Amazon Ambassador

“This is an outrage! I am Lady Hisolda, the Ambassador from the court of Queen Penardun. You can’t do this to me!”

Adoria turned to look at her stockmate. The Lady Hisolda was tall and fair, with the long blond braid of an amazon warrior running down her back. But she also seemed to be as young as Adoria, a woman who had just entered adulthood. Adoria herself was short, with dark hair she kept in a pony-tail in emulation of the centaurs. Adoria thought that the centaurs appreciated this gesture, although they never mentioned it. But she still sat on a wide stool with Lady Hisolda on another stool beside her; both of them with their ankles locked in a common set of stocks, sandals and boots removed.

The older centaur answered Hisolda: “My lady, you will not be Ambassador until you formally present your credentials. Until then, you are a distinguished stranger, and so subject to law and custom like any other stranger in our Land. And even afterwards, you would still be a foreigner here.”

“But your chieftain of protocol said that I would be received as a friend,” Hisolda said.

“As a friendly stranger,” the older centaur corrected her. “And so you have been.”

“But... she can’t have meant this. Ask her!”

“Very well,” the centaur smiled, “I’ll go and ask her.” His smile grew broader. “Stay here.” He trotted off.

Adoria kept quiet through this. She had come to the stocks voluntarily, if not exactly willingly. But the centaurs practically had to drag Hisolda here, and when they put the two women into the stocks, they put Hisolda on the side away from the lock.

The stocks held the women’s ankles, but the centaurs had not yet fastened the women’s wrists. Attached to the heavy timbers behind the stocks was a fixed double-yoke, and the backs of the women’s necks rested in the yoke’s semi-circular neck openings. The smaller openings for the wrists were as yet unoccupied, however, and the leather wrist-straps still hung loose. The pin-lock keeping the stocks closed was in easy reach of Adoria’s hands. The younger centaur, Vanko, was fiddling with the sundial, some distance away. “Undo the latch and get us loose,” Hisolda whispered to Adoria.

“No, milady,” Adoria answered.

“But they’re going to torture us. They’ll burn our feet with hot irons and then heal us with their magic so that they can burn us again!”

“Can you read that, my lady?” Adoria pointed to the prominent sign written in the centaurs’ curlicue script: Alja Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor Kentaros yonvel morkap i patalos

“ ‘If the Kentaros should ever fail to visit merciless torment on foreigners who enter the Land, then will the Kentaros suffer betrayal and ruination.’ ” Hisolda read. “So what? Do you want to be tortured?”

“It’s the Prophesy. The one the gods sent to the centaurs.”

“The Prophesy of the Centaurs?” Hisolda asked. “But -“

“Anyway, they don’t use hot irons,” Adoria explained. “They tickle.”

“Tickle? I’d rather they did use hot irons.” Hisolda moaned.

“Don’t be silly, milady. The centaurs have a gift for healing, but they’re not that good. Anyway, you don’t want to turn out to be the Betrayer of the Centaurs, do you?”

“I’m not a spy. I’m an honorable ambassador.”

“Well, then, milady. This is your chance to prove it.”

“What about you?” Hisolda asked. “Are you looking forward to this?”

“It’s - not so bad. Especially once it’s over. Anyway, I’m not a spy either, and this is my chance to prove it.” Adoria saw the older centaur returning and quickly added: “Don’t cry and don’t beg, milady. They’ll respect you for that.”

“You’ve been through this before?”

“Several times.” Adoria was not about to admit that it had only been twice.

The older centaur came up to the two young women. “Well, my Lady Hisolda,” he said. “The Lady Nausica says that we are to treat you as a friendly stranger. We are to overlook your struggles in coming to this place. Once our council of chieftains receives you as the Ambassador from the Amazons, you will of course continue as a friendly stranger. You will be expected to return here each month. Without struggle.” he added. “Now, if you two will please raise your hands?”

Adoria raised her hands as instructed, followed a moment later by Hisolda. The two centaurs then fastened the wrist-straps, fixing two pairs of wrists into place on the double-yoke. Adoria shivered slightly. Now she couldn’t reach the latch to free herself even if she had wanted to. In an effort to distract herself, she spoke to the older centaur. “Excuse me,” she said. “I know your partner is Vanko son of Timon, but I don’t know your name?”

“Ho, I am Rodas son of Philipe,” came the answer. “And I know that you are Adoria, the niece of the merchant Zorian. My daughter Idalia has spoken much of him.”

Lady Hisolda twisted her hands in the yoke and tried to keep from squirming. It was so, so undignified to be locked here, next to this merchant’s daughter. She was the Lady Hisolda, of the Amazons. She could face battle. She could even grit her teeth and face hot irons and flayers. But this tickling was a baby-torture. It would humiliate her. It would make her writhe and scream just as if it were a real torture. But it wasn’t a real torture. Yet at the same time it was. She didn’t know how skilled the centaurs were at it; she didn’t know how bad it would be. So she shivered and feared the worst.

She tried her strength against the stocks and the yoke. Nothing. They didn’t even creak. They were heavily built, intended to hold warriors even stronger than she was. The centaurs knew how to keep human prisoners from escaping. She had learned that when they had tied her with ropes and led her to this place. She was learning that now in testing herself against the stocks. And she would soon learn it a third time when the tickling drove her into hysterics. Already the centaurs were moving to her feet.

The two centaurs poured water over their victim’s feet, and scrubbed them with stiff-bristled brushes. Adoria screwed up her face and whimpered while Hisolda squealed and jumped. Both women twisted their feet in futile efforts to avoid the brush-strokes. The centaurs allowed this to go on for a time, and then each grabbed two large toes with one hand while applying the brush with the other. Hisolda howled at this, and Adoria laughed helplessly with giggles spilling out of her like water from an overflowing cup.

Adoria knew that the foot-scrubbing was only a preliminary and not part of the real torment. But it still tickled. She tried to hold in her laughter, knowing that it would only tickle worse once her giggling started. She succeeded, mostly, until she felt Rodas grab both her large toes with one hand and apply an especially vigorous scrub with the other. That broke down her resistance. She tried not to think of the real tickling yet to come. It wasn’t hard. All her attention was on her bare feet, out of her sight and reach behind the stocks, and on the tickling they were receiving from the bristles of the scrub-brush.

Hisolda squirmed on her stool, and twisted her feet in an effort to avoid the worst of the brush-strokes. Certainly no one could blame her for trying to struggle while actually being tickled. Not that it seemed to do much good; the centaur Vanko knew his business. Worse, he was enjoying it, fiends take him! But as long as she could move her feet a little bit, it was still a battle, uneven though it might be, and she knew battles. As long as he didn’t think to... no! Hisolda felt her large toes grabbed. She could no longer fight; she could no longer do anything to protect her soles at all. She could only howl at her ticklish defeat.

Now there came a respite of sorts, as the centaurs applied a clever arrangement of wooden pegs and strips to hold the young women’s feet in place. Wooden strips across the toes keep the feet from curling forward, and wooden pegs between the toes kept the feet from twisting from side to side. This arrangement clamped the feet in place, and while it gave come protection to the toes, it left the rest of the soles exceptionally exposed and vulnerable. The centaurs took their time, getting the arrangement set up just right and also, not so coincidentally, letting the tension build in their two prisoners. Then they began to tickle: Rodas used his bare fingers on Adoria’s feet, combining long strokes with sudden random attacks. Vanko applied a vos-falcon feather with great gentleness to Hisolda’s soles, for the boot-wearing amazon’s feet were much more tender than those of the sandal-wearing Adoria. But despite this gentleness - or perhaps because of it - Hisolda laughed wildly until tears came.

Adoria saw the odd leather implement in Rodas’ hands and suppressed a groan. She knew what a bullfeather was: A demonically effective tickle-instrument invented by the centaurs. She had seen it - and felt it - before. She knew what it could do in the hands of an expert, and she feared that Rodas was an expert. She was right. Rodas did not rush, but worked slowly and methodically up the sole of Adoria’s right foot. He manipulated the bullfeather with the skill of long practice, seeking out the most ticklish spots as he ranged up from the heel to toward the toes. Then he repeated the process on Adoria’s left foot. Adoria could only laugh helplessly, as the expertly methodical tickling left her too weak to even squirm to the extent that her restraints allowed. Rodas kept up the bullfeather attack for some time, alternating between one foot and the other, as Adoria laughed until tears ran down her cheeks.

In the meantime, Vanko had abandoned the vos-hawk feather in favor of his fingers. But unlike Rodas, he had first dipped his fingers in oil. Now his fingertips skated slickly over Hisolda’s soles as she howled and screamed. Vanko recognized what was happening, and grinned. The amazon was thrashing, fighting desperately to keep from dissolving into helpless laughter. Hisolda’s feet were tender, but they weren’t as ticklish as they might be and Vanko wasn’t the expert with the bullfeather that Rodas was. Still, the younger centaur was confident that with a little work he could push Hisolda over the edge. He began to vary his tempo, and watched as Hisolda’s eyes widened and her struggles became more desperate. Just a little bit more, a little more, slow strokes and fast ones, and watch Hisolda’s face to judge your fingerflicks as she loses her fight not to giggle. Now apply all ten oil-slick fingers at once to a pair of oil-slick soles, and see his victim explode with laughter.

Adoria felt only mixed relief when she saw Rodas set aside the bullfeather. The Prophesy called for merciless torment, and the tickling couldn’t be over yet, no matter how much she might wish otherwise. She cursed herself for a fool: If she weren’t so greedy for the riches to be made trading with the centaurs, she wouldn’t be suffering this tickle-torture every month. Then she saw what the older centaur had picked up in place of the bullfeather. No! Not both a wooden spoon and the knobby roller. Either one would have been bad enough, but both of them together...! Then thought stopped as Rodas began to vigorously apply the two implements, the wooden roller in his left hand, and the spoon in his right. Laughter poured out of Adoria like wine from an amphora held upside down.

One part of Hisolda’s mind wanted to beg for the tickling to stop, if only she could catch her breath to speak. Another part insisted that she refuse to beg, mostly out of pride, but partly from fear that begging to stop would only bring her additional tickling. And, to her horror, a third small corner whispered that it did not want this tickling to stop. The vos-hawk feather had been an aching tickle, but this oily finger-tickle was pure and sweet. It was too sweet to endure. If Hisolda weren’t held helpless by the stocks and yoke, she would leap into the air and run all the way back to her home country like the goddess of speed, with her feet not ever touching the ground. But as it was, she could squirm and giggle and slowly go mad as the younger centaur continued tickling in a way that was at once both gentle and vigorous.

Vanko glanced aside at the sundial and saw that the shadow had reached the gnomon. “It’s time,” he said. The two centaurs stopped their tickling, although it took a few moments for their victims to realize this. At last, however, the giggling and laughter ran down, and the two young women gasped for breath. Rodas released the wrist straps and the foot restraints while Vanko offered dippers of water. Both Adoria and Hisolda drank greedily; tickle-torment is thirsty work. Then they sat back, seemingly too exhausted to move, their ankles still in the bottom half-circles of the opened stocks.

The silence grew, until Rodas finally said “You’re free to go - unless you’d like a second session right now?” At that, Adoria and Hisolda squealed and dove for their footgear.