Nikola chuckled. “Lad, you don’t have to guard the caravan on the way to the silver mine,” he said. Then he rolled over and went to sleep.
The dragon sat up on his hind legs like a dog. He loomed in close enough for Plain Alice to smell his sulfurous breath. “I hope I did not injure you,” he said. The dragon spoke with a clipped, educated accent that did not match his immense, scaly bulk.
“What do you care if I am hurt, you monster?” said Plain Alice, still trying to get over the discovery that he could speak at all.
The dragon sniffed a little at that. “You humans slaughter each other with glee, but we dragons are the monsters? Dragons or men, who do you suppose has more blood on their claws, Alice?”
“That’s not fair,” said Plain Alice. “And since you know my name, you should at least tell me yours.”
“My name is Ludwig,” said the dragon. “And do forgive me. I did not realize you were blind.”
That confused Plain Alice. “I’m not blind,” she said. “I can see just fine.”
That confused Ludwig back. “But you cannot see my name?” he asked.
“Of course not,” said Plain Alice. “Wait, do you actually see people’s names?”
“Yes,” said Ludwig. “People, animals, objects, everything. How else would I avoid crashing into things?”
“What’s the name of this rock?” asked Plain Alice, pointing at the basalt column.
Ludwig said, “It is called—” Then he emitted a kind of rumbly noise, so low that Plain Alice almost couldn’t hear it. “It doesn’t really translate.”
“And the ground?” said Plain Alice.
“The patch of ground the rock sits on is—” He made a slightly different low, rumbly noise. “And far beneath it is a lava flow called—” This time, he put a little gurgling sound into the low rumble.
Plain Alice said, “What about—”
Ludwig cut her off with a wave of his claw. “What is it that you see?”
“I see, um…what things look like,” said Plain Alice. Even as she spoke, she knew what she said was of no use to Ludwig. Words always went back to something that had been experienced before. She could describe what a particular thing looked like, but not what it was to see things. “When I look at something, I see, you know, its shape and color,” she said.
Only Ludwig did not know. “Does everything have these shapes and colors?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Plain Alice. Then, “No. Some things don’t, like air, but you can’t see them.” Then she thought about how in the summer, waves of heat coming from the ground could make things in the distance waver. “Well, sometimes you sort of can because they make other things change their shape.” And different kinds of light could change something’s color, too. “Or color.”
“Wait, if a thing changes shape and color, how can you ever know if you have seen it before?” asked Ludwig.
“Well, they don’t change shape and color that much, and it’s almost always when they’re far away,” said Plain Alice. Then she remembered about mirages. “Only sometimes, you see things that aren’t there at all.”
“That all sounds very confusing,” said Ludwig.
She would never be able to explain what she saw to Ludwig, and he would never be able to explain what he saw to her. Even though Ludwig saw things as words, he could not use words to tell her what it was like to see them. Ludwig would need a way to communicate that went beyond words, the ability to put the experience directly in her head. Much as she wanted to understand what Ludwig saw, she would never be able to. What they could not talk about, they would have to remain silent about.
“We dragons see everything that is, we know what it is and we see nothing that is not. Clearly, our way of seeing is better,” said Ludwig. “Now, I should be able to let you go soon, but in the meantime, do humans eat mutton?”
“You’re going to let me go?” said Plain Alice. “I was worried you might want to, well, devour me or something.”
Ludwig made a face and gagged a little at the thought. “No, no, nothing like that. I have been summoned by a sorcerer and am subject to his will,” said Ludwig.
“How did he get this power over you?” said Plain Alice.
“There is a ceremony, a secret rite. At the end of it, he burned my mark into his flesh. Until it fades, no one can free me from his command,” said Ludwig.
“And he ordered you to kidnap me?” said Plain Alice. “What would some sorcerer want with me?”
“I am afraid I cannot say. All very hush-hush. Always is when it comes to power politics,” said Ludwig.
“I’m not sure I believe that,” said Plain Alice.
“You can believe what you like about the sun, but it will still rise tomorrow,” said Ludwig.
“That’s not really true,” said Plain Alice. “The sun doesn’t rise. The world turns to reveal the sun. It only looks like it’s rising because of where we’re standing.” Plain Alice had been studying with her father to prepare for the next agon. She had just completed astronomy.
Ludwig wrinkled his brow and studied her a little more closely. “You’re an educated girl, then?” he said.
“I study a bit,” said Plain Alice.
“I, myself, am a student,” said Ludwig. “I am a doctoral candidate in draconic sciences. I was about to present my dissertation when I was dragged off here to be the errand boy of some politically ambitious thug.”
Plain Alice couldn’t imagine who would go to the trouble of kidnapping her. Ludwig’s little hints about politics were not helping, either. “What’s your dissertation about?” she asked. She wanted to get on Ludwig’s good side, and experience had taught her that the easiest way to get on a scholar’s good side was to ask about his research.
“Well, it is a bit complicated. It is primarily about how to get around the cube-square law, but there is also some material about defying the laws of aerodynamics,” said Ludwig. He looked at her hopefully.
Plain Alice did not know what any of that meant. “Bit over my head,” she said.
“Yes, well, it is an advanced course of study,” said Ludwig. “What about you? What do you study?”
“I’m apprenticed as a sage to my father,” said Plain Alice. “Or, well, I’m going to be. I hope.”
“What is the problem?” said Ludwig. “Is your father reluctant to take you on?”
“Oh, it’s not him,” said Plain Alice. “It’s the Council of Sages. In order to be apprenticed as a sage, you have to win an ordinary. It’s like a prize or an award; they give it to you for doing well at an agon. That’s a kind of contest where there’s a series of tricks and logic puzzles to solve. Winning an ordinary is supposed to show that you’re clever enough to be a sage.”
“And you have not won an ordinary yet?” asked the dragon.
“No, the Council won’t invite me to compete,” said Plain Alice. “Although I suppose, technically, that does mean: yes, I haven’t won one yet.”
“And there is no other way to become a sage?” said Ludwig.
“No,” said Plain Alice. “Well, if you solve a big enough problem or mystery outside of an agon, you can ask the Council to approve that instead. That’s called an extraordinary, but no one’s won one of those in years and years.”
“The answer seems obvious enough,” said Ludwig. “If your problem is how to become an apprentice sage, and you can do that by winning an extraordinary, then all you have to do is point out to the Council that winning an extraordinary is the solution to the problem. Then they give you an extraordinary for solving the problem.”
“And you think you’re the first one to come up with that, do you?” said Plain Alice.
“Not when you ask the question like that, no,” said Ludwig.
“It has to be an original solution,” explained Plain Alice, “which basically means it has to be a new problem.”
“My dissertation committee is very picky, too,” said Ludwig. “I have managed them, so I can probably manage your
Council. With some thought, I should be able to think of a good problem for you to solve when you go home.” He nodded. “In the meantime, if you will excuse me, I have some villagers to terrorize.” So saying, Ludwig leapt back into the sky. The draft from his wings blasted her with sand and grit.
As soon as he had gone, she started to think of how to get down and, once she got down, how to find fresh water. Of course, she would also have to find her way back to civilization. It would be dangerous, but she had little choice. Ludwig might intend to let her go, but Plain Alice had less faith in the goodwill of evil sorcerers.
“Boy.” The voice came in the middle of the night. “Boy.”
“Master?” said the boy, snapping awake. He jumped to his feet and glanced around wildly. The silvery light of the near-full moon lit the camp. Nothing moved. No one was there. Casimir had not come to burn him. His heart slowed its thudding. “Who is it?” said the boy, wondering if he had simply dreamed the voice.
“Over here, in the box,” said the voice.
The boy crept over to Nikola’s strongbox. “That can’t be. It’s too small,” said the boy. The box was barely big enough to hold a small child, but the voice that came from it was a grown man’s.
“Open it and take a look,” said the voice.
The strongbox and its secret belonged to Nikola, and Nikola had taken the boy in and fed him. Respecting Nikola’s secrets was a good way to repay his food and his company. So he would only take a quick peek. The boy lifted the strongbox’s lid and peered inside. Two glowing yellow eyes stared out at him. The boy jumped back, dropping the lid and very nearly screaming.
“I said to take a look, not a glimpse,” said the voice. A note of irritation crept into it.
The boy started to reach for the lid again but stopped himself. Whatever was in the box might be dangerous. He knew the wiser course was to leave well enough alone, but he was curious. Besides, he told himself, how much trouble could something so small cause? He threw the lid wide open.
The creature was fearfully strange-looking and dressed all in rags. His body was tiny and spindly, no bigger than a toddler’s, and his skin was green, a green so dark it looked near purple in the moonlight. He had an elongated triangular head with two enormous oblong yellow eyes, slit down the middle like a cat’s. His long, pointy ears stuck up above the crown of his head, and his wide mouth was filled with hundreds of needle-sharp teeth.
“Good evening, kind sir,” said the creature. He spoke in a whisper. “As you are obviously a refined gentleman of noble character, I do hope you might forgive me for the imposition of introducing myself without a proper letter of reference. Please feel free to call me Mennofar.”
The boy stared at Mennofar.
“I see that look in your eye, and you are quite right, clever lad that you are. That would be quite a short name for a goblin. Mennofar, you see, is only a nickname,” said Mennofar. “But as my full name is over forty-seven thousand syllables long and takes a full four hours to recite, I am willing to allow certain liberties, such as the use of my nickname. Especially as we are in a bit of a hurry.”
The boy continued to stare.
“To escape, lad,” said Mennofar. “We are in a hurry to effect my escape.”
“You’re a goblin,” said the boy.
“The keenness of your mind is a wonderment,” said Mennofar.
But the boy was not being stupid. He was racking his brain to remember everything he could about goblins from The Tales. Goblins were magical creatures with all manner of powers. They knew all things, past and future. And he was pretty sure they granted wishes, though that might have been genies or magic rings or talking fish or something. It seemed like there might have been something about buried treasure, too. But goblins were troublesome creatures. On this, The Tales were quite clear. They loved to tell lies and trick people. And though goblins never, ever broke a promise, they made all kinds of trouble by scrupulously enforcing their word to the letter.
No matter how hard the boy thought, he could remember nothing from The Tales about goblins in strongboxes. Finally, he said, “What’re you doing in there?”
“Relatively little, as I am being held prisoner by our mutual acquaintance,” said Mennofar, nodding his head toward Nikola. “Hence the need to escape.”
The boy said, “But why—”
“It is a long story,” said Mennofar. “One that I would be happy to relate with great animation and marginal accuracy at some later date. But for now, I would very much appreciate it if you would see about freeing me.” Then, before the boy could stare at him some more, he added, “The key lies on a chain around Nikola’s neck.”
The boy peered down into the strongbox. Mennofar’s ankles and wrists were bound in iron shackles that kept him from moving. And around Nikola’s neck was a key on a chain. The key rested on Nikola’s chest. It rose and fell with his breathing. “Only how do I know Nikola doesn’t have a good reason for keeping you locked up?” said the boy. “You might be evil.”
“A sage inquiry. Nikola has imprisoned me in the hopes that I will grant him three wishes,” said Mennofar, “which is once stupid because goblins do not grant wishes, we make vows, and twice stupid because a goblin’s honor permits him to make these vows only to his rescuer, never to his captor.” Mennofar gritted his teeth. “As I have explained to him many, many times.”
“If he thinks you’ll give him wishes, why doesn’t he have you under guard?” said the boy.
“As long as I am locked in this thing”—he jostled the chains a little—“I cannot escape,” said Mennofar. “Besides, he has had me in his power long enough to grow careless.”
The shackles were brown with rust, and far too small to have been made for anyone but Mennofar. “How long have you been locked up?” said the boy.
“Nine years,” said Mennofar. “We goblins are patient, and we live a long time.”
“And you can’t magic your way out or something?” said the boy. As soon as he said it, he knew the question was stupid. Plainly, he would have if he could have.
“No, iron is the bane of goblins,” said Mennofar. “We have no power over it. Just its touch burns like hot coals.”
The boy shuddered a little at the word “burn.” He leaned forward and examined Mennofar’s ankles and wrists. Wherever the iron touched, there were terrible burns and scars. It was a fearsome sight, and it made the guilt well up in the boy’s chest again. He had defied the gods rather than burn for just a few minutes, but Mennofar had burned for nine years without giving in.
Rather than risk waking Nikola by trying to take the key from around his neck, the boy lifted Mennofar out of the strongbox and carried him, chains and all, to the key.
With one arm, he held Mennofar over Nikola so that the padlock hung down only a few inches above the key. Mennofar was not heavy, even with the shackles, but holding him over Nikola’s chest was awkward. The boy’s arm began to tremble from the effort.
Concentrating on the rising and falling of Nikola’s chest, the boy timed his moment. When Nikola’s chest was at the top of one of its rises, the boy delicately closed his thumb and finger on the key. Nikola’s chest sank back again, leaving the key in the boy’s grasp. For one awful moment, Nikola began to stir. The boy froze. When Nikola did not wake, the boy lifted the key the few inches to the padlock and slid it in.
The lock turned easily and popped open. When the lock opened, its weight shifted, and it began to slide off the ring that secured it to the shackles. Mennofar winced, but the boy caught it just before it dropped onto Nikola’s chest. Still trembling, the boy set Mennofar on the ground. He slid the key from the lock. Gently, he set the key back on Nikola’s chest.
The boy carried Mennofar to the edge of the camp, where he undid the shackles. Mennofar and the boy just stared at each other for a moment. “Go on, then,” said the boy. “Run.”
Mennofar tried to raise his arm a little. It shook violently from the effort. “My imprisonment has left me too
weak to travel under my own power,” he said. “Do not worry, though. I am very light. Even carrying me, a strapping physical specimen such as you should have no trouble escaping Nikola.”
“Why do I want to escape from Nikola?” said the boy. “He took me in and fed me. He’s a friend.”
“Because your friend Nikola is going to sell you to the silver mines,” said Mennofar.
“You’re a liar,” said the boy. He spoke as forcefully as he could to cover his own uncertainty. “Goblins are great ones for lying.”
“Indeed, we take pride in it,” said Mennofar. “But ask yourself, why would he take you in if not to sell you? Why would he feed you so well if not to get more coin for you?”
“Kindness?” said the boy.
“Though it pains me to taint the purity of such innocence, I feel obliged to point out that in this world, kindness, like the unicorn, is chiefly found in stories told to princesses,” said Mennofar. “Ordinary folk look to how the coin falls.”
The boy looked over at Nikola’s face. Even asleep, the hard lines were there, lines that some might go so far as to call cruel. The boy wanted Nikola to be a friend, but friendly or not, he knew Nikola would never pass on silver.
He rubbed his father’s ring between his fingers. Of course, mine slavery just might be the answer to all his woes. Fate was a slippery thing. His fate was to be a slave, but maybe not Casimir’s slave particularly. Perhaps he could let himself be sold to the mines, submit to the will of the gods and save himself from burning for his crimes. It was a hard solution, but one worth thinking over.
“What are you waiting for?” said Mennofar. “Do you want to be a slave?”
The boy scooped Mennofar up in his arms and ran.
Each morning, Ludwig brought Plain Alice a fresh bucket of water before flying off and leaving her atop the pillar all day. Plain Alice would eat the leftovers from the night before for breakfast and lunch. At dusk, Ludwig would return with a sheep for their dinner and cook it with his fiery breath. Though dinner was often half burnt and half raw, Plain Alice was always hungry enough to get it down. Her real enemies were boredom and worry. There was nothing to do but fret about her poor father. She knew he would be in a state.
The Goblin's Puzzle Page 4
