Stories of Tie Up Games

A story in the series featuring Elarra the goblin slavegirl and her halfling owner Master Tilborn.

Imp Infestation

“It’s definitely a curse,” Grantie Primrose said as she studied the bottom of her tea-cup. Elarra set down the teapot and took her chair again, making her slave bells jingle.

Despite Elarra taking extra precautions this morning, the toast had burnt. This was the fifth day of things gone annoyingly wrong in Tilborn Carrotmaster’s home-burrow. Yesterday it had been burnt porridge, and before that there was the sparrow-nest in the pantry, the cracked wine-bottle, and the curtain-rod falling down into the mop-water.

Master Tilborn and his three guests at the kitchen table were halflings: Mister Wilstan Sandyfields, Missus Myrtle Greenbluff, and Missus Primrose Roothall, who everyone called ‘Grantie.’ Elarra wasn’t, despite being dressed like a respectable halfling woman. She was Master Tilborn’s goblin slave wench, the only sort of goblin that the Ancient Law allowed in the Furfoot Counties.

In addition to her plain dress, its blue color faded enough not to clash with her green skin, Elarra wore an ankle-hobble above her bare feet. And this morning Master Tilborn had locked a chain of slave bells to her collar. Both she and her owner had hoped that the bells would ward off this bout of ill fortune. Obviously, they hadn’t.

Now Master Tilborn said tartly, “Yes, it’s a curse. But what kind of curse?”

“If I knew that, I’d tell you, Mister Carrotmaster,” Grantie replied in the same tone. “Sorry,” she added after a moment. “It’s just that I despise burnt toast, and that made me grumpy.” She gave Elarra a small not-your-fault smile.

Elarra was at least on pleasant smile-and-nod terms with most of the local halflings, despite her green ears and slave collar. With some of them she had closer friendships, and Grantie Primrose was among those friends, as were both Wilstan and Myrtle. It was too much, of course, to expect that everyone would accept her, and there were a few who didn’t.

Myrtle asked Grantie, “Can’t you test for what kind of curse it is?”

“And how to lift it?” Wilstan added, going for the practical concern.

“Yes to the first,” Grantie Primrose said. “The second depends on the first question’s answer. If you’ll clear the ruins away,” she waved at the empty plates and burnt toast of the second breakfast, “I’ll set things up.”

After Elarra had cleared away the breakfast things away and removed the tablecloth, Master Tilborn brought out ropes to tie her to her chair. As he secured the knots, Grantie chalked a five-pointed figure on the wooden table-top. Then Master Tilborn gagged Elarra. That wasn’t something he usually did, but Grantie had muttered to Myrtle, and Myrtle had passed the mutter to Master Tilborn. He didn’t explain the why to Elarra, but he did stroke her long ears where they rose out of her green-black hair.

The halflings took their own chairs around the table, and Grantie lit a candle. It wasn’t a magic candle, any more than Grantie was a spellmaster. It was an ordinary candle pressed into service for Grantie’s candle magic, one of the small things she knew and practiced along with tea-leaf readings and kitchen charms.

“Witch-candle magic,” Wilstan kept calling it, to Myrtle’s annoyance and Grantie’s amusement.

Elarra tested the ropes holding her legs to those of the chair. As usual, Master Tilborn had tied her effectively, and as usual she felt the pleasant frustration of being in an effective tie. She also found herself aware of the knotted cotton strip that gagged her. The last time her master had done that was… um. More than a year ago.

With the candle lit, Grantie spoke five oily Words. Elarra shivered on hearing them. This went much deeper than Grantie’s usual practice. Her normal charms were so slight as to barely count as magic at all, but this was something a human spellmaster might do, someone like Master Tilborn’s friend Maestro Lokman.

Elarra could sense things in the air. She bit her gag and carefully avoided pulling at the ropes securing her arms. Grantie smiled, very thinly, and Elarra thought she saw a twinkle in the eyes of the old halfling woman. She definitely saw the forefinger as it rose and stabbed toward her.

“You,” Grantie said severely. “Be silent!”

The finger pointed at Mr. Wilstan, sitting to Grantie’s left. “You. Speak!”

“Eyes of Orange Master must see Green do Silly,” Wil chanted in a singsong, his voice not quite his own. He opened his mouth to add something, and shut it again with a snap.

Grantie’s forefinger stabbed at Missus Myrtle. “You. Speak!”

“Bonds placed in hiding be unloved and begged for.” Myrtle pressed her lips together against saying anything more. Her eyes met Elarra’s, either offering an apology or sharing a joke. Or possibly both.

Grantie nodded, and Elarra got the impression that she was being careful to avoid looking at either her or Myrtle. Her forefinger rose a third time. “You. Speak!” she commanded Master Tilborn.

“Two bowls, inside-out, puts the soup in the curse.” Master Tilborn chanted in that stranger’s singsong. His mouth twisted in a silent snarl, directed at Grantie Primrose. Then he shook his head, and the snarl vanished.

“Oh my,” Grantie said softly. She stood, throwing up her arms. “Enough enough enough!” she shouted, and leaned down to blow out the candle. Elarra thought she was rushing. Because something was going wrong.

Elarra was suddenly aware of being tied to the chair, and of being gagged. She gave into an impulse to squirm, testing Master Tilborn’s ropes. Then she felt aware of the slave collar she always wore, and the way it marked her as her beloved Master Tilborn’s beloved property.

The candle flame went out. Something slammed a door shut, in an angry and frustrated departure. A door to Elsewhere, if it wasn’t just a door in Elarra’s imagination.

Master Tilborn opened his mouth to say something, but Myrtle beat him to it.

“That was too close, Grantie,” she said.

“It was,” Grantie agreed. “And I apologize. I won’t be so foolish as to promise never to try it again, but I will promise to think two or even three times first.”

Myrtle nodded in understanding. Elarra would have as well, but Master Tilborn was removing her gag, so she held still.

Grantie went on. “Still, it did get us an answer. Silver linings and all that, especially since this cloud didn’t rain on us after all.”

“But what does it mean?” Wilstan asked.

“That, Wil,” Myrtle answered with a lopsided smile, “is what the textbooks call ‘an exercise left to the student.’”

Elarra could nod now. Master Tilborn was pointedly not untying her, other than to remove her gag. And he had tied her well. As she sat in her chair, resisting (mostly) the temptation to test the ropes yet again, she began to come up with ideas. In particular, she had the beginning of an idea about an answer to the candle-spell’s first riddle.
Elarra put her idea into effect the next morning, starting early. It was midmorning when she paused, nearly two miles away from the home-burrow.

As usual, Elarra has spent the night chained by the ankle to Master Tilborn’s bed. That chaining served primarily as a matter of observing the proprieties – Elarra would have felt insulted if he hadn’t chained her – but it was also an effective means of securing her.

After unlocking the bed cuff, Master Tilborn had let her wash up and dress, before putting her in a new set of restraints. He fastened a wrist-to-ankle hobble between her left wrist and right ankle, and a separate locking anklet of slave bells on her left ankle. Those were the restraints she wore now, and to add to the silliness, she was barefoot.

Halflings, of course, always went barefoot. Elarra, being a goblin-wench, had feet that were much more tender. Because of this, Master Tilborn allowed (and required) that she wear sandals when she went outside. (Indoors he kept her as barefoot as any halfling woman.) Master Tilborn also kept her sandals locked away when she wasn’t wearing them. And this morning she didn’t have his permission to wear them. She didn’t have his permission to leave the home-burrow. She was running away.

It was a silly way to run away, with nothing on her tender green feet, with a hobbling chain between her wrist and ankle, and with slave bells jingling on her other ankle.

And she was staying on Appleroot Lane, where she was sure to meet people coming the other way. In fact, when Elarra looked up, she saw someone coming the other way, someone she recognized as Mr. Jormore Radishworth. He had a touch of gray in his hair, and was the patriarch of a brood of Radishworths. Including his daughter Nerine, who was several years younger than Elarra, and who had an old reputation as a troublemaker, and a newer one as a former troublemaker.

“Good morning, Elarra,” Mr. Jormore said.

“Good morning, Mr. Jormore,” Elarra answered.

Some of the halflings in and around Broadstump insisted that Elarra show ‘proper deference,’ by which they meant using their last names. Mr. Jormore wasn’t one of them. But this morning he did purse his lips, taking in her dress (the same faded-blue dress as she’d worn yesterday), her chaining, her ankle bells, and her lack of sandals. Halflings less familiar with Elarra, or with goblin wenches in general, wouldn’t have seen anything odd about her being barefoot. Mr. Jormore, however, knew how tender her goblin-feet were.

At last Mr. Jormore asked gently, “And what are you about, this fine morning?”

“I’m running away,” Elarra said with a sunny smile and a deliberately wide-eyed innocent look.

Mr. Jormore’s eyebrows rose, but his tone remained mild. “I see. And does your Master Tilborn know about this?”

“Yes, Mr. Jormore. He should know by now, at least.” Elarra kept her sunny smile in place while her heart pounded. She told herself that it wouldn’t be a bad thing if Mr. Jormore dragged her back. In fact, that might work out even better than if he let her go. But she didn’t believe herself, and she still felt… nervous.

Mr. Jormore considered Elarra’s words for a moment. “I see,” he repeated. “Well, I won’t drag you back to him, but if I do see him I’ll be sure to tell him that I saw you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jormore.”

“You’re welcome, Elarra.”
After another half-hour, Elarra wondered if it might really have been better after all if Mr. Jormore had dragged her back. She shook her head and hobbled on.

A few minutes later, she heard a pony trotting behind her. Looking back, she didn’t see the pony-mounted halfling she expected, but rather a cart being driven by Master Tilborn.

Pony-carts did not ever travel at a trot along Appleroot Lane. Well, hardly ever. Master Tilborn was managing it, even if Bob the Pony wasn’t best pleased. Now Master Tilborn saw Elarra. He waved, and if he didn’t speed up the cart, he didn’t slow down, either.

Elarra stood still for a moment, trying to decide what to do. The question, she reminded herself, was what the silliest thing she could do was. Looking around, she saw a patch of rushes growing to the side, and she stepped – hobbled – off the lane to hide among them.

It might not have been the silliest thing Elarra could have done, but it was silly enough. Master Tilborn had seen her leave the lane, and Elarra suspected that at least a glimpse of her blue dress would be visible to him through the rushes. It was. Master Tilborn drew the cart to a stop and turned his head to look right at her. “All right, Elarra,” he said. “That’s enough silliness. Come on out.”

“Yes, master.” Elarra left the rushes and hobbled up to the cart. Master Tilborn extended a hand to pull her into it, and produced a padlock to shorten the chain between her wrist and ankle. She could still sit comfortably, but now if she tried to stand, she’d be forced to bend over.

Bob the Pony was swishing his tail as if to say, “Enough this trotting nonsense.” Master Tilborn considered him for a moment before climbing down and leading him around to get the cart pointed back the other way.

Elarra saw that Master Tilborn was limping. “What happened, master?”

“Blister.” Master Tilborn said shortly. With a grimace he climbed back up and started the pony-cart – at a walk, this time – back toward the home-burrow.

“I’m sorry, master.” After a minute Elarra’s wits caught up. “But how, master?” she asked. Halfling feet, with their tough soles, didn’t get blisters.

Master Tilborn didn’t answer directly. “You don’t have blisters, do you?” he asked instead.

“No, master.”

“Hmm.”

Elarra held her tongue. The curse had given Master Tilborn her blister. From her silliness at running off barefoot. Maybe. Maybe it hadn’t. Yet maybe it had.

“I’m sorry, master!” she heard herself blurt out.

“Don’t worry about it, Elarra. The blister just popped up when I stepped in from the workshop, and I put a lulu leaf on it right away. I’ll put on another one when we get back home, but I doubt I’ll need to.” He shot her a meaningful glance. “That’s the silver lining. Curse-warts and curse-blisters show up with unnatural speed, but they can be sent away just as quickly.”

“And what’s the dark cloud, master?” Elarra knew there was one, something he hadn’t mentioned.

“The kitchen jar holding the lulu leaves broke. We’ll have to get a new one.”

Elarra grimaced. It was petty, it was nibbling around her instead of giving her blisters, and the combination made sense of the part her master wasn’t saying aloud.
Master Tilborn made Elarra walk bent over into the home-burrow, removing the padlock that shortened her wrist-to-ankle chain only after she was safely inside. He didn’t normally do such things. But then she didn’t normally do things like running away, either.

“It amuses met to be strict,” he said, as he went on to unlock the hobbling cuffs and the belled anklet. “Now strip. Every stitch.”

“Yes, master.”

Elarra stripped, every stitch, and then was marched to the bath. Master Tilborn, who had removed his own clothes, poured water over them both there, washing the mud away. Elarra toweled him dry, and at his signal placed her wrists behind for binding. Once secured, she received a toweling of her own.

It was then that Elarra finally realized that she’d missed an opportunity. She should have begged for him to keep her in that bent-over chaining – unloved and begged for. On the other hand, he hadn’t hidden either the hobbling cuffs or the chain-shortening padlock, so maybe not.

Curse the curse.

Well, she had managed to be silly this morning, and Master Tilborn had seen her silliness in the end, even if at first she had taken him by surprise. Or it was because she had taken him by surprise. Her running away while hobbled and slave-belled wouldn’t have been nearly as silly if he had caught on sooner.

Now they needed the second part, and Elarra couldn’t think of anything. Maybe it was Master Tilborn’s turn to surprise her.

They dressed. Master Tilborn made Elarra put on a clean dress (this one in green and brown) while he donned trousers and a clean shirt of his own. “It’s time for second breakfast,” he explained, hinting that he otherwise would have preferred to keep Elarra undressed for a time.

Master Tilborn also tied Elarra’s hands behind her again. Normally, he’d set her to prepare second breakfast. Or if the mood took him, he’d make her sit and watch while he cooked. Or make her sit and listen, blindfolded, while he prepared the meal. Today, however, neither of them wanted another burnt breakfast. Or one creatively spoiled by the curse in some other way. Master Tilborn had carefully avoided saying anything, but Elarra was sure that they both believed an imp to be behind this curse. Slave wenches were immune to demon-magic, so the imp couldn’t hurt her directly – but it could nibble maliciously all around her. And ‘malicious nibbling’ was a fair description of the past several days.

The front bell rang.

“Go answer that, Elarra,” Master Tilborn said.

“Yes, master.”

It wasn’t the first time that Elarra had to answer the door with her wrists bound behind her. It wasn’t even the first time she’d done so and found herself greeting Mr. Wilstan. And at least this time she didn’t have to open the door with her thumbs tied too.

“Hello, Elarra.” He lifted the basket he was carrying. “Jor Radishworth said that you and Til were having a little adventure, this morning, and Sandra Radishworth” – Mr. Jormore’s wife – “thought that he and you might want something afterwards.”

Master Tilborn called from the kitchen. “Come on in, Wil!”
After the second breakfast thoughtfully provided by Missus Sandra, Master Tilborn sat at the kitchen table and thoughtfully considered Elarra.

“What is it, master?” Elarra asked.

Master Tilborn smiled. “I’m thinking.” His smile grew broader. “And at least it’s not before breakfast.”

“As master wishes,” Elarra said. The Furfoot County halflings had a saying about thinking before breakfast, and she tried to remember what it was.

The breakfast dishes needed to be cleared away and washed. Master Tilborn hadn’t told Elarra to deal with it later, but she knew it must be one of the things he was thinking about. He had locked her ankle to her chair, after untying her hands, and since he hadn’t unlocked her, he wanted her to wait. So Elarra waited.

“Ha!” Master Tilborn stood, placed the key to the ankle-fetter in front of Elarra, and crooked his finger in a ‘follow me’ gesture. Elarra unlocked herself, and followed her master into the bedroom, leaving the key behind on the table.

Master Tilborn went to the door of the bedroom closet. “We know the answers to the second and third parts of the puzzle.” he said. “We just need to be reminded of what they are.”

Elarra considered this as Master Tilborn rooted through the closet’s contents. Then she nodded to herself; now she knew what her master meant and what he intended. “Should I strip again, master?” she asked.

“Not this time, Elarra,” came the answer from the closet. “But don’t you dare try to run away.”

“No, master. I won’t.” After a moment she added, “Anyway, it was a silly thing to do, master.”

“Yes it was,” Master Tilborn agreed. “Ah!”

He emerged from the closet with a restraint-device Elarra recognized, one Master Tilborn hadn’t placed on her since that time when the viper had bitten her.

The device was a goblin-harness. A thing of metal and leather, its two halves were connected by flat-linked chains, and its two locks opened to a common key. The high half would hold Elarra’s upper arms against her body, leaving her lower arms and hands free but out of position to do anything. Similarly, the low half would hold her thighs together, leaving her lower legs and feet free, but again out of position to do anything useful. And the chains between the two halves kept each half from slipping off, the way it otherwise would.

Master Tilborn had bought the harness shortly after buying Elarra. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but Elarra just couldn’t warm to it. She had smiled and squirmed when Master Tilborn locked it on her, concealing (she thought) her dislike of the device. She couldn’t honestly call it uncomfortable or even unpleasant, but… she just didn’t like it. And (except for that one time with the viper bite) Master Tilborn had quietly relegated it to the back of the closet, in favor of ropes and chains and the other bindings he had acquired for her.

Elarra made herself smile. “Yes master, please!”

“Do you beg for it, my emerald beauty?” Master Tilborn’s smile looked as wry as Elarra’s felt. But they both were smiling.

“Yes master. Please! I beg for it.” After a moment she added, “Should I undress first?”

“Not this time, I think,” Master Tilborn said slowly. “Just stand by the bed, and hold still.”

“Yes master.” Elarra obeyed, and found it surprisingly easy to keep smiling as she did so. The goblin-harness her master was fastening on her was just as she remembered. Not uncomfortable or unpleasant; just… not right.

Suddenly Elarra realized it was missing something that she couldn’t name but knew that she wanted. She didn’t think it was a viper bite again, or the antidote to its venom. It just needed an extra something that would let her stick out a metaphysical tongue at the curse.

With Elarra harnessed and sitting on the bed, Master Tilborn took soft advantage of her odd helplessness.

“If you say anything other than ‘Yes, master,’ or ‘Please, master,’ I will gag you,” Master Tilborn told her with mock severity.

“Yes, master,” Elarra answered cheerfully.

Master Tilborn didn’t make that threat very often. He was the sort of master who didn’t use gags very much. Yesterday at the kitchen table had been the first time in… goodness. Months. Was it just over a year ago, or slightly less?

Elarra attention turned to the way Master Tilborn was touching her. His teases were gentle and very insistent. They demanded her attention. “Oh!” she suddenly said in response to a particularly penetrating tease,

“Little noises like that don’t count as saying something,” Master Tilborn informed her.

She held back a “Thank you, master,” at the last moment, in favor of a “Yes please, master!”

Master Tilborn snorted softly, and continued to provide the pleasant reminders that Elarra was helpless, and his. Yes, her hands were free, and her feet were free, but they couldn’t do anything with the rest of her body locked in the goblin-harness.

Then Elarra heard the click as her master locked the bed-cuff on her ankle. She felt a surge of tingling excitement run through her. That cuff had completed something, providing the missing bit that Elarra hadn’t been able to name.

As a matter of propriety, Master Tilborn locked the bed-cuff on Elarra every night. According to the philosophers and authorities who recommended its use, its main purpose was as a comforting bit of routine and a sign that the master cared for his slave wench. Although it was effective at keeping Elarra from escaping while her master slept. Which is why she had waited to be unlocked before making her silly escape attempt.

Now, however, it changed how Elarra felt about the goblin-harness. She made another little happy sound.

Master Tilborn told her, “We should be thinking about our little problem.”

“Yes, master.”

“Although I suppose we could put it off, for just a little while.”

“Please, master.”

When they did get around to their little problem, Elarra was still in the goblin-harness, and the bed-cuff was still locked around her ankle. She nestled comfortably against Master Tilborn as together they considered the matter.

“Master, you said we already know the answer and that we only need to be reminded of what that answer is.”

“Yes?”

“So, master, we should look in your library for the answer.”

“I got that far myself,” Master Tilborn said. “But where in the library? Which book? Which shelf, for that matter?”

“Well, master,” Elarra answered, “one of your books describes this goblin-harness, along with other interesting restraints.”

Master Tilborn nodded. “Jade and Scarlet Restraints, Adjusted for the Snaga-Shop, by Gaz of Nebelbergheim.”

“That’s the one, master. And next to it are two of your books about magic.”

“I’d have to check to see which ones those are, but I think I’m following you.”

Master Tilborn didn’t practice magic, even though he knew at least as much about it as Grantie Primrose. There were only a few master coopers who the various wizards, sorcerers, and other spell-masters of the world trusted to make kegs and barrels suitable for enchantment. Master Tilborn was one of them.

Now Master Tilborn began to unlock Elarra. “Master?” she asked.

“We missed luncheon,” he said. “I’d set you to making something extra for tea, except that we’ve roused the curse and I don’t want burnt cucumbers in my sandwiches.”

Elarra tried to imagine cucumbers becoming burnt. She giggled. “I wouldn’t either, master.” On seeing that her master was short on ideas – or perhaps just couldn’t decide between them – she added. “We could return Missus Sandra’s basket.”

“We’ll need to do that anyway,” Master Tilborn said. “Although it would be politer to do so personally, with a proper thank-you.”
“Welcome to Radishworth Cellars,” Nerine said as she answered the door of her parent’s home-burrow. “I’ve heard that you’ve been having an adventure.” Mr. Jormore and Missus Sandra echoed the greeting, as did Nerine’s brother Jasgar and her other siblings.

Master Tilborn handed Missus Sandra’s basket back with a proper thank-you and offered to lend Elarra to the Radishworth kitchen. Missus Sandra beamed as she accepted. Not all halflings would have done so. Many would have been wary, despite being friendly enough toward Elarra in the market and tavern. The unfriendly few would have declined the offer with cold politeness, and at least one unpleasant gray jaybird would have screeched, “Not in my kitchen, thankyouverymuch!”

In the evening they returned home, full of tea and dinner, and carrying a refilled basket. “It’s a nuisance, not being able to cook in our own kitchen,” Master Tilborn said. “Although I was glad to see that you’re still in practice.”

“As you say, master,” Elarra answered as she removed her sandals for Master Tilborn to lock away again. She stood barefoot just inside the door and watch him deposit her sandals in the lockbox, securing them beyond her reach.

She still wore the belled anklet he’d locked on her at the Radishworth’s, and now she wondered whether he would leave them in place or remove them for some other, stricter binding.

Master Tilborn straightened and looked at her. “Put the basket away for tomorrow, Elarra. Then join me in the library.”

“Yes, master.” She decided to add a touch of sauce. “Your lowly collar-wench hears, and will eagerly obey!”

Master Tilborn grinned, gave her ears a caress, and made a shooing motion.

In the library, Master Tilborn demanded a kiss from Elarra and gave her ears another caress. He then secured her hands behind her with a leather belt, made her sit down, and pulled out the two books shelved next to Jade and Scarlet Retraints. They were The Craft of Wordtwisting, by Faldor son of Valdor, and Dream Dishes of the Old Empire, by Veri of the Pirate Isles.

“That looks hopeful, master,” Elarra said.

“Yes it does,” Master Tilborn said. “I particularly want to check a couple of sections in Wordtwisting.”

“Yes master. And Veri’s book has a soup recipe.”

Master Tilborn caressed Elarra’s left ear again, and then expanded his touch, making her happily squirm, helpless with her hands secured. Her ankle-bells faintly jingled.

“Yes it does,” Master Tilborn repeated.
Early the next morning, they moved the kitchen out into the yard. Or as much of it as they could, anyway. The iron kettle, slung over the fire, provided a breakfast of oatmeal, bland but filling. The kitchen table wouldn’t fit through the door, so after the oatmeal breakfast Master Tilborn brought a bench out from his cooper’s workshop. Elarra supplied it with the large and small knives from the kitchen along with a selection of glazed clay pots.

Master Tilborn decreed that Elarra’s sandals would remain locked away. She would go barefoot, despite being out in the yard. He also chose to bell her in an unusual way.

Another of Master Tilborn’s early purchases was a bell-cage, little-used not out of dislike, but because it had proven awkward as either an inside or an outside restraint. The cage was an open ball of iron bars, perhaps a foot across, with copper bells suspended inside, and a chain and fetter attached to secure it to Elarra’s ankle.

Elarra walked up to the freshly-scrubbed iron kettle, copper bells chiming as she dragged the bell-cage behind her. She waited for their chiming to stop before pouring a pitcher of spring water into the kettle. “Well, well, well,” she intoned as she did so. Veri’s recipe for inside-out soup called for ‘pure water of three wells.’

“We have company,” Master Tilborn warned Elarra.

Elarra looked out at the lane running past the home-burrow. They did have company. Mr. Jasgar Radishworth was returning, carrying the Radishworth basket.

Jasgar was the eldest child of the Radishworth brood, still living in his parents’ home-burrow despite having come of age a few years back and thus being in his mid-thirties. The spectacles he wore made him look softer than he otherwise would, despite being no plumper than normal for a halfling.

He had been by at dawn that morning to pick up the then-empty basked. “Morning, again, Mr. Tilborn,” he now said. “Morning, Goodwench Elarra.” He nodded politely; he was always more formal with her than either his siblings or his parents.

“Good morning, Mr. Jasgar.” Elarra sketched a curtsy.

“Mama was gossiping with Grantie Primrose, and they said you were still having an adventure,” Jasgar told Master Tilborn. “So they sent me here with more supplies.” He looked around at the outdoor kitchen. “Are you doing magic?” he asked.

Elarra smiled sweetly. “Why yes, Mr. Jasgar. With this.” She held up a river-rounded pebble, its size suitable for a sling. Jasgar gave her, and it, a stony look, and Elarra popped it into a small clay pot.

Master Tilborn shot a warning glance at Elarra. “We’re lifting a curse,” he told Jasgar. “Right now, however, it’s time to stop for second breakfast. I expect you mama packed enough for all three of us, so if you’ll hand your basket to Elarra, she’ll set it out as a picnic.”

They sat on the lawn to eat. After the first round of buttered scones, Master Tilborn told Jasgar, “You’re wondering why Grantie and your mama sent you here, instead of one of your sibs. Your sister Nerine, for example.”

“My sister Nerine in particular,” Jasgar said. “I suppose I am.” He looked at Elarra and the bell-cage chained to her ankle, and then back at Master Tilborn. “My most outrageous guess is that they want me to practice flirting with Goodwench Elarra.” He put on a leering grin and wiggled his fingers at Elarra. It looked ridiculous, and Elarra had to smother a laugh.

“Now don’t get me wrong,” Jasgar went on, serious again. “Collared green goodwenches have been a tradition here in the Furfoot Counties at least since the Charter. Maybe even before then, by some unknown number of years. I’m not like Mr. and Missus… like a certain pair of unnamed gray jaybirds who squawk at the very concept. However, it does take a certain knack to make good owner of a green goodwench – and I don’t have that.”

“Does your papa agree that you should practice flirting?” Master Tilborn asked.

“And did your mama and Grantie have a matchmaker’s light in their eyes, Mr. Jasgar?” Elarra asked.

Jasgar nodded. “That’s well put. Both of you. Yes. He did and they did. But I think we’re getting away from the subject. If you’re doing magic, Nerine would be a better helper. She’s the wild one of the family. Or she was – she seems to be reformed, after being put in… that is, these past several months.”

Elarra started to speak. Master Tilborn raised a hand to silence her. “Except we’re not doing magic,” he said. “Not exactly.” He nodded Elarra permission to continue.

“It’s more like… applied philosophy, Mr. Jasgar,” she said. “We’re making a metaphorical soup – or maybe a soup of simile would be a better description – and we need certain metaphysical notions as ingredients.”

“Such as?” Jasgar asked. He loudly did not add, And how do you expect me to provide them?

“Well, we need the meat of a philosophical debate,” Master Tilborn said.

Jasgar’s eyes lit and he nodded, a thin, almost-smug smile playing around his lips.

Elarra added, “And the roots of three numbers.”

“That one’s easy,” Jasgar said. “Two-and-a-half is the root of six-and-a-quarter, three is the root of nine, and three-and-a-half is the root of twelve-and-a quarter.”
The soup was almost ready. Jasgar had left, expressing a desire to abandon philosophical debate and be elsewhere when the maybe-magic soup was finished cooking.

Elarra had added all but one of the ingredients to the iron kettle: The spring water of three wells, the stone of a stony look, the roots of three numbers, and the meat of a philosophical debate. Master Tilborn had contributed salty and spicy words, for seasoning.

The bell-cage chained to Elarra’s ankle rang as she brought forward the last ingredient: Three pearls of wisdom, sent by Grantie Primrose in a note that had been tucked into the Radishworth basket.

The steel ladle was a dwarf-work piece of art that clashed badly with the plain iron kettle. Elarra used it to give the soup a last stir. Then, at Master Tilborn’s gestured command, she hobbled to the bench for the two bowls, making the bell-cage chime again. Master Tilborn watched and listened, obviously enjoying the restraint he had placed on his goblin slavegirl. Elarra smiled back, pleased by her master’s enjoyment. The bell-cage-and-chain really was an amusing device – too bad it didn’t fit well for either indoor or outdoor use, but rather was something stuck betwixt and between.

Elarra ladled Veri’s Dream-Soup into the two bowls. Master Tilborn called out, “Soup’s ready!” and she echoed him.

The imp came out of the home-burrow. It had two heads: One was vaguely male and the other vaguely female. Both were decidedly ugly, and their bickering made them look even uglier.

“This is your fault,” the left head said. “I don’t want soup. Why do you have to be so greedy?”

“I’m greedy?” the right head replied. “You’re the one who turned and started trotting the moment you heard!”

Elarra gave the first bowl to the imp. It took it in both hands, pouring it down its left-head mouth.

It flung the empty bowl aside, and Master Tilborn handed over the second serving of soup. This went down the throat of the right head – and then the imp vanished like a bad dream.
Master Tilborn finished securing the goblin-harness on Elarra and made her sit down on the lawn. Again an ankle-cuff completed the peculiar restraint. This time it was the cuff that shackled Elarra to the bell-cage. Master Tilborn had left that in place.

“I could help, master,” Elarra said yet again. Master Tilborn had declared that he would move the kitchen gear back inside by himself.

Now Master Tilborn gave Elarra the same answer as before. “I’d rather keep you out of trouble.” He turned his caress of Elarra’s ears into a tease. “This will keep you out of trouble, won’t it?”

“Yes, master. Although I could try to get into trouble if you told me to.”

“But could you succeed, harnessed like this?”

Elarra grinned. “No master,” she admitted cheerfully, “but I could try.”

“That will have to do, then,” Master Tilborn said with an exaggerated sigh. He rose to restore the kitchen of his home-burrow.

Sitting on the lawn, Elarra watched him work. Every so often she’d pull at the bell-cage chained to her ankle, making the bells chime. And every so often she’d squirm from her awareness of the interesting restraints that her master had locked on her.

(end)