The poet nodded acceptance, never stooping to touch one coin.
Feather-Tongue began a third tale.
He broke into song and then slid into an epic poem, which ended upon three quintets of limericks that raised so much laughter, even Avarice smirked twice.
Feather-Tongue fell silent and waited.
Avarice shook off the disquieting touch of long-forgotten mirth. He leaned forward, ready to claim that he was not yet satisfied. But the way the crowd cheered, stamped, and slapped stone made him hesitate. A few even tossed out a coin or two they could hardly have spared.
Being seen as an ingrate would not work for Avarice, but he had no leverage as yet, seeing that this vagabond was still indifferent to proper wealth. And he too wanted more tales—and more debts to collect. He held up the smallest of his purses with a sum slightly more than the last payment. When the poet nodded acceptance, he tossed it out.
Feather-Tongue began his fourth tale.
Throughout the morning and afternoon, the ritual of purchase repeated. With each song, history, poem, or legend, the poet grew tired a bit earlier than the last, saying he could tell no more this day.
The crowd's adoration had grown, as had Avarice's frustration.
Each time the poet paused, Avarice increased his offers, bit by grudging bit, until the next telling commenced. The false thänæ's servants, indentured for debts, were sent under mercenary guard to fetch more coin and even gems from his hoard. The people were puzzled, but Avarice knew that they were too ignorant and poor to calculate what he could.
By custom and tradition, only the recipient could first touch any payment.
Without servants, companions, or pack animals, the poet would be forced to leave the bulk of his gained wealth behind. The amount had already grown too large and heavy to handle alone. And once Avarice had exhausted all tales, he would rejoice in how little the poet could carry away. Any remainder not retrieved first by the poet himself would be forfeit.
When dusk came, Feather-Tongue halted midtale.
A rumble of discontent rose in the amphitheater, but he shook his head, claiming he was too tired, famished, and parched. Before Avarice cried foul, Feather-Tongue reassured all. He would return the following day to finish—but not before.
At that, the false thänæ relented, but he made sure of his purchase. Mercenary guards were posted outside the greeting house where the poet was lodged for the night.
In the morning, Feather-Tongue began again—and for seven days more.
Along the way, he often told of faraway places, events unheard-of, and ancestors long forgotten in this seatt, all glorious in wonder and some fearfully dark, so that awe filled the people's expressions, and sometimes mixed with longing.
Each dusk, he ended midstory, midsong, or in a jarring stop at the most poignant beat in a poem. Each dawn, all hurried to the amphitheater, only to find Avarice already waiting as the poet arrived under guard.
Not once did the poet touch coin or gem heaped upon the old stone floor. Not by a toe, let alone a finger. He could have, for any smaller part had been fairly gained in barter for what he had given so far. The piles had grown so large that even one would be unmanageable to carry off.
On the ninth day, Feather-Tongue finished his last tale.
When the crowd cried for more, amid shouts of praise, he only shook his head, and they slowly grew silent. He announced that he had told all that he possessed and there was nothing more he could offer.
Avarice began to laugh.
It was a rude, disquieting noise that carried everywhere in the silence. He claimed again that he was not satisfied for his last purchase. A wave of resentful leers spread through the crowd. Some even braved curses under their breath.
Feather-Tongue bowed politely, offering to gladly return the last and final payment.
Avarice smiled at this.
He sent out a servant to gather three pouches' worth of gold and gems. It was only what he had paid the final time. He need not try to take anything more. A hundred-fold still remained that could never be carried away by the poet.
Shouts rose from the crowd, some in pleas that the poet might have just one more telling in him. But others shouted at Avarice that the barter was complete, now that the one final payment had been returned.
Avarice grew nervous. He had no choice by law and custom, and he waved off his guards. He had finally gotten everything this vagabond possessed, and the poet was free to go.
Feather-Tongue returned a final bow—but not to Avarice.
He faced each of the eight directions, offering his humble thanks to the people, and then turned to leave. He was halfway to the northern tunnel running under the stands when a crackling voice called out.
Avarice alone stood up among the elders.
All stared dumbfounded at the great treasure littering the amphitheater's floor. Avarice asked why the poet had not taken his payment.
Feather-Tongue only shook his head.
Avarice grew gleeful. This fool now would not carry away even a meager part of the payment. Not only had Avarice gained all the tales of this idiot, but his wealth was left for him to reclaim.
Feather-Tongue turned about.
"I do accept your payment, and so it is mine," he said. "But I will touch none of it … and until I do, neither shall any other. That is the law of barter … even for purchases."
Avarice went cold with uncertainty.
Feather-Tongue's gaze passed over the elders and then around the masses gathered upon the amphitheater's stone steps and stands.
"But I offer this, by my oath, and witnessed by all," he added, and then pointed to Avarice. "Whoever gains any true barter with that one … may take an equal measure of what I leave here."
Avarice's old heart hammered in panic. His gaze raced feverishly over the wealth he had paid, mixed with the paltry offers of others.
"But only in honorable barter," Feather-Tongue repeated, still pointing to Avarice. "For those who give or take only coin with that one … shall have none of mine by fair trade."
Avarice looked about, and all eyes were on him.
He had no skills left, nor goods to spare, with which to barter in the old ways. Even trickery could not regain his payment, for he could not barter with himself in order to share in what the poet offered to all others. He could not even risk thievery, for his wealth was laid out before the eyes of the whole seatt.
Feather-Tongue retrieved his staff and pack from one astonished guard staring at the glittering mounds. He walked away from that unhappy, fallen place. It is said that no one of that forgotten seatt ever touched a single coin or gem of the poet's wealth.
Bartering with Avarice was impossible. He had nothing to offer by way of goods or services.
Perhaps the false thänæ visited his lost wealth each day, gazing at it piled up in plain sight. Certainly someone else would always come, watching him, and he dared not steal a single coin.