St. Chastity, along with its other good works, hosted an exclusive school which helped educate and refine the favorite daughters of powerful nobles, wealthy entrepreneurs, and even royalty. As a result, the convent employed a top-notch security force. Or so they thought. In reality, security was administered by primitive menfolk, weak in the heart and soft in the mind through vice, dubious morals, and a questionable work ethic. More relevant was that security was designed to defend against external threats rather than to police the rebellious girls within its walls.
“They aren’t expecting me,” Mataya whispered, followed by a quote from Tzan-Wu’s The Art of Military Warfare:
The secret of success lies in confusing thy enemy so that they cannot comprehend our genuine intent.
Her personal mantra, spoken like a magical spell during each and every secret mission, Mataya savored each syllable and vowel. It was poetic, philosophical, and apropos. For these man-guards with their drunken swagger, puffy chests, atrocious grammar, and pitiful diction, were ridiculously overconfident.
The layout of the grounds and the building itself did not resemble the typical convent of the Order. Long ago, the structure and its surrounding land served as an imperial summer palace. Its location was chosen precisely for its natural fortification. The castle and its grounds were bound on all four sides by natural barriers.
To the west, rugged mountains sporting granite peaks and giant slabs of rock rising straight up through the clouds. To the north, a pair of torrential and intertwining rivers, rife with rapids, fraught with sharp protruding rocks, and teeming with flesh-hungry dragonfish capable of biting a man’s arm clean off. To the south: the haunted forest, littered with fetid swamps, deadly quicksand, giant rodents infected with incurable and communicable disease, and parasites that could drain every drop of a man’s blood from his body before he had time to pass out from the pain. And lastly, to the east: the brackish and putrid waters of the Lake Megalopolis. Deathly cold and dangerously toxic, it was accessible from the common grounds only by way of a narrow lagoon and heavily patrolled by the Royal Coast Guard and the occasional cutthroat pirate.
In antiquity, before the royal family bequeathed the land to the church, the Imperial Guard bragged that a dozen elderly peasants armed with nothing but pitchforks and bad breath could defend the castle against an army of a thousand professional soldiers. As a result, over the years, the actual number of men patrolling the grounds had dwindled to a bare minimum. And on a frigid night such as this? Most of the men would be holed up indoors, feasting on greasy sausages cooked over an open fire, tickling and groping bosomy milkmaids sprawled across their laps, giggling and snorting as they warmed their guts with amber ale and combustible spirits, engaging in arm-wrestling and other contests of virility, and undoubtedly, bragging of their superior potency which was sadly being wasted on unworthy wenches.
The merriment of men, Mataya mused.
Regardless of the ineptitude of the inebriated man-guards, escape from the convent grounds was sadly impossible, for it was, she would have done so long ago. Luckily, escape was not Mataya’s intent. Hers was a mischief of a different sort. Defiance was the essence of her criminal intent. The freedom to exercise an independent and uninhibited spirit. A soul, after all, needs to breathe. Her antidote to tyranny: rage against the jailer. Break the bonds of injustice. Escape from the invisible cage. Protestation was Mataya’s drug of choice. Defiance is the ultimate high.
And besides. Everyone needs a hobby. Something more stimulating than poetry, harpsichord lessons, and melodrama over shirtless smooth-chested men with exotic foreign accents (although, truth-be-told, she was quite fond of the latter). Mataya craved competition. Contests. Games of chess in which victory is won with one’s wits and will rather than brawn and brute force. Sadly, she would likely enjoy neither.
Mataya sighed sympathetically. If they only whom they were up against. If only they knew who was about to rain the shame and despair of crushing defeat down upon them. She stifled her laughter.
They would soil their robes.
Break time was over. Mataya had rested long enough. It was cold and she needed to keep moving. The time had come. Time to engage the enemy.
To a strategic mind, the convent and the surrounding land was a giant chessboard populated with living pieces, each player armed with specific weapons and unique abilities. In this game-world, the men were the Pawns. The weakest players. Available in abundance. Sacrificed without remorse. Even if detected and cornered, she could obscure, outwit, and if necessary, overpower them. Not with brute force, mind you. Most men could be easily disarmed with nothing more than a pretty smile. A subtle wink of long eyelashes. And if necessary, the warm touch of a soft and gentle hand.
Men are way too easy.
On the other hand, the most powerful and feared player in this game-world? The Queen. In this case, the diabolical Headmistress, Frau Stælweorth. Feared and respected by all. Immune to the wily ways of women wielding feminine temptation. The Headmistress was ridiculously difficult to deceive. Nearly impossible to coerce. She was unimaginably manipulative, and, un-manipulable.
One legend tells the story of a dashing Duke who dared to protest the harsh sentence handed down to his impudent daughter. The Headmistress responded by publicly declaring that she would rather submit to mosquito torture than to kowtow to a sniveling, pompous windbag, especially one infamous for feeding at his mother’s teat until the ripe old age of seven. Furthermore, the next time that the spoiled fruit of his loins dared break
even the tiniest of rules, the Headmistress personally would bend him over her knee, pull down his trousers, and spank his bare behind before sending him to bed without any pudding. If this legend is to be believed, the traumatized nobleman — thoroughly unaccustomed to such insolence from a woman — required several months of bed-rest, developed a tendency to whimper, and a penchant for suckling his thumb.
Legends notwithstanding, the Headmistress was fearless and impossible to intimidate. In short, she was a genuine evil-genius. Equally relevant was the fact that she possessed nearly limitless powers to prosecute and punish rule-breakers, whether they be students, guards, teachers, or staff. Indeed. The Queen was not one to be trifled with.
However, the really interesting players were those that lie between the extremities. The animals. In this game-world, they were loyal knights, brave warriors, and mystic sorcerers with invisible powers. They were instinctual. They had eyes on the back of their head and noses for sniffing out a lie. Blessed with superhuman senses of smell, hearing, and eyesight, they were far more clever and more than the underpaid, overfed, lazy love-sick drunken man-guards.
The behavior of the animals represented the unknown variables in the equation. They were the proverbial X, Y and Z. They were unpredictable and mercurial and therefore posed the greatest risk to the success of the mission. Outsmarting the animals required the Lioness’ share of Mataya’s attention.
The Hounds, in particular, were famous for the simplistic philosophy
of play:
Create a hysterical ruckus first — ask questions later.
However, if Mataya possessed a superpower, it was that she had been blessed with a profound love and understanding of animals.
She communicated with them. She understood them. Perhaps her greatest gift was taming the untamable. She could hear those who lacked the ability to speak. Hers was truly a special gift.
Not long after Mataya first arrived, several of the kitchen staff declared the young Mataya a witch after witnessing a group of young piglets
following her and obeying her every command. The muddy minions were subsequently ambushed by kitchen staff, restrained, and subjected to three days and nights of ritualistic pagan exorcism. Despite their suffering, it is said that the demons inhabiting the young pork bodies refused to reveal themselves to their human tormentors. Believing they had failed, the mystical butcher refused to slaughter the young piglets, claiming them to be satanic swine. The peasants, fearful of unholy retribution, built the piglets a luxurious slop-house with an adjoining tub. There the piglets lived out their natural lives, unmolested, fat and happy, and, despite the voluminous tub, wonderfully filthy.
Although the Myth of the Possessed Piglets had been mostly debunked, there remained a group of true believers. It’s a conspiracy!, they cried, insisting on the existence of an organized cover-up. Porkers, they called themselves. Among them, an elderly peasant, toothless and frail, known for his love of spotted mushroom tea, swore on the soul of his dead mother that under the light of the full moon, he had seen the piglets shed their skin, assume humanoid form, and dance around a bonfire; all the while chanting evil spells in ancient satanic languages while playing the drums and smearing the blood of pheasants over their naked bodies.
Within the metaphorical chessboard, then the Hounds represented both the protectors, and the hunters. When playing for the opposing team, the Hounds were awesome opponents. They were notorious turn-pelts. Double-agents. Considered to be loyal beasts, in reality, they were easily flipped them against their masters. Often, all it took to purchase their betrayal was a basket of kitchen leftovers. Loyal beasts? Some say yes. Me thinks not.
Mataya had prearranged for one of her sweet-boys to serve the Hounds an extra serving of supper. Their favorite. Turkey legs, roasted potatoes, and enough gravy to drown in. Then, when their bellies were ready to burst, the coup de grâce: a large bowl of steaming hot chocolate with whipped cream.
Still. They were a formidable foe that should not be underestimated.
Mataya crossed the dormitory compound without incident, then climbed over the main gate. In order to reach the barn and stables, there was no path to avoid the Hounds. Keeping low to the ground, and staying out of the light, she approached the Hounds, silently stalking like a Bengal Tiger hunting small unwashed children, infirm elderly, and the mentally disabled.
It was dark in the shadows of the moonlight. The intermittent glare of shimmering colors off the surface of the lake interfered with visibility and depth perception. It wasn’t until Mataya was practically standing on top of them did she confirm that the on-duty Hounds were already fast asleep. They lie on their backs with all four paws splayed randomly upward, outward, and sideways, snoring, mumbling, and grumbling in their sleep, their long wet tongues hung out of corner of their mouths, their muzzles caked in a thick mixture of coagulated gravy and chocolate cream.
Their massive ribcages, designed to hold the powerful heart and voluminous lungs of a predator, rhythmically swelled, and shrunk. Up, and down. In, and out.
Round plumes of mushroom-shaped steam rose in the air resembling smoke- signals used by native tribes of the Great Planes. The relatively hairless skin of their fattened bellies was stretched taut as though a tiny prick would be sufficient to cause the entire contents to explode.
Ferocious, if provoked or aroused. But asleep? They looked like big fat babies.
The servant quarters were across the large corral from the barn. Pausing to allow her eyes time to adjust to the light of new surroundings,
Mataya could hear the unmistakable sounds of the men-children. Their fists pounding on tables. Objects hurled into the fireplace. Slurred, feeble words, seeking justification for the day’s exercise in excess. Loud voices, together roaring, cheering, and singing. And then suddenly, replaced by the chaos of cant, quarrel, and curse. And of course, the clamor and conniptions for more beer.
Already beginning to shiver from the cold, and confirming that the usual guard-posts had been vacated, she moved swiftly to the entrance of the barn, and one step closer to the hidden location of the client.
The client, for his own protection and the protection of others, was housed in a protective wing, accessible only by way of the main entrance to the barn. There she would encounter at least one guard, mandated by the Headmistress, lest the head of security be flogged.
To reach the barn, Mataya had yet to pass one last pitfall. The kennels where the young pups slept. The young pups, untrained, were easily startled, but otherwise, harmless. Mataya need only be cool. Remain calm. Be all nonchalant-like.
As she strolled past the chicken-wire fence, her presence triggered a frenzied commotion. Fearful that she had blown the mission, Mataya turned her head slowly, her jaw clenched, and her brow furrowed. Two pair of staring eyes, round orbs reflecting red light, suddenly appeared, frozen.
Petrified.
Mataya froze as well. It was a standoff. In the dim light, she could make a pair of figures. A young male Beagle with a strong jaw, a distinguished pink nose, and and muscular forelegs. His tongue dripping with saliva. Within his tender embrace, a petite Cocker Spaniel with long supple ears, a luxurious golden coat, and large yearning eyes. It was a pair of young pups. Canoodling. In love.
Caught in the act. In flagrante.
Mataya soon realized that they were far more frightened of her than she of them. There was an inherent agreement that would avoid mutual destruction. Mataya smiled at each of them in turn, nodded approvingly, and gave them the thumbs up. She sighed enviously.
Ah, c’est l’amour de chiot.
It was just what the world needed more of. Puppy love.
Relieved, they lay their heads back down, paused to look deeply into each other’s eyes, and resumed licking over every inch of each other’s hide.
The third pup, dreaming vividly, began to twist and convulse, yelping repeatedly, “cats!” He began to growl violently, his paws jabbing, his claws raking, his teeth ripping, and his jaws crunching and grinding.
Mataya paused, waiting for an opening, then sauntered past the pair of catnapping canines. Once clear, she quickened her pace. Hounds may sleep, but time does not. They would awaken. Eventually. Mataya paused, waiting for an opening, then sauntered past the catnapping canines. Once clear, she quickened her pace. The hounds may sleep, but time does not. They would awaken. Eventually.