The Goblin's Puzzle Read online

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Andrew S. Chilton

  Cover art and interior illustrations copyright © 2016 by Jensine Eckwall

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Chilton, Andrew S.

  The goblin’s puzzle: being the adventures of a boy with no name and two girls called Alice / by Andrew S. Chilton ; illustrations by Jensine Eckwall. — First edition.

  pages cm.

  Summary: A boy, a goblin, a scholar, and a princess join forces to defeat a dragon, outwit a scheming duke, and solve a logic puzzle.

  ISBN 978-0-553-52070-5 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-553-52071-2 (lib. bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-553-52072-9 (ebook)

  [1. Fantasy.] I. Eckwall, Jensine, illustrator. II. Title.

  PZ7.1.C5Go 2016

  [Fic]—dc23

  2015013261

  eBook ISBN 9780553520729

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  For my mother, Mary-Dell Chilton,

  who made everything possible

  Detail left

  Detail right

  Bread, left untended, will steal itself, or so people liked to say. But the boy found that sometimes it needed help. He peeked in through the back door of the kitchen. Cook stood by the oven with her big wooden paddle, waiting for the baking to be done. The lines on her face made her mouth look like it was curving downward, even when she was not frowning. No matter how hungry the boy was, Cook would never sneak him a loaf. One of the kitchen girls might, but Cook could not know. She’d sooner thwack a slaveboy’s backside with a kitchen spoon than part with a single crust.

  Of all the kitchen girls, Brigitte was the softest touch. The boy caught her eye, but she shook her head a little. He gave her his saddest look. She nodded toward Cook. With her paddle, Cook was lifting cake after cake out of the oven. The boy sighed. A bit of bread could disappear, but cake would be missed. He studied the cake. It was studded with raisins, shot through with cinnamon and topped with a glaze of sugar. The boy sniffed deeply. The hollow ache in the pit of his belly awoke. His mouth watered, and his stomach churned.

  At the back gate, a great black dog whined and pawed to be let in. Pajti was the master’s best hunting dog and an accomplished escape artist. The boy went to the gate and said, “Pajti want some cake?” Pajti gave the boy a couple of suspicious sniffs. Then he wagged his tail and licked the boy’s hand through the grate. The boy let him in and took him by the collar. He led Pajti to the kitchen door. “Pajti want some cake?” he whispered. Pajti whined and nuzzled the boy’s face. For luck, the boy rubbed his father’s ring, which he wore on a thong around his neck. Then he let go of Pajti’s collar.

  Pajti shot into the kitchen like an arrow. He knocked down a girl carrying a basket, and potatoes flew in every direction. Pajti bounded over the girl and up onto the cutting table. He snarled at Cook. Cook shrieked and dropped her paddle. Cakes soared through the air. Screaming kitchen girls dropped everything and ran from the room. Tables flipped over and dishes clattered to the floor.

  Pajti dropped to the ground and bit into one of the cakes. Cook was not going to surrender her kitchen so easily. She was tough for an old woman. She grabbed her long iron spoon and waved it at him. “Go on, you wicked beast,” she said. Pajti was not giving up his prize. Baring his fangs, he let out a low growl. He advanced slowly on her, ready to spring. This was too much even for Cook. She ran from the kitchen, shouting for help. Pajti wolfed down the cake.

  As soon as she was gone, the boy darted into the kitchen. “Good boy,” he said to Pajti, but Pajti turned on the boy and growled at him. The boy knocked two more cakes on the floor for Pajti. The dog fell on them while the boy grabbed one cake for himself and fled.

  He ran across the back court and shoved cake into his mouth. He must not be caught with it. Behind one of the hydrangeas in the outer courtyard, he had pruned a hiding spot where he could nap away the hottest hours of the afternoon. If he could just make it there, he could take his time with the rest of the cake.

  He slid around the corner to the outer courtyard only to find his master, Casimir, talking to the Factor. Behind them stood Rodrigo, one of the more senior slaves and valet to Casimir’s son Tibor. The boy saw them just before they noticed him. He jammed the rest of the cake into his mouth and dropped to his hands and knees. As the three of them looked over at him, he pressed his forehead to the ground. Abasing himself gave him just enough time to give the cake a quick chew before swallowing it.

  “What about that one? Surely we don’t need him,” said Casimir.

  The boy stood. Slaves had to keep their heads bowed in Casimir’s presence, but the boy made sure not to bow his head too far. Dealing directly with Casimir was dangerous. It was always a good idea to keep an eye on the master.

  Casimir looked down at the boy. When his eye landed on the ring hanging around the boy’s neck, he twisted his great waxed mustache as if he were trying to remember something. “What’s your name again?”

  “I haven’t got one, Master,” said the boy.

  “Why not? Did you lose it?” Casimir laughed out loud. “That’s a good one, isn’t it?” he said to the Factor. “Did you lose it?”

  The Factor managed to produce a dry chuckle. “Yes, sir, very droll indeed,” he said.

  “Oh no, Master, if someone gave me something as valuable as a name, I would never lose it,” said the boy.

  “You cheeky little devil!” shouted Casimir. He clouted the boy on the ear. “You think you need a tongue to, to—What is it you do around here?”

  “I tend the plants in the inner and outer courtyards, Master,” said the boy.

  “That’s it?” said Casimir. “For that, I give you two meals every day?” He shook his head. “You’re going to Mossglum.”

  “Why?” said the boy.

  Rodrigo gasped.

  The Factor stared, wide-eyed.

  But Casimir remained calm. “Did you just ask me why?”

  “Uh—”

  “First my son wants to know why, and now my slave does,” said Casimir. “I suppose unquestioning obedience is terribly old-fashioned nowadays.” He pursed his lips. “I suppose I must be an old fuddy-duddy for expecting it.”

  “The young do have
their notions,” said the Factor.

  “You want to know why?” said Casimir. “Here’s why.” The blow staggered the boy. His ears rang, and he had to blink his eyes for several seconds to clear his vision. “But since you asked, I am sending my eldest son, Tibor”—at the mention of Tibor’s name, the Factor rolled his eyes—“to the town of Mossglum to, to, to…” Casimir turned to the Factor. “Hang me, what is he going to do there again?”

  “I believe you are sending him to the home of your wife’s cousin so that he may better understand the industry that converts manure to fertilizer,” said the Factor.

  “That’s it,” said Casimir. “He’s going to Mossglum to learn about dung.”

  “A very exciting opportunity for a young man to make his mark in the world, I’m sure,” said the Factor.

  “I was going to send him with Rodrigo, but that’s not good enough, apparently. He can’t make do with just one slave. And since all you do is slop a bit of water about, I thought I’d send you, too,” said Casimir. “Is that a good enough reason? Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  The boy opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Casimir shoved the boy at Rodrigo. Rodrigo caught the boy’s shoulder and led him away.

  “You have the luck of the Foul One,” said Rodrigo as they climbed the back stair. “Why he didn’t have the skin whipped from your back, I don’t know.”

  “Won’t they need my back to carry things?” said the boy.

  Duke Geoffrey was a well-educated man. He could even read on his own. It was not something he did very often. He preferred to nod wisely and say, “Yes, I see,” while one of his scribes read aloud to him. For this book, however, he made an exception. By decree of the College of Wizards, owning an unsanctioned spell book was punishable by death. Duke Geoffrey would have to silence any man who knew of the book’s existence, and scribes were expensive to replace.

  He read from the old book with great care. He moved his lips with each word and sounded out the particularly hard ones to make sure he had them right.

  But his efforts went unrewarded. The spell book had come to him from his great-aunt, a leading witch of her day. As Duke Geoffrey fought his way down the table of contents, he began to wonder if she had not been a little mad, too. Why else would she bother to write down something as useless as “A Spell for Summoning a Crane,” page 67? This gem was followed by “A Spell for Summoning a Crow,” page 89. In turn, there were spells for calling forth a deer, a donkey and then a dormouse.

  It infuriated Duke Geoffrey. His situation was desperate. The King was plotting to cheat him of his rightful place in the line of succession. The King was maneuvering to have his daughter, Princess Alice—a girl—inherit the throne. It was all so grossly unfair.

  Someone had to stop this calamity, and Duke Geoffrey knew he was someone. He also knew better than to risk everything by sending his knights and men-at-arms to attack the capital. He could gain the throne without starting an all-out war if he could just find the right spell. But he would need something more powerful than this heap of parlor tricks.

  “Dormouse” was followed by “Doukhobor” and then “duck.” Duke Geoffrey stopped. He had never heard of a Doukhobor, but it sounded Eastern. And unpleasant. Perhaps it was a mountain beast or bog creature. Duke Geoffrey turned to page 174. It took him six pages and an hour to learn that a Doukhobor was an obscure type of peasant who refused to wear clothes.

  Duke Geoffrey swept the spell book from the table. He had already upped the rents twice this year. He did not need more naked peasants. The fire, that was the place for this useless thing. When he picked it up to fling it there, he froze. There, on page 180, was “A Spell for Summoning a Dragon.” Duke Geoffrey flipped back to the table of contents. It went from “Doukhobor,” page 174, to “duck,” page 196. There was no mention of “dragon.” He smiled. That witch had hidden the gold in the pig slop, cunning old girl. Duke Geoffrey didn’t even bother to search the book for more treasures. He turned back to page 180 and studied the spell carefully. The ingredients would be expensive, and the rituals complicated, but—a dragon! Duke Geoffrey’s eyes glittered as he saw himself issuing orders to a dragon. A dragon.

  The boy’s back was needed to carry things. Many things. In addition to many fine suits of clothes, Tibor planned to bring a few books of poetry, to pass the time, and several boxes of jewelry, to dress up his suits. He also needed a dozen decks of cards, for entertaining other young gentlemen. And when the company was mixed, he would require a quantity of gaming boards, because proper ladies never touched cards. Then there were several decorative wall hangings, as his quarters were sure to be dreary. And a comfortable chair. Also an additional, slightly less comfortable though still quite serviceable, chair. And a small writing desk. And so on.

  This was all on top of the food, blankets and other traveling gear necessary for such a trip. In the end, the pile of luggage exceeded even Casimir’s optimistic view of what two slaves could sanely be called upon to carry, which led to a huge argument.

  Tibor’s opinion was that as he was the eldest son of the richest and most important merchant in all of High Albemarle, he needed to make a proper impression on the people of Mossglum. This could only be done by an ostentatious display of wealth.

  Casimir’s view was that Mossglum was a bit out of the way, and the people would be impressed by any display of finery, even one much less than Tibor was proposing.

  Tibor responded that Mossglum was indeed a nowhere little backwater, if not a boggy hole, and Casimir was sending Tibor there at the beginning of the marriage season because Casimir hated Tibor, even though Tibor was his most dutiful and respectful son.

  Casimir countered that Tibor was a churlish wastrel who ought to be grateful that he had not long since been sold to the silver mines in light of his various misdeeds, which Casimir proceeded to enumerate at length and in detail.

  And so it went.

  Rodrigo and the boy spent the argument alternately packing and unpacking the bags, adding and removing various items as the argument shifted first in Tibor’s favor and then in Casimir’s. After many, many hours of shouts, curses, accusations and tears, Tibor settled for riding his second-best horse and bringing only twenty-seven suits of clothes. Rodrigo used his familiarity with Tibor’s wardrobe to arrange it so that most of the heavier items wound up in the boy’s pack. Though it must be said, both strained mightily under the amount of luggage Casimir finally authorized. Obviously, Tibor’s horse carried nothing other than Tibor, and Tibor himself carried nothing at all.

  —

  A mile’s walk from Casimir’s villa was the Great Eastern Way, the broad road that ran from Albemarle City, the capital of High Albemarle, to Mossglum and on to lands farther east. Albemarle City was supposed to be beautiful. So beautiful, it was said, that the High King, who ruled nearly the whole of the world, preferred it to any other city in his domain, even his own capital.

  When Tibor, Rodrigo and the boy came to the Way, Tibor pointed west toward Albemarle City. “That’s where I should be going. The marriage season starts in a week,” he said. Tibor was a few years older than the boy and of proper age to seek a match. Tibor looked toward Albemarle City for so long, the boy began to worry that he might actually go there, but Tibor was as obedient as any of Casimir’s slaves. They turned their backs on Albemarle City and headed east.

  At first, the Great Eastern Way was bounded by grand estates and sprawling tea plantations. As the road led away from the sea, the land grew drier, and the great plantations dwindled down to miserable dirt farms. By the third day, there was nothing but dry prairie covered in head-high wild grasses. No matter what kind of lands they traveled through, Tibor sulked. For his part, Rodrigo set his jaw and stared at the horizon. So the boy trudged along in silence.

  When they stopped for lunch on the third day, Tibor came alive for the first time. “It’s not fair,” he complained to his slaves between bites of his third sausage. “Why did Father send me awa
y?”

  Rodrigo silently munched on his hunk of cheese. The boy nibbled on a piece of dry bread.

  “I’ll tell you why,” said Tibor. “It’s because he prefers Milan to me.” Milan was Casimir’s second-eldest son. “Have I done anything to deserve such treatment?”

  It took a long moment for the boy to realize that Tibor expected one of them to answer this question. “Nothing, Master,” he said.

  “Even a slave can see it,” said Tibor. “What kind of way is that for a father to treat a son? How did your father treat you?”

  “I didn’t know him,” said the boy. “Nor my mam.”

  Tibor nodded. Turning to Rodrigo, he said, “But you knew your father, yes?”

  Rodrigo took a long, slow look at Tibor. “He died when I was nine,” he said. “When our village was overrun.”

  “But how did he treat you before then?” said Tibor.

  “My father was a good man,” said Rodrigo. “He loved his family and died trying to save us.” His eyes grew moist.

  “You see,” said Tibor. “He loved you and wanted the best for you. He spent time with you and taught you things. He gave up everything for you, just as a father should, right?”

  Rodrigo was not going to answer, so the boy said, “Yes, Master.”

  “Exactly,” said Tibor. He patted Rodrigo on the shoulder. “It’s why we had to sell Erzsebet. You’d have wanted to spend time with her and the baby. It’s only natural.” A few weeks earlier, Erzsebet and her newborn daughter had been sold. The boy had not known that Rodrigo was the father. “It was a hard choice for me, but in the long run, it was for the best. I think we can both see that now. This way, we can both get back to concentrating on my career and marriage prospects.”