Shem the Penman
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TALES FROM THE GOLDEN FEATHER, I
THE INNKEEPER'S TALE, or PERSISTENCE REWARDED
another one of those stories
IF YOU'RE UNDER 18, BE ADVISED THAT READING THIS STORY WILL CAUSE HAIRY PALMS AND BLINDNESS.
The Golden Feather Inn sits in a deep mountain valley, on the road connecting the cities of ------- and -------. It is normally a pleasant place to stay, but in the winter the snow rises high around it, often to the point where it is difficult -- or impossible -- for anyone to enter or leave the valley. Such was the case one winter many years ago. I had been traveling from home to resume my studies at the university, and I was rather displeased to find myself a prisoner, for how long might not be known. Food and supplies were plentiful, but the prospect of spending a week or more immured with strangers was not a pleasant one.
But I got over my irritation quickly enough, for my fellow guests were a fascinating lot. I have always enjoyed the study of human nature, and this situation provided a golden opportunity. There were eight of us, plus the maid-of-all-work and our hostess, a widow of somewhat advanced years.
On the first day of our captivity, we sat desultorily around the inn's common room, exchanging few words. A more diverse group could not have been picked by intention. There was a gray-haired, dignified physician sitting by the fire with his nose in a medical book. A soldier, a veteran of the southern wars by the look of him. A burly, deep-voiced summoner who looked more like a wrestler than a holy man. A red-headed harpist from another island. A stocky webster, her fingers much calloused from her profession. A pretty, silent young woman who I would have liked to speak to, but who spoke to no one. The black-bearded forester in his clothes of green, who stared out the window for hours on end. And myself, of course. So different were we that we had nothing to say to one another, and so the silence grew and stretched.
I do not recall who first asked the innkeeper about the inn's name. Perhaps it was the harpist, always the most talkative of us. In any case: "The name dates from when I was a barmaid working here under old Karl, the previous owner," she explained, and then shook her head, smiling. "It's a fair strange story, if truth be told .... "
"Tell it, then," someone else (probably the summoner, for he loved giving orders) said. "We need *something* to take our minds off this miserable situation ... "
She looked around and saw all of us watching her closely -- even the physician had looked up from his book. She smiled and shrugged. "If you insist. Back then," she began, "I was too pretty for my own good, and a bit wild." I could believe it, for her pale skin and dark red hair had been only lightly touched by age, and it had been obvious from the moment I saw her that she would have been something to look at in her youth. "But I was a fine barmaid, and that's how it began ... "
It was a busy night [she continued] when Karl told me the patrons in the private bar wanted me. So I left the noisy, crowded common room behind and went into the private bar. At the time, it was occupied by only two people: a richly dressed older man, a trader from the west by his clothes, and his guard, a big local boy. On the table was a tray with four empty glasses. Next to them was the kitchen hourglass. "What can I get you, sirs?" I asked.
"Yourself," the merchant said.
I frowned at him. "That's not what I'm here for. If you want -- "
"You misjudge me," he said, with enough force to make me to quiet down. "I observed you earlier, and I was struck by the way you bear yourself -- and the trays you carry. Have you ever spilled anything?"
"Sometimes. Not often." That was true enough. Any girl in the trade had to be able to balance heavy loads while avoiding the grabs and paws hurled at her. I was good enough to be able to carry a full round of drinks across a room of drunken, deprived soldiers without spilling a drop.
"Good. I appreciate talent, whatever it is -- and I especially like putting it to the test."
"How do you mean?" I was definitely nervous now, trying to guess what he intended for me.
"I want to make a wager with you. If you can hold this tray for as long as it takes the sand to run out of this glass, without dropping anything, then I'll give you this." And he laid a purse full of coins on the table. I tried to keep my eyes in my head.
"What's the challenge in that?" I asked.
"While you balance the tray, I will attempt to disrupt your concentration and make you drop it. Say, by ... tickling one of your feet?"
Well, as I've said, I was a bit wild in those days, and I figured it was an easy enough way to earn a little money. My feet were terribly ticklish, but I was confident of my ability. So I didn't stop to think -- I just bent down, unlaced my sandal and stepped out of it, and gave him my foot, balancing on the toes of my other foot and holding the tray before me.
He took my foot gently, kissed my toes with a grave courtesy that made me giggle. Smiling up at me, he held it between his palms for a moment. "Are you ready, girl?" he asked.
I stifled another giggle. "Yes, sir." And then I let out another, unstifled, laugh as he ran his fingertip down my arch. Maybe I was nervous, maybe it was the strangeness of the whole thing, but that little stroke tickled me unbearably. I tried to pull away, but he had a firm hold on my foot, and his fingers skittered up and down its length. I buried my face in my shoulder, trying to muffle my giggles -- what if someone in the public room outside heard me? The tray quivered alarmingly in my hands as my whole body shook, making the glasses rattle faintly. I tightened the muscles of my arms, and the tray steadied, but I couldn't stop laughing as easily. I pressed my lips tight together, but it still came spluttering out. His playful touch sent little wriggles through me despite my determination to hold still. It was a little frightening, to lose so much control over myself from a touch in the right place.... I sneaked a glance at the timer, and the sand barely seemed to be moving, even as he continued to tickle my desperately flexing foot without cease or mercy.
"Only the beginning," he said, following my eyes. "You certainly are ticklish, if even this is too much for you to stand. I think you're about to lose your burden ... "
He was serious about our wager, I suddenly realized. It wasn't just a convenient excuse to tease me. And for the first time I started thinking about what might happen if I lost -- as much as I could think with him tickling my toes. There was no way I could match the money he had put down. But how would he take his payment? I looked down at him, gripping the tray tightly and trying to read his thoughts in his face, but all I saw was amusement at my predicament. "I think her face is almost the same color as her hair already," he commented to his guard. Indeed, I could feel myself blushing furiously. "Not many people know how ticklish they are, until the moment comes. Wouldn't you say that's true, my dear?" The pace of his tickling slackened until just one devilish fingertip was trailing around my sole. I caught my breath.
"I -- " I began, and then he raked his fingernails across the ball of my foot. I let out a screech and twisted in place, nearly losing my balance, the tray, and the wager all at once. The glasses slid on the tray, and one bumped its edge, but none fell as I straightened it with the speed of instinct. "Not fair!" I howled, pulling myself upright again as he laughed and played with my toes. Naturally, he waited until I had almost regained my balance and pulled the same trick. I had been half-expecting it, but it still made my leg -- and most of my body -- jerk wildly. By then I was beyond caring who might overhear. I yelled with laughter as he scribbled his nails around the ball, pressing just firmly enough to drive me mad.
"Of course it's fair," he said in a tone of injured innocence. "You agreed to be tickled -- you never specified where. Perhaps I should ask Otho to see if your ribs are as sensitive as this pretty foot ... " Of course I looked around at the smirking guard in horror, and of course he chose just that moment to trail those torturing nails down my arch. My yelp must have echoed through the whole valley, and again it was only pure instinct that kept the tray level and safe. This time he didn't let up, but continued to quickly and lightly scratch all around my foot. He had been playing with me before, but now he was going for the kill. My eyes were blurred with tears of mirth, so I couldn't see the glass, but it had to be nearly empty. Or at least, I hoped it was, because there was no way I could stand much more of this.
I must have looked as if I was having a fit of the falling sickness, except I remained upright -- more or less. I was dimly aware of how loudly I was laughing, and I hoped -- prayed -- that Karl would come in and demand that we keep the noise down. I begged, I pleaded, I made wild promises, I did everything but drop the tray. The glasses on it slid back and forth like sailors on deck in a storm, but somehow none of them fell.
"One last flurry," he said, and in a flash Otho was kneeling at his side, his big hands on my foot. I started to scream and nearly dropped the tray, believing myself cheated, but it's difficult to put together a decent scream when you're laughing at the top of your voice, and my fingers were clamped so hard on the tray that I could scarcely pry them loose. Otho wasn't actually tickling me, I realized. He was only holding my foot steady so his employer could use both hands on me. Not that that was much of a relief, since it felt as if I was being tickled everywhere at once -- tops of the toes, curve of the arch, the sensitive skin around the Achilles tendon, and that even more ticklish place just at the bases of my toes. With Otho bending my toes back with one hand and holding my heel firmly with the other, there was no twitching away. I could do nothing but howl and pray for the end. The glasses rattled and clinked.
"Ah well," he said without much regret. "It seems you've won." And his and Otho's hands fell away from me.
I put the tray down quick and leaned against the edge of the table, my bare foot still tingling. I pushed my hands through my hair, wiping away sweat. The door to the private bar creaked open and Karl stuck his head in, then withdrew hastily when I glared at him.
"An enjoyable little contest," the merchant said. "You're a very talented young lady."
Despite myself, I had to grin. "And you're fair terrible with those fingers."
"Much practice. Would you like to try to double your winnings?" And damn me if he didn't put a second purse beside the one I'd just won, giving me a knowing smile as he did so.
"What do you want, the other foot?" I tried to sound coy, but already my greed was fighting with my good sense again. And winning. And he knew it.
"Oh no. Something more than that." And he explained. And I, stupid girl that I was, agreed.
I took a deep breath to steady myself and shed my blouse. Otho stared at me greedily, but the merchant himself only gave a faint smile. As directed, I sat down on his knees, facing him, my own legs spread. It made my skirt ride up, but modesty was something I had set aside long ago. I put my arms around his neck and stared deep into his eyes, willing my whole body not to cringe. The challenge was to keep from letting go of him. I kept my elbows close to my sides, for I did *not* want to feel those clever fingers finding their way up under my arms.
Maybe my feet were more sensitive, but he had a lot more of me to tickle now, and he was making the most of it. He teased me briefly, slipping light fingertips down my bare back, around my belly, and up my sides. After the foot-tickling I'd just endured, it didn't take much to get me giggly again. I was like a kettle left too long on the fire -- the least little extra heat set me boiling over with uncontrollable shaking and giggling, and I could tell he was aiming to melt me down entire. His smile broadened as his touch grew more insistent, but I barely saw it because my eyes were screwed up and I was laughing my fool head off.
He dug into my ribs, and I writhed wildly, but as long as my arms were locked around his neck, I couldn't get away from those unrelenting fingers. I pulled him toward me and collapsed against him, weak with laughter, with some vague idea of distracting him with my body. But the torturing rhythm continued unabated, and I shrieked and bounced back when he twisted a finger in my belly-button. I skidded back until I was sitting on the very edge of his knees, my arms completely stretched out, and his hands on my ribs still driving me mad. But suddenly they were gone, and just as suddenly each now-vulnerable underarm was filled with wriggling, tracing, intolerably tickling fingertips, exactly what I'd feared.
I clamped my elbows to my sides, screeching at him to stop, but it was no good. He kept on tickling, bringing me to the brink of hysteria with tiny little finger twitches, and the knowledge there was nothing I could do to get his fingers out of there was the most horrible part of the whole torment. I must have looked like a horse trying to shake off flies, hunching my shoulders and shivering and shuddering all over, but no horse ever laughed half so loud. "I think I've found a weakness on our lady," the merchant told Otho, ignoring my babbled pleas for mercy.
"Her feet are more ticklish," the lout commented.
"Oh, I don't know about that." He looked critically at me, but with vast amusement, as I yelped with nearly breathless laughter and twisted frantically in his lap. "I'd ask her opinion, but she doesn't seem too talkative at the moment. Why don't you see for yourself?"
The next thing I knew, Otho was kneeling beside his chair again, unlacing my other sandal. The merchant smoothed his hands down my quivering flanks, giving me a few rib squeezes to keep the pot boiling, as Otho drew off the sandal -- despite my best efforts to clamp my toes onto its cords. My sole tingled under their gaze as if phantom feathers were trailing across it.
"Oh, no," I said. "You wouldn't dare. That's cheating. You're just trying to bluff me again." I was still squirming even though no one was tickling me, both trying to anticipate what was coming and still feeling those damnable clever fingers on my sensitive spots.
"Dear girl," he said, "you should know this about bluffs .... eventually you have to back them up." Quick as a mouse, his hands skittered back under my arms -- at the same moment Otho started tickling my upturned foot.
The insane thing was that, even though he'd fouled the wager, I still kept trying to hold on to him. Instinct, I suppose. That lasted for all of five seconds, and then I had let go and was desperately trying to escape -- harder than you might think, with three hands tickling me all over.
I couldn't stand up because Otho had firm hold of my ankle, keeping my leg bent back as he trailed his fingertips with surprising (and tortuous) delicacy over the sole. My free foot pounded the floorboards uselessly. I slipped back on the merchant's lap, leaning back to get away from his tickling fingers, and found myself half-reclining against the edge of the table, without the strength to straighten up again as his hands roamed over me. I tried to grab his wrists, but tickle-dizzied and laughter-weakened, I could not grasp or hold him. I tried to cover myself, but it was no use -- there was always some exposed place I didn't even notice until his fingers found it and I exploded into helpless mirth again.
So what did I do, you may ask? I did the only thing possible: I gave up. I lay there, laughing like one demented, as they tickled me thoroughly from top to toe (especially toe). The hourglass was all but forgotten as they explored me endlessly. My body, which still somehow believed it could save itself, heaved and bucked, and my voice -- in those few intervals when I could speak -- still pleaded, but I knew it was all futile. When they finally withdrew from me, I swayed like a far-gone drunk in the merchant's lap. I felt absolutely boneless, as if I tried to stand up I'd just slump down the floor into a feebly giggling puddle. My entire body glowed with heat, and sweat rivered down me. It took me three tries to get enough wind together to say, "Cheaters."
"Alas, I regret having cheated," the merchant said, "but the sight of you when Otho first touched your feet is well worth losing the wager. Here, have this in exchange for my misbehavior." And he dropped a third purse next to the two I'd won. I made thanks in a hoarse voice, grabbed my blouse and sandals and the money, and ran back out into the public room without bothering to dress. If I stayed any longer in that room, he'd likely have made me a third offer, and I wasn't certain I could survive that...
***
"With the money in those three purses, I was able to buy a share in the place, and when old Karl died, I became the owner," our hostess finished her story. "I renamed it the Golden Feather in memory of how I'd earned it."
"Did you ever see the merchant again?" the quiet young woman asked.
"No, but the following spring Otho came back and proposed to me. I accepted ... on the condition that he never try to tickle me." Our hostess smiled reminiscently.
"And did he keep his part of the bargain?" The soldier winked knowingly.
Her only response was a soft smile, the beauty of her youth shining brightly through the years. "You'll pardon me, gentlefolk. I can't spend all day sitting about talking -- the kitchen needs seeing to." She rose and left the room gracefully, every eye on her.
"A fascinating story," the harper commented. "It so happens I have a tale that involves tickling as well -- "
"Why don't you save it for later?" I blurted. Everyone turned to me, the harpist in particular looking puzzled and angry. "I -- I mean, we have no idea how long we'll be trapped here. Before long, we'll run out of things to say. Perhaps if we were to ration our stories, taking it in turns to tell one each day -- "
"Fine suggestion, lad!" the summoner exclaimed. "Just like in that book, what's it called -- oh, never mind. I recall a good tale of my own that fits the theme our hostess has established ... "
"And I," the webster said, rubbing her chin.
"Yes," the forester muttered, almost but not quite smiling.
Agreement being general, we all returned to our separate pursuits, no doubt all anticipating the story to come on the morrow. I knew I was, at least.
NEXT: The Summoner's Tale, or The Last Guest.
THE INNKEEPER'S TALE, or PERSISTENCE REWARDED
another one of those stories
IF YOU'RE UNDER 18, BE ADVISED THAT READING THIS STORY WILL CAUSE HAIRY PALMS AND BLINDNESS.
The Golden Feather Inn sits in a deep mountain valley, on the road connecting the cities of ------- and -------. It is normally a pleasant place to stay, but in the winter the snow rises high around it, often to the point where it is difficult -- or impossible -- for anyone to enter or leave the valley. Such was the case one winter many years ago. I had been traveling from home to resume my studies at the university, and I was rather displeased to find myself a prisoner, for how long might not be known. Food and supplies were plentiful, but the prospect of spending a week or more immured with strangers was not a pleasant one.
But I got over my irritation quickly enough, for my fellow guests were a fascinating lot. I have always enjoyed the study of human nature, and this situation provided a golden opportunity. There were eight of us, plus the maid-of-all-work and our hostess, a widow of somewhat advanced years.
On the first day of our captivity, we sat desultorily around the inn's common room, exchanging few words. A more diverse group could not have been picked by intention. There was a gray-haired, dignified physician sitting by the fire with his nose in a medical book. A soldier, a veteran of the southern wars by the look of him. A burly, deep-voiced summoner who looked more like a wrestler than a holy man. A red-headed harpist from another island. A stocky webster, her fingers much calloused from her profession. A pretty, silent young woman who I would have liked to speak to, but who spoke to no one. The black-bearded forester in his clothes of green, who stared out the window for hours on end. And myself, of course. So different were we that we had nothing to say to one another, and so the silence grew and stretched.
I do not recall who first asked the innkeeper about the inn's name. Perhaps it was the harpist, always the most talkative of us. In any case: "The name dates from when I was a barmaid working here under old Karl, the previous owner," she explained, and then shook her head, smiling. "It's a fair strange story, if truth be told .... "
"Tell it, then," someone else (probably the summoner, for he loved giving orders) said. "We need *something* to take our minds off this miserable situation ... "
She looked around and saw all of us watching her closely -- even the physician had looked up from his book. She smiled and shrugged. "If you insist. Back then," she began, "I was too pretty for my own good, and a bit wild." I could believe it, for her pale skin and dark red hair had been only lightly touched by age, and it had been obvious from the moment I saw her that she would have been something to look at in her youth. "But I was a fine barmaid, and that's how it began ... "
It was a busy night [she continued] when Karl told me the patrons in the private bar wanted me. So I left the noisy, crowded common room behind and went into the private bar. At the time, it was occupied by only two people: a richly dressed older man, a trader from the west by his clothes, and his guard, a big local boy. On the table was a tray with four empty glasses. Next to them was the kitchen hourglass. "What can I get you, sirs?" I asked.
"Yourself," the merchant said.
I frowned at him. "That's not what I'm here for. If you want -- "
"You misjudge me," he said, with enough force to make me to quiet down. "I observed you earlier, and I was struck by the way you bear yourself -- and the trays you carry. Have you ever spilled anything?"
"Sometimes. Not often." That was true enough. Any girl in the trade had to be able to balance heavy loads while avoiding the grabs and paws hurled at her. I was good enough to be able to carry a full round of drinks across a room of drunken, deprived soldiers without spilling a drop.
"Good. I appreciate talent, whatever it is -- and I especially like putting it to the test."
"How do you mean?" I was definitely nervous now, trying to guess what he intended for me.
"I want to make a wager with you. If you can hold this tray for as long as it takes the sand to run out of this glass, without dropping anything, then I'll give you this." And he laid a purse full of coins on the table. I tried to keep my eyes in my head.
"What's the challenge in that?" I asked.
"While you balance the tray, I will attempt to disrupt your concentration and make you drop it. Say, by ... tickling one of your feet?"
Well, as I've said, I was a bit wild in those days, and I figured it was an easy enough way to earn a little money. My feet were terribly ticklish, but I was confident of my ability. So I didn't stop to think -- I just bent down, unlaced my sandal and stepped out of it, and gave him my foot, balancing on the toes of my other foot and holding the tray before me.
He took my foot gently, kissed my toes with a grave courtesy that made me giggle. Smiling up at me, he held it between his palms for a moment. "Are you ready, girl?" he asked.
I stifled another giggle. "Yes, sir." And then I let out another, unstifled, laugh as he ran his fingertip down my arch. Maybe I was nervous, maybe it was the strangeness of the whole thing, but that little stroke tickled me unbearably. I tried to pull away, but he had a firm hold on my foot, and his fingers skittered up and down its length. I buried my face in my shoulder, trying to muffle my giggles -- what if someone in the public room outside heard me? The tray quivered alarmingly in my hands as my whole body shook, making the glasses rattle faintly. I tightened the muscles of my arms, and the tray steadied, but I couldn't stop laughing as easily. I pressed my lips tight together, but it still came spluttering out. His playful touch sent little wriggles through me despite my determination to hold still. It was a little frightening, to lose so much control over myself from a touch in the right place.... I sneaked a glance at the timer, and the sand barely seemed to be moving, even as he continued to tickle my desperately flexing foot without cease or mercy.
"Only the beginning," he said, following my eyes. "You certainly are ticklish, if even this is too much for you to stand. I think you're about to lose your burden ... "
He was serious about our wager, I suddenly realized. It wasn't just a convenient excuse to tease me. And for the first time I started thinking about what might happen if I lost -- as much as I could think with him tickling my toes. There was no way I could match the money he had put down. But how would he take his payment? I looked down at him, gripping the tray tightly and trying to read his thoughts in his face, but all I saw was amusement at my predicament. "I think her face is almost the same color as her hair already," he commented to his guard. Indeed, I could feel myself blushing furiously. "Not many people know how ticklish they are, until the moment comes. Wouldn't you say that's true, my dear?" The pace of his tickling slackened until just one devilish fingertip was trailing around my sole. I caught my breath.
"I -- " I began, and then he raked his fingernails across the ball of my foot. I let out a screech and twisted in place, nearly losing my balance, the tray, and the wager all at once. The glasses slid on the tray, and one bumped its edge, but none fell as I straightened it with the speed of instinct. "Not fair!" I howled, pulling myself upright again as he laughed and played with my toes. Naturally, he waited until I had almost regained my balance and pulled the same trick. I had been half-expecting it, but it still made my leg -- and most of my body -- jerk wildly. By then I was beyond caring who might overhear. I yelled with laughter as he scribbled his nails around the ball, pressing just firmly enough to drive me mad.
"Of course it's fair," he said in a tone of injured innocence. "You agreed to be tickled -- you never specified where. Perhaps I should ask Otho to see if your ribs are as sensitive as this pretty foot ... " Of course I looked around at the smirking guard in horror, and of course he chose just that moment to trail those torturing nails down my arch. My yelp must have echoed through the whole valley, and again it was only pure instinct that kept the tray level and safe. This time he didn't let up, but continued to quickly and lightly scratch all around my foot. He had been playing with me before, but now he was going for the kill. My eyes were blurred with tears of mirth, so I couldn't see the glass, but it had to be nearly empty. Or at least, I hoped it was, because there was no way I could stand much more of this.
I must have looked as if I was having a fit of the falling sickness, except I remained upright -- more or less. I was dimly aware of how loudly I was laughing, and I hoped -- prayed -- that Karl would come in and demand that we keep the noise down. I begged, I pleaded, I made wild promises, I did everything but drop the tray. The glasses on it slid back and forth like sailors on deck in a storm, but somehow none of them fell.
"One last flurry," he said, and in a flash Otho was kneeling at his side, his big hands on my foot. I started to scream and nearly dropped the tray, believing myself cheated, but it's difficult to put together a decent scream when you're laughing at the top of your voice, and my fingers were clamped so hard on the tray that I could scarcely pry them loose. Otho wasn't actually tickling me, I realized. He was only holding my foot steady so his employer could use both hands on me. Not that that was much of a relief, since it felt as if I was being tickled everywhere at once -- tops of the toes, curve of the arch, the sensitive skin around the Achilles tendon, and that even more ticklish place just at the bases of my toes. With Otho bending my toes back with one hand and holding my heel firmly with the other, there was no twitching away. I could do nothing but howl and pray for the end. The glasses rattled and clinked.
"Ah well," he said without much regret. "It seems you've won." And his and Otho's hands fell away from me.
I put the tray down quick and leaned against the edge of the table, my bare foot still tingling. I pushed my hands through my hair, wiping away sweat. The door to the private bar creaked open and Karl stuck his head in, then withdrew hastily when I glared at him.
"An enjoyable little contest," the merchant said. "You're a very talented young lady."
Despite myself, I had to grin. "And you're fair terrible with those fingers."
"Much practice. Would you like to try to double your winnings?" And damn me if he didn't put a second purse beside the one I'd just won, giving me a knowing smile as he did so.
"What do you want, the other foot?" I tried to sound coy, but already my greed was fighting with my good sense again. And winning. And he knew it.
"Oh no. Something more than that." And he explained. And I, stupid girl that I was, agreed.
I took a deep breath to steady myself and shed my blouse. Otho stared at me greedily, but the merchant himself only gave a faint smile. As directed, I sat down on his knees, facing him, my own legs spread. It made my skirt ride up, but modesty was something I had set aside long ago. I put my arms around his neck and stared deep into his eyes, willing my whole body not to cringe. The challenge was to keep from letting go of him. I kept my elbows close to my sides, for I did *not* want to feel those clever fingers finding their way up under my arms.
Maybe my feet were more sensitive, but he had a lot more of me to tickle now, and he was making the most of it. He teased me briefly, slipping light fingertips down my bare back, around my belly, and up my sides. After the foot-tickling I'd just endured, it didn't take much to get me giggly again. I was like a kettle left too long on the fire -- the least little extra heat set me boiling over with uncontrollable shaking and giggling, and I could tell he was aiming to melt me down entire. His smile broadened as his touch grew more insistent, but I barely saw it because my eyes were screwed up and I was laughing my fool head off.
He dug into my ribs, and I writhed wildly, but as long as my arms were locked around his neck, I couldn't get away from those unrelenting fingers. I pulled him toward me and collapsed against him, weak with laughter, with some vague idea of distracting him with my body. But the torturing rhythm continued unabated, and I shrieked and bounced back when he twisted a finger in my belly-button. I skidded back until I was sitting on the very edge of his knees, my arms completely stretched out, and his hands on my ribs still driving me mad. But suddenly they were gone, and just as suddenly each now-vulnerable underarm was filled with wriggling, tracing, intolerably tickling fingertips, exactly what I'd feared.
I clamped my elbows to my sides, screeching at him to stop, but it was no good. He kept on tickling, bringing me to the brink of hysteria with tiny little finger twitches, and the knowledge there was nothing I could do to get his fingers out of there was the most horrible part of the whole torment. I must have looked like a horse trying to shake off flies, hunching my shoulders and shivering and shuddering all over, but no horse ever laughed half so loud. "I think I've found a weakness on our lady," the merchant told Otho, ignoring my babbled pleas for mercy.
"Her feet are more ticklish," the lout commented.
"Oh, I don't know about that." He looked critically at me, but with vast amusement, as I yelped with nearly breathless laughter and twisted frantically in his lap. "I'd ask her opinion, but she doesn't seem too talkative at the moment. Why don't you see for yourself?"
The next thing I knew, Otho was kneeling beside his chair again, unlacing my other sandal. The merchant smoothed his hands down my quivering flanks, giving me a few rib squeezes to keep the pot boiling, as Otho drew off the sandal -- despite my best efforts to clamp my toes onto its cords. My sole tingled under their gaze as if phantom feathers were trailing across it.
"Oh, no," I said. "You wouldn't dare. That's cheating. You're just trying to bluff me again." I was still squirming even though no one was tickling me, both trying to anticipate what was coming and still feeling those damnable clever fingers on my sensitive spots.
"Dear girl," he said, "you should know this about bluffs .... eventually you have to back them up." Quick as a mouse, his hands skittered back under my arms -- at the same moment Otho started tickling my upturned foot.
The insane thing was that, even though he'd fouled the wager, I still kept trying to hold on to him. Instinct, I suppose. That lasted for all of five seconds, and then I had let go and was desperately trying to escape -- harder than you might think, with three hands tickling me all over.
I couldn't stand up because Otho had firm hold of my ankle, keeping my leg bent back as he trailed his fingertips with surprising (and tortuous) delicacy over the sole. My free foot pounded the floorboards uselessly. I slipped back on the merchant's lap, leaning back to get away from his tickling fingers, and found myself half-reclining against the edge of the table, without the strength to straighten up again as his hands roamed over me. I tried to grab his wrists, but tickle-dizzied and laughter-weakened, I could not grasp or hold him. I tried to cover myself, but it was no use -- there was always some exposed place I didn't even notice until his fingers found it and I exploded into helpless mirth again.
So what did I do, you may ask? I did the only thing possible: I gave up. I lay there, laughing like one demented, as they tickled me thoroughly from top to toe (especially toe). The hourglass was all but forgotten as they explored me endlessly. My body, which still somehow believed it could save itself, heaved and bucked, and my voice -- in those few intervals when I could speak -- still pleaded, but I knew it was all futile. When they finally withdrew from me, I swayed like a far-gone drunk in the merchant's lap. I felt absolutely boneless, as if I tried to stand up I'd just slump down the floor into a feebly giggling puddle. My entire body glowed with heat, and sweat rivered down me. It took me three tries to get enough wind together to say, "Cheaters."
"Alas, I regret having cheated," the merchant said, "but the sight of you when Otho first touched your feet is well worth losing the wager. Here, have this in exchange for my misbehavior." And he dropped a third purse next to the two I'd won. I made thanks in a hoarse voice, grabbed my blouse and sandals and the money, and ran back out into the public room without bothering to dress. If I stayed any longer in that room, he'd likely have made me a third offer, and I wasn't certain I could survive that...
***
"With the money in those three purses, I was able to buy a share in the place, and when old Karl died, I became the owner," our hostess finished her story. "I renamed it the Golden Feather in memory of how I'd earned it."
"Did you ever see the merchant again?" the quiet young woman asked.
"No, but the following spring Otho came back and proposed to me. I accepted ... on the condition that he never try to tickle me." Our hostess smiled reminiscently.
"And did he keep his part of the bargain?" The soldier winked knowingly.
Her only response was a soft smile, the beauty of her youth shining brightly through the years. "You'll pardon me, gentlefolk. I can't spend all day sitting about talking -- the kitchen needs seeing to." She rose and left the room gracefully, every eye on her.
"A fascinating story," the harper commented. "It so happens I have a tale that involves tickling as well -- "
"Why don't you save it for later?" I blurted. Everyone turned to me, the harpist in particular looking puzzled and angry. "I -- I mean, we have no idea how long we'll be trapped here. Before long, we'll run out of things to say. Perhaps if we were to ration our stories, taking it in turns to tell one each day -- "
"Fine suggestion, lad!" the summoner exclaimed. "Just like in that book, what's it called -- oh, never mind. I recall a good tale of my own that fits the theme our hostess has established ... "
"And I," the webster said, rubbing her chin.
"Yes," the forester muttered, almost but not quite smiling.
Agreement being general, we all returned to our separate pursuits, no doubt all anticipating the story to come on the morrow. I knew I was, at least.
NEXT: The Summoner's Tale, or The Last Guest.
