Late Penalty

“Your pass tokens expired yesterday.”

Zorian the merchant sighed in resignation. “I was hoping you’d overlook that.” He had to look up at the border guard. Timon, the guard, was slightly taller than average for a centaur. Zorian, on the other hand, was a human – a “flatfooter” – and of only average human height.

“You’re a good man, Zorian, and if it were something with the export tallies I would overlook it. But not this. Not something touching on the Prophesy.”

“Truth be told, I wouldn’t either if I were in...if I were in your position.” Zorian grinned wryly. “Forget I asked. When the gods send a prophesy...” He made a sign to ward off ill fortune, and Timon followed suit. “Can I first pay off my porters?”

“Aye, you can do that.”

The porters (all centaurs) were stacking bails of hides and kegs of dried meat in an enclosure just outside the centaurs’ Land’s borders, where human teamsters could load them without entering the Land. They gathered around as Zorian paid silver from his purse and Timon watched over Zorian’s shoulder.

“Stop snickering, Cora.” he told a young female as he handed her her silver.

“I am not snickering. Well, some.” she snickered. “You were always so careful in counting out the days, like a miser counting out his silver. And now you’re caught, a day late. But look at the bright side.” she said in answer to Zorian’s rueful shrug. “Now you’ll have time to come visit Naranos.”

“If I’d planned this ahead of time, I would. But I’ve already made other arrangements, and I have to see this cargo off. Maybe next season.”

The silver paid, the centaur porters scattered to finish their work. At this point, a young fool might have dashed off in an attempt to escape. Zorian didn’t even consider it. Timon, behind him, could not only run much faster than any human, but also had uncanny skill with the bola at his side. Zorian wouldn’t have made ten steps before Timon brought him down. Besides, Zorian had put a lot of time into developing good relations with the centaurs. He had already made a small fortune trading with them, and looked to make a larger one in the future. And on top of it all, Zorian liked the centaurs. He wouldn’t care to be the one who fulfilled the Prophesy and brought ruin on them.

“Well, now. ‘You know the drill.’” Timon said. “I believe that’s the expression you flatfooters use.”

“It’s a soldier’s expression, and I was never a soldier. But yes, I know the drill.” Zorian pulled off his boots, dropped his belt knife beside them, and stood with his bare feet cringing in the grass. “‘I surrender myself to the law and custom of the Kentaros.’” he said formally. He let Timon tie him, hand and foot, and carry him off to the stocks.

Zorian had been in the centaur’s stocks many times before, most recently a month ago when his pass tokens had been up for renewal. Of course they were not built to hold centaurs, but rather to hold foreigners – “flatfooters” – humans such as himself. The stocks currently holding Zorian were made of the usual polished wood and designed to hold a single captive. They had a short bench with a post behind it (with Zorian’s hands bound behind the post) and a hinged board with two ankle-holes, held together by a simple but effective pin lock.

From where he sat Zorian could see three or four other stocks of different designs, and he knew, from experience, that yet other designs existed elsewhere in the centaurs’ Land. Some, like his, were designed for a single captive. Others could hold two, three, or even four prisoners. A few were designed to hold captives in a kneeling or prone position. Some had posts behind which the prisoners’ hands could be tied – much as Zorian was currently bound. Others held wrists in the same stock-board as held the ankles. Yet others held neck and wrists in a yoke, or in a device Zorian had heard called a “Harridan’s Fiddle” or held the wrists in separate stocks that were part of the bench itself. But all were designed to hold the captive’s soles naked, vulnerable, and accessible.

In addition to the stocks, Zorian could also see a sundial and the large sign on which was written the Prophesy. “Alja Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor Kentaros yonvel morkap i patalos.“ it said in the curlicue script that the centaurs used: “If the Kentaros should ever fail to visit merciless torment on foreigners who enter the Land, then will the Kentaros suffer betrayal and ruination.”

And now here came his tormentress. Gods and goddesses! It was Idalia. She knew him. Worse, she knew his weaknesses. Why couldn’t it be someone new and less experienced? But then (Zorian was honest with himself) if it had been a new young filly out to prove herself, he would have been wishing for someone familiar, like Idalia. Well, there was nothing to do but endure.

“Why, Zorian! I thought you were going to leave without seeing me again.”

“His pass tokens expired yesterday.” Timon put in as he headed back to his guard-post. “He was leaving today, but first he has to renew his tokens and pay the late penalty.”

“You were late? But you’re always so careful counting out the days, like a miser counting out silver.”

“Do you know, Cora told me the same thing.”

“Well, you miscounted this time.” Idalia adjusted a gnomen on the sundial. “And a late penalty too. Tsk.” She picked up a bucket and returned to Zorian. “Water?”

Zorian drank from the dipper she offered. She then poured the rest of the water over his feet, grabbed a brush, and began to scrub.

Zorian howled. He could not help it; it tickled! Idalia raised an eyebrow at him. She did not need to ask questions or make any comment. She knew that he was already suffering, although this was only a preliminary and not even the start of the tickle-torment he had to go through.

After a short eternity, the scrubbing ended. Zorian whimpered as Idalia tied his great toes back with a leather thong. He promised himself, as he always did at this time, that once this was over he would leave the centaur’s Land and never ever return. Then the real tickle-torment began.

Idalia began by lightly flicking her fingers over his soles, testing instep, ball, and heel, searching for the spots that were the most tender that day. Zorian squirmed on the bench and screwed his face in a grimace. This was not like the scrub-brush, where laughter brought relief. No, with this tickling letting his laughter escape would only double and redouble his sensitivity, making the torment that much worse. Zorian whimpered and scrunched his feet as much as he could – which was not very much. But despite his efforts, giggles began to escape. Idalia maintained her assault; one hand keeping up a steady tempo of tickling strokes while the other made sudden surprise attacks. Soon the giggles bubbled out continuously.

After a time, Idalia switched from fingers to a feather. It was a wing feather from the vos-falcon, a feather simultaneously stiff and soft. In expert hands it was the most effective tickling feather known to man or centaur, and Idalia was an expert. Zorian’s thrashings grew more frantic and his laughter grew louder as Idalia used the feather to administer a sharper-edged tickle than was possible for fingers. She brushed its edge up and down his instep. She held his toes back with one hand and used the tip to tweak between them. She made sudden reversals and scribed on his soles with the quill as Zorian began to melt.

A wooden spoon came out to replace the feather. Not a rounded cooking spoon, but one carved thin of fine hardwood, with an edge that could scrape, and did. Idalia tapped and scraped vigorously. First one sole – then the other. Horizontal, vertical, and diagonal she scraped. Soon she had Zorian’s feet bright red and burning hot, and Zorian himself completely melted.

Idalia let Zorian rest for a bit, gasping for breath with tears running down his face. Then after he had caught his breath but before his feet could cool, she brought out an instrument that he had never encountered before, a wooden roller studded with small carved knobs. It was a stupid-looking thing, but it had an effect out of proportion to its appearance. Zorian thought he had suffered tickling before, but now he howled as Idalia applied the roller. Each knob seemed to pick out a separate nerve and to pluck it like string on a lyre. He began to thrash again, desperate to escape. But the stocks held him perfectly helpless.

Now Idalia poured more water and began to slide a river-slicked pebble over Zorian’s wet soles. The water felt icy cold on his inflamed feet, and the pebble-tickle would have had him screaming if Idalia had applied it earlier. But Zorian was tiring. He could only squirm and giggle weakly. Seeing this, Idalia put the pebble aside for the final measure: A rectangle of soft, fine silk. This she ran between Zorian’s toes. Zorian squealed. He could no longer thrash, or even squirm. He could only stiffen and squeak, eyes wide, each time that length of silk made its caress of the tender spaces between his toes.

Finally, it was over. The shadow on the sundial had reached the marker-gnomen, and Idalia stopped her tickling. She untied Zorian’s hands and undid the latch on the stocks, releasing his feet. But Zorian was too weak to stand. He sat on the bench, legs drawn up, and Idalia waited patiently for him to recover. After several minutes, Timon came. “I brought your boots,” he said.

Zorian managed to pull his boots on, and then managed to stand, smiling weakly. Idalia gave him his new pass tokens, and then hugged him. “Now don’t be a stranger, Zorian.” she told him.

As Zorian walked shakily toward the border-post, he mused on how the centaurs held no grudge. And neither did he, really. It didn’t seem so bad, once it was over. It never did.

Many other humans, Zorian knew, would have held a grudge after such a merciless and humiliating torment. But they wouldn’t have been able to earn such fortunes as he had from trading with the centaurs. And there were more fortunes yet to be made. Zorian knew that he would return to the centaur’s Land, despite the threat – or rather the certainty – of facing more tickle torment when he did.