunt,” said Mennofar.

  The boy looked at the scrubby and desolate hills around them. “For what?” he said.

  “Bats,” said Mennofar. He smiled, exposing his many sharp little teeth. “Wherever there are mountains, there are bats. You will go bat hunting.” The boy made a face. “No need to be like that. Bats are really quite tasty.”

  That seemed unlikely, but the boy did not argue. He was going to eat those bats whether they were tasty or no. That was life, eating what was to be had.

  Ludwig was only a small gray spot in the sky when Plain Alice spotted him. She stopped and watched. At first, he was headed toward her, but then he turned and flew a ways across her trail. Then he turned and disappeared in the opposite direction.

  She stood at the foot of the mountains and watched for a few more minutes. It did not seem possible. He could not be giving up that easily. She was about to turn to go when she saw him again. He was coming toward her once more. He came closer this time, but then he turned again.

  That was when she knew: he was hunting for her by flying in ever-broader circles. Fast. She ran toward the swamp. She told herself that if she could just get under cover, she would be safe. But the nearest tree was still half a mile away. She ran and ran and ran, only to have the ground fall away sickeningly when Ludwig snatched her up once again.

  “I told him what happened, and he laughed,” said Ludwig. “He thought it was very funny.”

  “Nasty man,” said Plain Alice. “What did he tell you to do with me?”

  “You’ll know soon enough,” said Ludwig.

  He might have been trying to protect her from the truth, but his silence only made things worse. Being set adrift, far out to sea, or dashed onto rocks or dropped into a volcano—all manner of terrible fates sprang to mind. None of them included being set down in a clearing in the middle of the Little Dismal.

  “I’m very sorry,” said Ludwig. A great tear began to pool in the corner of his eye.

  He looked so miserable that Plain Alice reached out and patted him on his snout. “It’s all right,” she said. “Whatever this is, I will survive it.”

  “I hope so,” said Ludwig, “but I fear not.” Then he was in the sky once more. As she watched him leave, she marveled
that such a huge creature could fly so beautifully and naturally.

  Then she turned to her own situation. The only thing in the clearing was a tiny windowless wooden hut, built entirely of raw logs. It was too small for a home, but she could not think what other purpose it might have.

  Things did not seem so terrible. They had not flown over the Stanhope Road, which meant it was south of her. She could use the sun to keep a generally southern path until she found the road. She should be able to make her way home.

  Before she could get her bearings, a huge brutish creature nearly ten feet tall broke out of the tree line. He looked something like a man, but lumpy and misshapen, as if a child had made him out of clay. His skin was an unpleasant shade of pale gray. His small, dim eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. His mouth had a collection of teeth that looked as if they had been casually tossed in there. His head was completely bald, but there were odd patches of wiry black hair in random spots on his body. The ogre, for that was what he was, wore the skins of animals, but not sewn into clothing. Instead, the hides were simply tied to his body haphazardly.

  Something so large should not have been able to move so quickly, but he did. No sooner was he out of the trees than he had Plain Alice in his meaty grip. “Dragon leave me present?” he asked.

  “Yes, he thought we could be friends,” she said. It was a long shot, but ogres were notoriously stupid creatures.

  The ogre leaned in close, putting his nose almost directly into her hair. He sniffed deeply. “Mmm, girl,” he said. “Like girls.”

  “And I like ogres, though I never met one before,” said Plain Alice.

  “Girls yummiest of all,” said the ogre. Then he popped her into the hut and bolted the door behind her. Inside, the bones revealed the hut’s purpose: it was a larder.