Chapter 15: Selling Male Charms

From the depths of her embroidered purse, Anne retrieved a single, gleaming gold coin. It was not the common currency of Waite, but a private minting of House Longueville, its surface stamped with their intricate, serpentine sigil. She murmured a soft incantation, the ancient words a silken whisper on the air, and the ragged, bleeding wound on her calf began to knit itself closed, the torn flesh mending with an unnatural, magical swiftness. By the time the first of the belated reinforcements, a clatter of armored feet and anxious shouts, arrived on the chaotic scene, she had hastily, almost guiltily, lowered the hem of her gown, concealing the last vestiges of her injury.

Corneille, his face a mask of grim concern, extended a hand, his calloused fingers closing around hers, and pulled Anne to her feet. She swayed, a wave of dizziness washing over her, and leaned heavily against the rough stone of the nearby wall, offering a wan, embarrassed smile. She bent, with a wince of pain, to brush the dust and grime from the silken fabric of her skirt. The neckline of her gown, momentarily disarranged by her sudden movement, offered a fleeting, yet undeniably arresting, glimpse of curves far more generous, more womanly, than one might have initially expected.

Corneille, with a tact that surprised her, turned away, his broad back a shield against any prying eyes. Anne, misinterpreting his gesture as a sign of disapproval, or perhaps even disgust, said, her voice a little breathless, "How… how remarkably thoughtful of you, Monsieur Corneille. Indeed, I would much prefer my… current state of dishevelment… not to be widely, or critically, observed."

"It is not your dishevelment I shall remember, Mademoiselle," Corneille replied, his voice a low, steady rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very air around them. "But rather, your act of profound, and unexpected, nobility."

"'Nobility'?" A faint, almost bitter, laugh escaped Anne’s lips. "My family, Monsieur Corneille, is inextricably, and often infamously, linked with the 'Devil' domain. Such unaccustomed praise, I fear, might very well give me hives." With a determined effort, Anne smoothed her attire, restoring a semblance of her usual immaculate composure, and then, her expression softening, went to find the small, terrified child she had so recklessly, so uncharacteristically, rescued. Corneille, his senses still on high alert, remained vigilant, his gaze sweeping their surroundings, ever wary of the classic, and often deadly, theatrical flourish of a "returning thrust" from their vanquished, or perhaps merely regrouping, adversaries.

"I did not," Anne stated, her voice quiet but firm as she rejoined him, the now-calm child clinging to her hand, "find it necessary to use the summoning magic."

Corneille’s expression remained unreadable. "Dias," he replied, his voice carefully neutral, "expressed some… concern… for your situation. He requested that I ascertain your well-being. It seems I arrived… just in time."

"Then I find myself doubly indebted," Anne said, her gaze searching his, "and must certainly offer my most profound thanks to Monsieur de Toledo for his… timely solicitude." An abrupt, almost uncomfortable, silence descended between them, broken only by the distant shouts and the general cacophony of the unfolding chaos. After a dozen or more strained heartbeats, Anne finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "To be entirely honest, Monsieur Corneille… you are… rather terrifying."

Corneille’s reply was calm, almost matter-of-fact. "I am but five and twenty summers of age, Mademoiselle. Even if I were a criminal prodigy, a veritable genius of malfeasance, and a most diligent and prolific perpetrator of heinous misdeeds, committing acts of unspeakable villainy with great intensity every single day of my life, I sincerely doubt I would, even then, accumulate a tally of sins sufficient to cause the Sanction magic to blot out the very sky, as we witnessed earlier."

A slow, hesitant smile touched Anne’s lips. "Put in such… pragmatic terms, Monsieur Corneille, you contrive to seem somewhat less… frightening."

"Mm," Corneille conceded, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "One must, however, acknowledge that the esteemed, if somewhat overzealous, Sabina Curias contributed a rather significant portion of the… overall theatrical effect."

The first official responders to arrive on the bloodstained scene were a grim-faced contingent of witches from the Waite Preservation Bureau, their expressions a mixture of disapproval and professional detachment as they began to assess the situation. They were followed, in short order, by the shamefaced, and demonstrably negligent, personal guards of House Longueville, and then, in a flurry of activity, by armed reinforcements from various other, presumably concerned, factions. Anne, with a gentle smile and a few whispered words of comfort, returned the small, bewildered girl to the tearful, almost hysterical, embrace of her mother. The woman, her face streaked with dirt and tears, grasped Anne’s hands, pouring out a torrent of heartfelt, effusive gratitude, her words earning Anne a spontaneous, and surprisingly thunderous, ovation from the assembled residents of the district, who had witnessed her bravery. Anne, with a blush that seemed entirely genuine, offered a shy, becoming smile and, in a clear, carrying voice, announced that she herself would take personal and complete responsibility for the aftermath of this unfortunate incident in their area; all victims, she declared, would be duly, and generously, compensated for their losses and their suffering. In that moment, the residents of this blighted district, so recently simmering with resentment, now practically, and with a fervor that was almost alarming, adored her as one of their very own.

Corneille, knowing he could offer little practical assistance with the intricate, and no doubt politically charged, details of the cleanup and compensation, took his leave with a quiet nod. Anne, her public duties for the moment concluded, was soon escorted to the relative safety and privacy of her waiting carriage, leaving others to manage the more mundane, and often gruesome, affairs on site.

At that precise moment, however, as Anne should have been sinking back against the plush velvet cushions, enjoying a well-earned moment of solitary, restorative tranquility within the opulent confines of her carriage, a slender, ring-adorned hand, its movements fluid and graceful, reached out from the shadows and poured a cup of fragrant, steaming tea. Sabina Curias, having shed her cracked, mirrored mask, her cascade of unbound golden hair gleaming like molten sunlight in the dim interior, sipped her black tea with an air of serene, almost regal, composure, her startlingly blue eyes gazing out the carriage window with a detached, almost clinical, interest at the ant-like figures of the common folk toiling to repair the very destruction she herself had so recently, and so devastatingly, wrought.

"The agreed-upon payment," Anne said, her voice carefully devoid of inflection, "will be transferred to your designated accounts shortly. I thank you for your… cooperation… in this matter."

"Nay, Mademoiselle Longueville," Sabina replied, her voice a silken purr, a faint, smile playing on her lips. "It is I who should be thanking you for your family’s… delightfully predictable… internal conflicts. They provide such… ample, and consistently profitable, opportunities to play both sides against the middle, as it were."

"To be entirely frank, Sabina," Anne admitted, her gaze steady and direct, "when you first approached me, when you so… helpfully… revealed that certain parties wished me dead, I confess, I was somewhat… taken by surprise."

Sabina’s smile widened, though it did not reach her cold, assessing eyes. "House Longueville, my dear Anne, was merely a… secondary objective, a target of convenience. At this delicate stage of our… broader enterprise… forging a mortal, and potentially distracting, enmity with a secondary target would be, shall we say, most… strategically unwise."

"However," Anne countered, her own voice taking on a steely edge, "from my own, perhaps somewhat biased, perspective, it is… difficult… to reconcile the image of a former Rex Nemorensis of the 'Justice' domain, a supposed paragon of righteousness, conducting herself in such a… remarkably pragmatic, and dare I say, morally flexible, fashion. So, you will forgive me, I trust, if I took the liberty of preparing an… additional contingency."

"Corneille," Sabina acknowledged, a flicker of something akin to respect in her voice. "A worthy opponent, indeed."

"And the result of that… rather spectacular… Sanction magic?" Anne pressed, her gaze sharp. "Was it… genuine? Or merely another layer of your intricate deceptions?"

"You seem quite… concerned… for his well-being, my dear."

"Naturally," Anne replied, her voice a silken caress. "Such formidable, almost breathtaking, combat strength… It is a prize I am most… exceedingly eager… to acquire for myself."

"The result of the Sanction magic," Sabina stated, her voice suddenly devoid of all artifice, "was, I assure you, entirely genuine. The intelligence we had so painstakingly gathered, my own carefully considered assessment of the man himself… all of it, it seems, proved to be significantly, almost laughably, flawed." She replaced her cracked, mirrored mask, her features once more hidden, her thoughts inscrutable. "Mademoiselle Longueville," she said, her voice now muffled, distant, "consider this most carefully: after bearing witness to that… sky-obscuring, soul-shattering manifestation of sin… do you still, in your heart of hearts, truly believe that you can control, that you can ever hope to dominate, such a man?"

"I am, after all, a Longueville, of the 'Devil' domain, am I not?" Anne laughed, a bright, brittle sound that held no true mirth. "How could I possibly resist the temptation to try? By the way," her tone shifted, becoming light, almost casual, "if I were to… substantially increase the offered payment… could you, perhaps, be persuaded to deliver your other, less cooperative, employers into my… rather capable hands?"

"I regret to inform you, Mademoiselle, that I must decline your most generous offer," Sabina replied, her voice once more a silken, unreadable purr. "It is only when you powerful, ambitious factions continue to squabble so delightfully, so predictably, amongst yourselves, that our humble organization’s… business… truly, and most profitably, flourishes." Sabina’s form, wreathed in shadow, began to dissolve, to fade into the very fabric of the carriage’s opulent interior. Her final two sentences, like disembodied whispers, drifted back to Anne’s ears: "Do him this small favor, Longueville: the Barbarigo family, those vipers, have successfully smuggled the 'Emperor Killer' into Waite. I know not the precise nature, nor the full capabilities, of that… accursed item… but from his particular perspective, from his precarious position… it can be nothing good. Nothing good at all."

……

Corneille, his face a mask of grim preoccupation, returned to the relative sanctuary of cabin 41. Dias’s face, upon seeing him, lit up with an almost childlike, unadulterated pleasure, though he quickly schooled his features and continued to respond with a gentle, if somewhat distracted, courtesy to the young woman with whom he was currently, and dutifully, interacting. Only during the brief, chaotic midday recess, whilst hastily consuming a meager portion of food, did he finally allow himself to express his profound concern for Corneille’s, and indeed, for Anne’s well-being, after the morning’s violent events.

Corneille had, with a deliberate, almost pointed, casualness, positioned himself by the cabin’s single, grimy window, effectively blocking Dias’s view of the grim proceedings outside. In this way, Dias was mercifully spared the sight of several utterly exhausted, almost catatonic, young men being unceremoniously carried from their respective cabins and loaded, like so much inanimate cargo, onto waiting carriages to be taken… elsewhere.

A reporter from the Merida Newsletter, a young woman with unnervingly bright, inquisitive eyes, paid them a brief visit, politely, almost deferentially, inquiring if His Grace the Duke would consent to a short interview. Corneille, recognizing the strategic necessity for Dias to cultivate a measure of public influence, of positive perception, within the treacherous social landscape of Waite, readily agreed. He yielded his place by the window to the eager reporter and stepped outside, only to find Polly, the Canid Guardian Officer, standing sentinel, her expression a mixture of weariness and profound, almost visceral, disgust.

"What troubles you, Lady Polly?"

Polly sneered, her lip curling to reveal a flash of sharp, white teeth. "You humans," she spat, her voice a low, guttural growl, "possess desires so insatiable, so voracious, they are frankly… terrifying. Clearly, demonstrably, sated beyond any reasonable measure, yet still, you greedily, shamelessly, covet the… after-dinner sweetmeats."

"Please, Lady Polly," Corneille said, his voice quiet but firm, "do not paint all of humanity with the same dark brush. Individuals, as you well know, vary greatly. And besides," he gestured with a weary inclination of his head towards the unfortunate women still lingering nearby, their eyes glazed with a strange, unsettling hunger, "they too, in their own way, are victims of this… accursed place." He watched the women as they paced restlessly, like caged animals, their gazes fixed with a disturbing, almost desperate, intensity upon the closed doors of the other cabins, a thin trickle of saliva escaping the corners of their slack, parted lips. No matter how extreme the gender imbalance in Waite, no matter how bizarre, how perverse, its prevailing social customs, a woman, a human being, should not be reduced to this… this pitiable, almost subhuman, state. This, he knew with a chilling certainty, was a tragedy wrought not by mortal failing, but by the insidious, corrupting influence of supernatural forces.  

"I have heard it whispered among the others," Polly said, her crimson eyes narrowed in skeptical contemplation, "that these… unfortunate creatures… were brought here from the outlying, impoverished regions. That they were intended to be… forcibly integrated… into the factory workforce, to counter the recent, and rather inconvenient, strike by the Istapa workers. However," her gaze sharpened, "given the… rather rudimentary… level of cognition they currently display, can they truly, in any meaningful sense, be deemed competent for such demanding labor?"

"I do not profess to know the answer to that, Lady Polly," Corneille replied, a profound weariness settling upon his soul. "I only know, with an absolute and heartfelt certainty, that it is a great, and perhaps undeserved, blessing that young Dias did not bear witness to this… particular spectacle."

"Mm," Polly grunted, a flicker of something akin to grudging agreement in her eyes. "On that, at least, we find ourselves in accord."

After a brief, and for Dias, entirely insufficient, one-hour midday recess, he dutifully, if reluctantly, resumed his "male obligation." At precisely three o’clock in the afternoon, as the last of the succession of young women rose from the worn sofa and, with a flurry of polite, if somewhat breathless, farewells, took her leave, Anne de Longueville’s slender, elegant figure appeared at the cabin doorway. She offered Dias a warm, reassuring smile, though her beautiful face was etched with an undeniable, bone-deep fatigue, the shadows beneath her eyes stark against the alabaster pallor of her skin. After briefly assuring Dias of her own safety, and once more expressing her profound gratitude for their timely assistance, she, too, departed. Dias watched her retreating figure, a complex mixture of admiration and pity in his eyes, and sighed. "She is… truly, remarkably resilient. Were it I in her place, after such an ordeal, I would likely require several days, perhaps even weeks, recuperating in the solitude of my own chamber."

"I confess," Corneille said, his voice carefully neutral, "I too admire her undeniable efforts to prevent civilian casualties, and her… rather formidable… skill in the art of crisis management. Dias, if you were to seriously consider her as a potential bride…"

"Pierre!" Dias exclaimed, a flush of genuine displeasure staining his cheeks. "Must you always turn the conversation to such… indelicate matters? Let us speak of more cheerful topics, if you please. For instance," a hopeful light entered his eyes, "what culinary delights shall we be partaking of for our supper this evening?"

Later that evening, after Corneille and his retinue had returned to the relative sanctuary of the ducal manor, they received an official, and rather ominous, notification from the district administrator: negotiations between the Istapa District Rights Committee and the Waite Preservation Bureau had, as many had feared, irrevocably broken down. The Civic Security Militia, the notification curtly stated, had already been deployed in force and had moved into the volatile district to "maintain order." Some… "rebellious elements"… from within Istapa had reportedly clashed violently with the militia and had subsequently fled into the surrounding countryside. For reasons of "public safety and security," the city of Merida was, with immediate effect, implementing a temporary, city-wide curfew, prohibiting all unauthorized outdoor activity from sunset to sunrise.

This sudden restriction, however, mattered little to Dias, who, with a sigh of profound relief, had already changed back into her more familiar, and infinitely more comfortable, female attire. Her thoughts, however, turned with a pang of genuine concern to the young women with whom she had conversed so amiably, so innocently, during the course of the day. Her worry, though heartfelt, was, in truth, largely misplaced. Although those girls, by birth and circumstance, hailed from the impoverished Istapa district, having received the coveted patronage of powerful witches, they had long since departed from its squalor, their lives now lived in far more salubrious, and considerably more secure, surroundings.

To ensure Dias slept soundly, untroubled by the city’s simmering unrest, Corneille resolved to stand personal vigil throughout the long, dark hours of the night. Dias, however, felt that Corneille was, perhaps, overreacting. Moreover, she worried, with a tenderness that surprised even herself, that after the day’s harrowing battle and the subsequent emotional toll, forcing himself to remain awake and alert all night would be an excessively taxing, and ultimately unnecessary, ordeal for him. And so, in a moment of impulsive and deeply regrettable affection, she uttered words that, the instant they left her lips, she wished with all her heart she could snatch back from the air: "Pierre," she began, her voice a soft, hesitant murmur, "my bed… it is quite large, you know. Perhaps… perhaps you could… make do… on my bed… for the night?"

Two men sharing a single bed, particularly in the rough and ready camaraderie of a military encampment, was a matter of little or no consequence. But for a young and undeniably beautiful maiden to utter such an invitation, even if that selfsame maiden had been, mere hours before, a young man… well, it inevitably and rather potently sparked certain… imaginative, and perhaps even dangerous, flights of fancy in the mind of any red-blooded male.

Corneille, his face an unreadable mask, pretended not to have heard her astonishing and deeply ill-advised offer. He merely, with a gruffness that brooked no argument, called out the names of two more of his most trusted retainers, curtly instructing them to share the long watches of the night with him. If, he added, his voice like iron, he showed any, even the slightest, sign of dozing off, they were to wake him immediately, and without hesitation.

Dias, her cheeks burning with a mortification so profound it felt as if her very skin were on fire, mumbled a hasty, incoherent apology and retreated, with as much dignity as she could muster, to the solitary sanctuary of her own bedchamber.

Corneille, his heart a battlefield of conflicting emotions, passed a long and thankfully uneventful night. When Dias finally awoke, refreshed and restored by a deep, untroubled slumber, he rubbed his own weary, bloodshot eyes, preparing to return to his own spartan quarters for some much-needed, if likely fleeting, rest. At that precise moment, however, a Waite carrier pigeon, its feathers ruffled, its tiny claws scrabbling for purchase on the stone windowsill, arrived, bearing a curt and unwelcome reminder: it was time for him to fulfill his previously agreed-upon, and now deeply dreaded, appointment with Doctor Cécile.

"Yesterday," Corneille muttered to himself, a grim, almost fatalistic, humor in his voice, "it was Dias who was compelled to sell his… dubious… male charms. Today, it seems, it is my turn upon the sacrificial altar." He splashed his face with icy water from the ewer, the shock of it a welcome jolt to his weary senses. He changed into a fresh, clean tunic, and, with a sigh of profound resignation, descended the stairs to where Cécile’s discreet, unmarked carriage already awaited him.

As they rumbled through the awakening city, he heard snippets of anxious, hushed conversation from the passersby on the streets. They spoke, in fearful whispers, of the recent tumultuous events in the Istapa district. It was said with a mixture of outrage and grim satisfaction, that the Civic Security Militia had rounded up and detained a great many men from that unfortunate area. These men, the rumors claimed, were to be forcibly transported to special re-education facilities, there to receive intensive instruction in the finer points of "male virtue." Corneille felt a familiar, weary pang of regret, of helpless anger, but he knew, with a certainty that settled like a stone in his gut, that there was absolutely nothing he could do to intervene, to alter their grim, inevitable fate.

Cécile, when he arrived at her cluttered, herb-scented laboratory in the heart of the Academy City, was in the process of consuming a noxious-looking concoction of vibrant green vegetable juice. The mere pungent aroma of it caused Corneille to recoil instinctively; the bitter, acrid, and unforgettably earthy taste of a similar brew he had once been persuaded to sample was still a vivid, and deeply unpleasant, horror in his memory. Soon after, Cécile, having apparently fortified herself with her morning libation, emerged from her inner sanctum, a speculative, almost appraising, glint in her sharp, intelligent eyes. "Your skills, I perceive, have grown considerably, warrior," she remarked, her voice dry as old parchment. "To face the formidable Sabina Curias in open combat and not be at a significant, or indeed, any discernible, disadvantage… that is no small feat."

"She merely," Corneille replied, his tone dismissive, "had no true intention of fighting me to the death. It was a performance, a charade, nothing more."

"Regardless," Cécile countered, "she is, let us not forget, a former Rex Nemorensis, a witch of legendary power and considerable renown."

"In terms of sheer, raw mana capacity," Corneille observed, "she is, I would venture, demonstrably inferior to Her Imperial Highness Isabella."

Cécile nodded slowly. "Isabella’s reserves of mana," she explained, "even when measured against the vast, sweeping tapestry of Waite’s long and often bloody history, would undoubtedly rank her among the top ten most powerful Kings and Queens who have ever reigned. Furthermore," she added, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow, "losing one’s designated throne – and I refer, of course, to those sacred, power-amplifying seats they install upon the living wood of the Jupiter Trees – inevitably causes a slow, but continuous, and ultimately irreversible, depletion of one’s maximum potential mana."

"And the ongoing situation in the Istapa district?" Corneille inquired, his voice carefully neutral.

"A humble, and largely insignificant, unknown such as myself?" Cécile replied, a wry, self-deprecating smile touching her lips. "How could I possibly presume to interfere in such… high-level, and politically sensitive, matters?" She then, with a brisk, businesslike air, led Corneille into a spacious, well-lit, and surprisingly sterile, adjoining room. The doctor’s handpicked research team, twelve individuals in total, awaited them, their expressions a mixture of nervous anticipation and academic curiosity. Five of them, Corneille noted with a flicker of unease, wore the traditional, beaked masks of plague doctors, their figures further obscured by loose, shapeless robes clearly designed to conceal their true forms. The remaining seven, however, appeared so alarmingly, almost disturbingly, young that a fresh wave of apprehension washed over him.

"Please, try to understand," Cécile said, her voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. "These five… they are currently, and rather anxiously, considering their future marital prospects. And this particular research topic, as you can imagine, is… shall we say… somewhat delicate in nature. It could, if word were to get out, adversely affect their reputations, their standing in the marriage market."

One of the masked figures spoke, her voice muffled but firm. "Doctor, you speak far too much. We have all, as you well know, signed binding oaths of absolute confidentiality."

Corneille turned his gaze upon Cécile, his own expression unreadable. "So, then, Doctor," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "what precisely is it that you, and these… dedicated individuals… intend to research with me today?"

Cécile smiled, a slow, almost predatory, curving of her lips that sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated dread down Corneille’s spine. "Very well, warrior. Let us, without further ado, commence the first, and perhaps most… illuminating… part of our little project: 'Understanding the Unique Physiology and Arcane Potential of Preternatural Males from Beyond the Borders of Waite.' To that end, ladies," her smile widened, her eyes gleaming with an almost manic, scientific fervor, "if you would be so kind… do, please… use your magic on Monsieur Corneille."