The Goblin's Puzzle

by Andrew Chilton

  “Papa, that man is kidnapping, er, the boy who rescued me! Do something!” cried the Princess.

  “What, exactly, do you think you are doing?” the King asked Casimir.

  Casimir bowed deeply without letting go of the boy’s wrist. “Please forgive the interruption, Your Majesty,” he simpered. “It is a simple matter. This boy is my slave, and I am merely reclaiming him. With your leave, I shall be happy to absent myself.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said the King. “That young man is a hero of the kingdom. And the Count of Mossglum. Release him at once.”

  “With respect, Your Majesty, Gergo, Count of Mossglum, is very nearly eighty years old and missing one eye,” said Casimir. “Through my business dealings in High Albemarle, I am slightly acquainted with His Lordship.” Casimir turned a contemptuous eye on the boy. “The real one, I mean.”

  “Is this true?” said the King.

  It was an excellent moment for a really well-timed lie. “Uh,” said the boy. “Um—”

  “I see,” said the King. “Nevertheless, the boy is still a hero of the kingdom. Besides, there are no slaves in West Stanhope. I, personally, have outlawed slavery this very day.”

  Casimir gasped in shock but quickly recovered. “Your Majesty is very forward-thinking, to be sure,” he said. “Regrettably, as I am a subject of High Albemarle, not West Stanhope, your new laws, while no doubt wise and progressive, don’t apply to me. Or my property.” He gave the boy’s wrist a shake. “I’m sure Your Majesty has some legal scholar who can confirm this.”

  The King looked to the Seneschal.

  “Without the authorization of the High King, Your Majesty’s laws can only apply to Your Majesty’s subjects,” said the Seneschal. “An awkward technicality, under the circumstances, but one well established in the law.”

  “I see,” said the King. He looked to the boy. “Is this true, son? Are you the slave of this High Albemarlian? Or is it High Albemarlmite?”

  “If it please Your Majesty, it is Albemarlman,” said Casimir.

  “Albemarlman, then,” said the King. “Are you the slave of this High Albemarlman?”

  “No,” said the boy. His traitor voice quavered.

  Casimir’s black eyes glittered with rage. “Keep it up, slave, and I’ll have that tongue for a paperweight,” he whispered into the boy’s ear.

  “This boy is a hero,” said the King. “He defeated an ogre and a dragon, and he rescued two maidens, one of whom was my daughter. His word is good enough for me.”

  “Oh, how it pains me to tell you that his word is not, as Your Majesty so eloquently put it, good enough,” said Casimir.

  “Don’t talk rot,” said the King.

  “Sadly, when making a petition for liberty on the grounds of wrongful enslavement,” said Casimir, “the petitioner may not personally give evidence of his condition.”

  “What in the name of the Foul One does that mean?” said the King.

  “It means that he”—Casimir shook the boy for emphasis—“may not speak to whether he is a slave. It is an ancient law.”

  The King looked to the Seneschal, who looked away. “Another awkward technicality,” said the Seneschal.

  “That’s ridiculous,” said the Princess. “Why shouldn’t he be allowed to tell us whether he’s a slave?”

  “Your Highness, you are innocent and naïve, as is only proper for a princess,” said Casimir. “I hesitate to point out that a slave, being selfish and dishonest as all slaves are, might—just might—lie to get out of his duties.”

  “As opposed to a slave owner, who, being selfless and honorable as all slave owners are, would never—never—lie to get a free slave,” said Just Alice.

  Casimir scowled at her and twisted the end of his great black mustache. “Others may testify.” He looked her up and down. “You, for example. Can you swear that he is not my slave?”

  Just Alice looked away.

  “How about the rest of you?” said Casimir. “Can any of you swear that he is not my slave?”

  The King looked to Princess Alice. She looked to Oswald, who looked to the Duke of Middlebury, who then looked to the Queen. The Queen turned to the King as the ministers all looked off into the distance. The silence grew longer. And more painful.

  “Papa, do something,” said Princess Alice. She began to weep.

  “This is unjust,” said Just Alice.

  “The sadnesses of this life are many,” said Casimir. “But the most bitter is that nothing is more elusive than justice.” He began to pull the boy toward his ship. “We are leaving, slave.”

  The boy dug his heels into the ground. “I’m not a slave!” he shouted, as though he could make it true by saying it forcefully enough.

  Casimir smiled cruelly. “Can you prove it?” he said.

  “Yes.” Mennofar turned to the boy. “Can you prove it?”

  Mennofar might have betrayed him, but he no longer smiled or looked expectant. He actually looked quite worried. His skin had gone an inky green darker than any the boy had ever seen.

  “Can you prove it here in Farnham?” said Mennofar.

  Months ago, Mennofar had told the boy that Farnham was the only place in the world where he had any chance of proving he was not a slave. It was the reason he had walked all the way to West Stanhope. Of course, it all made more sense back when he thought he was not a slave. Now that he knew better, it made none. So it was impossible to prove that he was not a slave, because he was one. Then again, Mennofar had sworn to tell the truth when he said that proving it was possible. So it was also impossible that it was impossible to prove he was not a slave. Everything was impossible. It was the sort of nonsense that Mennofar loved, but it just made the boy dizzy.

  And back when the boy rescued him, Mennofar hadn’t wanted to give Casimir a vow. Yet he had betrayed the boy to Casimir anyway, which guaranteed that Casimir would get Mennofar’s last vow. That also made no sense. Only it probably would make sense in some inside-out kind of way. Everything Mennofar did was like that. It was maddening how—

  “He has a witness,” said Just Alice.

  “I do?” said the boy. “Er, I mean, yes, I do.” He looked at the gathered crowd, trying to think who might be able to lie for him. “Who is it?” he whispered.

  “Mennofar the Goblin,” said Just Alice.

  “Yes!” said the boy. “Mennofar the Goblin!” No one he knew was a better liar.

  “A goblin? Testifying?” said Casimir. “Absurd. Out of the question.”

  “He’s quite right,” said the Seneschal. “They are tricksome deceivers. Ancient law prohibits them from giving testimony under any circumstances.”

  “I should hope so,” said Mennofar indignantly.

  “Even if he vowed to tell the truth?” said Just Alice.

  Casimir turned ever so slightly pale at the suggestion. “Er, makes no difference,” he said quickly. “Come along, now.” He tugged at the boy’s arm.

  “Did I say ‘under any circumstances’?” said the Seneschal. “I may have spoken too hastily.”

  Casimir sighed. “Very well,” he said. “If you can extract a vow to tell the truth from this ridiculous creature, go right ahead.” He smiled tightly at Just Alice.

  “I can’t,” she said. She pointed to the boy. “He can.”

  That would be no help at all. All Mennofar could say was: Yes, the boy is your slave, but slavery is a great injustice. So would you, out of the goodness of your heart, pretty please, let him go anyway? Casimir did not care if slavery was unjust. He had hundreds of slaves, and the boy doubted if Casimir had ever even given the question of justice a moment’s thought.

  The boy stopped. He turned and looked straight into Casimir’s cold, dark eyes.

  “What?” snarled Casimir.

  The boy jerked his arm from Casimir’s grasp. “Mennofar the Goblin, you owe this man a vow. Please tell him what you told me the day we met.”

  Mennofar smiled back toothily. His skin shone emerald gree
n. “Casimir the Merchant, I, Mennofar the Goblin, vow that this one thing I am about to tell you is true: this boy is not truly and justly a slave.”

  Casimir never did figure it out, not even years later. For him, the world was a simple place. Some men were meant to rule, and the rest were slaves. He never doubted which of the two he was supposed to be. Indeed, he never even thought to wonder. It never, ever occurred to him that the boy might have slipped his grasp on the word “justly” alone.

  Instead, he assumed that he had been cheated. As he could not remember exactly which of his slaves the boy was, he could not quite remember how he had come to own him. But he easily could have bought the boy from someone who had stolen him or seized him on false pretenses. It happened to poor children all the time. In truth, Casimir did not especially care. Important men had slaves, so he deserved as many as he could get. And if it turned out that, because of some legal technicality, a few of them were not actually supposed to be slaves, he could live with it.

  At least, he could live with it if he could get away with it. But in this case, he could not. The King was plainly eager to see the boy free and was sure to accept the goblin’s vow. Worse, the boy might demand retribution from his false master. Casimir might have been greedy, heartless, calculating, dishonest, cruel and vain, but he was not stupid. He knew when to cut his losses.

  He threw himself on the ground and began to weep bitterly. “Oh, the unfairness, the injustice of it all,” he cried out.

  “You’re hardly the victim here,” said the King.

  “I?” said Casimir. “I do not weep for myself, Your Majesty. It is the tragic tale of this poor boy that brings me to tears.”

  “You— Wait, what?” said the King.

  “This poor, poor boy, wrongly bound and fraudulently presented to me, an innocent and deceived buyer, as a slave,” said Casimir. “He labors for years in ignominy. Can you fathom the horror of it?”

  “I am on the verge of tears, myself,” said the Factor drily.

  “Oh, poor, sweet, tragic child, can you ever forgive me?” sobbed Casimir, grasping the boy’s ankle.

  “Um, er, um,” said the boy.

  Mennofar coughed a little. “Did I hear that right? You are innocent?”

  Casimir rose to his knees. “Goblin, know that I had no idea this boy was not a slave. I truly believed him to legally be my personal property. Indeed, you who know all, can you vow otherwise?”

  “Well,” said Mennofar. “No.”

  “Then can you forgive me, boy?” said Casimir.

  Before the boy could reply, Mennofar said, “What of compensation?”

  Casimir smiled tightly. “Yes, of course,” he said. “I will pay compensation in the amount of ten—”

  “One hundred,” said Mennofar.

  “Fifteen?” said Casimir.

  “Eighty-five.”

  “Twenty-five?”

  “Seventy.”

  “Thirty?”

  “Sixty.”

  “Forty?”

  “Fifty.”

  “Done,” said Casimir. He turned to the boy. “Now do you forgive me?” he snapped.

  “Yes,” said the boy. Fifty hellers of copper was a tidy sum, enough to start a young man out in the world. And he wanted the whole business settled before anyone thought to start asking questions. “Of course I forgive you.”

  Casimir nodded to the Factor. The Factor opened his purse and began counting out coins. The boy goggled as the Factor put not copper hellers but silver florin after silver florin into the boy’s outstretched hands. Each florin was worth twenty hellers. When the Factor was done, the boy’s hands were filled with silver. In The Tales, a fortune was always a sack of gold. But the boy did not care. He always called this a fortune.

  Casimir put his arm around the boy’s shoulder, leaned in and whispered in the boy’s ear, “You’re a clever lad, all right, and your friend is cleverer still. If I ever catch you in High Albemarle, you’ll spend the rest of your very short life in the silver mines.” Turning to the King, he said, “If Your Majesty would be so kind as to excuse me, I find myself tempted by the next tide.”

  “Yes, of course, you are dismissed,” said the King. Under his breath, he added, “And we’re well shot of you.” He said it just loudly enough that everyone had to pretend they didn’t hear him.

  Once Casimir and the Factor left, everyone crowded in to congratulate the boy. The Queen smiled at him. Both Oswald and the Duke of Middlebury clapped the boy on the shoulder. The Princess kissed him on the cheek. The boy’s face reddened, while Just Alice glared at her.

  Then the King cleared his throat, and everyone took a step back. The boy looked up at the King and said, “Your Majesty, about that Count of Mossglum business, I just—”

  “Permuddlare necesse est, young man,” said the King quietly, and he tapped the side of his nose. “Permuddlare necesse est.”

  “Er, yes, exactly,” said the boy. As he had no idea what the King was talking about, it was the best response he could manage.

  The King leaned forward to whisper in the boy’s ear. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again,” said the King. “So if you want to change your mind and pick a different boon, I’d allow it.”

  The boy gave it a moment’s thought. That was quite an offer. He could become a lord and rule over his lands from his castle. It would be a big step up for someone born a slave. But there were other slaves in West Stanhope. “No, thank you, Your Majesty,” he said. “I’m fine the way I am.”

  The King gave the boy a hearty thump on the back. “Good lad.” He turned to the crowd and said, “What, no cheers for—” He turned back to the boy. “What is your real name?”

  “I haven’t got one,” said the boy.

  The King turned back to the crowd. “No cheers for our young hero?”

  “Hurrah for Hero!” cried the assembled crowd.

  “Wait,” said the boy. “You’re saying it wrong.”

  But the crowd ignored him. “Hurrah for Hero!” they cried again.

  “How’s it wrong?” said Just Alice.

  “They’re calling me Hero like it’s my name,” said the boy. “But it’s not.”

  “Hurrah for Hero!” cried the crowd a third time.

  “I don’t know,” said Just Alice. “Isn’t your name just whatever people call you?”

  “Hero is a stupid name,” said Hero.

  “Nobody likes their name,” said Just Alice. “Not really.”

  Hero looked out at the crowd of onlookers smiling at him. He turned to Mennofar and said, “I’m stuck with it, aren’t I?”

  Mennofar smiled and turned a particularly vibrant shade of emerald. “I think you will find that I am under no obligation to answer that question,” he said. “Or any other, for that matter.” But Hero did not need Mennofar’s answer. He already knew it was too late to do anything about it.

  The Great Hall of the Council of Sages sat on a hill overlooking Roggenheim’s busy port. The first forty of Hero’s florins had gone to pay the debts on Oswald’s farm, for which Oswald made Hero his partner in the farm. Another nine florins went for seed and tools, making the farm productive and successful for the first time. But the fiftieth had gone so Just Alice could come to Roggenheim and plead her case to the Council in person.

  Hero and Oswald sat in the front row of the gallery as Just Alice stood before the Council. In his last visit, Mennofar had given her a lot of advice on how to address the Council. She reminded herself to do the opposite of everything he said. He was a goblin, after all. Hero had given her his ring to wear around her neck for luck. She gave it a quick rub before she began, and then she told the Council her story. It was a slow day, and her voice echoed through the nearly empty hall. Still, she did a good job of telling the tale, or so she thought. She even managed to be a little humble, at least sometimes. When she was done, no one said a word for a long moment. The five members of the Council stroked their long white beards and vaguely hoped that one of the ot
hers would speak first. Finally, Egbert of Roggenheim said, “Why not grant her the extraordinary? How long’s it been since we gave one out, anyway?”

  “Not nearly long enough, if anyone were to ask me, which, I note, no one did,” said Old Henry. He squinted at Egbert nearsightedly. Even by the standard of the Council of Sages, Old Henry was a very old man. Indeed, he had been Old Henry long enough to bury more than one Young Henry. “And I’m not sure I approve of such a cavalier approach to a matter as serious as this, young man.” There were nods and murmurs of agreement with this.

  “Well, I’m not sure I approve of one member of the Council upbraiding another in public,” said Egbert. He crossed his arms. There were nods and murmurs of agreement with this, too.

  —

  In the gallery, Hero whispered to Oswald, “It doesn’t seem to be going well.”

  “It’s always like this,” Oswald whispered back. “Sages like to bicker.”

  “I vote yes,” said Egbert.

  “He was always a safe vote,” whispered Oswald. “He and I both apprenticed for the same master.”

  “I think we should consider abolishing extraordinaries altogether,” said Old Henry. “There’s a danger of corruption. Those with the right connections could influence the process.”

  “Unlike agon invitations, which are always issued with the purest of motives,” said Just Alice. Hero winced a little at that.

  Old Henry peered down his long nose at Just Alice. “The impertinence!” he snapped. “Young lady, you will speak only when asked a question.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” said Just Alice.

  “She’s far too contrary to be a sage,” said Old Henry. “I vote no.”

  “Aren’t all sages contrary?” said Egbert.

  “No!” snapped Old Henry. “And don’t you start in with the impertinence.”

  “Don’t worry, we never had a chance with him,” whispered Oswald. “He votes no on everything.”

  “I have a different concern,” said Roderick of Clontarf. “I was a little confused by your story, but if I understand it right, this boy really was a slave.”