Chapter 13: The Performance

Polly’s crimson eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, her displeasure a palpable wave directed at the newcomer. "You linger still?"

Anne de Longueville descended from the rooftop not with a mundane leap, but in a shower of roseate flame. The fire coalesced beneath her feet, forming a cushion as soft and yielding as spun sugar, cradling her descent until she landed with the silent grace of a hunting cat. The flames, a manifestation of her will, licked harmlessly at Anne herself, yet their residual heat, an invisible caress, was enough to crisp the outermost strands of the Canid officer’s dark fur, causing them to curl into tight, scorched spirals. Polly, her attention fixed on the audacious witch, remained blissfully, or perhaps ominously, unaware of this minor arson committed upon her person.

Corneille, a bulwark of stoic calm, stepped smoothly between the two women. His very presence was a silent, unyielding command that quelled Anne’s burgeoning mischief before it could fully ignite, and before Polly could discover the singed state of her fur.

"Monsieur Corneille, Monsieur de Toledo," Anne said, her voice as smooth as honeyed wine, "I find myself in need of a small favor."

"There is no need for such elaborate formality, Mademoiselle. What service can I render?" Corneille inquired, his tone carefully neutral.

Anne’s gaze, bright and appraising, shifted to Dias. "Monsieur de Toledo, might I prevail upon your generosity to… borrow… your esteemed Monsieur Corneille? To enter into a temporary, one-time contract with me?"

A silent, questioning look was Dias’s only immediate reply.

Anne then, with a charming air of earnest candor, began to explain the rather complex circumstances. Since Waite’s somewhat reluctant integration into the Federation, she elaborated, commercial interactions between the reclusive matriarchy and the other, more conventional, Federation regions had steadily, if cautiously, increased. Enterprising Federation businesses, their appetites whetted by the alluring prospect of Waite's remarkably low labor costs, had eagerly sought to establish factories within its borders. The witches, fiercely protective of their autonomy, had initially rejected this proposal outright. The eventual compromise, hammered out after much animated negotiation, was that Federation enterprises would provide essential technical guidance and expertise, assisting the witches in the construction of modern factories and the training of a skilled workforce. In return, the witches of Waite pledged to fulfill subcontracted orders from the Federation, ensuring both impeccable quality and timely delivery, all at a price point that was, to put it mildly, exceptionally competitive.

Although the profits gleaned from these initial subcontracted orders were, perhaps, modest by Federation standards, the true value lay elsewhere. Once the witches possessed their own fully operational factories and a cadre of proficient workers, they were free to expand their trading horizons, to seek out new markets and more lucrative ventures. Even with the formidable trade barriers erected by various nations, it proved exceedingly difficult for many to resist the siren call of Waite’s astonishingly inexpensive, yet high-quality, goods. This burgeoning commercial prosperity, however, while bringing ever-greater wealth and influence to the ruling witches, also, paradoxically, increased the burdens upon the common, non-magical populace. Thus, in the grand, paradoxical city of Merida, the self-proclaimed seat of benevolence, ostentatious prosperity and abject, soul-crushing misery could, and indeed did, exist in stark, unsettling juxtaposition.

Magic, that potent, ever-present force, provided the witches with the unwavering confidence, the almost arrogant self-assurance, to engage in what could only be described as a sustainable, if undeniably ruthless, form of exploitation. Yet, even they understood the necessity of offering some glimmer of hope to the laboring masses – the tantalizing prospect of marriage, of establishing a family, of achieving some small measure of personal dignity – if only to ensure that the "oxen and horses," as they were often contemptuously referred to, continued to toil with diligent, uncomplaining industry. The extreme, almost fantastical, gender imbalance, the pervasive societal norm that reduced men to the status of thoroughly objectified commodities, and the substantial, almost life-altering, material rewards offered for the bearing of male children, had inexorably transformed men into the ultimate benchmark of a woman's capability and social standing. To marry a man was a mark of considerable prestige; to give birth to a son signified nothing less than liberation from the grinding hardships of a life lived on the margins. Therefore, "starting a family," achieving that elusive domestic dream, had become the all-consuming goal of most ordinary women in Waite. Buoyed by the desperate, fervent hope of eventually "turning their fortunes" by bearing a son, they endured astonishing levels of exploitation with a remarkable, almost unnerving, emotional stability.

Most of the men imported, like so much valuable livestock, from the Federation had been strategically allocated to the sprawling Istapa district. This area had, in previous generations, been a concentrated settlement for immigrant populations, who, by their very nature, demanded lower wages than the native-born locals and were renowned for their unwavering diligence and uncomplaining capability. The ever-pragmatic administrators of Waite had thus held them up as a shining example to their own populace, rewarding many of these industrious immigrant women with the coveted prize of male partners.

The insidious problem, however, arose from a critical oversight: these men, products of the Federation’s more egalitarian, if still flawed, society, had not received the… unique… and highly specialized… "male virtue" education deemed essential in Waite. After haphazardly, and often bewilderedly, starting families in this strange new land, they swiftly discovered that while men in Waite ostensibly enjoyed a position of high social status, they were, in grim reality, little more than animate tools, valuable possessions in the hands of the ruling witches, scarcely even considered fully human in the truest sense of the word. They were also, with a bitter irony, viewed as an invasive, almost parasitic, species by the native Waite men, subjected to long-term, often brutal, hostility and a soul-crushing social isolation. This, compounded by the jarring clash of deeply ingrained worldviews and a burning, righteous outrage at the constant, casual devaluation of their male dignity, caused their simmering dissatisfaction with the oppressive realities of Waite to deepen with each passing day, like a festering wound.

Ultimately, as is so often the case, it was the cold, hard calculus of economics that provided the final, explosive spark to ignite the long-smoldering powder keg of resentment. The witches of Waite, their ambition as boundless as their magical power, had set their collective sights on securing a major, exceptionally lucrative, Federation government tender that year. To ensure their bid was successful, they had, with a ruthless efficiency, desperately suppressed production costs and drastically shortened manufacturing timelines, aiming to conjure forth what they grandly, and deceptively, termed a "miracle" of industrial output.

The true price of this "miracle," naturally, was to be paid in the sweat, the tears, and ultimately, the despair, of the common workers. Their already meager wages were slashed, while their labor intensity, the sheer, grinding toil demanded of them, was relentlessly increased. Ordinarily, the workers, conditioned by generations of hardship, might have grudgingly endured these additional burdens. But this time, incited by their Federation-born husbands – men who still carried within them the flickering embers of a different, less subservient, worldview – they made a decision that sent shockwaves through the rigid social fabric of Waite: they decided to strike.

They formed a Rights Committee, their demands, though modest by Federation standards, revolutionary in the context of Waite. They called for a twenty percent increase in the base wages, a reduction of daily working hours back to a more humane ten, and a solemn guarantee of at least two paid days of rest every fortnight. The factory owners, the witches themselves, responded with swift, brutal efficiency: mass layoffs, and the immediate importation of even cheaper, more desperate, labor from the most impoverished, outlying regions. This forced the striking workers to play their biggest, and most desperate, trump card – their husbands. The involvement of the men, the "valuable resources," finally, and reluctantly, prompted the formidable Waite Preservation Bureau to intervene in the escalating negotiations.

"In your esteemed opinion, Mademoiselle Longueville," Dias asked, his voice laced with a sympathy he could not entirely conceal, "will the efforts of these… unfortunate people… ultimately prove successful?"

Anne shook her head, a shadow of something unreadable in her eyes. "It is, I fear, highly unlikely. The administrators, the true powers within Waite, are quite openly attempting to divide and conquer, to win over a malleable segment of the striking population with carefully targeted concessions. That, my dear Monsieur de Toledo, is precisely why our family’s… charitable endeavors… the Holy Fool Church’s well-publicized work-for-relief programs and free medical clinics, and indeed, your own 'male obligation' activities, are all so… coincidentally… occurring in the Istapa district on this very same day. For those who remain… recalcitrant… the administrators are, I assure you, fully prepared for a more… direct, and considerably more violent, resolution. The rank-and-file soldiers of the Civic Security Militia, as you may have observed, are not a particularly formidable fighting force. But their officers, and their fiercely loyal personal guards, still possess a considerable, and often brutal, suppressive capability. Using men as bargaining chips was, I concede, a bold, almost audacious, strategy on the part of the strikers. But they do not, I fear, truly understand the nature, or the power, of the Waite Preservation Bureau. This department wields such an exalted, almost unassailable, position within our society precisely because they, and they alone, control the 'male pricing power.' They will not, under any circumstances, tolerate the common rabble of Istapa, or anyone else for that matter, challenging their core, non-negotiable authority."

Corneille and Dias exchanged a swift, meaningful glance. Dias opened his mouth as if to speak, to offer some protest, some appeal to reason or compassion. But Corneille, with a subtle, almost imperceptible, intertwining of his fingers, conveyed a silent, unyielding message: argument was futile. The deeply ingrained values of the Federation, the notions of individual rights and fair labor, held no currency here, in this land ruled by magic and matriarchal might.

"Will military activity, even on a limited scale, within the capital itself not… adversely affect social stability?" Corneille inquired, his voice carefully neutral.

Anne offered a wry, almost cynical, smile. "In the Federation, perhaps such concerns would be valid. But here in Waite, Monsieur Corneille, there are no grand, unifying narratives of nationhood, of ethnicity, of gender equality, of political ideology, or even of shared religious belief. The only forces that truly bind our disparate populace together, the only common threads in our collective imagination, are the all-pervasive power of magic and the awe-inspiring authority of the Rex Nemorensis. Because of this profound lack of a shared societal vision, people’s capacity for empathy towards strangers, towards those outside their immediate circle, is… regrettably weak. They will not, I assure you, rise up in righteous indignation on behalf of those unknown to them."

Dias murmured, his voice barely audible, "The only conceivable way to break this dreadful impasse, then, would be to formally request the intervention of the Federation’s Waite Liaison Office. Theoretically, at least, now that Waite has been integrated into the Federation, it should be bound to abide by the established laws and statutes of the Federation."

"I, alas, have no leisure to contemplate their unfortunate plight," Anne said, a fleeting, bitter smile touching her lips. "I paid a brief visit to my family’s designated material distribution point earlier today, and I must confess, the atmosphere there was… decidedly volatile. A palpable anger, a simmering resentment, hangs heavy in the air. And our family’s… somewhat less than stellar… reputation could all too easily be exploited by those with malicious intent, transforming the desperate populace into a weapon to be wielded against us. House Longueville, I must emphasize, has never accepted subcontracted orders from Federation enterprises. This new, draconian scheme of lowering wages and increasing labor intensity has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with us."

Anne, with a few carefully chosen words, had neatly, and entirely predictably, absolved her family of any and all culpability. To Corneille, her protestations of innocence held little intrinsic value. "And your personal guards, Mademoiselle?" he asked, his tone blunt.

"They are… insufficient. At the very least, not numerous enough, nor formidable enough, to provide me with an adequate sense of personal security in this… charged environment."

"Can this charitable event not be terminated prematurely? Or perhaps, relocated to a more secure, less volatile, location?" Corneille inquired, his practical mind seeking a logical solution.

Anne’s reply was evasive, her gaze shifting uncomfortably. "This, Monsieur Corneille, is a… personal investment on my part. An activity designed to enhance my own image, to bolster my standing within the fiercely competitive arena of my own family. If I were to display weakness now, if I were to falter or retreat, it would undoubtedly trigger a most… unfortunate… chain reaction."

Corneille’s gaze shifted to Dias. After a moment of visible hesitation, Dias nodded slowly. "Very well," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Let us lend our aid to Mademoiselle Longueville. Hmm? A ring?" His attention had been caught by a small, ornate object Anne was now producing from a concealed pocket.

Anne held out a ring, its band of dark, unfamiliar metal set with a single, disturbingly vibrant, purplish-red gemstone. "This," she explained, "is a conduit, a medium for activating the 'Devil' domain’s exclusive summoning magic. With it, I can, in a moment of dire need, instantly summon the wearer of this ring to my side. It is, I assure you, merely a temporary safety precaution. The ring I offer to Monsieur Corneille is designed to self-destruct after a single activation, at which point our temporary contract will be automatically, and irrevocably, dissolved."

"Well… if that is the case… then very well," Dias conceded, though a flicker of unease still lingered in his eyes. "Pierre, what are your thoughts on this matter?"

"My only concern, Dias," Corneille replied, his gaze steady, "is for your continued safety here."

"I feel rather… underestimated," Polly interjected, her tone sharp with indignation. "There are a considerable number of highly trained Guardian Officers present on these grounds, myself included. Rest assured, both of you, unless I draw my last breath, no harm shall befall His Grace the Duke."

Corneille turned his attention back to Anne. "Mademoiselle Longueville," he said, his voice grave, "if, by some cruel twist of fate, both you and Dias were to find yourselves in simultaneous peril, I would, without a moment’s hesitation, prioritize the rescue of Dias. If you can accept this unwavering condition, then allow me to offer you my services, this once."

Anne, after a brief, almost imperceptible, pause, inclined her head in agreement. The summoning spell, she explained, required a verbal incantation. As she began to chant, the ancient words flowing from her lips like dark honey, an ornate, intricate pattern of glowing pink energy began to swirl and coalesce around the ring. She took Corneille’s unresisting right hand and, with a touch that was surprisingly firm, slipped the ring onto his index finger. As the gemstone settled into place, Corneille saw, with a jolt of unease, a black, vertical pupil, like that of a predatory cat, seem to open and fix its gaze upon him from within the depths of the purplish-red stone.

Dias, standing nearby, clutched at his chest, a sudden, inexplicable wave of discomfort washing over him at the sight of the ring upon Corneille’s hand.

"That bauble," Polly muttered under her breath, her crimson eyes narrowed in suspicion, "has a decidedly sinister aura about it."

"Let us all pray," Anne said, her voice a little too bright, "that there will be no unfortunate necessity to employ its… unique properties." She glanced at a small, jeweled timepiece pinned to her bodice, then, with a flurry of hasty farewells, departed.

This entire, seemingly innocuous, scene – the exchange of pleasantries, the bestowing of the ring, the hushed incantations – was, at that very moment, being magically replayed, with perfect, chilling fidelity, within the shadowed confines of a dilapidated tenement building in another, far less salubrious, quarter of the Istapa district.

"House Longueville," a voice hissed from the darkness, "is renowned, even amongst witches, for its unbridled audacity. And Anne Geneviève de Longueville, that spoiled, arrogant chit, is by far the most audacious, the most insufferable, of them all. She is long overdue for a… lesson… in humility."

A common turtledove, perched innocuously on the grimy stone railing of a nearby balcony, suddenly tilted its head and spoke, its voice a dry, sibilant whisper that was chillingly, unnervingly human. "On that fateful day, when you and your sisters were so cruelly framed, so unjustly expelled from the hallowed 'Justice' domain, your rightful places usurped by those… outlander upstarts… House Longueville, let us not forget, was one of the primary, most enthusiastic, instigators of your downfall."

The elongated, distorted shadows of five imposing witches danced and writhed upon the crumbling, water-stained wall. They were all clad in identical, hooded black robes, their faces entirely concealed behind masks of polished, reflective metal, as smooth and featureless as a tranquil, midnight pool. Sewn onto the breast of each robe, stark against the somber black, was a disturbing, instantly recognizable emblem: a pristine white scale of justice, its balance tipped, one pan overflowing with a cascade of freshly spilled, crimson blood.

The leader among them, a figure whose shadow seemed somehow darker, more substantial, than the others, replied to the talking turtledove, her voice as cold and devoid of emotion as a winter wind. "Let bygones remain bygones. Such ancient grievances are but dust in the wind. Now, we are merely the 'White Order' – a designated terrorist organization, as so righteously decreed by your own esteemed council. You provide the necessary funds; we, in turn, execute the required services. It is, as you can see, a most straightforward, and mutually beneficial, arrangement."

"Excellent," the turtledove rasped. "The initial advance payment has already been transferred to your designated accounts. I wish to know, however: will the presence of this ‘Corneille’ significantly impact the successful execution of our meticulously crafted plans?"

"If your ultimate objective," the lead witch of the White Order replied, her voice still a chilling monotone, "is the ‘permanent removal’ of Anne de Longueville, then yes, the warrior Corneille presents a most… significant, and potentially insurmountable, obstacle. His unbroken record of victory against preternatural adversaries has, as you are no doubt aware, stood unchallenged for a full seven years."

"'Unbroken'?" the turtledove echoed, a note of something akin to sarcasm in its sibilant voice. "Meaning, I presume, that he occasionally, and inconveniently, fights his opponents to a… mutually unsatisfactory… draw?"

The witch of the "White Order" seemed to sigh, a sound like the rustling of dry bones. "Why do you persist in this tiresome charade of feigned ignorance with me? Any information that I, with my ‘limited resources’ can ascertain, you, with your vast network of spies and informants, can most certainly, and far more easily, uncover. Corneille’s overt political allegiance, as all the world knows, lies with the Royalist faction. Yet, within the more… esoteric… hierarchies of preternatural power, he is an Apostle – one singularly favored by the goddess Hathor herself, a mortal vessel granted access to a measure of her sacred, divine power. Hathor’s potent, divine magic ensures that even when faced with the most dire, seemingly hopeless, of circumstances, Corneille possesses the uncanny ability, the almost supernatural means, to effect an escape. His sword, the legendary 'Gryphon,' and his shield, the equally renowned 'Sulina,' are both, as you are also aware, divinely blessed armaments. The precise nature of the Minerva’s blessing bestowed upon the former remains a closely guarded secret, and there is, alas, precious little reliable intelligence regarding the specifics of the Hathor’s enchantment woven into the latter. To attempt to test the full extent of his hidden strengths, his trump cards, through the crude and unpredictable crucible of actual combat would involve an… exorbitant, and likely unacceptable cost in trial and error, with far too many volatile, uncertain factors at play. Therefore," she concluded, her voice flat and final, "I cannot, in good conscience, offer you any definitive guarantees in this matter. Do you, perhaps, wish for a refund of your initial deposit?"

The turtledove, or rather, the unseen individual controlling it, froze, its small, feathered body suddenly rigid with tension. Urgent, whispered consultations, a flurry of panicked, invisible communications, ensued with other, equally shadowy, benefactors. House Longueville, it was a widely acknowledged, if often unspoken, truth, had, over the long years, made a great many powerful and unforgiving enemies. Their brazen monopolization of magical knowledge, their aggressive, almost predatory, enforcement of arcane copyrights, and their… rather blatant… hoarding of desirable men as if they were mere cattle, had alienated and enraged a significant number of influential factions. Consequently, these disparate, often rival, enemies had, in a rare display of unified purpose, secretly allied themselves to orchestrate a decisive, and hopefully crippling, strike against the arrogant, overreaching House of Longueville.

This current, simmering unrest in the volatile Istapa district was, in no small part, a direct result of their covert machinations, a carefully ignited spark in a dangerously dry tinderbox. Their ultimate goal was simple, yet ambitious: to lay the entirety of the blame for the ensuing chaos, for any bloodshed or suffering that might occur, squarely at the feet of House Longueville – an objective that, given the Longuevilles’ already tarnished reputation, was proving remarkably, almost laughably, easy to achieve. House Longueville, they knew, would not sit idly by and allow their name to be so publicly, so devastatingly, besmirched. They would undoubtedly dispatch core family members, armed with coffers overflowing with gold, to attempt to quell the unrest, to buy their way out of the crisis – their customary, and often effective, method of damage control. This, then, presented a golden opportunity to utilize the… less conventional… and considerably more ruthless… services of designated terrorist operatives to deliver a truly severe, and perhaps even fatal, blow to the unsuspecting Longuevilles. If a large-scale massacre of innocent civilians within the district could be successfully orchestrated, the resulting "sweet crimson meat-pies" – a grim, local euphemism for profiting from tragedy – would further blacken House Longueville’s already precarious public image, perhaps irreparably.

At this precise moment, although a multitude of powerful factions were active and vying for influence within the chaotic cauldron of the Istapa district, none, it was clear, were inclined to offer any aid or succor to the beleaguered House of Longueville. The Preservation Bureau was locked in tense, and increasingly acrimonious, negotiations with the newly formed Rights Committee. The Civic Security Militia was, by all accounts, actively preparing for a full-scale assault to regain control over the district’s restive male population. The Guardian Officers of the Men's Administration Bureau, with their customary single-minded focus, were concerned solely with the safety and well-being of their officially assigned charges. And the Holy Fool Church, already overwhelmed with its own charitable efforts and desperate attempts to maintain a semblance of order, would certainly not intervene in what was rapidly devolving into a purely political, and potentially bloody, power struggle. But then, with an almost casual, yet ultimately game-changing, flourish, Anne de Longueville had drawn the formidable Pierre Corneille into the heart of the affair, thereby adding a potent, and entirely unpredictable, new element to their carefully calibrated plans.

"Let us… proceed, then. We shall make the attempt." After a tense, almost unbearable, fifteen minutes of silent, invisible deliberation, the turtledove spoke again, its voice once more a dry, sibilant rasp. "Our operatives will incite a full-scale riot, to divert the attention of House Longueville’s personal guards. You, in the ensuing chaos, will find a way to ’deal’ with Anne de Longueville and her formidable protector, Corneille. As long as her little charitable charade is comprehensively ruined, her carefully cultivated prestige irrevocably damaged, and the already simmering internal conflicts within House Longueville over matters of succession are thereby significantly exacerbated, the ultimate outcome, for our purposes, will be precisely the same."

"Consider it done."

……

At precisely nine o’clock on that fateful morning, Dias commenced his first, and deeply dreaded, "male obligation." He sat, stiff and uncomfortable, upon the worn velvet sofa in the sparsely furnished cabin number 41. Corneille’s three most trusted retainers, their expressions grim and watchful, along with the ever-vigilant Polly, stood stationed at the four corners of the small room, their collective gazes fixed with unwavering intensity upon the succession of women who began to enter.

From the unique, and often bewildering, perspective of the women of Waite, the institution of "male obligation" was perceived as a laudable, even benevolent, social welfare program. It allowed female residents of the city, even those who, by the cruel whims of fate or demographic imbalance, were destined for a life of perpetual spinsterhood, to create and cherish pleasant, if fleeting, memories of interacting with the rarer, and therefore highly prized, male sex. In its practical implementation, unmarried female residents of the city were meticulously graded and ranked based upon a complex, and often subjective, set of criteria: their diligence and productivity in labor, their unwavering loyalty to the matriarchal state, their age, their physical health, and, not insignificantly, their overall physical attractiveness and pleasing feminine contours. The higher their officially sanctioned rank, the higher the "quality" of the man they were assigned to meet, once a week, on a rotating basis, to "create pleasant memories." And, of course, the more… intimate… and desirable… "service items" were thereby unlocked for their… enjoyment.

Dias, being a Duke from a foreign, and presumably more civilized, land, and possessing a certain undeniable social influence, was unlikely to be subjected to the more… egregious… aspects of this peculiar institution by the Men's Administration Bureau. Therefore, the women who were ushered into the relative privacy of cabin number 41 were, without exception, well-educated, high-quality ordinary women – which is to say, they were, for the most part, the personal attendants and favored servants of powerful witches. Their mistresses had, in all likelihood, already promised to secure advantageous marriages for them in due course. But who, even a woman with such prospects, would willingly pass up the opportunity to create a few… pleasant memories… with a young man as undeniably handsome, and as exotically alluring, as the Duke of Alva?

During their allotted thirty minutes each, they seated themselves upon the sofa, maintaining a carefully prescribed, and entirely appropriate, social distance from Dias. They engaged him in conversation that was enthusiastic, yet impeccably polite, or, if conversation flagged, they suggested a lighthearted game of cards.

Initially, Dias was a bundle of raw, jangling nerves. His overactive imagination had conjured lurid, terrifying scenarios: being subjected to all mannerer of bizarre, unspeakable acts by strange, predatory women, only to be heroically, and dramatically, rescued at the last possible moment by the timely intervention of Pierre Corneille, who would, with a series of devastating, precisely aimed blows, fell his tormentors and snatch him from the clutches of imminent peril. However, much to his surprise, and considerable relief, every woman he received was perfectly, almost disappointingly, normal. They spoke with an easy elegance, their attire was neat and modest, their attitudes were unfailingly positive and respectful, and they proved to be surprisingly skilled and engaging card players. This unexpected normalcy gradually put him at ease, and he found himself, much to his own astonishment, becoming more relaxed, more talkative, as the morning progressed.

Even I, with my crippling shyness, can manage this level of interaction without undue distress, Dias thought, a flicker of bewildered surprise in his eyes. Why, then, did Mademoiselle Longueville make it sound like such an arduous, such a… worldview-shattering, ordeal?

Considering Anne’s potential, and likely imminent, summons, Corneille had remained stationed just outside the door of Dias’s cabin. From this vantage point, he bore witness to a rather… different… and considerably more unsettling, unfolding scene. Most of the women, upon entering the other, less privileged, cabins, immediately, and with a shocking lack of subtlety, made aggressive advances upon the unfortunate men within. As long as their actions did not cross the ill-defined line into overtly rough or brutal behavior, the Male Guardian Officers stationed within those rooms studiously, and perhaps wisely, did not intervene. Furthermore, he noted with a growing sense of disquiet, women of what might be considered normal, or even passably attractive, appearance and build constituted only a small, almost insignificant, fraction of those participating. Many more, even when viewed from a distance, bore a disturbing resemblance to burly, ill-tempered men, their features coarse, their movements ungainly, their overall appearance somewhat… unkempt, and frankly, rather alarming. When these formidable creatures, their faces split by wide, predatory grins, eagerly, almost ravenously, embraced the terrified young men within their cabins, like grotesque, oversized frogs catching unsuspecting flies, the victims' initial, desperate cries of protest were swiftly, and ominously, drowned out by a cacophony of other, less identifiable, and far more disturbing, sounds.

Corneille’s extensive intelligence files, compiled over years of meticulous observation and covert inquiry, contained a chilling, though as yet unverified, rumor: the witches of Waite, in their relentless, insatiable quest to address chronic labor shortages, had, it was whispered, resorted to the widespread use of potent magic or alchemical potions upon ordinary, non-magical women, forcing their bodies to undergo a partial, and often grotesque, masculinization. The price for this unnatural augmentation was steep: the victims’ physical appearances would become distorted, their features coarsened, their bodies taking on an incongruous, often repellent, ugliness. Their personalities, too, might become volatile, prone to sudden fits of irritability and aggression. And, perhaps most tragically, their natural lifespans would be significantly, and irrevocably, shortened. To appease these… "useful members of society," these unfortunate creatures who kept the wheels of Waite’s commerce turning, who continuously, and thanklessly, generated wealth for their witch mistresses, those adult men with low societal ratings, those deemed less valuable, less desirable, were offered up as… prizes… rewarded to them once a week, a fleeting, sordid solace in their otherwise bleak and laborious existences. Perhaps, Corneille mused with a grim cynicism, the degrading fate of these unfortunate men also served as a stark, unspoken warning to any local Waite men who might harbor rebellious thoughts of passive resistance, or who dared to refuse full cooperation with the omnipotent Men's Administration Bureau.

As for Dias, the purely pleasant, almost idyllic, "male obligation" experienced by a visiting Duke from a foreign land would serve as the perfect, gilded embellishment for this deeply flawed, and inherently cruel, program – a program so cynically, so deceptively, lauded by its creators as being full of "humanitarian brilliance" and "profound humanistic care." The official propaganda machine, Corneille thought with a weary sigh, should be preparing to unleash its full, saccharine fury by now.

And indeed, true to his cynical prediction, Corneille soon spotted a gaggle of reporters lurking nearby. They were, with a practiced, almost ghoulish, eagerness, interviewing the women Dias had so recently "served." By noon, he knew, they would undoubtedly descend upon Dias himself, eager for his carefully curated, and suitably glowing, testimony. These particular journalists, he noted, belonged to the Merida Newsletter, the local newspaper boasting the largest, and most influential, circulation. Today, it appeared, the entire editorial staff of the paper had been deployed en masse, divided into four distinct teams to comprehensively cover the four… coincidentally… simultaneous events unfolding within the volatile Istapa district. House Longueville, as it happened, was the newspaper’s second-largest, and therefore most influential, shareholder. Consequently, the paper was paying a rather… disproportionate… amount of flattering attention to Anne’s meticulously orchestrated charitable public relations spectacle, dispatching an entire, dedicated team to provide fawning, moment-by-moment follow-up coverage.

Waite’s peculiar brand of public charity, Corneille observed with a detached, almost academic, interest, had clearly inherited much of the ostentatious, theatrical flair of the old, decadent Empire. First, there was the obligatory, and undeniably spectacular, entrance: amidst a chorus of carefully orchestrated gasps of awe and wonder from the assembled onlookers, Anne de Longueville would, with a flourish of graceful hands, transform a surge of raw mana into a dazzling display of fire magic. Then, in an incredibly, almost impossibly, short span of time, she would further reshape that incandescent fire magic, coaxing it, molding it, into a shimmering, ethereal staircase that seemed to ascend into the very heavens. After gliding down this fiery staircase with the poise of a celestial being, she would, with a final, breathtaking flourish, process the magical construct a third time, transforming the fading steps into a flock of luminous Waite carrier doves, ancient symbols of peace and goodwill. These magical avians would then circle once in the sky above the astonished crowd, leaving a beautiful, ephemeral pattern of pink, heart-shaped light in their wake before finally, and gracefully, dissipating into nothingness. Thus, with a theatricality that bordered on the divine, she would descend from an apparent height of some twenty-four meters, stepping directly, and with an air of profound humility, to the side of the enraptured onlookers. A conveniently placed woman, clutching a babe in arms, would, at that precise moment, feign a startled stumble, collapsing dramatically to the ground. Anne, her face a mask of gentle concern, would rush to her side, tenderly help her to her feet, and, with a radiant smile, press a sweet, brightly colored candy into the child’s grubby, outstretched hand.

Anne would then clear her throat delicately and begin to deliver a moving, eloquently crafted speech, her voice filled with compassion and noble sentiment. After only a few carefully chosen sentences, however, she would be rudely, and vociferously, interrupted by a designated heckler – a portly, conspicuously unattractive woman, her face contorted in a mask of theatrical rage, who would erupt from the crowd and proceed to vent her supposed fury with a torrent of shockingly crude, deeply personal, and entirely baseless, verbal abuse. Anne’s expression, at this juncture, would transform, her gentle demeanor replaced by one of grave, dignified seriousness. She would, with a gesture of noble forbearance, restrain her own guards and the fiercely loyal Longueville family retainers, patiently waiting until the abusive woman had entirely exhausted her repertoire of vulgar invective. Then, with a calm, almost saintly, composure, she would meticulously extract the few, barely coherent, accusations from the woman’s rambling, low-information tirade and, employing her formidable, and widely renowned, rhetorical skills, proceed to refute them, one by one, with logic, grace, and irrefutable evidence.

However, as all seasoned performers, and indeed, all astute politicians, well know, pure, unadulterated rhetoric, however brilliant, is often no match for the raw, visceral power of unbridled personal attack. The abusive woman, through sheer, unrelenting aggression and a shameless barrage of vulgarity, would manage to maintain the upper hand, at least in terms of sheer volume and theatrical outrage, even succeeding in reducing the seemingly indomitable Anne de Longueville to a state of trembling, heartbroken tears. The heckler would then preen, basking in the momentary, if entirely manufactured, glory of having so thoroughly, so publicly, bested her noble opponent. She would, however, soon discover, to her feigned surprise and dismay, that the expressions of those around her, those very same common folk who should, by all rights, have been on her side, had turned decidedly, and ominously, unfriendly. Anne’s carefully orchestrated debate, you see, was never truly intended for the purpose of winning an argument. Its sole, and far more subtle, objective was to publicly whitewash the many well-documented blemishes on House Longueville’s somewhat tarnished reputation, and, in doing so, to significantly elevate her own personal image, to cast herself in the role of a compassionate, misunderstood, and ultimately triumphant, heroine.

Although everyone, in their private, resentful moments of daily drudgery, undoubtedly fantasized about witnessing a haughty, high-born young lady being so thoroughly, so satisfyingly, humiliated and shamed by someone from their own downtrodden ranks, when they actually witnessed a beautiful, gentle, and undeniably youthful young lady being so cruelly, so unreasonably, so barbarically, shamed to the point of helpless, heartbroken sobbing, a profound, almost irresistible, sense of compassion would invariably stir within their simple, honest hearts. If you had managed to refute this young lady with logic and reason, the unspoken sentiment would ripple through the crowd, we would all, without hesitation, have stood firmly by your side. But to bully a mere slip of a girl with such vile, vulgar abuse… even if you have, by some twisted measure, 'won,' there is no honor, no glory, to be found in such a victory. This innate, simple and unadorned, sincere compassion of the working people, a force more potent than any magic, would, in that moment, win half of Anne’s carefully staged battle for her. The abusive woman, her feigned triumph turning to ashes in her mouth, would then flee in well-rehearsed disarray. Anne, still sobbing with a heartbreaking verisimilitude, would then take a large, conspicuously well-stocked, package from the hands of a waiting retainer and, with a flourish, display the generous assortment of goods she was so nobly donating to the impoverished denizens of the Istapa district: food that was demonstrably fresh, untainted by spoilage or adulteration; serviceable, second-hand clothes, free of patches or unsightly mends; and an abundance of clean, life-giving drinking water. Even for the relatively less destitute inhabitants of the Istapa district, these items were still considered a significant, almost miraculous, "boon," and their appearance would invariably elicit a thunderous, heartfelt chorus of cheers and grateful applause from the assembled crowd. The little girl, the one who had earlier been gifted the brightly colored candy, would then, as if on cue, extend her small, grimy hand, offering Anne a surprisingly clean, neatly folded handkerchief. This child, blissfully unaware of the intricate, cynical machinations of the staged event unfolding around her, would simply, and with a child’s pure, unadulterated empathy, be unable to bear the sight of the kind, beautiful older sister weeping such bitter tears.

Anne would accept the offered handkerchief, her face a mask of artfully blended sorrow and radiant gratitude. She would then, with a sob that seemed to wrench the very hearts of the onlookers, embrace the small, bewildered child, thereby pushing the meticulously crafted performance to its emotional, and highly effective, climax.

A veteran chief editor from the Merida Newsletter, observing the scene with a practiced, cynical eye, would later sigh and remark to her colleagues, "Even when measured against the most extravagant, tear-jerking spectacles of a high-society charity gala, this particular… production… could undoubtedly serve as the grand, show-stopping finale. Considering she is a mere sixteen summers of age, Mademoiselle Longueville’s acting skills are truly, and quite terrifyingly, astonishing."

Another, younger, and perhaps somewhat less jaded, reporter would then interject, her voice a low, conspiratorial whisper, "I suspect, honored editor, that what we witnessed was not, in fact, acting, per se. It is my understanding that Mademoiselle Longueville’s… pre-arranged… heckler failed to make her appearance at the designated time. The young lady was, I believe, genuinely, and quite unexpectedly, reduced to tears by that… surprisingly aggressive, and entirely unscripted, upstart. She was then forced, in that moment of crisis, to improvise, to salvage what she could of the original scenario, and to somehow, against all odds, play out the remainder of the scene."

The chief editor would blink, a flicker of surprise in his usually impassive eyes. "And who, pray tell, might you be, young woman? I do not recall having seen your face within the hallowed halls of our esteemed newspaper office before. And furthermore, how is it that you possess such… intimate, and potentially scandalous, knowledge of these affairs?"

The young reporter would simply smile, a slow, enigmatic curving of her lips. Then, with a deliberate, almost theatrical, gesture, she would unfasten the collar of her modest, unassuming traveler’s cloak, revealing, stark against the plain fabric, the chilling, unmistakable emblem of a pristine white scale of justice, its balance tipped, one pan overflowing with a cascade of freshly spilled, crimson blood. "Because, honored editor," she would say, her voice as soft and deadly as a silken garrote, "the one who so unexpectedly, and so effectively, made her cry… is my accomplice."