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Snap! went the magic Yule cracker as Elarra pulled it apart. A strip of paper floated out of it, covered with arcane lettering that described the minor, temporary gift it granted her.
Grantie Primrose had created five crackers, one for each of them on this Yule morning. The old halfling woman didn’t claim to be a witch, only to work the occasional spell. In the case of the Yule crackers, she had carefully explained, the magic wasn’t completely under her control. The recipient would have to read the paper to see what gift he or she received.
There were five of them in the comfortable chairs now that Elarra had cleared away first-breakfast. Elarra, her owner Master Tilborn, and the three guests Master Tilborn had invited to help celebrate this Yule morning: Myrtle Greenbluff, Wilstan Sandyfields, and Grantie Primrose (who was technically Missus Primrose Roothall).
Four of them were halflings. Elarra wasn’t. She was a green-skinned goblin wench, originally from under Cheetpinkiz Mountain and now a collared slavegirl who shared the home-burrow and the bed of her Master Tilborn. It was the only way she could stay here; slave wenches were the only sort of goblin allowed in the Furfoot Counties.
Elarra’s had been the last cracker to snap. Myrtle’s cracker had given her an invisible, imaginary pair of scissors that she was still demonstrating on loose scraps of cracker-paper. Master Tilborn’s gift was an invisible, imaginary flute. He’d just finished playing a merry Yule melody with it, showing a skill that Elarra had previously been only been half-aware of. And Wil’s cracker-gift was the ability to command his skin, his hair, or his clothing to change color to whatever hue he chose.
“What is your gift, Elarra?” Master Tilborn asked.
Elarra looked again at the arcane letters. Her green hands, holding the paper, now had a glow that was visible to her eyes only.
“I’m able to see if a woman is really a slavegirl, master,” she said. “Just by looking.”
“Well anyone can do that,” Wil said. “I can look at you, Elarra, and see that you’re wearing a slave collar. And since you are, I can tell, just by looking, that you’re a slavegirl.”
Grantie Primrose explained again, patiently, “The cracker-magic is inherently weak. It only lasts one day, like a day-spell, and its effects can mostly be duplicated through ordinary means. Even your gift, Wil, could be duplicated through makeup and dyes.”
“And you can’t control what the gift will be,” Myrtle added. “That’s another weakness. Speaking of which, what gift did your cracker give you, Grantie?”
“I’m able to see with my eyes closed,” Grantie Primrose said, “just as well as with them open. Not better, but not any worse, either.”
Once everyone had finished considering this, Elarra asked, “Master? Should I begin preparing second breakfast?”
Wil answered before Master Tilborn could. “It’s a scandalous thing to suggest, but I think we should skip second breakfast in favor of an early elevenses in the Bonfire Glade.
=O+O+O=
Elarra normally wore the same sort of clothing as a respectable halfling woman, albeit with a few additions. She always wore her slave collar – it wasn’t removable, short of being cut off. Indoors she went barefoot, the way halflings did everywhere. Outdoors, Master Tilborn usually made her wear either sandals or low boots. Which he had her wear depended on the weather, and Yule was definitely a time for her to wear low boots. Goblins, like elves and dwarves, were ‘tenderfeet’ and needed the protection, while the tough-footed halflings normally went without footwear, even in the middle of winter. In addition, Master Tilborn would frequently make Elarra wear restraints of one sort or another. Every night, he locked a cuff and chain on one of her ankles, as a matter of propriety rather than a real precaution against her running away while he slept. And while they were in bed and not-sleeping, he would use ropes and restraints of various creative and exciting sorts.
During the day, Master Tilborn would sometimes hobble or otherwise bind Elarra, and sometimes not. This morning, he hadn’t bothered to hobble her after unlocking her ankle cuff, but for the trip to Bonfire Glade he led her in a wrist leash. He had cuffed Elarra’s wrists together in front her, with a strip of leather acting as a lead.
In addition, Master Tilborn had made Elarra tuck away a few additional cuffs, chains, and slave bells in her pouch-purse. Although – Elarra smiled at the thought – Master Tilborn keep the keys to himself.
They reached the edge of Bonfire Glade and stopped to look over the crowd already gathered there. The glade was a clearing in the Old Coppice, a place where the halflings of Broadstump, Oakway, and Ironstone gathered to celebrate the holidays – Yule and Lithe in particular, but also May Day, Forest Feast, Whitebeast Day, and The Rubydance.
The Yule bonfire was already lit, as were the three cooking-fires, one for each of the three villages that made up Greater Broadstump. Here and there in the crowd carolers were caroling and skit-players were playing out skits. The horseshoe pitch had a group playing horseshoes, and the rest of the crowd was busy talking, eating, and drinking. They were all halflings, with perhaps a dozen exceptions, and they all seemed to have had the same idea as Wil: To have an early elevenses here.
Master Tilborn turned and handed Elarra his end of the leash. “I’ll want both hands free, and I suppose you do too.”
“It would be nice, master,” Elarra agreed.
“Well, then.” Master Tilborn grinned and caressed Elarra’s ears before unlocking the wrist-leash and putting her in wrist-to-ankle hobble. For this he locked a new, detachable cuff on her left wrist, and ran its chain through a ring set in Elarra’s girdle. He then made Elarra bend down and fasten the cuff on the other end of the chain on her right ankle. The length of the hobbling chain made it serve more as a reminder for Elarra, rather than as an actual restriction on her movement, and running the chain through the girdle-ring would keep it from dragging.
“Thank you,” Master Tilborn said as Elarra handed him the key back. “That should do for now.”
“You’re welcome, master,” Elarra said. Then she embraced him.
Elarra could embrace him now, with her hands released from the wrist-leash, and she sensed that Master Tilborn had more than half expected it. He hugged her back, kissing her thoroughly, in the style of a master kissing his slavegirl.
When he finally released her, Elarra asked, “Shall we join the festivities now, master?”
“Yes we shall,” he told her. “Stay close to me for now.”
“Yes master.” She took his offered arm.
“You can gossip with your women-friends later.”
“Thank you, master. I’ll look forward to it.”
=O+O+O=
Master Tilborn led Elarra to one of the trestle tables loaded with food. She was more than happy to join Master Tilborn in an early elevenses. Goblin appetites were nearly as great as halfling ones, even if their love of food wasn’t as famous (or notorious). They each had a sausage with cheese on toasted bread, and a mug of beer brewed specially small and sweet for Yule. Good masters fed their slavegirls the same food that they ate themselves. And they drank the same beer, too. Elarra saw Master Tilborn’s mark on the barrel of Yule beer as their mugs were filled, and felt a sense of pride. Her owner was a cooper of exceptional skill and prosperity, one good enough that wizards sought out his barrels.
In the pause between their first and second helpings, they met three of Myrtle’s cousins. Elarra knew Mr. Alham Greenbluff (known as Farmer Greenbluff because he owned the original Greenbluff family farm) and his wife Missus Gloria Greenbluff (nee Mustard of the Baconstone Mustards), but not their youngest son, a halfling in his mid-tweens.
Master Tilborn made the introduction. “Jimman, this is my Goodwench Elarra. Elarra, be known to Mr. Jimman Greenbluff,” and Elarra offered a chained-curtsy, keeping her feet close as if her ankles were hobbled.
Mr. Jimman’s grin vanished with Master Tilborn’s use of the honorific, and he returned a credible bow to Elarra’s curtsy. “I am delighted to meet you,” he told Elarra stiffly – but with the sincere stiffness of a twenty-something halfling trying to be a dozen years older. His attempted maturity vanished as he turned to Master Tilborn. “Mr. Til, will you be playing your flute and making Elarra dance to it?”
“Not here,” Master Tilborn answered, “but maybe in your father’s barn this evening.”
Elarra had understood that they would be attending one of the Yule barn dances, and now she knew which one. Missus Gloria added an explanation.
“It’s bad luck to dance in Bonfire Glade – on Yule that is,” she amended quickly. “May Day, Midsummer’s, and of course The Rubydance are different.”
Farmer Greenbluff took up the thread. “That’s why we have barn dances on Yule.” He looked at Master Tilborn. “And you’ll be bringing Elarra to mine tonight, right?”
“We’ll be there,” Master Tilborn answered. Elarra smiled and twitched her ears in agreement.
=O+O+O=
After finishing their early elevenses, Master Tilborn and Elarra went to watch the various skits, with one of them being a mime-skit performed to the carol The Warlock and the Lady-Knight. On seeing Master Tilborn, the halfling playing the Warlock’s cat-familiar broke her mime to call out. “Hey, Mr. Til! Did you bring one of your barrels? That’s the only way this bunch can carry a tune!” “I don’t carry barrels in my pockets!” Master Tilborn called back.
The performance slithered to a halt. The carolers were a group of four: One in his tweens, two just out of their tweens, and Gaffer Sidebank – Mr. Rayander Sidebank who, if Elarra remembered correctly, had celebrated his hundredth birthday earlier this year. The skit-players also numbered four: Nerine Radishworth playing the bumbling Squire, Daisy Blueleg playing the Cat, her older cousin Davwich Blueleg playing the Warlock (complete with false mustache), and a glowing Ivory, playing the Lady-Knight. Seeing that glow, Elarra knew she still had her Yule cracker-gift.
Female goblins were the most common sort of slavegirl in the Furfoot counties, but female dark-elves, dwarves, and elves were also known, as were collared female halflings. The halfling slavegirls were all exotic imports from far-away lands, or at least claimed to be, and Ivory was one of those: A halfling slavegirl belonging to Mr. Davwich Blueleg.
Ivory had grass-green streaks in her brown hair, the gift of a poisoned trap in her misadventuring days. She claimed to hail from the Hidden City of Lirn Yudrain, and the exotic look granted by the green in her hair gave credibility to that story. What no one ever mentioned was her resemblance (aside from that green-streaked hair) to a certain Ivy Doorwright, of the Doorwrights of Silverdog to the south of Broadstump. That Ivy (the story went) had ended up as a housekeeper and librarian to the Wizard Thormax, in his tower in the Middle Forest. So Ivory couldn’t possibly be the same halfling lass who had run off for adventures a dozen years ago.
Nerine asked, “Do you have a flute in your pocket, Mr. Til? It would help if you did.”
“Or maybe Elarra is carrying his flute for him,” Gaffer Sidebank said. “That’s something those green-eared goodwenches are good for – fetching and carrying.” He grinned at Elarra and she waggled her ears at him in return.
“I thought you didn’t like goblins, grandfather,” one of the younger carolers said.
“Collared goblin-women are fine,” Gaffer Sandbank told his granddaughter. “I’ve got no complain about those. It’s free goblins that shouldn’t be here in the Furfoot Counties. That’s again’ the Law! Like Mr. Wilstan, earlier. Well, not like him, exactly, but you saw. He was made up all green, and I thought he was a goblin when I first saw him. Gave me a turn, it did.”
Master Tilborn told Nerine, “It’s Yule today, so I’m carrying a flute in thin air.” He mimed plucking an object from the air and starting to play. The invisible, imaginary flute from his Yule cracker produced the first stanza of The Warlock and the Lady-Knight, and Master Tilborn repeated it as the four carolers joined in and the skit-players began to mime.
When the skit ended, Master Tilborn mimed putting his invisible flute on an invisible shelf. Nerine and Daisy both curtsied, Ivory chain-curtsied, and Mr. Blueleg bowed.
The audience applauded and began to break up. The singers spoke of getting a mug of Yule beer before their next carol. Nerine and Daisy wandered off together, discussing a change of costume for the next skit, and Ivory held out her hands to be wrist-leashed by her master.
Ivory’s halfling ears were too short for her Master Davwich to properly caress, so he teased her slave collar after locking on the wrist cuffs, and they exchanged smiles. Ivory’s collar couldn’t be removed, short of cutting it off, just like Elarra’s own. The rule of ‘Once a slavegirl, always a slavegirl,’ to all slavegirls, not just to green goblin wenches in the halfling lands.
There were rare exceptions to that rule, although Elarra didn’t expect Ivory to ever become one of them. It was more likely – well, less unlikely – that Mr. Blueleg would sell Ivory, but Elarra didn’t expect that to happen either. (Although there was the example of Oloofra, the green goodwench over in Little Lostwell who had been sold to six different masters before finally ending up in the collar and chains of Mr. Ronmil Youngdigger.)
One of the audience members had stayed behind, watching as Mr. Blueleg locked the wrist-leash on his Ivory. Now he turned to Master Tilborn.
“Excuse me, Sir, but is this pretty goblin wench for sale?”
“No she isn’t, Mr. Kevmel,” Master Tilborn said repressively. “Not this year and not next year either.”
“It couldn’t hurt to ask, Mr. Tilborn,” Kevmel Claypipe said with such earnestness that Elarra had to hide a smile.
It didn’t take the edge from Master Tilborn’s annoyance. “Didn’t I tell you that you should travel south, to Bengate and the Oak-Rabbit fair?”
“Yes you did. And I did. I even journeyed on to Lyfel and the House of Silk.” Kevmel sighed. “So many beautiful slavegirls.”
“And yet you returned without one.”
“No.” Kevmel shrugged. “Well, if you’re not selling then you’re not selling, and that’s that. Merry Yule, Mr. Tilborn. Merry Yule, Elarra.”
After Kevmel had left, Master Tilborn said, “He’d be less annoying if he were serious, but I don’t think he is.”
“I’m not sure, master,” Elarra said. “Maybe next time you should send him to Cheetpinkiz Mountain. If he makes that journey, then I’d say he was serious.”
Master Tilborn nodded and changed the subject. “I think it’s time for me to let you go gossip with your women-friends now.”
“Yes master. And what should I say if someone else asks if I’m for sale?” Elarra said with an impish innocence.
Master Tilborn grinned and caressed her ear. “I’ll forbid you to say either no or yes.”
“Yes master.”
“Instead, you’re to tell whoever it is to come and ask me, instead.”
“Yes master.”
“But before I send you off, I want to make an addition or two.” Master Tilborn touched Elarra’s nose, warning her against repeating herself a third time. She took the warning with a grin, and kept silent.
=O+O+O=
The slave bells now locked on Elarra’s wrist and ankle jingled with her slightest movement, simply because of their fine craftsmanship rather than any magic. Master Tilborn had purchased good slave bells for her. Master Tilborn had also left Elarra in her wrist-to-ankle hobble, so she now had cuffs on both wrists and both ankles. That had amused him, and it seemed to be amusing the rest of the halflings in Bonfire Glade as well. They waved as she walked by, they smiled when she stopped to watch a skit or listen to a carol, and they nodded when she warmed herself by the bonfire or visited the food-tables for a bite of roast mutton, a slice of pie, or another mug of Yule beer. Occasionally one of them would stop to chat, usually (but not always) someone she knew.
Master Tilborn had put her on display, and Elarra decided that she appreciated it. She’d received nods, and calls of “Merry Yule!” even from the few halflings who didn’t approve of keeping goblin slavegirls. And then there was Missus Lowthatch, who did approve of collared female goblins. It was elven or dwarven or – especially – halfling slavegirls that she saved her disapproval for.
“It’s not right,” Missus Lowthatch said for the fourth or fifth time.
Nerine and Daisy were there as well, now dressed as the Town Cousin and the Farm Cousin for that skit. Elarra saw them both roll their eyes, while she made her own face and ears show polite attention.
Missus Lowthatch once again complemented Elarra for the display she made with her chain and slave bells, before finally departing. Once she was out of earshot, Daisy said, “Your master really has put you on display, Elarra, and it does look good on you.”
“Thank you,” Elarra said, “but please don’t tell me you approve.”
Daisy smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Nerine said. “I won’t even say that it looks good on you – unless either you or Mr. Til want me to. But I’m afraid we need to go now. We need to find Mr. Dav and Ivory for our next skit.”
Elarra looked around. “Ivory is over there, talking with Senne. I can see their glow.”
“Glow?” Nerine asked.
“It’s the gift from my Yule cracker, this morning,” Elarra said. “I’ll explain later.”
Nerine responded with a quick nod. Daisy was already headed toward Ivory and Senne, and she had to hurry to follow.
Senne was the other goblin slavegirl living in Greater Broadstump. Elarra didn’t actually know her all that well, as she lived in Oakway with her Master Alcar, while Master Tilborn’s home-burrow was on the edge of Broadstump proper. But Senne and Ivory were close friends; in large part, Elarra believed, because their masters were close neighbors.
Elarra started walking again, making her slave bells jingle. She saw a third glow: Kara, the dwarven slavegirl with her long dark hair and large dark eyes that gave credence to the story of her being at least partly sun-dwarf. Next to her was her master, Tallsir Lamathar, the elf who owned a horse farm on the road out past Ironstone. His height meant that didn’t need a glow to be easily spotted.
More friendly smiles, nods, and calls of “Merry Yule!” came Elarra’s way. At least half of those present knew Master Tilborn’s green goblin slavegirl, at least by sight. Many knew her by name as well (and vice versa), especially those who lived in Broadstump proper. And some of the halflings here she could count as friends.
She turned to look on hearing a cry of “Elarra!” and saw a waving hand. It was Missus Appleroot, Tulip Appleroot, the wife of Mr. Bertgil. Her cousin-by-marriage Alice Appleroot stood next to her, along with her cousin-before-marriage Sandra Radishworth (who was also Nerine’s mother). Elarra waved back and turned to join them, and soon she was in a deep gossip with the three halfling women.
They spoke of how this year’s Yule celebration was just as good as last year, of how the wool and linen merchants were being their usual cheating, miserly selves, and of how yellow dyes were plentiful this year, due to the bumper crops of safflower and heartleaf, while blue and green dyes were now in short supply and therefore costly.
Myrtle Greenbluff came along and joined them, and their talk changed to the magic Yule crackers she and Elarra had snapped, and then to Wilstan’s color-changing gift and Master Tilborn’s invisible magic flute.
“I didn’t know that Master Tilborn was such a good flute-player,” Elarra admitted.
“Well, he is,” Missus Alice said. “Time was when he’d play every year on May Day and at The Rubydance. We’ve been trying to get him to start that again. Maybe you could wheedle him in that direction, Elarra?”
“I could try, if that’s what you want,” Elarra said.
“Everyone expects him to play at your barn-dance this evening,” Missus Tulip said. “At Farmer Greenbluff’s dance, that is. My Bert said he wanted to see a Yule-beer dance for the first one – that, or a chain dance.” She gave Elarra an apologetic look. “I told him that he’d made a dirty joke, and that he shouldn’t repeat it.”
Elarra felt herself blush. A slave wench dancing a chain-dance wore chains – and nothing else. She might perform such a dance for Master Tilborn in private, but never in front of anyone else. Certainly not as part of a barn dance.
“That was a dirty joke.” Missus Sandra nodded decisively. “But a Yule-beer dance would be all right. It isn’t rude; it’s just full of youthful enthusiasm. My Nerine asked me if it would be acceptable for her to participate in a Yule-beer dance, and I told her it would be just fine.”
“Speaking of dirty jokes,” Missus Alice said, “There’s the way Mr. Kevmel is treating Missus Penny – Missus Peony Ponyhorn, that is.”
“How so?” Missus Sandra asked.
“Well, we all know Kevmel is… looking to make a purchase.”
“He wants to buy himself a slavegirl,” Elarra put in cheerfully.
“Exactly.” Missus Alice nodded. “Since you said it plain, Elarra, I’ll say it plain: Kevmel is looking to buy himself a slavegirl. But – and this is the dirty part – he and Missus Penny are acting as if they have an understanding. He’s taking her to Farmer Greenbluff’s barn dance, you know.”
Myrtle said, “I didn’t know. Is he really?”
“Yes he is,” Missus Tulip answered for Missus Alice. “I don’t believe it, but it’s said that he’s not just courting her, but actually trying to wheedle her into that slave collar he carries with him.”
“I don’t believe it either,” Myrtle said. “Elarra, what do you think?”
Elarra frowned in thought. There was something about the name ‘Peony Ponyhorn,’ not something she remembered, but something she felt she ought to remember. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I can just barely imagine Mr. Kevmel asking, but I can’t imagine Missus Penny agreeing – not unless she were terribly terribly desperate for some reason.”
“That’s what I thought,” Missus Sandra said, giving Elarra a look of approval.
With that, the gossip-flock broke up. Myrtle stayed with Elarra, and when the other women had left, she said, “I have a secret to pass on.”
Elarra’s ears moved to ask the silent question.
“You’re going to be chosen as Justicara for an Asses Assizes, at the barn-dance. Tilborn wants you to know–”
“– but he also wants to be able to say that he never told me,” Elarra finished.
Myrtle grinned. “Exactly! Now you’ll have time to think of appropriate sentences. And if you can’t think of any, well, you do have friends here who can give you a few suggestions.”
Elarra grinned back. “I believe I’ll take you up on that.”
=O+O+O=
A dozen of them rode in Farmer Greenbluff’s wagon, counting Farmer Greenbluff himself. It was a crowd, but a merry crowd. Master Tilborn played his magic flute, while everyone else sang. Gaffer Sidebank was there along with the three younger carolers, with Elarra joining in the carols, along Myrtle, Wilstan, and three more halflings who had hitched this ride to the barn dance.Of course it wasn’t the only wagon. When they arrived at the barn, Elarra saw a number of carts and wagons already there. Nor was it the only barn dance this Yule. It was one of the three biggest dances however, along with Tallsir Lamathar’s Pony Dance, and the shindy-dance hosted by the Lowthatches.
Everyone shed their outer wraps as they entered the barn, and Elarra shed her low boots as well. As she straightened, Master Tilborn halted her with a hand on her shoulder and unlocked her slave bells and hobble. For a time, at least, Elarra would be unbelled and unhobbled, as well as unshod.
“I’ll make up for it later,” Master Tilborn whispered to her.
“Thank you, master,” Elarra whispered back.
Her thanks were sincere. She’d be unhappy if Master Tilborn always kept her in chains or ropes, and yet she’d also be unhappy if Master Tilborn never tied or chained her. That he sometimes did and sometimes didn’t, depending on the proprieties and his whim, was just right, and one of the reasons why she loved him.
Master Tilborn departed with his usual ear-caress, stepping over to speak with some of the others. Elarra watched as he had a brief word with Mr. Davwich and Mr. Alcar, the owners of Ivory and Senne, and then a longer discussion with Gaffer Sidebank and his caroler-granddaughter. Missus Glenda Sandbank (who had turned thirty-three just two weeks ago) had brought her grandfather’s fiddle, along with her own instrument: A stringed thing played with a hammer, whose name Elarra never could remember.
The two other slavegirls present (both still glowing) came over to join Elarra.
“Hello Elarra!” Ivory said. “It’s good to see you again.”
Senne added, “It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to gossip.” Her accent came from the Middle Forest, rather than Cheetpinkiz Mountain, and the path that had led to her collaring came from a weakness for gambling, rather than from having too many sisters.
“Our masters seem to be giving us a chance to run away,” Ivory said, looking at the lack of chains on the three of them.”
“Not barefoot in winter,” Elarra said.
Ivory said, “Barefoot?” Then, “Oh yes, you two are tenderfoots, aren’t you.”
“That’s right.” Senne nodded. “And since you’re not a tenderfoot, Master Alcar told me to watch you and keep you from running. He even hinted that I should ask Elarra for help with that.”
“Oh dear.” Ivory sighed. “And I was so looking forward to giving Master Davwich a chance to chase me down.”
Elarra waved her unchained hands. “The theory is to give the three of us a brief break. That way, when our masters hobble us again, we’ll feel it more keenly.”
“That’s right,” Senne repeated. “Also, going unchained for the moment will give us a chance not to spill the beer. I heard that the first dance tonight is going to be the Yule-beer dance. And I don’t know the steps.”
“I don’t either,” Elarra admitted.
“It’s easy,” Ivory said. “You can use the same steps as for the Lady Dance, and it will be close enough. Also, as Senne said, be careful not to spill the beer.”
A few minutes later, Farmer Greenbluff announced that the first dance would indeed be the Yule-beer dance. Master Tilborn, Master Alcar, and Master Davwich commanded their slavegirls to step out onto the dance floor, and a score of the younger female halflings joined them, along with a handful of the older women. The halfling men stayed to the side, except for Wilstan, who set up a beer barrel – one with Master Tilborn’s mark branded on it – and a tray of mugs.
As Master Tilborn and the two Sandbanks played a preliminary, each of the dancers were given a full mug of beer, fell back, and then came forward again to receive a second one. Once all the dancers had two mugs, the musicians changed to the actual Yule-beer tune and the dance started.
The dancers circled clockwise. Elarra kept her eyes on her mugs, determined not to spill any of the Yule beer. The slow tempo of the music helped, and Elarra thought she knew why this was the first dance: If it had come later, there would be those in the audience who would want to see beer spilled.
Elarra almost did spill her beer when she saw the dusky dwarf. It was just a glimpse, and she snapped her attention back to the mugs in her hands, resisting the temptation to look again. The music entered the final stanza, and the dancing women turned away from the circle to hand their beer mugs to the men of their choice. Elarra, of course, handed a mug to Master Tilborn and, at his gesture of command, her second mug to Gaffer Sandbank. The old halfling drained the mug and thanked Elarra fulsomely.
“You can get yourself a mug, Elarra, and maybe a bite of something to go with it,” Master Tilborn told her. “Before you do, however, I want you to put these on.” He held up a set of ankle-hobbles.
“Yes master,” Elarra said, adding impishly, “I hear and obey.”
That made Master Tilborn grin, a grin that grew broader when Elarra handed back the key with an impudent flick of her ears. After tucking the key away, he used both hands to caress both of her ears (which felt very nice, Elarra thought) before shooing her off.
More dances followed: A masculine sun-dance, and then a series of partner-dances. Master Tilborn couldn’t join in, of course, being needed as a flute-player, and instead sent Elarra off to partner a handful of grinning halfling bucks.
During the toe-dance, Mr. Jimman Greenbluff was able to tell Elarra something about the dusky dwarf she had glimpsed. Gildak son of Tazdarnet was actually a dark-dwelf, an unusual someone with both a dwarf and a dark-elf as parents.
“We didn’t think he would be here,” Jimman told Elarra, “but he decided to come at the last minute.”
Mr. Kevmel was able to tell Elarra a bit more, as they danced the cheese-walk. “Herr Gildak told me that he had business in Pondor, and so would be leaving tomorrow if the weather didn’t turn against him. He also said that he wants me as a partner, to bring a case before the Asses Assizes this evening.” He grinned. “So you can expect to see us both before you, your honoress.”
The cheese-walk had been the last dance before the intermission. As Kevmel escorted Elarra toward the tables of nibblements, Myrtle and Jimman joined them.
“I didn’t see you dancing with Penny,” Myrtle told Kevmel. “You danced with Senne and Ivory, and with Elarra here, but not with Penny – even though you brought her.”
“Well, she’s shy,” Kevmel answered.
“Of course she is,” Myrtle said. “She doesn’t know anyone here. Her people are from Baldraven – or at least from that general part of the Furfoot Counties – and she’s practically a stranger here. That’s all the more reason for you to have danced with her.”
“She may be even more of a stranger,” Jimman said. “I talked with her a bit, this evening, and she didn’t call the Ponyhorns ‘my people’ or ‘my family.’ She said ‘the Ponyhorns of Baldraven.’ I think she’s, she’s estranged from her family.”
He looked proud about producing that word. And young: A halfling in his mid-twenties, still several years short of his coming-of-age. He told Kevmel with a youthful earnestness, “She also said to me that she would never, ever ever let herself become a halfling slavegirl.”
They reached a table of nibblements and fell silent as they helped themselves and restored their strength. Myrtle looked thoughtful. Elarra wanted to feel thoughtful. She had heard something about the name Ponyhorn, and maybe even Peony Ponyhorn, and it was not in connection with the Ponyhorns of Baldraven. But she still couldn’t remember where.
=O+O+O=
Master Tilborn joined Elarra, just as Farmer Greenbluff called for quiet. “We’re now going to hold the Court of the Asses Assizes,” Farmer Greenbluff announced, “and Tilborn Carrotmaster has graciously agreed to donate his Goodwench Elarra to be the Justicara! All in favor?”
“Aye!” came a chorus of voices that turned into a chant. “Aye! Aye! Aye!”
“Any opposed?”
“Nay!” came three female voices.
Farmer Greenbluff looked over toward the three halfling women. “And will one of you volunteer to be the Justicara instead?” He held up a cowbell, painted red and green and yellow.
“No!” Missus Opal said. “That is, I change my vote to Aye!”
The other two halfling women echoed Missus Opal, and Farmer Greenbluff said, “The ayes have it, then. Bring Goodwench Elarra forward!”
Master Tilborn stood in front of Elarra now, holding out his hands. She placed her wrists in his grip, and they exchanged a look. She could go meekly, or she could protest and struggle – and Elarra sensed that her master wanted her to do the latter.
“No! Not! I won’t!” Elarra cried, twisting and stamping as Master Tilborn pulled her toward where Farmer Greenbluff held the cowbell of office. The effect might have been spoiled by the way Elarra giggled as she struggled.
Elarra ended her struggles as Farmer Greenbluff hung the painted cowbell around her neck. He and Master Tilborn boosted her up onto a stool tall enough that her feet dangled, and they replaced her ankle-hobbles with a set of much heavier chains on both her ankles and her wrists. Someone else pushed a small high-top table next to her stool, and set a wooden mallet on it to serve as a gavel. She reached for it, as much to test her new chains as anything else. Goodness, they were heavy chains. She wouldn’t to dance in them, or even move around very much while wearing them, but they wouldn’t stop her from using the gavel.
“Go ahead, Elarra,” Farmer Greenbluff said, and Master Tilborn nodded.
Elarra hammered the high-top table and announced, “The Court of the Asses Assizes is now in session!”
The crowd responded with a brief cheer, and Nell Tilejack and Flora Oakroot stepped forward to bring the first of the asinine cases.
“I loaned Flora my good iron skillet,” Nell said, “and she returned it to me.”
“And?” Elarra asked after a long pause.
“And my good skillet was pregnant. She gave birth while Flora had her – and Flora didn’t return the baby.” Missus Nell did a good job of keeping a straight face as she told this story, reminding Elarra that she should too.
The onlookers grinned and chuckled, and Elarra turned her gaze onto Missus Flora, who said, “I borrowed an iron skillet and I returned an iron skillet.” Missus Flora’s effort to keep a straight face wasn’t as successful as Nell’s. “I didn’t owe Nell the extra baby skillet any more than I owed her the fryup I made in her mama-pan.”
“I see.” Elarra was glad that Myrtle had warned her about being made Justicara, and even more so that she had been able to put her head together with Myrtle, Nerine, and a couple of her other halfling women-friends. The humor of the Asses Assizes required her to be brisk. “The Justicara’s ruling is that the baby skillet be boiled in carrot juice. If the juice turns red, then the baby is to be returned to Missus Nell and its mama skillet. If the juice turns yellow or green, then Missus Flora keeps the baby skillet.”
Cheers. Elarra sucked her grin back down, but couldn’t keep her ears from showing her amusement. She rapped twice, sharply. “Next case!”
The two halfling women stepped aside, their place taken by Mr. Artden Muddle, who Elarra knew as one of the bachelor Bucks of the Cheese, and the equally young Missus Emily Silversand. Mr. Artden’s claim was that he had purchased a love potion from Missus Emily, and that when he tried to use it on her, it didn’t work. Emily, in turn, had to admit that she’d promised it would work.
“The Justicara’s ruling,” Elarra said, “is that Missus Emily return the price Mr. Artden paid, and that Missus Emily bestow a kiss on Mr. Artden as well.”
“I object! I appeal!” Emily threw her hands up before Elarra could hammer the case closed. “I would rather kiss a frog!” she lied blatantly.
“In that case,” Elarra said, “the Justicara’s ruling is that Mr. Artden provide a frog for you to kiss by Midsummer’s Day.” She rapped the case closed amid laughter and noises of approval from the onlookers.
After that followed a claim by Missus Periwinkle Cliftswallow against her husband for not being poisoned by the turnip pies she baked for him, a dispute over a sack of potatoes owed for teaching a pony to sing – disputed because the pony sang badly – and a claim about a cow being frightened so that it now mooed with a strange accent from foreign parts. Elarra had to keep her wits about her to make the properly brisk and silly rulings expected of her. None of her rulings would be enforced (unless the participants wanted them to be), and some Justicars and Justicaras would have used this to hand down the most absurdly horrific rulings they could think of. But Elarra had decided against that sort of humor.
For the sixth and final case, Herr Gildak and Mr. Kevmel Claypipe stepped forward, just like Elarra had been warned they would.
“Gildak son of Tazdarnet, at your service!” the dark-dwelf said with a bow.
“Kevmel Claypipe, at your service!” followed a moment later.
Elarra responded, “The Justicara is at your service and your families. Please proceed.”
Herr Gildak then made the claim that Missus Peony Ponyhorn was actually Goodwench Penny, a runaway slavegirl – and in particular that she was his runaway slavegirl. He wanted Mr. Kevmel, who had recaptured her, to return her to him in exchange for a suitable capture fee.
Mr. Kevmel responded with an agreement that Goodwench Penny was indeed a runaway slavegirl who he had recaptured, followed by his claim that he intended to keep her. He would pay Herr Gildak a price appropriate for a runaway slavegirl, rather than returning Penny to him for a capture fee.
Elarra heard titters – and also a few mutters that this asinine case was a joke in bad taste. Even if Missus Penny wasn’t a local of Greater Broadstump, she was still a halfling of the Furfoot Counties. That made it even more important that Elarra’s decision be both brisk and humorous. If she failed at either of those, this whole thing would turn into a joke in bad taste.
“Bring Missus Penny forward,” Elarra said, playing for time.
Missus Peony Ponyhorn stepped forward, reluctantly but on her own two feet, and Elarra again felt a maddening half-memory about that name. She wanted to scratch her ears, but that would just make things worse. What she could do – all she could think of doing – was to make another play for time.
“Turn around, please, Missus Penny,” Elarra said.
“Yes, your honoress.” But instead of simply turning her back, Missus Penny turned slowly in place, like a slavegirl undergoing inspection. That drew more mutters from the onlookers, with one voice of approval among the comments about bad taste:
“She does that well,” Master Tilborn said.
Master Tilborn was right; Missus Penny did do that well. Master Tilborn should know; Elarra had turned around that way for his inspection, often enough.
Elarra considered Missus Penny as she tried to think of what to do next. She was an attractive halfling lass, if not a stunning beauty, brown haired and brown eyed, and dressed up for Yule and the barn dance much as the other halfling women here were. And she was faintly glowing.
Elarra blinked, and her ears went straight up in shock.
Penny was glowing, faintly, as if a disguise were concealing the glow. Faintly enough that Elarra had only noticed it when she started paying attention to Penny.
Silence fell as Elarra stared at the glowing slavegirl – at the fourth glowing slavegirl in the barn. Elarra could see Senne and Ivory in the corner of her eye, and she could see her own hand glowing as it clutched the mallet she’d been given as a gavel.
This was no longer an asinine case of the sort appropriate for the Asses Assizes. It was a very real and serious case, and it fell on Elarra to decide it. She might try to hand it off to Master Tilborn and the other halflings here, but she felt in her bones that it would turn out better – much much better – if she could render a decision herself. And get it accepted, of course.
The problem was: How?
Penny had turned in place like a slavegirl being inspected. She had turned like an experienced slavegirl being inspected, rather than like a new captive, or like a free woman playing the part. She hadn’t, however, turned quite like a barefoot slavegirl – halfling or tenderfoot. Instead, she had turned in place like a slavegirl wearing slippers.
Elarra looked down at Penny’s feet. They looked like the bare feet of a halfling lass, so Elarra had to guess. She had to guess quickly, and there was only one guess she could make.
“Missus Penny,” Elarra said. “Please remove your slippers.”
Penny looked back at Elarra, her eyes wide. Another titter ran through the onlookers. They still though this was an asinine case for the Asses Assizes, and that telling a barefoot halfling lass to ‘remove her slippers’ was another piece of silliness.
But Elarra felt a wash of relief. Her guess had been right. She drew in a breath to repeat her order and at the last moment changed her mind. She banged her gavel and said, “Herr Gildak, Mr. Kevmel. Will you please order Goodwench Penny to remove her slippers?”
Kevmel studied Penny’s feet and then grinned up at Elarra. He had either guessed the truth or else was willing to go along with the joke. “Yes, your honoress.”
Herr Gildak knew. He gave Penny’s feet only a brief glance before looking back up at Elarra. “Of course, your honoress. Penny, remove them. Now.”
“Go ahead and take them off, Penny,” Kevmel said from her other side.
Penny bent down, eyes shut. When she straightened again, two slippers stood beside her, formed to look like a pair of halfling feet. Her glow brightened; the glow that only Elarra could see. Her skin and hair were now green; a green everyone could see. And her ears – along with the rest of her – were revealed to be those of a goblin wench, now that the disguising glamour of her magic slippers had been lifted.
There was a collective gasp and everyone began talking at once. Some thought it was a grand ending for the Asses Assizes, while more were shocked, shocked! at how they’d been fooled by the runaway goblin slavegirl and her magic slippers. Then there was Gaffer Sidebank. He was loudly opining that as a collarless runaway, Penny was a free goblin woman here in the Furfoot Counties, “…And that’s again’ the Law!”
It all needed to be dealt with. Briskly.
“Order in the court!” Elarra cried out, banging her gavel. “Order in the court!”
The noise died down to a mutter, which was as good as Elarra was going to get. Master Tilborn was watching her closely, ready to help if needed, and knowing it would be better if she could manage without that help.
“Herr Gildak,” Elarra said, “Do you have a slave collar in hand?”
His expression turned wary as he answered. “I’m afraid not, your honoress.”
“Mr. Kevmel,” Elarra now said, “Do you have a slave collar in hand?”
Kevmel grinned. He either had known, or else he was the luckiest halfling buck this Yule.
“As a matter of fact, your honoress, I do.” And he held up an opened slave collar to prove it.
“Then the Justicara’s ruling is in favor of Mr. Kevmel Claypipe. Having recaptured the slavegirl Penny, he may keep her, provided that he pays her old Master Gildak an appropriate price for a runaway.”
Gildak glared at Kevmel and his collar. Then he shrugged and spread his hands, in sour acceptance of events turning against him. He looked up at Elarra, and his silent question reminded her that she needed to make one more ruling as Justicara.
Elarra tapped lightly with her mallet-gavel. “The Justicara further rules that the appropriate payment for this runaway slavegirl is six bottles of good red wine, or whatever equivalent price Mr. Kevmel and Herr Gildak may agree upon. Oh, and one last thing: The magic slippers shall be returned to Herr Gildak to do with as he pleases.”
Herr Gildak muttered something that might have been, “Burn them, I think.”
Goodwench Penny now stood snug against her new master, his collar now closed around her neck. Like most slave collars, it had a dwarf-style fastening designed to be closed once and never opened again. Now both of them looked up at Elarra, and Kevmel nodded his acceptance of her ruling.
Herr Gildak gave Elarra a nod as well, along with a thin, beer-souring smile. She heard him say something to Kevmel about “later” and “breath of fresh air” before departing. Well, as long as he was willing to accept his loss, she was willing to leave him as much dignity as he could carry off.
Elarra rapped loudly and for the last time. “This session of the Asses Assizes is ended!”
And now, finally, she remembered where she had heard the name ‘Ponyhorn.’ There was an old scandal under Cheetpinkiz Mountain where a goblin mother tried to gave one of her daughters a halfling name, not realizing that while ‘Ponyhorn’ was a halfling name, it wasn’t a first name. That daughter had become known as ‘Onnyheen’ and had in turn given her own daughters proper halfling-girl names: Sally, Goldilocks, Diamond, Nanny, and yes, Peony. They all went by the matronymic ‘Onnyheen’s-daughter,’ but their true matronymic was ‘Ponyhorn’s-daughter.’ ‘Peony Ponyhorn’s-daughter,’ in the case of Goodwench Penny.
Well, that scratched that itch, but Elarra now had another problem. In a small voice she asked, “Can someone help me down now, please?”
Master Tilborn came forward to lift her down. He handed the cowbell of the Justicara’s office back to Farmer Greenbluff, and unlocked the heavy cuffs on her wrists and ankles. He handed her a key, and she bent to lock on the much lighter ankle hobble she had worn previously.
Myrtle Greenbluff and Gaffer Sidebank were there as well, with old halfling still going on about “Free goblin women!” and “Again’ the Law!” Master Tilborn was about to reply to that, but Myrtle beat him to it.
“Mr. Rayander,” she said. “Goodwench Penny is now safely collared by her Master Kevmel. Just like Elarra, here, is safely collared by her Master Tilborn, and Senne out there” – she waved a hand – “is safely collared by her Master Alcar. That’s good enough.” She smiled brightly at him and held up her hand, miming a pair of scissors. “And if you keep going on about it, I’ll become the she-rascal of my tweens again, and cut your clothes off with my invisible magic scissors.”
Gaffer Sidebank gave her a long look. “All right, all right,” he said at last. “If everyone else wants to overlook the Law here, I guess I can too.” He smiled suddenly. “It is Yule, after all. Merry Yule!”
“Merry Yule!” Master Tilborn answered.
“Merry Yule!” Elarra and Myrtle chorused, with Myrtle giving Elarra a sisterly one-armed hug.
It was good for a goblin slavegirl to have halfling women-friends, here in the Furfoot Counties.
=O+O+O=
Farmer Greenbluff announced that next dance would be a bell dance. “A slave-bell dance!” someone called. “We have three goblin wenches now, and an exotic lass from Lirn Yudrain!”
This suggestion received general agreement, and Farmer Greenbluff smiled as he held up both hands. “For the four collared wenches, a slave-bell dance. For every one else, a regular bell dance. We don’t want to be tempting the Golden Ones – especially not on Yule-day.”
“Do you have slave bells?” Master Tilborn asked Mr. Kevmel. “If not, I have two belled cuffs and can loan you one.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have slave bells,” Mr. Kevmel answered with a bow, “So thank you. And thank you, Elarra,” he bowed again.
Elarra returned a chained-curtsy, and this time her hobbling forced her to keep her feet close together.
Beside her new master, Penny still glowed, and would continue to do so until Elarra’s Yule-cracker magic finally came to an end.