Oswald followed the Bailiff down a long passage to a large set of double doors that opened onto the royal library. There, King Julian was meeting with all the members of the cabinet except the Royal Astrologer. Falling statuary had created an unexpected job opening. The surviving members of the cabinet were resplendent in velvet waistcoats, silk cravats, jeweled stickpins and powdered wigs. These wigs increased in size and complexity with the rank of the officers wearing them. The King’s own wig was so large that he could not actually wear it. It sat next to him, in its own chair.
“Your Majesty,” intoned the Bailiff, “may I present Oswald the Sage, of Middlebury, emissary of Your Right Trusty and Well-Beloved Cousin, the Right Honorable the Earl of Middlebury, who bears a message for Your Royal Personage.”
King Julian looked up. Any interruption of this meeting was most welcome. The cabinet had come to the King because they felt it was time to find Princess Alice a husband, ideally one with a lot of money. King Julian loved his daughter, even if her giggling annoyed him. He did not want to make her marry someone for his money, but he had long since learned that being king mostly meant doing things you didn’t want to do. And there was no getting around it: West Stanhope was broke. The royal budget was devoured by army pay, castle maintenance, the costs of the royal court, salaries for the civil servants and the endlessly rising price of wig powder. On top of that, there was the cost of applying to the High King for permission to change the law and make the Princess heir to the throne.
From his court in the Imperial City, the High King ruled nearly the whole of the world, which included dozens of kingdoms, principalities, grand duchies, sovereign margraviates, autonomous city-states, overseas exarchates and so on and so on. Obviously, it could prove challenging for any one monarch to get his attention. Still, every year King Julian sent a raft of functionaries and sages and astrologers and lawyers to attend the court of the High King. And every year, they petitioned and attested and forecasted and pettifogged (and bribed) the officers of the High King’s court in an effort to get permission to change the law. But Duke Geoffrey had functionaries and sages and astrologers and lawyers to petition and attest and forecast and pettifog (and bribe), too. So every year, there was some new reason why the matter would have to be put off another year. Slow as this was, King Julian would never give up. It was his sworn duty to protect the people, and that included protecting them from the likes of Duke Geoffrey.
In the meantime, West Stanhope sank deeper and deeper in debt.
Had Duke Geoffrey been king, he would have solved the problem by taxing the people ruthlessly, but then Duke Geoffrey would have been an oppressive tyrant. That was the reason King Julian was trying so hard to keep him off the throne in the first place. It was also the reason King Julian could not pursue a policy of ruthless taxation. There was no point in saving the people from an oppressive tyrant if he had to tyrannize them oppressively to do it. The cabinet’s answer was for Princess Alice to marry a wealthy prince. Much as King Julian hated it, he had yet to think of a better solution.
“Gentlemen,” said King Julian. “It looks like we will have to set aside this discussion for now.”
The Minister of the Treasury said, “But, Your Majesty, the kingdom is running out of money.”
“Then we can defer the maintenance work on the palace until next year,” said King Julian. “That should loosen up a few coins.”
The members of the cabinet turned pale: they all worked in the palace. “There are safety concerns,” said the Chamberlain. He looked over at the Royal Astrologer’s empty chair.
“We just have to muddle through somehow,” said King Julian. “Isn’t that our motto?” (Technically, West Stanhope’s motto was “Permuddlare necesse est,” these things sounding better in Latin.)
The members of the cabinet all nodded gravely.
“There you go,” said King Julian. He looked to Oswald and then to Magan’s familiar griffin. “Now, Oswald, Sage of Middlebury, what has Godric to say?”
Oswald bowed a little. No sooner did he take a step forward to deliver the message than the letter was snatched by the Bailiff, who handed it to the Tipstaff, who carried it to the Steward. The Steward checked that it was properly addressed and gave it to the Seneschal, who inspected the seal. The Seneschal carried it past the Minister of the Treasury, who scowled—unhappy that he did not have an excuse to inspect the letter—and gave it to the Captain of the Guard, who shook it a few times to confirm that it did not pose a threat and then handed it to the Chamberlain, who broke the seal, opened it and offered it to King Julian.
“You must forgive us for some of our more burdensome procedures,” said King Julian. He put on his reading glasses and looked at the letter. “Godric attests to your good character and says that you have a tale for me.”
“Your Majesty, I have come to plead with you to dispatch knights and men-at-arms to rescue my daughter,” said Oswald. “She was carried away by a dragon.” While he spoke, the Minister of the Treasury looked off into the distance, and the Captain of the Guard rolled his eyes.
“I see,” said King Julian. This was trouble. A marauding beast meant he would have to offer a reward, and if the beast was a dragon, the reward would have to be substantial.
The Chamberlain shifted in his chair. “Your Majesty is not, I hope, taking this seriously?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t I?” said King Julian.
“Your Majesty, this report might sound compelling, but it is important to know how reliable the source is,” said the Bailiff.
“The source?” said King Julian. “This man is the source, and he says he saw a dragon.”
“Unreliable hearsay, Your Majesty,” spluttered the Tipstaff. “The suggestion should be dismissed out of hand.”
“And what of the security risk?” said the Captain of the Guard. “If we send all of our men off to chase some delusion, we will have nothing to defend the kingdom from her enemies”—here he paused and glanced about meaningfully—“both external and internal.” The Captain of the Guard was big on questions of internal security.
Oswald said, “It is not a delusion. I saw—”
“Your Majesty,” said the Seneschal. “What if the army has to leave West Stanhope to catch the dragon? We will need to consult with the court of the High King in the Imperial City.” Whatever it was, the Seneschal always said they would need to consult with the High King. It was the perfect objection. It took months, and there was never a definite answer.
“And think of the expense, Your Majesty,” said the Minister of the Treasury. “It will cost a fortune.” As Minister of the Treasury, he had a good objection to anything. Whatever it was, West Stanhope could not afford it.
Not wanting to be left out, the Steward shot out of his chair. “Your Majesty should also be concerned about, um…um…” Unable to think of an objection of his own, he stammered along until he realized that the Chamberlain was glaring at him. Turning beet red, he quickly finished up with, “Um…other problems that might come up.” He shrank back into his chair.
The Chamberlain slowly rose to his feet. “I think Your Majesty can see that hasty action, particularly action based on reports of questionable reliability”—he eyed Oswald doubtfully—“may be problematic. Perhaps Your Highness might appoint a panel of experts to study all the possible courses of action, including the potential need to consult the court of the High King.” He let a favorable eye fall on the Seneschal, while the Steward turned even redder.
“You want a panel?” said the King. “To study whether there are dragons?”
“To study whether there are dragons in West Stanhope, Your Majesty,” said the Chamberlain.
“Go on,” said the King.
“Once the panel makes its report,” said the Chamberlain, “Your Majesty can be confident of making the best possible decision.”
The King fixed the Chamberlain with a mighty stare. Then he turned to Oswald and said, “It’s going to be a challenge, but if I fight wit
h this lot all night, I may be able to get a rescue effort off by the morning.” He waved to the Bailiff. “Find this man a room and a meal.”
The door to the library banged open. Queen Ludmilla charged into the room. Behind her was a train of ladies-in-waiting, all wheezing and perspiring with unaccustomed effort. The members of the cabinet all jumped to their feet and bowed deeply. She ignored them all. “Oh, Julie, it’s Alice!” she cried. Tears stained her cheeks. “She’s been kidnapped!”
All of his old concerns—whom the Princess might marry, whether she would be serious enough to rule one day, what was behind all that giggling—every single one of these problems became nothing. “From inside the palace?” said the King. “By whom? How is it even possible?”
“She’s been carried off by a dragon.”
The boy stopped to rest again at midday. When he put Mennofar down, he saw that Mennofar’s skin had gone from an unpleasant inky-dark green to a healthier-looking forest green. Odder still, he was no longer dressed in rags. Instead, he wore a neatly tailored traveling suit.
“Where’d you get those clothes?” said the boy.
“It is a raiment,” said Mennofar. Then, seeing that this did not help, he added, “Magical clothing. It fashions itself into whatever seems most appropriate under the circumstances.”
“It’s hardly fair, you knowing all,” said the boy. “I have to ask you everything, and you don’t have to ask me anything.”
They both sat in silence for a moment.
“Why did you do it?” asked Mennofar. “Set me free like that?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy. And he truly did not. He did not know why he did most of the things he did. He tried to think things through carefully, but somehow he wound up doing the first thing that popped into his head. It was part of the reason he was such a bad slave. “Maybe I was just being friendly.”
“It is hard for a goblin and a human to be friends,” said Mennofar. “Goblin honor and human honor are so very different.”
“Slaves have no honor,” said the boy. Everyone knew that. “Anyway, those chains looked like they hurt.”
“They did,” said Mennofar.
“Well, that’s why I freed you, then. I couldn’t just let you burn like that,” said the boy.
“But you did not try to get me to make any vows,” said Mennofar. “I even gave you hints.”
“That doesn’t seem right, demanding vows when I was going to do it anyway. Wouldn’t have been fair,” said the boy, though that made it sound like he had thought things through.
“Not fair? Not fair?” said Mennofar. “Life is not fair. You are a slave. How is that fair?”
“It’s my fate,” said the boy.
“Yes, but how can having such a fate be fair?” said Mennofar, just as if he were making a good point.
“The Three Sisters draw all fates from the same bowl. My chances were the same as anyone else’s,” said the boy. “What could be more just?”
Mennofar shook his head, but he let the matter drop. “Would you count it fair to accept the vows now?” said Mennofar.
“Like a reward?” said the boy.
“Absolutely not,” said Mennofar. “That would be an egregious violation of the goblin code of honor. I can grant vows only under duress. Even then, I must try to torment the person I make my vows to by giving those vows the strictest, most exacting interpretation possible. Anything less would be a permanent stain on my character, and I would be cast out of goblin society forever.”
“It’s dishonorable to reward someone who helps you?” asked the boy.
“Yes, it is,” said Mennofar. He tapped his nose and dropped his voice. “I did warn you that a goblin’s honor is very different from a human’s. Now, do you want my vows or not?”
The boy studied Mennofar. It could be a trick. “How can you give me a vow now? I’ve already rescued you,” he said.
“A fine point,” said Mennofar. “But as I am still physically helpless and will need your help to survive until I heal, a case could be made that you have not actually finished rescuing me yet.” He leaned in. “Just for purposes of reference, you should know that three is the customary number of vows for rescuing a goblin.”
The offer was tempting but frightening. Goblins were notoriously tricksome. The Tales warned of men who came a cropper for dealing with them casually. Of course, such a vow would be valuable. Too valuable for a slave. “I am Casimir’s slave,” said the boy. “Any reward would rightly belong to him.” He’d already cheated his master out of a slave. He didn’t want to make his crimes any worse.
“You risked your life to save me,” said Mennofar. “I wish to reward—er, show my recognition of that to you, not ratty old Casimir.”
“The life I risked belongs to Casimir,” said the boy.
“Ah, but the vows will make you a more valuable slave,” said Mennofar. “Like putting fresh whitewash on a house.”
Only a fool would fall for that one. “No, you must give those vows to Casimir,” said the boy.
“Here is my final offer: I will give you two of the vows and save one for Casimir. If ever I happen upon the man, I will give him any vow you want.”
The boy hesitated.
Mennofar smiled a little. His skin turned a lighter shade of green. “Casimir gets a vow, if you accept. If you refuse, he gets nothing. Now, would a good slaveboy cheat his master of something as valuable as a goblin’s vow?” he said.
Goblins, it turned out, were just as clever and tricky as everyone said. “Two for Casimir and one for me,” said the boy. Maybe if Casimir got more than the boy, he wouldn’t be too angry.
“Believe me when I tell you that two may not be quite enough,” said Mennofar. “So take your two vows. Otherwise, Casimir gets nothing.”
“I accept,” said the boy. He could always lie and say he’d gotten only one.
“Wonderful,” said Mennofar. “Well?”
“Give me a minute. I have to think about what to ask for,” said the boy.
“No, no, no, no,” said Mennofar. “You must subject me to duress before extracting the vows from me.”
“How do I do that?” asked the boy. This whole business was terribly complicated.
“A more creative lad would have no trouble devising several possibilities, but threatening to leave me here to starve should suffice,” said Mennofar.
“Fine,” said the boy through gritted teeth. “Mennofar, give me the vows, or I’ll leave you here.”
“Weak,” said Mennofar. “Not even remotely credible.”
This was getting ridiculous. “That’s it,” said the boy. “If you don’t knock this off right now, I will leave you here.” He stood up. “And you can starve, for all I care.”
“Oooh, that is much better,” said Mennofar. Quite suddenly, he began to weep piteously. “No, you cannot,” he cried out, “for I would die, and I will do anything to prevent that.”
The boy glanced around to see if they were going through all of this for the benefit of someone else, but there was no one. “Will you give me three vows, two for me and one for my master, Casimir?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mennofar. He stopped crying. “It took you a moment, but you were very good once you got going. I very nearly believed you would leave me.”
“Did we really need to do all that?”
“Absolutely. Abandon all of life’s little rituals, and you descend into barbarism,” said Mennofar. “Now, what is your first vow?” He rubbed his hands together in excitement.
“I want you to vow to always help me in any way you can,” said the boy.
“No,” said Mennofar.
“No? You can say no?”
“If the vow is unduly onerous,” said Mennofar. “Help you in any way I can? Such as washing all your clothes for you? Cutting up your meals? Cleaning your feet when they get dirty? It would very nearly turn me into a slave.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” said the boy. “I only wanted you to help wi
th the big things in life.”
“And how am I to judge when something is one of ‘the big things in life’?” said Mennofar. “And while you are thinking about that, I will also need to know how much effort I should put into helping you. Or were you expecting me to work myself to death?”
When the boy said it, he’d known what he meant. He just wanted Mennofar to help him, though not in some tricksy way that made things worse. The trouble was that Mennofar was right. Just saying “the big things in life” was too vague.
“I want you to vow to help me prove my innocence to Casimir,” said the boy. That way he could go home.
“An excellent choice,” said Mennofar. “Boy who rescued me, I, Mennofar the Goblin, vow—”
“Wait. Stop,” said the boy. “You’re just going to do the tiniest little thing that helps in some way that barely matters, aren’t you?”
“There is my honor to consider,” said Mennofar.
“And if I ask you to vow to help a lot, you’ll say that’s too vague,” said the boy.
“Yes,” said Mennofar. “I mean, if you are willing to let me be the judge of what constitutes ‘a lot,’ then—”
“No,” said the boy. What he needed was some way to make Mennofar useful without leaving him any wiggle room. “You know everything, right?” said the boy. “I want you to vow never to lie to me.”
“Now, that is an excellent choice,” said Mennofar. “Boy who rescued me, I, Mennofar the Goblin, vow that I shall never lie to you.”
“Where can I find buried treasure?” asked the boy. If he brought home a big enough treasure, Casimir would forgive him for not helping Tibor and running away. Well, maybe. At the very least, Casimir would only have the boy’s ears cut off. Either way, the boy could go back to being a slave without being burned alive.
Mennofar looked at the boy in perfect innocence. He said nothing.
“Answer the question,” said the boy.
“No,” said Mennofar.
“But you have to,” said the boy. “You promised.”
“I did no such thing,” said Mennofar. “I promised only that I would not lie. When I choose to speak, the words I speak will be true.”
The Goblin's Puzzle Page 6
