The Embassy of Strange Allies (And Enemies)

Mia had expected diplomacy to be complicated, but she had not expected it to resemble a neighborhood bake sale run by competing sorcerers with questionable hygiene. The Embassy of Strange Allies had arrived in Eldoria on a Tuesday, which was inconvenient because Tuesday was already reserved for budget reconciliations, parchment deliveries, and an annual inspection of the Bell of Marginal Gains to make sure it hadn’t developed hairline cracks from overuse. The announcement that three delegations from other realms had come to negotiate treaties of mutual assistance left the Ministry scrambling to invent an entirely new set of rules for how to welcome them without accidentally sparking a war, or worse, creating another department.

The first delegation hailed from the Kingdom of Perpetual Punctuation, a land where every sentence was required by law to end with an exclamation point. Their ambassador, Sir Exclaimus, strode into the hall with his robe stitched full of actual punctuation marks that shimmered and rearranged themselves as he spoke. “We come to affirm our unbreakable alliance with Eldoria!” he boomed, waving both arms in triumph. “Also, we bring muffins!” The muffins were delicious but had so many exclamation points carved into their tops that no one was sure whether to eat them or salute. Every clerk tasked with recording the proceedings found their wrists aching by the end of his speech because transcribing his dialogue required excessive use of the shift key.

The second delegation represented the Principality of Perennial Excuses, whose officials specialized in explaining why things could not possibly be accomplished today, tomorrow, or indeed any day that ended with a “y.” Their ambassador, Countess Postpona, arrived three hours late, citing a “tragic collision of carriages caused by a runaway flock of ceremonial geese.” She carried scrolls stacked higher than her head, each filled with handwritten justifications for why she had not responded to previous correspondence. “We deeply value our partnership with Eldoria,” she said, yawning theatrically, “but alas, we could not possibly formalize it this week. The stars are in retrograde, my secretary’s quill has developed arthritis, and our ministry of ink procurement is on strike.” By the time she finished listing her reasons, the clerks had run out of parchment.

The third and final delegation slithered rather than strode into the chamber. They were the representatives of the Confederacy of Amphibious Concerns, a coalition of intelligent frogs who insisted on being addressed only during rainfall. Unfortunately, Eldoria was in the middle of a dry spell, which meant the frog diplomats refused to speak, instead glaring silently from their water basins while occasionally splashing ink onto nearby paperwork. One of them produced a croak so resonant it caused all the chandeliers to tremble. This, their translator insisted, was a formal greeting equivalent to “we acknowledge your existence” and should be received with solemn bows.

Mia tried to maintain composure as she oversaw the proceedings. The Council Hall had been rearranged into three zones, one for each delegation, though keeping them separate was more difficult than anticipated. The punctuation envoy insisted on inserting emphatic banners into every space, the excuse-makers requested frequent breaks to discuss why breaks were necessary, and the amphibians demanded that a light drizzle be conjured indoors, which left the parchment record keepers weeping as their carefully copied notes disintegrated into pulp.

The central issue at hand was the Treaty of Mutual Assistance in Times of Tedious Crisis. Eldoria wanted to secure guarantees that in the event of excessive paperwork overflow, at least one of these foreign allies would provide backup clerks, additional quills, or at minimum, moral support. Negotiations, however, went poorly.

Sir Exclaimus shouted, “We absolutely agree to everything you propose!” then immediately added, “Provided you add more exclamation points to the treaty!” Mia asked how many more he required. He replied, “All of them!” The scribes looked ready to faint. Countess Postpona countered with a sigh. “While we would love to commit, we are tragically unable to sign this year. Perhaps next year, or the year after that, or after the next eclipse. Let us form a subcommittee to explore the reasons why it cannot be done.” Meanwhile, the frogs sulked until Mia reluctantly authorized a junior weather mage to conjure a light drizzle above their table. The waterlogged clerks had to wear waxed cloaks to keep the treaty draft intact.

By midday, chaos had reached a crescendo. One frog leapt onto the muffin tray and devoured three punctuation muffins, hiccupping so violently that every banner in the hall changed punctuation mid-word. Sir Exclaimus declared this “a culinary tragedy!” Countess Postpona claimed she could not possibly continue because she had developed “a sudden and incurable allergy to amphibious etiquette.” Mia, clutching the official seal in both hands, shouted for order, which briefly silenced the hall as everyone waited to see if her voice carried enough authority to stop an international incident.

“Eldoria,” she said slowly, “is committed to building partnerships, however strange, however inconvenient, however maddening. If we cannot agree on a perfect treaty today, then let us at least agree on a framework for future cooperation.” Sir Exclaimus nodded vigorously, declaring, “We will agree to a framework! Provided it ends with enthusiasm!” Countess Postpona waved her hand lazily and said, “A framework sounds acceptable, though I must delay my agreement until I’ve consulted with my astrologer, my hairdresser, and my third cousin twice removed who owes me a favor.” The frogs croaked in unison, splashing enough water to short out a lantern, which the translator optimistically interpreted as, “We will consider your framework, pending appropriate rainfall.”

Thus, instead of a treaty, Mia drafted the Framework of Tentative Understandings, a document so vague it made fog look decisive. The framework outlined that the parties might, under unspecified circumstances, consider assisting one another in certain undefined crises, unless they chose not to, in which case no hard feelings would be expressed beyond passive-aggressive silence.

The signing ceremony proved no easier. Sir Exclaimus signed by carving exclamation points deep into the parchment, nearly shredding it. Countess Postpona pretended to sign but then explained that she had unfortunately developed a wrist cramp, so her assistant scribbled an “X” in her place. The frogs pressed their damp webbed feet onto the page, leaving smudges that smelled faintly of pondwater. Mia added her signature last, praying silently that no one from the Ministry of Legal Consistency would ever audit the document.

When the proceedings ended, the delegations demanded a banquet. This, too, was a disaster. The punctuation envoys refused to eat anything not described on the menu with exclamation marks. The excuse delegation arrived an hour late claiming they had been “delayed by a tragic shortage of chairs.” The frogs demanded live flies, which the kitchen provided reluctantly after chasing them around the gardens with nets. The noise, confusion, and dripping ceilings left Mia slumped at the table, stabbing halfheartedly at a bowl of soup that had been described as “adequate!” on the menu.

By nightfall, the delegations finally departed, leaving behind piles of damp parchment, broken chairs, muffin crumbs, and a puddle that no one dared step in. Bramblewick approached Mia as she surveyed the wreckage. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “that could have gone worse.” Mia raised an eyebrow. “How exactly?” He thought for a moment. “At least no one declared war.” Mia sighed, gathering up the soggy Framework of Tentative Understandings and slipping it into her satchel. It was not the alliance Eldoria had hoped for, but it was something—something vague, indecisive, and damp, but something nonetheless.

As she walked home beneath the flickering lanterns, Mia considered that diplomacy, like bureaucracy, was rarely about decisive victories. It was about endurance, patience, and the ability to nod politely while everyone around you demanded the impossible. The Embassy of Strange Allies might have left her exhausted, but it had also reminded her that even in a world of absurdity, progress was still possible—incremental, soggy, and punctuated, but possible.