"No proper work ethic these days."
Yet while Andre Giono grumbled those words to himself, there was no one around who could listen. In the middle of the day, his print shop should have been bustling with activity and noise. In fact, three hours ago, his workers had arrived at his shop, ready to fill the next sets of orders that continually came in these days. They had groaned and mumbled as Giono read them off with enthusiasm, but they had gotten to work without a word of complaint.
But that was before the news had spread all over the town of Her Majesty's death. Work had ceased immediately when the town crier rushed by, yelling the news for all to see. Many of the workers simply broke down in tears right then and there. Those that did not told their boss that they could not be expected to work today given the horrible and tragic news, especially as the noise of wailing could be heard all across the city of Tristania.
But Giono did not shed a single tear. He liked the princess and was sad about her death, but Giono was significantly older compared to his workers. He had been alive when Henrietta's father died, and he even remembered of the death of Henrietta's grandfather when he was a young man. The death of another monarch, even one as beautiful and gracious as Henrietta, was an event which Giono really didn't care much about one way or another beyond what it would do for his business. Everyone died, after all, and all the more so when you were off fighting in a faraway country. If he hadn't cried when his own wife had died of an illness nearly ten years ago, he definitely wouldn't cry over Her Majesty's death. Working and remaining strong served as the best means to honor her passing, he reasoned.
But his workers disagreed, and Giono was ultimately forced to concede. But even though the print shop remained empty, the orders remained at his desk and work had to be done. Giono for a moment contemplated the idea of resting within his room or going outside. He could hear the cries of the mourners outside and they would be interesting to watch. But with a sigh of his shoulders, he walked over to the desk where the orders lay and began to organize them. If his workers would not do their jobs for now, then he would simply do it himself. He'd probably dock their pay next time as a penalty.
He hummed a little tune as he continued his work for the next few minutes. But then without knocking, someone opened the door to his shop.
Giono looked up from his orders at the person who stood in the doorway. This individual was dressed completely in black. He wore a long black coat, a black shirt, and a wide-brimmed black hat. His thick, long beard and his eyes were also completely dark. He held a small wooden box in the crook of his left arm. One who encountered him in the street might think that he had dressed completely in mourning upon hearing of Henrietta's death.
But Giono only laughed upon seeing the individual. He left his desk and walked up to the man with a smile.
"Barabas! My friend! I haven't seen you in a while!"
The other man also gave a gruff laugh, before he leaned forward and kissed Giono on both cheeks.
"It's good to see you too, Giono. You've definitely improved since the last time I saw you."
The printer once again laughed.
"It's been about a year, right? The last time we saw each other was when you bailed me out of that jail after I had a little too much to drink, right?"
"Bailed out? Giono, I bribed the judge to let you go. After what you did with the donkey, the wooden duck toy, and those herbs, it's a wonder that he didn't try to have you drawn and quartered."
"Tristain's banned that for a century now."
"They would have made an exception."
Barabas patted Giono again and looked around the shop.
"Still, it's good to see that you've improved. It's quite an excellent little shop. I'm glad that my investment with you finally paid off."
Giono blinked for a few moments.
"So I blew some money you gave me on good wine. You don't expect me to pay all of it back, do you?"
"Well, let's see." Barabas said as he reached inside his coat and pulled out a notebook. "Over the last three years, I've given you about 200 new gold altogether to finance your little drinking incidents, which is about twice as much money as a day laborer makes in a year. Factor in 15% interest and over the years that comes down to about…"
Barabas perused his notebook for a few moments, and then looked at Giono. The printer's face had grown ashen as he had watched him calculate. But then Barabas loudly laughed again.
"Oh, come on, come on, Giono! Can't you take a joke?"
"It's not like I would know." Giono grumbled. "You moneylenders do take your debts pretty seriously."
Barabas shrugged.
"That's our job. Just like you take your printing seriously, I take my money and investments seriously. And business has been booming over the last few months given how fast the government's been borrowing to finance the war."
"I could write a report on your profits tomorrow." Giono mockingly threatened. "I think that would get the people upset. The Princess would likely have to default on you and…"
He slowly stopped as a confused expression appeared on his face. Barabas blinked and stared at Giono for a moment.
"Hey Giono, is something wrong?"
But Giono said nothing more for a few moments more. He continued to stare at the floor while he thought. Finally, he raised his head and looked at Barabas, though he still kept his puzzled appearance.
"Hey, Barabas. Who's in charge of this country now?"
Barabas thought about it for a moment, but then he shrugged.
"I'm not sure. I guess the throne goes back to the Queen. But…"
Barabas didn't finish his sentence. He didn't need to. Both men knew about the problem. The Queen of Tristain, Henrietta's mother, had been completely stricken with grief after the death of her husband. She had abdicated and given the throne to Henrietta as a result. The question became obvious. If she had been completely unable to run the country after the death of her husband, then how would she react to the death of her only child?
"Well the nobles will figure something out." Giono observed. But he saw Barabas's face grow dark at those words.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I'm sure those bloodsucking leeches will think of another scheme."
The printer groaned at that statement.
"Have they tried to rip you off again?"
"I've told you about it before, Andre. I'd rather loan a hundred gold pieces to the lowest beggar in this city than to any noble. The beggar may just fritter that money away on drink, but at least he'll admit that he did a bad thing. Nobles just fritter it away and then act completely shocked when I demand they pay back the loan. And then when I charge them higher interest rates because they're so risky, they go straight to Henrietta and demand that I lend to them at lower rates, which they promptly use to spiffy up their castle instead of investing it. It's not good for business."
He threw up one hand in frustration, but the two then lapsed into an awkward silence for a bit. But then Barabas spoke up again.
"Anyways, I might as well tell you why I'm here anyways."
He held up the wooden box.
"I was travelling through Tristain the last few weeks in order to collect the money which people owed me. One day, when I was resting, a little boy ran up to me with this box and asked me to deliver it to you. He said it contained an important book and that he wanted you to publish it."
"A little boy?" said Giono. "Any book he wrote can't be that important."
Barabas shook his head.
"He didn't write it himself. Someone told him to give it to me, but the boy wouldn't tell me who. I haven't opened it or looked inside, but I'd like to know what's inside.
He passed the box to Giono. It was surprisingly heavy, the printer noted. He carried the box to a nearby table and undid a latch. He looked inside with surprise and then finally lifted the contents out of the box. It turned out to be a large sheaf of pages. Giono quickly thumbed through them.
"It's about a hundred pages altogether." He stated. "Whoever sent this to me certainly must be very dedicated."
Nevertheless, Giono flipped to a random page and began to read. Barabas observed his expression. Giono looked confused as he glanced at the pages, and he saw that printer's expression grew more and more confused as his eyes travelled down the page. After only a minute or two, he finally looked up.
"Well?" Barabas asked. "Is this person's writing any good?"
Giono seemed to hesitate over his thoughts for a moment.
"It's very…interesting. You should take a look, Barabas. I have a feeling you might like it."
The moneylender walked over and glanced at the same page which Giono had read. Yet while Giono had appeared confused as he read the page, Barabas 's expression showed delight. As he finished, he laughed loudly.
"This is excellent! Most excellent! I like whoever wrote this very much. I should like to meet him some day."
He clapped his hands together and turned towards Giono as his beady eyes shone.
"How would you like another loan, Giono? I can give you a jumpstart; make sure you can print this text as soon as possible."
Giono couldn't help but groan.
"And how much interest would you charge for this?"
"Interest? For this? Two percent. No, make it one percent interest! Your business needs to expand anyways, and you won't get better terms than this! Just the sort of thing I'll do for my friends."
Barabas began to enthusiastically walk about the print shop while Giono watched; as he wildly gestured about ways which Giono could improve his shop. The papers continued to lie on the desk while the two talked. And if someone had stood by that desk at that moment, he would have seen these words at the top of the page:
This is supposing the present race of kings in the world to have had an honorable origin; whereas it is more than probable, that could we take off the dark covering of antiquity, and trace them to their first rise, that we should find the first of them nothing better than the principal ruffian of some restless gang, whose savage manners or pre-eminence in subtlety obtained him the title of chief among plunderers; and who by increasing in power, and extending his depredations, over-awed the quiet and defenseless to purchase their safety by frequent contributions.
…
The streets of Londinium were deserted. No one left their buildings. But thousands of pairs of eyes stared at the conquering army which now marched through the streets of Londinium, their commander at the front.
It had been three days since Napoleon had talked with King Joseph. The Gallian ships had departed shortly afterwards, leaving the Tristanian forces alone to retake the capital and to liberate Wales. And Albion possessed no more armies which could hope to threaten the invaders.
Yet as Napoleon should have reveled in the joy of victory, he didn't feel anything. Part of the reason for this was simply due to his experience. He had marched through countless towns when he had fought in Europe. Compared to the cities of Prague or Naples or Berlin, Londinium just really wasn't all that impressive or imposing. In fact, Napoleon decided that Londinium was only slightly more cultured and interesting than Moscow, and that was accounting for the small fact that Tsar Alexander II had burned the city down in the face of Napoleon's advance.
But Napoleon had now become seriously concerned about Louise. He had no clue where she was. When she had received the fake letter from Jerome, she had promised to him that she would return to Albion before the end of the Silver Pentecostal. That had actually factored into his original plans. Louise would leave Albion long enough for his coup to successfully occur, and then she would return just in time to play a role in destroying the Albion forces. Yet even a week after the Silver Pentecostal had ended, there was no sign of her. She wasn't in immediate danger. The familiar bond meant that Napoleon could tell that much about his partner. But he couldn't tell where she was or what she was doing. For all he knew, Karin could have imprisoned her within the estate, and he would have to seek a way to break her out from the clutches of a powerful woman who seriously mistrusted him.
As Napoleon rode and worried, the march of the victorious warriors continued in total silence. The troops continued their parade for the next hour as the slow train of men continued their pace. However, it finally concluded as the Tristanian troops assembled in front of the Albion palace, the White Hall.
Napoleon gave the signals to his lieutenants, and the troops halted in front of it. He had given all of them orders about the temporary occupation of the city and thus they rode off and began to direct the bulk of the army. The Guard in the meantime had marched directly behind Napoleon, and he extended a finger.
"Guiche, Martin, Foucard. The three of you are coming with me in the castle."
The three of them nodded and followed directly behind Napoleon. They crossed the courtyard which remained as empty as the city. No one came to greet them as they reached the main doors and so Napoleon pushed them in himself. As he walked in with his bodyguards trailing behind him, he noted a solitary figure in the hall.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Prince Wales." Napoleon called out. "Have your countrymen had the good sense to put you back on the throne?"
Wales sat on the throne which occupied the center of the main hall. He was dressed in fine clothes befitting of a monarch, and on his hand rested a splendid blue ring. But his head was bowed, and he did not speak or move in the slightest in response to Napoleon. After several seconds had passed, Napoleon arched his eyebrows, and then signaled his guards to advance. As they walked forward, their footsteps echoed within the Hall and broke the silent and empty room. Nevertheless, Prince Wales did not move or speak.
"Do you suppose they killed him?" Guiche loudly whispered.
Napoleon gave no response as he strode forward. But Martin shook his head.
"Albion's not that stupid. Killing Wales when the war's already ended would just infuriate us, especially since we've lost our Princess. And I don't see any blood."
Napoleon finally stopped twenty feet away from Wales. He then took off his hat and respectfully bowed before him.
"Prince Wales, are you feeling all right?"
No response. Napoleon sighed and turned to Martin.
"It could be a trap. Martin, use your magic to rouse him."
The wind mage nodded, but Guiche stepped forward, a rose in his hand.
"Please, Captain. My magic is more suitable for this scenario."
Napoleon stared at Guiche for a few moments and then slowly nodded. He stepped forward in front of his captain and pointed the rose at the prince.
"Genero."
A petal from the rose flicked off and floated down to the ground. It then transformed into a tall metal golem, complete with a sword and shield. With a wave of Guiche's wand, the creature marched towards Wales, clanking all the way. The men waited with bated breath as the golem advanced to check on the health of Prince Wales. It advanced within ten feet from Wales, then five feet, and then it stood directly in front of the Prince. With another gesture from Guiche, it moved one of his arms to lift up his head.
"Oh, stop it."
The minute it touched him, Wales finally looked up. He slapped aside the golem's hand.
"Order him to put that away, Napoleon. I am not interested in being manhandled by a statue."
Napoleon bowed respectfully and glanced at Guiche. With a wave of the rose-wand, the golem sank through the floor as if it had never existed. Wale put one elbow on the throne's armrest and glared at Napoleon.
"So, you finally arrive at the head of the Tristain Army. Do you have something to say?"
"You know why I am here, Prince Wales." Napoleon responded. "I have marched to rescue you and place you on your rightful seat so that this war may be over."
Wales raised his arms.
"It's done. The same people who had imprisoned me for the last week now dress me up, prop me up on the throne, and call me their king. They're now currently hiding in some room in the castle, though I haven't decided what I should do with them. Perhaps I'll execute them or maybe I will just let them live their lives in exile. Maybe I won't punish them at all.
But tell me, Napoleon. You and Tristain fought to place me on this throne. But what would you say if I stated that I don't want this throne anymore and that the Reconquista should have kept it?"
"What?" Martin breathed. "We fought for you, Wales! We've died for you! Her Majesty died for you! And now you want to throw it all away just because Her Majesty, the one you loved, is dead?"
Wales turned to stare at Martin.
"Your captain asked me once why I wanted the throne. I didn't give an answer. I thought that since the crown belonged to me, I should just take it. That's what I said.
But I now know I had a reason the whole time. It was to protect her, to keep the woman I loved safe from all dangers. We swore to marry each other after the war was over. Albion doesn't care for me. The people stood by and watched as the Reconquista defeated me. But she did. She cared for me and I cared for her. You soldiers may mourn her death, but I saw her die in front of my eyes. A mage even as powerful as she was can only cast spells so fast, and she was surrounded and killed by my own countrymen. I've wondered whether she even noticed the soldier who stood behind her with a sword as she fought.
So why should I serve? The men who fought for me? They're dead. I sacrificed them to escape a long time ago. The men who fought against me and hate me? They killed Henrietta, yet they live. So why should I want to help them?"
"Because it's what she would have done, Wales. And you know that."
Napoleon crossed his arms in front of him as he said those words.
"You can't expect to remain a king without sacrificing things, Wales. You are not the first monarch to sacrifice the one he loves. You won't be the last."
His brain couldn't help it. For an instant, the image of a woman who had possessed grace and elegance without peer flashed through his mind. But he dismissed it. That was from another time, another world which no longer belonged to him.
"But the Reconquista is gone. So is Albion. There is no one left who can rule your country. Remember the honor and duty which made her love you."
Wales said nothing in response. He stared at Napoleon as the seconds ticked away. But then, his eyes began to water and for the first time since her death, he completely broke down.
"Henrietta…Henrietta…"
As he continued to cry, Napoleon left him alone. He turned to his guards and lowered his voice.
"Get the rest of the guard," he muttered to them. "Bring them in the castle. They are to capture and imprison anyone they see, regardless of rank. If they resist, kill them."
Guiche couldn't help but stiffen at those words.
"Everyone?"
"They were working for this castle while Cromwell was in charge," Napoleon stated. "They can't be trusted."
Guiche's face showed his hesitation, but Martin and Foucard nodded and saluted. They were professional soldiers. They were used to obeying orders, even if they didn't necessarily make sense. And these did.
"Come on, lad." Foucard stated to Guiche. "We've got one more battle to fight."
The three of them began to walk out, leaving Napoleon alone with Wales. The Prince had continued to sob and had ignored Napoleon. But now the Emperor walked forward to within ten feet of him.
"As much as you've suffered, Wales, Henrietta wasn't wrong. She was devoted to her people to the end and never considered abandoning them."
Wales looked down at those words as Napoleon continued.
"She never did. That is why a monarch should serve. That is why I served. And that is why you should serve. And if you can't trust your people, I can help you."
The prince slumped back in his chair, defeated. The energy which he had used to mourn the loss of his beloved and curse his throne drained away from him.
"Sure. I'll follow Henrietta's ideal." He stated in a flat voice. "What would you recommend then, Napoleon?"
Where before Wales had initially glared at Napoleon, now he gazed vacantly out into the hall. So he did not see the small smile which appeared on his face.
"Well, your people will suffer from the aftermath of this war. You could sell off of some of your fine jewels and equipment to show them that you will also suffer and to help pay off the debts. I can help you with that right now. In the meantime…"
As Napoleon began to give recommendations, the ring on Wales's hand, the Water Ruby, gleamed a little brighter.
…
Several hours later, Napoleon left the palace alone. He carried a small box under the crook of his left arm. He had ordered the Tristanian army to encamp just to the east of Londinium. However, he now headed west.
He didn't want to do this, but he had no choice. Napoleon wasn't an idiot. Touraine had told him that the Water Ruby and the Founder's Music Box were ancient relics of the Albion royal family, but he had not known anything else. Yet King Joseph's actions made no sense unless they were items of significant magical power. Even a simpleton could have realized that Gallia had been placed in a dominant position at the end of the war and would have tried to extract as many concessions as he could have. Instead, Joseph had made it clear that he wanted nothing more.
There was something odd about that king, Napoleon thought. Wales and Henrietta were also monarchs, but they had been motivated by a sincere desire to protect their countries. Even the rulers back in his world possessed the same motivations. But Napoleon couldn't say that about Joseph. Even if these artifacts were truly more valuable than extracting territory and concessions from Albion, nothing stopped him from obtaining both. The King possessed a different motivation, a different goal, and Napoleon couldn't figure it out. Those differences made Napoleon understand that Joseph was likely one of the most difficult and enigmatic enemies he could ever encounter, whether in this world or his old world.
Nevertheless, Joseph offered Napoleon something he desperately needed. The King had stolen Napoleon's hopes of a grand victory which could make him a hero to the Tristanian people in front of his eyes. Now, he offered to give it back to him in exchange for those artifacts. And since Napoleon had gambled Henrietta's protection in order to obtain that victory, he had no choice but to make the deal for now.
He stopped in front of an inn. The outside was clean and polished, but a sign at the door stated that it was closed for renovations. Nevertheless, Napoleon walked up to the door and knocked on it exactly six times.
After a moment, a small chute at the bottom opened up. It was large enough for Napoleon to slide the box through. He did so, and then a bit later, the same box returned. Napoleon picked it up and opened it. A sheaf of papers had been placed inside instead of the jewel and the music box, and Napoleon opened the first paper up.
Captain Bonaparte. If you are reading this, then you have chosen to agree to our deal. I, King Joseph Gaul, would like to offer my sincerest thanks.
I have given you a bunch of official documents which have indicated that I was persuaded by you to fight for your cause. You will find these useful when you return to Tristain. May you have luck in your future endeavors, whatever they may be.
Napoleon closed the letter and shifted the box back under his arm. Then he began to walk all the way back to the camp. It took him a long time, but he finally reached the camp. A small wooden palisade had been erected to prevent any saboteurs or infiltrators. A few sentries patrolled around the wall and they saluted him as he reached the gate. One of them cleared his throat.
"Captain Napoleon, there's a visitor who wishes to speak with you immediately. She is waiting for you in your tent."
Another one, Napoleon thought. As the head of the conquering army, he had spent far too much time being visited by some Albion dignitary after another. They generally groveled before him like the dogs that they were as they all tried to curry his favor. But this sort of thing was nothing new to Napoleon, as much as he disliked it. So he had listened to all of them politely and sought ways to make sure that they would do something for him or at minimum just respect him. Those sorts of feelings could pay off in the long run.
He still grumbled about the idea of meeting another one at this point, but he had little choice. He thanked the messenger and headed to his tent. He opened the flap and then looked at the person who sat there, and then widened his eyes in surprise.
"Louise! You've returned!"
He breathed out those words in delight as he finally met his partner for the first time in weeks. But as she sat on a chair in the tent, Louise said nothing. She still wore the fur coat and pants which Napoleon had prescribed for her. The Emperor closed the tent flap and walked directly in front of her.
"How is Cattleya? I've been worried about you this entire time. Did Karin give you any trouble while you were there?"
SMACK
She moved fast. Far faster than Napoleon had ever seen her move. In a blur, she slapped Napoleon across the cheek. And even he could say that that had legitimately hurt. Yet while his mind dazedly noted his pain and shock, he watched her face. Louise was clearly furious in a way that he had never seen her before.
SMACK
And then she did it again, only on the opposite cheek.
"Why…"
Napoleon shook his head in surprise and looked down on his partner. But he let Louise finish as he waited for the explosion which he knew would come.
"Why didn't you protect her, Napoleon? Why?"
There was no response. Louise's expression and voice softened as she trembled. But Napoleon inwardly cursed himself. How could he have not seen this coming?
"It is a long story of misfortune, Louise. I am sorry."
"Sorry? You're sorry?" Louise whispered. "She's dead. The Queen is dead. My friend is dead. You should have protected her. You could have protected her. Why? What happened, Napoleon?"
Napoleon said nothing as he bowed his head a little.
"You told me she would be safe without me. You told me that. And now she's gone. How did she die, Napoleon? Please say it was without pain at least, will you?"
He just needed to let her vent. He knew that. But then he jolted a little. Louise had left the chair and had wrapped her arms around him. And then the tears started to flow.
"And do you have any idea how worried I've been about you? Y-you're my partner, Napoleon! What am I going to do if you die? You're going to p-pay for making a young maiden worry, you know?"
She began to cry just like Wales had. As she did so, Napoleon put a hand on her head, though he continued to say nothing. He just stood there and let her curse him out and cry for his safety. But Napoleon could tell. This was the first time since Henrietta's death that his partner had actually cried in front of anyone else.
"Tell me, Napoleon. Just… tell me what happened. Please."
"I understand."
He gently moved her arms and disengaged himself from Louise who once again sat down on the chair. And with a soft, sad expression on his face, Napoleon began to tell a story.
"She went to a church in Saxe-Gotha to pray to Brimir on the eight night of the Silver Pentecostal. I chose to stay behind and work as we prepared to fight at the end of the Silver Pentecostal. But I had forgotten to set up sentries around the city and they launched a surprise attack against us that night.
She sacrificed herself, you know? She sacrificed herself to get De Poitiers out of the city. The two of us worked together, tried to devise a way to save her. But it was impossible. Too many of our men were taken over by the spell and the situation was too chaotic. We couldn't organize the men willing to launch an offensive as they panicked.
We had to retreat. We had to abandon her and hope to rescue her later. De Poitiers committed suicide when he realized that, out of his shame at failing Her Majesty. So I had to fight to save her and save the army. And I managed to succeed and get Gallia's help to obtain victory."
He moved forward, and this time he was the one who hugged her.
"I'm sorry, Louise. I really am. But please, know that she's up there, looking down on us. And I'm sure that she's happy."
Louise continued to sob as the two stayed like that for some time without saying a word. Slowly, she disengaged herself from him. But Napoleon looked down on her.
"But actually, I'm glad that you're here now, Louise. It's good to have you back. And there's something I want to show you. Could you come with me?"
…
The two of them walked across the camp and stopped in front of another tent. Six guards, fully armed with swords, stood at attention as they surrounded the tent.'
"The prisoner is secure?"
"Yes, sir. We have patrolled the tent constantly and check on her every seven minutes to make sure she is there."
"Her?" Louise noted. "Napoleon, who is it?"
The Emperor said nothing in response. He simply ducked in the flap as Louise followed her. A single person sat inside, her hands tied behind her. She looked up and smiled as Napoleon entered.
"You couldn't bother to free my hands now, would you?"
"No." Napoleon stated. "You're a thief, Fouquet. I have no way of knowing whether you have a wand concealed with you. The alternative would have been to strip you and search your clothes, and I would rather not do that."
"Well, hello little Louise." Fouquet interjected. "I'd guess your familiar's a bit of a prude, isn't he?"
Louise blushed as red as a tomato.
"W-what are you talking about? A-anyways, Miss Longueville, what are you doing here?"
"You still call me that?" Fouquet observed. "How cute. But I think I forfeited that title the minute I stole the Staff of Destruction anyways. I'm sure you remember that night?"
Louise reddened even more, though now in anger.
"No. I wasn't there. But I won't forget what you did when I returned. Montmorency had completely lost it when I saw her, out of concern for Guiche. You're a monster for doing what you did!"
"Is that so? And what about you, Napoleon? You've imprisoned me under heavy guard this entire time. What do you intend to do with me in the end?"
"That is up to her."
Napoleon looked away from Fouquet and towards his partner.
"You have your wand, do you not?"
Louise nodded and pulled it out. Napoleon's eyes shifted to Fouquet in response.
"Louise, I will let you decide what to do with Fouquet. You can execute her yourself if you wish. You can ask me to do it, or order my soldiers to do it. You can imprison her or even let her go free. Anything you want."
"What? You're letting me decide?"
"She attacked your friends and your school." Napoleon responded. "Thus, I am letting you decide what to do with her first."
Louise stammered at that response, but then Fouquet cackled.
"Hahahahaha! Yes, that is an interesting response. So what will you do, Louise? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I remember reading that somewhere. And I know I killed at least one person, possibly more on that night."
"D-do you want me to kill you?"
Fouquet shrugged her shoulder as well as she could.
"Maybe. I don't have much of a future to look forward to if you let me go anyways."
"What do you mean by that?" Louise asked.
"I don't know." Fouquet teased. "Perhaps I'm just lying to gain your pity. So? What do you intend to do, Louise?"
She couldn't help but feel overwhelmed for a moment, and so Louise glanced at Napoleon. But this time, he didn't turn his eyes to her. He stared directly in front of him and ignored both Fouquet and Louise with an impassive expression. But Louise could tell. She didn't know how she knew but she could tell. This was a test. Louise had to do something in order to gain his approval, but she couldn't tell what.
She pointed her wand at Fouquet. It would be so easy. She had killed so many people already in Tarbes and at La Rochelle. What was one more person? But this was different. Killing someone face to face was far, far different than before.
This was just too difficult. Maybe she should just ask Napoleon?
But Napoleon did nothing. He watched Louise out of the corner of his eye. She raised her wand at Fouquet, and then lowered it. She did this several more times. Then she glanced at Napoleon for a moment, and then back at Fouquet. She stared at the master thief for a few moments. With a leer of her own, Fouquet stared back.
Then finally, Louise dropped her wand. Without a word, she walked up to Fouquet, who abruptly began to laugh.
"What's this?" She laughed. "Are you actually going to let me go? After all I did?"
"Not exactly."
Louise knelt down to Fouquet's height.
"I will let you go, Fouquet. But only on one condition."
Fouquet cackled again.
"Oh really? What is it? Do you want me to swear some sacred oath in Brimir's name never to steal again?"
"No." Louise said. "You will be my servant."
For the first time, Fouquet stopped laughing in response. Her mouth dropped slightly, as she looked at Louise, then back to Napoleon, and then once more to Louise. She could tell that the pink-haired girl was not joking.
"You already have a familiar. What need do you have for a servant?"
Louise shook her head.
"He's not my servant. He's my partner. But Napoleon doesn't always listen to me. You, on the other hand, will. If I ask you to do something, you will do it. No matter what it is."
"That's quite a tall order." Fouquet said. "And just in return for my life? I don't think that's a fair deal."
"What about someone else's life? Like the elven girl whose home you had slept in when my men captured you?"
Napoleon had interjected those words. Fouquet blanched. And then her face darkened as her voice turned into a growl against Napoleon.
"Are you threatening her, you bastard?"
Napoleon shook his head.
"Far from it. But I know two things. First, that there's some bond between you and that orphanage, and it is likely some bond between you and the elven girl. Otherwise, you would have put up a fight when my men accosted you there. Secondly, I can also guarantee that that orphanage will be in grave danger now that the war is over."
"What are you talking about?"
"The Albion army is a wreck. It is disorganized and scattered, full of men who will steal in order to survive. And an orphanage, separate from the nearby village and guarded by a pretty elven girl, will be a fat juicy target.
So I'm offering their protection as well as your own life."
"B-but what can you do?" cried Fouquet. They live in a village by Saxe-Gotha, a three day's march from there. You can't order your men to protect her in time again."
"I already did."
"Huh?"
Both Louise and Fouquet blinked in confusion.
"I foresaw the danger the minute I learned about the orphanage, so I already made my move. The elf Tiffania and the orphans under her custody are in this camp as we speak. I'll escort her to Tristain and ensure that the children can join another Tristanian orphanage. In exchange, you'll become Louise's servant until she declares otherwise."
He finished his statement, but Louise couldn't help but smile at those words. If Napoleon had made all of those preparations, then it was obvious that this was the choice that he would have hoped she'd make. She had passed, and so with a grin she looked again at Fouquet.
"So, do you accept, Fouquet?"
The thief looked at them both and then bowed her head.
"I accept. But I want to see them first and make sure they're safe. Then I'll swear under your service, Louise."
Napoleon nodded. He pulled out a knife, strode to Fouquet, and cut the ropes. The thief rubbed her wrists for a moment. She then solemnly bowed before Louise and left the tent. After Louise watched her leave, she looked at Napoleon.
"I did what you wanted me to do. But what would have been the worst choice?"
"You couldn't figure that out?" Napoleon responded. "If you had let her go, imprisoned her, or killed her yourself, I would have been disappointed, but I would have said nothing. But if you had ordered me to kill her, I would have killed you instead."
"What?" Louise gasped. But she could tell by his tone. He was telling the truth.
"Ordering me to kill her would have indicated that you had learned nothing after I chose to accept the contract back at the Academy so long ago." Napoleon responded. "It would have shown that you still believed that you could boss me around, and it also would have meant that you weren't capable of accepting the fact that your hands could spill blood even after this war. To delegate such responsibilities would have made me decide that you weren't worthy of being my partner.
But you made the right choice, Louise. And I'm genuinely proud of you. Now, let's get ready to head home."
He patted her on the head and then left the tent. Louise watched him go. Really, she thought, she didn't know what she was supposed to say.
…
Cardinal Mazarin groaned as he made his way through the Tristanian palace.
He didn't want to do this. He really didn't. But there was no choice. The Queen of Tristain, Henrietta's mother, would know sooner or later. And she had to know that with the death of her daughter, she would now be the one on the throne.
All the same, Mazarin prayed to Brimir for forgiveness. It wasn't fair towards the Queen. She had never been fit to play the part of a ruler. Even when she was healthy, she lacked the fortitude and vigor which both Henrietta and her husband had shown. She had been content to play the role of a mother to her only child. Through her devotion to the ideal of the perfect wife, Henrietta's mother had been an example to mothers throughout Tristania. She truly was very different from her daughter, and was in a sense the polar opposite of the Valliere Duchess.
But that devotion towards being an ideal wife and mother had meant that she had completely collapsed out of grief upon her husband's death. The Queen should have been placed in charge of the country at that moment, but her grief caused her to become gravely ill and unable to run Tristain. Consequently, Henrietta had been placed upon the throne. But now with her daughter's death, the Queen had no choice but to become the next ruler of Tristain.
But what would happen when the Queen died? Mazarin honestly didn't know. The House of Tristain could trace its lineage back thousands upon thousands of years, to the age of Brimir. It had continually survived without a break even under the stupidest monarchs. But now here it was, in grave danger of extinction. When that happened, Mazarin knew, it would be up to him to make sure that the transition went smoothly.
Mazarin finally arrived at the Queen's bedchamber. He tried to open the door, but even though the knob turned, the door did not open. That was strange. He almost never visited Her Majesty's private quarters out of respect to her privacy. But he thought he had ordered that her room should not have a lock. If her illness became suddenly worse, than the courtiers needed to be able to dash into her room to help her in case of an emergency.
"Who is it?"
It was difficult for Mazarin to hear the warm, melodious voice which came through the door. She must be in her bed, he thought. It was located in the far side of the room.
"Your Majesty. May I please enter your room? I have sad news to deliver."
"It's about my daughter, isn't it?"
Mazarin paused at those words. He knew what he should say, but it remained difficult. So he followed up with his own question.
"How did you know?"
"I can hear the cries of grief coming from the people." The Queen stated. "Our army must be defeated and my daughter is dead. Am I right?"
"Only partially. Albion is defeated, and our country is safe. But Princess Henrietta…"
He didn't say anything more. He didn't need to. But he knew he had to continue.
"Our army will return from Albion soon. But our country still needs a ruler."
"And so you came here to tell me that I must once again take up the throne."
"Yes."
"Even though I fell ill out of grief for my husband and proved unable to do it?"
Mazarin hesitated.
"And even though I shall now have to mourn my own daughter's death?"
The Queen abruptly began to cough as she finished her statement. It was a rough, hacking cough, and Mazarin couldn't help but worry about everything she said.
"Your Majesty. Will you please unlock this door? We must discuss what to do with the monarchy. I promise on my honor as a Cardinal that I will not do or think anything untoward about you."
"I am tired, Mazarin."
"I see." The Cardinal said. "I can come back later. When do you think you will feel better?"
"You misunderstand. I am not physically tired. I am tired of politics and playing for a throne I've never wanted. Someone else can run this country, Mazarin. Perhaps the Vallieres can."
Mazarin shook his head.
"Your lineage runs back thousands of years to the days of Brimir, Your Highness. The Vallieres are powerful, but there are many families who are suspicious of them precisely because of their power. You are the only one who can lead this country."
"I couldn't lead this country last time. What makes you think I can do it this time?"
"Because of your lineage and what you represent. Please, Your Majesty. At least let me talk to you without this door barring the way."
Mazarin said nothing more, and the pair once again lapsed into silence. But just when he began to worry, the Queen spoke up.
"I will come down."
"Thank you." Mazarin stated. "But Your Highness, would you please unlock this door?"
"What lock?"
"Huh?"
Mazarin blinked at her question. But there was something in the Queen's voice when she had said those words. Something odd, a tone which he had never heard her use before in so many years of service.
"You ordered that my room should not have a lock out of concern for my health. That is the sick person you want running this country, Mazarin."
She was smiling, Mazarin realized. He could tell that from her voice. But he still didn't know what Her Highness was referring to. He tried to open the door once again and-
"What?"
The door pushed open a little more and Mazarin could see what was wrong. There was no lock. Instead, a dresser had been shoved in front of the door, preventing Mazarin from pushing it in.
"What is the meaning of this, Your Majesty?"
"I felt like having my own privacy."
"But," said Mazarin. "This is quite heavy. Please, Your Majesty, I wish to talk to you. Could you please move this back?"
"There is no need. I told you, Mazarin. I will come down."
Mazarin at this point struggled to keep his emotions in check.
"What are you talking about, Your Majesty? You will need to move this dresser. It is the only way to…come…down…"
His voice trailed as the realization hit him like a sack of bricks. That door wasn't the only way down. When he had renovated Her Majesty's room, he had decided to give her a balcony so she would able to go outside and get some fresh air. If by go down she meant…
"YOUR MAJESTY! NO! DON'T DO IT!"
Mazarin completely lost all restraint. He pulled the door back and then slammed it back into the dresser. There was no hesitation. The power of desperation coursed through his veins as he repeatedly moved the door back and forth between its resting place and the object blocking its path. He could hear nothing on the other side, but now he could do nothing but pray to Brimir. Perhaps Her Majesty had changed her mind and understood her importance. Perhaps she was just waiting for him, and this was just a giant trick. The fact that there was no sound meant that she hadn't done… that yet. And he couldn't spell it out aloud. If he thought about it, the bigger chance she would do it!
At last, after repeated clashes with the door, the dresser leaned back and toppled with a crash. Mazarin pulled the door back and then slammed the door open with all of his might. But as he charged in, he tripped over the legs of the dresser and fell on his knees. And then he looked up.
The Queen of Tristain gazed upon Mazarin with a beautiful face that would fit on an angel. When Mazarin had seen her in the past, she had been sickly and with a lack of vigor. Even just now, she had entered a terrible hacking cough. As she leaned her back against the balcony, she appeared twenty years younger. But rather than awe or respect, horror remained the only emotion which made its way on Mazarin's face. It did not change as the Queen gave Mazarin a dazzling smile, leaned backwards a little bit more…
and
finally
came
down.
…
It had been three days since the parade in Londinium. The soldiers had camped outside the city and had relaxed at long last. Merchants and various individuals came out, visited with the victorious army, and plied their wares. Many continued to mourn the loss of their beloved princess and prayed incessantly, but many also just ate, slept, bought stuff, and gambled.
And around a huge tree stump, Guiche grumbled as Owen Foucard raked in a large number of gold coins.
"Gya hahaha, boy! That was pretty bold! Trying to gamble with an eight and a six!"
The mercenary slapped his knee in delight. Across the stump, Cartier Martin grumbled as he watched them play. But unlike Guiche, Foucard, or the last person who also sat by the stump, the wind mage wasn't wearing his shirt. It lay next to Foucard, who watched as Martin dealt the next hand.
"Man, Williams, this is a great game. Where did you learn it from?"
The other man nodded in thanks.
"My father was a merchant. This is a game that is very popular in Germania. They call it Hold Them, though I have no idea why."
The four players each received two cards. They glanced at it as they made bets out of the wages they had earned over the war.
"So what, you were a merchant? Why'd you come and fight here then?"
Williams shrugged as he folded.
"I'm not as clever as my father. I do my job well enough, but I wanted a chance to fight for Tristain and get some glory. I guess that's not happening now that the war's over."
"What are you talking about?" said Martin as he pushed forward a single coin. "The war isn't over."
"Huh?"
Guiche and Williams said the same thing out of confusion. Only Foucard appeared unsurprised.
"What are you talking about?" cried Guiche. "The war is over. We've taken Londinium."
"You sure you're a noble?" Martin responded. "You have a lot to understand about war then if you're going to be one."
Guiche glowered back at Martin. The latter responded by lifting a single finger.
"The battles are over, Guiche. But the war isn't. Now Albion and Tristain have to negotiate over Albion's fate and the monarchy and all that stuff."
"But that's not a big deal," Guiche responded. "That's what we're waiting on, right? Captain Napoleon's talking with the Prince of Wales about ending the war. That's what we've been waiting for, right?"
"Raise."
Foucard interjected those words as he poured some more coins on the table. Martin looked back at his hand and then nodded, before he turned back to Guiche.
"That's the problem. Prince Wales is the leader of Albion. Captain Napoleon's not the leader of Tristain. He can negotiate with Wales all he likes, but he has to go back to Tristan before a formal peace treaty with Albion can be arranged. We can't arrange peace with Albion until we know who's running the country."
"So who is running the country?" Guiche asked.
Martin shrugged.
"I dunno. We'll know when we get back. You going to fold or not, Guiche?"
Guiche thought about it some more, and then discarded his cards. Only Foucard and Martin were left, and the latter only had one coin and was missing his shirt.
"You know, Martin," Foucard cackled. "You're not handsome enough to impress the ladies if you walk around the camp wearing absolutely nothing."
"You're one to talk. Besides, I've saved up a few silver coins and I'm not betting those. I intend to get some high-class wine tonight after this game."
"Do you intend to march while drunk?"
It was another voice which spoke from behind Foucard. The four of them turned to see Robert de Gramont standing there, his hands behind his back. Upon seeing his brother, Guiche turned pale and determinedly stared at his cards.
"You know that gambling is against the rules, correct?"
"Aw, sir." Said Martin. "The war's over. Can't we just have a little fun?"
"I heard your entire speech about how the war isn't over."
Martin gaped, and then rubbed his head. Foucard clamped his lips in a transparent attempt to not laugh. But Robert's expression remained stern as he looked at the group.
"I'll let you off with a warning, because in three hours we'll begin marching back to the port of Rosais. We are going to head home to Tristain. However, I must insist that you gentlemen put the game away and form up in your ranks."
The four of them nodded as they began to put up the cards. Then Robert pointed at Martin.
"And get your shirt back on."
Those simple lines caused Foucard to lose control. He burst into a small fit of laughter though he quickly stifled it. Still, the four of them cleaned up after themselves and began to head back to the camp.
"Guiche, I'd like to speak with you."
The boy stopped abruptly and then like a robot wheeled to face his brother. But the deep glare by Robert made it clear that there was no room for compromise. Without even seeing goodbye, the other soldiers tramped back to camp, leaving him alone with Robert de Gramont.
Guiche swallowed as he looked up at Robert. Robert was the one he had always envied. Of course, Julian, the second brother was special and talented and so was Antoine, the third brother. But Robert had always been viewed as the proper heir, the perfect one. He never made a mistake whether it was in tactics or combat or magic. So Guiche listened to whatever his eldest brother would say.
"I don't understand how it happened, Guiche? How did you end up in the Guards?"
"What?"
Guiche furrowed his brows in response to that odd question.
"I had heard from father before you joined, and I confirmed it with him afterwards. You had been assigned as an officer to the De Vineuil Independent Battalion. It was an ordinary battalion, but you would have been an officer. But now you're just a grunt in some strange irregular unit. So what happened?"
"Is there something wrong with Captain Napoleon, brother?"
Robert hesitated, and then shook his head.
"He's brilliant. He talked with me regularly before that night at Saxe-Gotha. His index finger knows more about war than I do. And he knows Tristain's military history like the back of his hand. I wouldn't have consented to work directly under him if it hadn't been for that.
But this isn't about me, Guiche. It's about you. You could be in a much better place as an officer in some regular division."
It's not like Guiche hadn't asked himself that question, he thought to himself. He remembered that night before he had left the Academy. Montmorency had been so concerned for his safety like she had always been after what Fouquet had done. And he wouldn't deny that he still had nightmares about being trapped and suffocating. If she hadn't been so concerned and if he hadn't been late, who knows what would have happened?
But…
"You know, brother, Captain Napoleon told me about the De Vineuil Independent Battalion."
"And?"
"He said that it was just a small grouping of old men who were doing nothing more than repair efforts. Is he wrong?"
"No" Robert responded. "The De Vineuil Independent Battalion is an old yet proud battalion with great history. And even if it was, you would have had the chance of a higher rank."
"I wouldn't have earned it. Brother, I like the Guard. I like my comrades there. And I respect the man I work under enough to be reassigned where he wants me to be."
"But what would father say when he hears about this?"
Guiche shrugged.
"I hope he can understand. But I'm not interested in leaving, and I think Captain Napoleon wants me around. That's good enough for me."
Robert didn't say anything for a few moments. But then he gave a small smile and took a few steps forward.
"You're standing up to me, Guiche. I guess you have grown up some during this war."
He stopped in front of the younger brother and then flicked him on the forehead.
"Forgive me, Guiche. I'll accept your decision. Just make sure you can live up to it."
Robert then walked off. But before he truly left, he turned back towards Guiche and saluted. The younger brother's eyes shone at the gesture, then stood at a ramrod position and returned it as tears filled his eyes.