The Princess looked back at the Duke’s men. “No, Papa,” she said.
The boy shifted back and forth from one foot to the other. The Duke was going to have his way because no one dared tell the truth about him. “He’s lying!” shouted the boy. His startled guard reached out to grab him, but the boy dodged the man’s grasp.
“Who dares?” said the Duke.
“Don’t,” said Just Alice. “He’ll kill you.”
She was right, but the Duke was going to kill them anyway. The boy slipped through a gap in the crowd. His guard came after him, but the gap was too narrow for a full-grown man.
The boy wormed out of the front of the crowd and shouted, “The Duke is lying!”
The Duke glared at the boy.
The guard burst out of the crowd behind the boy, but when he caught sight of the Duke’s glare, he stepped right back into the crowd again.
The boy darted up to the King. Unsure what else to do, he went down on his hands and knees and pressed his forehead to the ground.
“Nice to see a young man who knows how to grovel properly,” said the Chamberlain to the Seneschal.
“So few do nowadays,” said the Seneschal.
“Please forgive me for interrupting, Your Majesty,” said the boy, “but the Duke is lying to you. He didn’t rescue Princess Alice from the dragon. I did.”
“Pay no attention to this absurd ragamuffin,” said the Duke. “He’s out of his mind.”
“I am not,” said the boy. “The Duke didn’t need to rescue her from the dragon because he used black magic to summon the dragon. He made the dragon kidnap the Princess so he could force you to let him marry her.”
“Preposterous on its face,” said the Duke. He snapped his fingers at a couple of his men-at-arms. They moved toward the boy.
“I cannot take such a serious accusation lightly,” said the King.
“Nor should you, Your Majesty,” said the Duke. “Let me put this matter to rest. I give you my word as a gentleman and as a peer of the realm and as a member of the royal family—and, I might add, as a leader of many, many men—that his wild accusations are without basis.” He bowed a little toward the King. “You will, I hope, take my word over that of a nameless guttersnipe.”
The King looked out over the Duke’s men and sighed. “I suppose I must,” he said.
“I thank you for clearing my name of this vile slander,” said the Duke. He smiled venomously at the boy. “You will also, I hope, mete out an appropriate punishment for this heinous crime.”
“Must we?” said the King.
“Oh, yes,” said the Duke. “The boy must hang.”
It was all a joke, only one with a punch line the boy did not like. Nothing he could say would change anything. So long as the Duke had his men, the truth did not matter. He could say whatever he wanted, and the King would pretend to believe him. Everyone else would go along with the sham for the same reason. Being surrounded by his men gave the Duke power over truth. And whoever held power over truth could remake the world, even if only for a time.
What the boy needed was a little of that power for himself—a claim that the Duke had no way to contradict. He threw back his head and looked all the way down his nose, just as the Duke had. “I am now prepared to reveal my true identity,” he said in as lordly a tone as he could manage. “I am Rodrigo Tibor Casimir, the Count of Mossglum in the Kingdom of High Albemarle.”
Everyone stared at the boy.
“You’re a…count?” said the Majordomo.
“Every son of the noble House of Mossglum takes a holy vow to spend a year and a day wandering the earth in impoverished anonymity,” said the boy. “By pure chance, my year and a day ended this very moment.”
“That’s—that’s preposterous,” said the Duke, which, to be fair, it was.
“Your Grace should be more generous to our guest,” said the Princess. She stood next to the boy. “Eastern customs may strike us as exotic, but to call them preposterous is simply unkind.”
The Duke glared at the Princess in hateful wonder. “Your Highness misunderstands me—”
“My Lord of Mossglum,” said the King, “as King of West Stanhope, I recognize you as a foreign nobleman and welcome you to our kingdom.”
The Duke said, “Your Majesty cannot seriously propose to—” He paused, and his cobra smile returned. “Very well, as I have been slandered not by a common guttersnipe who can be summarily hanged, but by a nobleman and guest of the King, I demand that my honor be satisfied in that most ancient and traditional manner.”
The boy looked at the Duke. If the Duke liked it, it could not be anything good.
“On the field of honor,” said the Duke.
“He means a duel,” said Mennofar, who had slipped out of the crowd to join the boy.
“Do you accept?” asked the Duke.
The Duke was twice the boy’s age, stood more than a foot taller and outweighed him by a hundred pounds. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” said the boy.
“Not if you’re really a count,” said the Duke. “Bring the boy’s—excuse me, the Lord of Mossglum’s—arms and armor.” The Duke’s men sniggered.
One of the Duke’s men came forward carrying Magan.
“That’s it?” said the Duke. “No sword? No lance?”
“No, Your Grace,” said the guard.
The Duke looked down his long nose at the boy. “I suppose you just faced the dragon bare-handed, then?”
“Not just bare-handed,” said Mennofar.
“I had my slingshot,” said the boy.
“Bring it forward,” said the Duke to his men.
The men glanced at one another awkwardly. Finally, one stepped forward. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” he said. “We thought it was just an old rag, so we—so it was thrown away.”
“Oh, that is too bad,” said the Duke in a tone that could never have been mistaken for regretful. “Come along, then. Let’s have our little duel.”
“Your Majesty, shouldn’t His Grace be obliged to provide the, er, the Count of Mossglum with a weapon?” said Just Alice.
Everyone turned and stared at her.
“After all, it was the Duke’s retinue that denied him his own,” said Just Alice, staring back at all of them.
“That is only fair, Geoffrey,” said the King.
The Duke scowled at Just Alice. “I was just about to offer, Your Majesty,” he said. He pointed to two of his men. Each one offered the boy the use of his weapon. One had a huge battle-axe. Had both the boy’s arms been good, he just might have been able to lift it a few inches off the ground. The other had a longsword that looked only a little more manageable than the axe.
The boy accepted the sword. Just lifting it in the air was enough to make his arm shake. He took a practice swing. The weight of the sword pulled him off balance. He had to take several quick steps just to regain his footing.
A chuckle rolled over the Duke’s men.
“This’ll do,” said the boy.
“And Your Lordship’s shield?” said the guard, offering Magan.
The boy looked down at his left arm, hanging uselessly in its sling. “Just the sword, I think,” said the boy. “I doubt I’ll need anything more.” He hoped he sounded braver than he felt.
The Duke smiled and drew his great sword. Its blade was wider than the boy’s arm. It was so heavy that even a man the Duke’s size needed both hands to wield it. It glinted in the sun as he took a few practice strokes. “May we have your choice of ground, then?” said the Duke.
The boy stared at the Duke uncertainly.
“I challenged you, so you get to pick where we fight,” said the Duke. “There?” He pointed to a spot in the courtyard. “Or there?” He pointed to another. “Or we could go out in front of the palace, if you’re more accustomed to fighting in the street.” The Duke’s men laughed again.
“No, no,” said the boy, feigning a bravado he did not really feel. “I choose…I choose…”
&nbs
p; “Mennofar, do something,” hissed Just Alice, who had also come out of the crowd.
“The roof,” whispered Mennofar. “Choose the roof.”
“I choose the roof!” said the boy. He glanced back down at Mennofar and whispered, “Wait, the roof?”
“The roof?” said Just Alice.
“The roof?” said the Duke. “Of the palace?”
Mennofar nodded. “Yes,” said the boy, nodding with him. He turned back to the Duke. “The roof of the palace.”
Everyone looked up. High above their heads towered a steep pitch of slate shingles. The few remaining gargoyles adorned the edge at odd intervals.
“That’s just ridiculous,” said the Duke.
“Lord Mossglum does have the choice of ground,” said the King. “Or not the ground—or whatever.” Everyone nodded in agreement, even the Duke’s men.
“But he’s making a mockery of our duel,” spluttered the Duke. He waited a moment before adding, “Your Majesty.”
“Your Grace can, of course, forfeit, if you wish,” said the King.
“No, no,” said the Duke through clenched teeth. “If the boy wishes to die closer to the gods, I shall be happy to accommodate him.” He stalked into the main hall of the palace.
“When I said to do something,” said Just Alice, “I meant something helpful.”
“Thank you for reminding me. I very nearly forgot,” said Mennofar. He turned a brighter shade of green and scurried off into the crowd.
Casimir the Merchant stood and watched as his assistants tried without luck to sell his goods. Plenty of townsfolk came to the city market, and most of them stopped at Casimir’s stall to take in the aroma of unfamiliar spices or feel the sheerness of real silk. Once they did, though, they moved on to the stalls that sold produce.
“Look at that,” he said, and he pointed to the stall across the way. It hummed with housewives buying cheese and eggs.
“They lack the taste necessary to appreciate your wares,” said the Factor.
“The vulgar buy silk,” said Casimir. “The poor do not. We are wasting our time here.”
“I did overhear two of those women gossiping about some duke who apparently has a local princess in his power,” said the Factor. “It sounded like a sad tale.”
“What do I care about a bunch of infighting nobles in some petty kingdom?” said Casimir.
“It seems he’s just arrived at the royal palace,” said the Factor, “with an eye to forcing a marriage on her.”
“Fool! Why didn’t you say something earlier?” said Casimir. Even in a backwater like West Stanhope, it took a good deal of silk to get through a royal wedding. “Move! Move! We must get to the palace right away.”
The roof was even steeper than it looked from below. After a long morning in the summer sun, the dark slates were hot, but a life without shoes left the boy with tough feet. He took a couple of experimental steps. The slates were not too slick, but many were loose or broken, or slid beneath his feet. He managed to keep his footing until he glanced down at the courtyard below. The drop made him dizzy. He waved his sword in the air to regain his balance.
At the far end of the roof, the Duke was taking a few practice swings with his huge sword. When he saw the boy stumble, he smiled. Even though he was dressed in a full suit of chain mail, he strode boldly to the edge. Just watching someone stand so close to the edge made the boy sick, but the Duke was unfazed. He looked down on the crowd below and raised his arms into the air. His men cheered loudly. “When I am done here,” he shouted, “I shall order fresh casks of wine to be opened.” His men cheered even more loudly. When he stepped back from the lip, a single piece of slate broke loose and slid over the edge. For what seemed like a very long time, it sailed through the air before finally shattering on the flagstones below. An almighty crack echoed back up off the castle walls. The gathered crowd stared at the broken slate for a moment before deciding, as one, to take a few steps back.
The Duke returned to his end of the roof and donned his iron helm.
“Your Grace, are you ready?” cried the King from far below.
“Yes!” shouted the Duke.
“My Lord of Mossglum, are you ready?” cried the King.
“Yes,” muttered the boy. He gave the broken link of chain a quick rub for luck.
“Sorry, what?” called the King.
“I said yes,” said the boy, a little louder.
The King nodded. The Princess dropped her white handkerchief, and it began.
The Duke charged across the roof without regard for the danger. His footing was sure. The Duke swung his sword at the boy in a heavy arc. Had it connected, it would have cut the boy in half, but without armor, the boy was more nimble than the Duke. He easily darted to one side. The Duke’s sword smashed through the roof. An avalanche of slate cascaded down onto the courtyard below.
As he dodged the Duke’s attack, the boy managed to deliver a quick blow to the Duke’s leg with his sword. Even with all his strength behind the strike, it barely dented the Duke’s armor. The boy had hoped it would at least knock him off balance, but that hope went unrewarded. The Duke stood firm.
The boy scurried up to the peak of the roof. The ridge offered him better footing but more directions to fall. He scampered along the ridge to the far end of the roof.
“Come back and die like a man!” shouted the Duke. Before the boy could answer, the Duke charged again. His arm shaking from the weight, the boy raised his sword to block the attack. The Duke batted the boy’s sword aside easily. The boy dodged to one side again, but the Duke was prepared. He swung loosely and in such a way that, by shifting his weight suddenly, he could redirect the sword in an unexpected direction without warning. The boy still managed to slip away, but this time it was a close thing indeed. Had the Duke gained an inch or two more, the boy would have lost the top of his skull. Instead, he jumped away as another rain of slate showered down on the courtyard below.
As the boy ducked down and around, he chanced a wild swing at the Duke’s ankle. His sword bit only air, but its weight pulled the boy forward off the peak of the roof. He took one big step down the roof. Then another. He knew what was going to happen before it did, but he could do nothing about it. He was too far in front of his own feet. He could not regain his balance.
For a long, heart-stopping moment, he seemed to float above the roof. Then he slammed into the roof face-first. As soon as he landed, he began his headlong slide down. Of its own accord, his bad arm twisted out of the sling and desperately flailed for any grip. The pain was horrible, but it did no good. He did not slow. The edge rushed closer. He ground his nails into the slate tiles, futilely trying to stop his slide.
He went over the edge.
What came next was a wild jumble: He fell. The crowd pointed. Something slammed into him. Sword jerked loose. Couldn’t breathe. No air.
That was strange.
There should’ve been air. It should’ve been whipping through what was left of his clothing. And the crowd, it should’ve been looming ever larger in his sight as he drew nearer the ground. Only he wasn’t drawing nearer the ground. As the sword clattered on the flagstones far below, the boy’s mind congealed around one simple fact: he wasn’t falling.
He was, he quickly discovered, clinging to a narrow cornice that had once served as home to one of the absent gargoyles. The boy wasn’t sure whether there was a god of cornices, but he gave him a quick prayer of thanksgiving just the same. Then he took a deep breath. Ignoring the pain screaming at him from his bad arm, he spun himself around so that he lay lengthwise along the cornice. He got his feet under him. Getting back up on the roof meant facing the Duke empty-handed, but he did not see what choice he had in the matter. He popped his head up above the edge of the roof.
The Duke had apparently lost his balance, too. He lay on his side with one arm over the ridge. The Duke goggled at the boy. “You have the luck of the Foul One,” he wheezed.
The boy only nodded. He jumped onto
the roof and ran to the far end from the Duke. The Duke was right, though. He had gotten lucky, that time. There was no reason to think he’d get lucky again. Even if he could keep away from the Duke’s sword, he could not keep running back and forth without slipping and falling again. The roof was too steep and too slick for that.
“Maybe not so lucky,” said the Duke. “Lost our sword, did we?” He scrambled back to his feet, sending another couple of slates over the edge.
The boy picked up one of the many broken tiles on the roof. He threw it at the Duke as hard as he could. It went well wide of its target.
The Duke snorted. “What are you trying to do? Get me to laugh so hard I fall off the roof?”
The Duke had a point. The boy had nothing, not even the slingshot. The Duke’s men had taken the only weapon he actually knew how to use. But it was gone, and—
The boy looked down his front. Slowly, he unlooped the sling Just Alice had made for his bad arm. He knelt down and picked up another broken slate. The best stones were round, not flat like the roof slates, but the boy could make do. He slipped the slate into the sling turned slingshot, gave it a couple of spins over his head and, with a snap of his wrist, let it fly. The stone sailed through the air and struck the Duke’s helm with a thunderous clang.
“Now that was annoying,” said the Duke, unharmed. “Let us end this, coward!” He began to advance on the boy.
“You’re the one who hides behind his title and his men,” said the boy. Blood thundered in his ears. “You’re the coward.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you’re the coward.”
“What?” said the Duke. “Speak up!” The blow to the helm had deafened him some.
It was the boy’s only chance. He took up another piece of slate, let the slingshot out as far as it would go and spun it around as fast as he could. Then he yelled, “I said you’re a—” He dropped his voice to a mumble, then yelled again, “And that your mother is a—” And he dropped his voice again.
“What? How dare you?” said the Duke. “Say that again.” The Duke tipped his helm up so he could hear better. When he did, he exposed a corner of his temple.
The Goblin's Puzzle Page 17
