Chapter 12: An Awkward Affair

At the stroke of eight on the morning of the eleventh, Dias, with a precision born of necessity, ingested his dose of the transformative medicine. His ‘male obligation’ for the day, a duty that stretched like a shadow before him, was not scheduled to conclude until the sun began its descent around the fifteenth hour. He needed every precious moment the potion could grant.

For this day’s perilous excursion into the city’s underbelly, Corneille, ever vigilant, had selected three more of his most trusted and battle-hardened retainers to bolster Dias’s protection. These were men forged in the crucible of a hundred skirmishes, warriors with whom he had shared the blood and grime of the great mercenary companies – men to whom Corneille could, without a moment’s hesitation, entrust his very life.

Polly, the Canid Guardian Officer, expressed her grim satisfaction with this augmented security. She, too, was acutely aware of the simmering cauldron of instability that was the Istapa district. If any harm, however slight, were to befall the young Duke under her watch, her own nascent career would be not merely tarnished, but utterly and irrevocably extinguished.

The carriage company, with a deference befitting their ducal passengers, had prepared a dedicated, sturdy vehicle. Polly, her crimson eyes missing no detail, was meticulously inspecting its every rivet and strap when the air behind her suddenly shimmered, coalescing into the tell-tale, azure flare of teleportation magic.

Instinct, honed by generations of predatory ancestors, screamed. Polly whirled, her hand a blur as it flew to the hilt of her sword. Before the keen steel could sing its song of warning from its scabbard, however, Corneille’s hand, strong and unyielding as iron, clamped down upon hers, firmly, almost contemptuously, pushing the half-drawn blade back into its sheath.

"Oh, my, my," a voice, light and musical as wind chimes, chuckled from the epicenter of the fading magical glow. Anne de Longueville materialized, her eyes sparkling with an almost feline amusement. "Have I, perhaps, stumbled upon a… particularly tender moment between you two?"

Polly wrenched her hand free from Corneille’s grasp, her fur bristling with indignation. "An explanation is demanded! By what right do you manifest yourself here, witch?"

"My family, as it happens, is hosting a small charitable event in the Istapa district this very day," Anne replied, her voice as smooth and unruffled as a tranquil pond. "And, recalling that Monsieur de Toledo was also bound for that rather… colorful… area, I thought it would be most agreeable, and indeed, most efficient, for us to travel together. And, of course," she added, her smile a masterpiece of charming innocence, "to avail myself of your… undoubtedly excellent… security arrangements."

Polly scoffed, her lip curling in a very Canid-like sneer. "Does the great and powerful House of Longueville, undisputed masters of the 'Devil' domain, now find itself so tragically impoverished that it cannot even afford to hire its own contingent of guards?"

Anne’s composure remained utterly unbreached. "We have guards, naturally. A considerable number, in fact. But not many, alas, are possessed of the… particular sensibilities… required for this delicate endeavor. And it would be, shall we say, rather… unseemly… for them to remain too conspicuously close to my person. It would, I fear, create an unfortunate sense of distance, of alienation, with the local populace. And half the noble purpose of a charitable act, as I am sure you appreciate, would be thereby tragically wasted."

"I appreciate your… candor, Mademoiselle," Polly retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "though I must confess, I find your shamelessness rather less commendable." With a final, contemptuous flick of her expressive tail, she turned away to attend to her own duties.

Anne, seemingly oblivious to the Canid’s disdain, offered a warm greeting to Dias and Corneille. Today, she was clad in a gown of simple, almost severe, pale cyan, her lustrous dark hair demurely covered by a plain headscarf, in the manner of an older, more matronly, woman. Her face was entirely devoid of cosmetics, her overall appearance one of deliberate, almost studied, plainness.

Dias, his curiosity overcoming his natural reticence, ventured a question. "Mademoiselle Longueville, you and Mademoiselle Polly… there seems to be some… friction?"

Anne’s smile was tinged with a faint, almost melancholic, amusement. "That …spirited little pup’s… true, unwavering allegiance lies with the ancient and noble Elven royalty. And our family, as fate and fortune would have it, built a significant portion of its considerable wealth upon the… rather less noble… foundations of the Elven slave trade. The fact that she did not immediately, and with extreme prejudice, attempt to tear out my throat upon sight, but instead, with a commendable, if somewhat grudging, professionalism, prioritized her sworn duties as a Guardian Officer for men… well, it speaks volumes, does it not, of her dedication to her appointed role? It is, in its own way, quite admirable."

"She is no match for you, Mademoiselle," Corneille stated, his voice flat and devoid of inflection. "Not attacking was, undoubtedly, the correct, and indeed, the only rational choice."

"Choose your words with a measure of care, Monsieur Corneille," Anne cautioned, though a playful, almost mischievous, glint danced in her eyes. "The Canid folk, as you may or may not be aware, are blessed with exceptionally, almost preternaturally, keen ears." She then turned her warm, reassuring gaze upon Dias. "I do sincerely hope, Monsieur de Toledo, that you will not allow this… ancient and rather unfortunate… history to color your perception of me."

Dias managed a small, awkward smile. The Toledo family’s own ascent to prominence, he knew all too well, was hardly a tale of unblemished virtue, of noble deeds and chivalrous sacrifice. They had amassed their vast wealth and their coveted ducal title by faithfully, and often brutally, following the blood-soaked banner of the Trastámara dynasty in countless, merciless campaigns, engaging in widespread, systematic pillaging and slaughter across a dozen subjugated provinces. Their origins, when viewed in the harsh, unforgiving light of historical truth, were scarcely cleaner, scarcely less stained with blood and tears, than those of the notorious House of Longueville.

As the heavy carriage rumbled onward, its iron-shod wheels grinding against the uneven cobblestones, the very scenery beyond its small, curtained windows seemed to undergo a stark, almost brutal, transformation. They journeyed from a veritable "paradise" of manicured lawns and stately mansions into something that more closely resembled the grim, smoke-choked "infernal regions" of some forgotten, fire-and-brimstone sermon. The best of times and the worst of times, it seemed, coexisted, albeit in a state of carefully enforced, and deeply unequal, segregation, within the sprawling, paradoxical city of Merida. The city itself possessed no physical walls, no stone ramparts to divide its disparate districts. Yet, every soul within its invisible boundaries knew, with an unspoken, bone-deep certainty, that poverty, like some loathsome, contagious plague, was effectively, and ruthlessly, quarantined from the sunlit uplands of affluence. The Polanco district, the privileged enclave where Dias and Corneille resided, boasted clean, wide avenues, shaded by ancient, gracefully arching trees, its public spaces adorned with aesthetically pleasing, meticulously tended landscaping. Its residences were elegant, well-maintained testaments to wealth and good taste, and its streets were patrolled by a reliable, and reassuringly numerous, security force. Once they ventured beyond the invisible, yet all-too-real, borders of Polanco, however, these pleasant, life-affirming amenities were gradually, almost systematically, stripped away. By the time their carriage finally clattered to a halt within the grim, oppressive confines of the Istapa district, it was as if they had entered another world entirely: a world of filth, of chaos, of a deafening, soul-crushing cacophony of human misery.

Before a dilapidated, multi-storied tenement building, its crumbling facade a testament to generations of neglect and despair, the proud, imposing banner of the "Chariot" domain – a stylized depiction of a war chariot pulled by a pair of snorting, fire-breathing destriers – had been defiantly, almost provocatively, erected. Soldiers, clad in the domain’s distinctive, if somewhat ill-fitting, uniforms, had established a crude, makeshift checkpoint, their expressions a mixture of boredom and barely suppressed aggression as they cursorily inspected the trickle of pedestrians and the occasional passing vehicle.

Anne, her voice a low, informative murmur, explained, "The 'Chariot' domain, in theory at least, comprises the bulk of Waite’s conventional military forces. They are, on paper, equivalent to the Federation’s own National Defense Army. However," a faint, almost contemptuous, smile touched her lips, "this is merely their… theoretical… status. The most powerful, most truly formidable witches all pledge their direct, unswerving allegiance to the Rex Nemorensis of their respective, and often fiercely rival, domains. The forces of the 'Chariot' domain, I fear, lack true, decisive combat strength; their authority, such as it is, serves largely as a… somewhat unconvincing… deterrent against the ordinary, non-magical populace."

"Less effective, I’d wager, than the ill-equipped tribal levies from my own homeland," Polly muttered under her breath, her crimson eyes narrowed in disdain.

Seeing that Anne was, once again, on the verge of "teasing the pup," as she privately, and rather condescendingly, thought of it, Corneille quickly, and smoothly, interjected, his voice a calm, authoritative baritone. "Speaking of which, there is a rather… awkward, and indeed, somewhat embarrassing, affair concerning that very matter. After the formal annexation of Waite, the Federation, in its initial, and perhaps overly optimistic, planning, had intended to dispatch a substantial standing army to this new territory, with a projected recruitment target of at least two thousand able-bodied male soldiers. In grim reality," a shadow of something unreadable flickered in his eyes, "they managed to recruit only half that number. And of those unfortunate souls, a mere five hundred actually completed the rigorous training regimen. The Ministry of Defense, in its wisdom, then wished to draw the necessary personnel from existing, active military units. But the generals of the National Defense Army, in a rare display of unified defiance, collectively, and most vociferously, refused. After a tense, and increasingly acrimonious, standoff that lasted the better part of a full month, a grudging compromise was eventually reached: the Waite garrison would be supplemented to a nominal strength of one thousand men. Simultaneously, the Federation’s beleaguered Ministry of Defense was forced into a series of… uncomfortable… negotiations with the Ministry of Justice, which resulted in the forcible conscription of seven hundred male convicts into the ranks of the army. They then, in a final, desperate measure, recruited another three hundred male military dependents – cooks, farriers, and other assorted camp followers – barely managing, by these rather unorthodox means, to scrape together the required complement of two thousand men to dispatch to this ‘challenging’ new posting."

"The result of this ill-conceived deployment," Corneille concluded, his voice laced with a dry irony, "was, to put it mildly, catastrophic. Within a mere three years, the vast majority of the garrison troops had either been ‘lured away’ from their sworn military service by the… undeniable charms… of the local populace, or had been… unceremoniously plundered… by roving bands of well-organized criminals. Aside from… rather significantly… supplementing Waite’s dwindling male population, they served absolutely no other discernible military or strategic purpose. This entire debacle, as you can imagine, was a source of considerable, and deeply public, embarrassment for the Federation government. And it has, not surprisingly, made men from other, more… temperate regions of the Federation exceedingly, and perhaps wisely, reluctant to venture anywhere near the unique… and often ‘perilous’ Waite."

Anne covered her mouth with a delicate, lace-gloved hand, a genuine laugh, bright and musical, twinkling in her eyes. "And, by the most… amusing… of 'coincidences,' Monsieur Corneille, most of these… unfortunate… Federation men eventually, and perhaps inevitably, found their way to this very Istapa district, the one we are, at this moment, about to enter. Where, I am reliably informed, they were… generously distributed… as 'rewards' for particularly diligent, and presumably fertile, female workers."

The pieces of the puzzle, with a sickening lurch, finally clicked into place in Dias’s mind. "So," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, "from the very beginning… the entire annexation… it was all…"

"Indeed," Corneille confirmed, his voice grim. "The underlying, unspoken intent was always, and primarily, to supplement Waite’s alarmingly depleted male population. But no one, not even the most audacious of witches, dared to implement such a… sensitive… and potentially explosive… plan openly. So, they resorted to subterfuge, to misdirection, to the creation of a deliberately, and masterfully, muddled account of affairs."

The carriage, with a final, jarring lurch, shuddered to a halt. A uniformed soldier, her face hard and impassive, approached, announcing her unit as the First Company, Second Battalion, Merida Brigade of the Civic Security Militia. She then, with a distinct lack of courtesy, requested – nay, demanded – that the occupants of the ducal carriage submit to an immediate inspection.

Corneille, his gaze sweeping, assessing, observed that, like most other public-facing, and indeed, most other professions in Waite, the Civic Security Militia was composed entirely of women. Furthermore, he noted with a growing sense of unease, at least within this particular First Company of the Second Battalion, there existed a stark, almost shocking, polarization. The officers, and their loyal personal guards, were impeccably, almost ostentatiously, well-equipped, their armor gleaming, their weapons keen and well-maintained. Their spirits, too, seemed high, their bearing confident, almost arrogant. And he could sense, with his warrior’s intuition, subtle, yet undeniable, energy fluctuations emanating from them, suggesting they either possessed inherent magical abilities or wielded potent, enchanted items. The vast majority of the remaining militia soldiers, however, presented a stark, and rather pathetic, contrast. They were ordinary, non-magical women, poorly equipped with mismatched, often damaged, gear, their morale visibly, almost palpably, low, their movements sluggish, their eyes dull and devoid of any spark of martial pride. They were, it was clear, entirely devoid of any discernible energy fluctuations. They were being driven to their assigned tasks, like so much unwilling livestock, by the imperious officers and their favored guards, a clear, and rather depressing, illustration of that peculiar Waite "virtue": the less capable one was, the greater, and more onerous, their responsibilities.

Polly, with a sigh of weary resignation, alighted from the carriage, presenting her official credentials to a sullen-faced militia soldier for inspection. Upon confirmation of her identity, the militia officer and her attendant soldiers immediately, and with a surprising alacrity, snapped to attention, offering a crisp, if somewhat grudging, salute. A Male Guardian Officer, Corneille knew, held a rank roughly equivalent to that of a major within the hierarchy of the Civic Security Militia. And the Men's Administration Bureau, the source of Polly’s authority, was one of the two most powerful, and most feared, departments in all of Waite. Who, indeed, would dare to show disrespect?

"What," Polly inquired, her voice sharp and authoritative, "is the meaning of this disruption? What transpires here?"

The officer, her face a mask of strained deference, replied, "It is thus, honored Guardian Officer. Today, as you may be aware, four separate, and potentially… volatile… events are scheduled to occur simultaneously within the confines of the Istapa district: The officially designated male obligation activities, as mandated by the Men's Administration Bureau; a large-scale work-for-relief and free medical aid program, organized and administered by the welfare foundation of the Holy Fool Church; a significant material donation and public relations event, hosted by the House of Longueville; and, perhaps most critically, ongoing, and reportedly rather tense, negotiation talks between the newly formed Istapa District Rights Committee and a specially appointed high commissioner from the Waite Preservation Bureau. My unit, along with several others, has been ordered to this district to coordinate with friendly forces deployed from five other strategic directions. Our joint, and primary, objective is to maintain order within the Istapa district, and, of course, to serve and protect the many esteemed personages who are gracing this… humble… area with their presence today."

The officer’s voice, clearly accustomed to barking orders across a noisy battlefield, was loud, and those seated within the relative quiet of the carriage heard every word with perfect clarity. Dias, his brow furrowed, asked, "The Holy Fool Church?"

"The Holy Fool Church," Anne explained, her voice a low, informative murmur, "is the central, and most influential, organization within the 'Fool' domain. Their extensive welfare foundation has, for many generations, been deeply embedded within those urban communities with high concentrations of low-income, often destitute, residents. They provide a wide range of essential services, including affordable medical care, subsidized elderly care, and much-needed childcare facilities. They also, from time to time, organize large-scale work-for-relief programs, such as this one, or distribute emergency supplies during times of crisis."

"They sound like… truly good and virtuous people," Dias observed, a note of admiration in his voice.

Corneille shook his head, "They are undoubtedly kind-hearted, in their own fashion, certainly. But there is also, let us not forget, a significant element of… calculated image rehabilitation… in all their public endeavors. The intelligence I have gathered, from a variety of reliable, if somewhat unsavory, sources, indicates that the witches of the 'Fool' domain committed a most grievous, and widely condemned, crime in the year 999 of the Old Calendar. An act so heinous, so unforgivable, that their public image plummeted into the very abyss of infamy. To this very day, Waite society, as a whole, continues to hold a profoundly, and perhaps justifiably, negative perception of them."

Under the watchful escort and somewhat grudging guidance of the Civic Security Militia, the ducal carriage proceeded slowly, and with considerable difficulty, into the labyrinthine, refuse-strewn depths of the Istapa district. They headed first west, then veered sharply north, finally lurching to a halt in a large, barren, open area on the northernmost fringe of the sprawling slum.

One by one, heavy, rough-hewn wooden components were being laboriously unloaded from a train of dilapidated cargo wagons by a crew of sweating, straining laborers. Under the subtle, yet undeniable, influence of unseen magical forces, these disparate components then began to move, to shift, to rise and connect, assembling themselves, with an almost eerie precision, into a series of small, identical wooden cabins. Soldiers of the Civic Security Militia, their expressions a mixture of boredom and disdain, then began to deliver basic furniture, meager rations of food, and casks of brackish drinking water to each of the newly erected cabins. Nearby, a group of stern-faced officials from the Men's Administration Bureau, their ledgers open, their quills scratching, were meticulously verifying the identities of the assembled Guardian Officers and cross-referencing the official list of men present to fulfill their… "male obligations."

Dias was assigned to cabin number 41. He sat inside for a few uncomfortable, disquieting moments, the rough wooden bench hard beneath him, then, unable to bear the oppressive stillness, emerged to observe the chaotic, yet strangely purposeful, scene unfolding around him.

Corneille, his face a mask of grim vigilance, instructed his three most trusted retainers to remain by Dias’s side at all times, to guard him with their very lives, ensuring that at least one of them accompanied him even on the most… private… of necessary excursions, such as a visit to the crude, open-air latrine. He himself, meanwhile, began to systematically, almost instinctively, memorize the surrounding terrain, his keen warrior’s eyes assessing the potential strengths and weaknesses of every individual present, his mind constantly, almost obsessively, evaluating the ever-shifting, and undeniably precarious, overall security situation.

Polly, after a brief, animated conversation with a group of her fellow Canid Guardian Officers, returned to Corneille’s side, her expressive tail twitching with a nervous energy. "Everyone," she reported, her voice a low growl, "is deeply, and vocally, concerned about the ongoing negotiations between the Rights Committee and the Preservation Bureau."

"And what specific rights," Corneille inquired, his gaze sweeping the restless crowd, "are these… women… seeking to secure for themselves?"

"No, Monsieur Corneille," Anne’s voice, cool and melodious, sounded suddenly from just above his head, as if she had materialized from the very air itself. "You misunderstand. It is not 'these women.' It is, in fact, 'these men.' And its dramatic prelude, the event that precipitated this current crisis, was a general, and surprisingly well-organized, strike by the female workers of this very Istapa district – a strike, I might add, that was entirely orchestrated, and indeed, led, by the men of Istapa."